Wheel or Deal

Lincoln Velazquest was kind of a racist. Some people are ashamed of their racism because it isn't exactly "cool" but not Lincoln. He shouted his racism from the rooftops. "I'M A RACIST!" he'd scream and pound his chest. "GET AT ME!"

People used to look at him funny when he described himself as a racist. One black kid shoved him into a locker, and a Hispanic girl with big hoop earrings slapped him. When he created his first Twitter account, he put proud racist in his profile, and within moments, hundreds of people he didn't know swarmed his timeline with curse words and death threats. Grown men DM'd him talking about how they were going to track him down and kick his butt, and inside of an hour, Twitter banned him for violating their terms and services.

What the heck?

Look, Lincoln knew racing wasn't the most popular sport, but darn, why were people so violent about it?

Then Johnny slapped some sense into him. "You dummy, you're using that word wrong. Racists don't like black people and stuff. Racing fans don't call themselves racists. Wow, you're dumb."

Oh.

My bad.

That was three years ago. Lincoln's love of stock car racing had diminished as newer and cooler things came along (like girls and horror movies), but he occasionally caught a NASCAR race on TV. His favorite track was Watkins Glen in Cali because it was unlike any of the other tracks on the NASCAR Cup Series circuit. Seriously, look up some pictures of it, the place is wild. He usually skipped normie races that only go in a circle because it got real old real quick, but he kept up on the bigger ones. Also night races. Basically, at this point, he was into any kind of race that wasn't standard, you know? He wanted action, excitement, something new.

He was the same way with other stuff too, like horror movies. He used to slurp up every slasher flick he could get his hands on, but now, he was more critical and blase. It took something really special to make him stand up and take notice. Hide and Go Shriek, and Fatal Games were both generic but had mind-blowing endings (as far as low-budget eighties slashers go) which made them stick out in his mind. The rest kind of blurred together and he could wind up watching one for half an hour before realizing he'd already seen it.

Kids made fun of him when he said he liked racing - they said NASCAR was for rednecks and called him Jethro - and while he didn't care when he was a dumb kid, he kind of did now. He was eleven going on twelve and as much as he tried to be true to himself, at that age, it's hard to not care what people thought of you at least a little. He kept his fondness for racing on the DL so he didn't get and had absolutely no one to share it with.

Sob.

One day, Johnny went over to the Loud house to help Mr. Loud make brunch, but fifteen minutes later, Mom decided she was "treating" them to a day of yard saling and antiquing. Lincoln tried to beg off, but Mom wouldn't have any of it. "Go get your brother. We're leaving in five minutes."

Lincoln made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, slumped his shoulders, and dragged himself across the street, kicking and scuffing his feet as he went. He didn't want to go to a dumb yard sale and look at dumb antiques in the dumb sun. He wanted to play video games and drink soda. He wanted to go to the pool and ride his bike and watch grass grow - anything but yard saling. If yard saling was a candy, it would be one of those nasty strawberry things with the wrapper that looked like a strawberry. If it was a year, it would be 2020. If it was a horror movie, it'd be Cutting Class with Brad Pitt. If it was a drink, it'd be bull pee. He hated yard saling.

The front yard of 1216 Franklin swept back from the sidewalk at an incline. A walkway led from the driveway to the front porch but to get to the porch from here, you had to walk across the lawn. Lincoln started to cross but a metallic clanging in the driveway stopped him. Lana knelt next to a slab of plywood with a wrench. Bolts, screws, washers, and joist clips were fanned out beside her like ranks of soldiers awaiting orders. Lana took off her green, bucket-shaped hat and swiped a red bandanna across her glistening forehead. Lincoln hesitated, but his curiosity got the better of him and he walked over. "What'cha building?" he asked.

"A soapbox car," Lana said.

"Oh, cool -"

Wait.

Did she say soapbox car? Lincoln wasn't sure; he was expecting her to say something lame, like a wall for the next bathroom or a fence, so he was hardly even paying attention and replied on autopilot. "You said soapbox car?

"Yes," Lana said. She dug a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to him without taking her eyes off the plywood in front of her. "This will explain everything. I don't have time. Leave me alone."

Alright, fine, darn.

Lincoln unfolded the paper. At the top was a full color picture of female racing legend Bobbie Fletcher and below that was a wall'o'text that Lincoln only skimmed through. The gist of it was this: There was a big soapbox derby in Ann Arbor in three weeks. The winner would get a "ride along" with Bobbie Fletcher. Lincoln didn't know what that meant (like...during a race? In her personal vehicle?) but it was cool nonetheless. Bobbie Fletcher was one of the better young drivers in NASCAR. She started two seasons ago and had already won two races, blowing the previous record for wins by a female driver (zero) held by Danica Patrick right out the water. Lincoln wasn't a huge mark for Bobbie Fletcher but he had to admit, riding in an actual, flesh and blood race car sounded tooooo sweet.

"I never knew you like racing," Lincoln said.

"You don't know me very well," Lana said.

Guess not.

Just then, as if summoned by some sixth sense, Johnny walked up. "What's going on, cuz?" he asked. He had been watching a lot of YouTube videos by some G'd out white boy named 1090 Jake lately and was going out of his way to talk like him. Jake had done time in prison and was involved with gangs, and most of his videos were of him telling stories about his time on the inside. His voice was a mixture of dirty south ATL and Boston Irish. It was the strangest thing. Mad annoying too, and every time Johnny tried to copy it, Lincoln wanted to fade him.

Not right now, though. He didn't give a dip about Johnny or his new little heartthrob. "Dude, check it out, she's building a soapbox car."

Johnny's brow creased. "It looks like a sheet of wood to me."

"She hasn't started it yet," Lincoln snapped.

"That socket wrench is the wrong size, though," Johnny pointed out.

Lana opened her mouth but Lincoln cut her off. "Shut up, she's not even using that right now. She still needs to cut out the wheel wells and stuff."

The little blonde started to talk, but this time, Johnny cut in. "Her dad doesn't let her use power tools so she can't. Unless she's boutta use a handsaw."

"I can use power tools," Lincoln said.

Johnny motioned to the wood. "Do it then."

Before Lincoln could reply, Lana whistled, and they both looked down at her, looking almost like they had forgotten she was even there. "Ether shut up or help me."

Lincoln and Johnny exchanged a glance. Lincoln didn't know what his brother had in mind, but he wanted to help. He'd never built a real live soapbox car before, but he had done hundreds of models and ran a bicycle repair business out of his garage (with Johnny's help, admittedly). He had a pretty good idea how to slap a car together, he would just need to crunch some numbers, run some calculations, and do what he did with his toys...only on a bigger scale. He nodded at Johnny (ayyo, homie, you got my back?), and Johnny nodded back (I'm rockin with you like you're rockin with me).

"We'll help," Lincoln said.

He and Johnny picked the plywood up and carried it across the street while Lana put her tools into a bucket and followed. "Go ahead and open the garage door," Lincoln told her. She walked up to the side entrance and went in; a moment later, the roll top door slid up with a creaking clack. They sat the sheet on two sawhorses and dusted their hands. "Alright," Lana said, "how do we start? I wanna get this baby going."

Lincoln grabbed a Sawzall from the workbench and plugged it in. "From the ground up," he said.

The first part of any project is obviously its foundation. For a ship, it's the keel, for a car, it's the undercarriage. Lincoln made four half-moon shaped cuts near each corner for the wheels. Next, he grabbed some plywood from the corner. Johnny brought over a bunch of scrap metal and Lana watched. "Okay," Lincoln said, "before we go any further, we need to draw up a blueprint. Lana, what's this car gonna look like?"

"Cool," Lana said, "it's going to look cool."

"We need more than that, blood," Johnny said.

Lana raised her brow questioningly. "What blood?"

Now Johnny looked confused. "What?"

"You said there's blood," Lana said and looked around. "I don't see anything."

"Nevermind," Lincoln said, "let's just get a blueprint down." He went into the kitchen through the connecting door and fetched a sheet of construction paper from the table. He found a pencil and went back to the garage. He sat the paper on the workbench, and Johnny and Lana pressed in on either side of him. "What are we doing here?"

Lana took the pencil and he stepped aside to give her room. She plastered her tongue to her upper lip in determination and began to sketch a crude drawing of what she pictured the finished product looking like. When she was done, she held her head proudly up and Lincoln and Johnny leaned in to see what she had.

The car resembled a Big Wheel with no doors, straight sides, and a rounded front end. Yellow eyes and a wide, toothy grin were drawn on the grill and the whole thing was painted a Leniesque shade of aquamarine. Lana herself sat hunched over the wheel in goggles and a scarf. A plexiglass windshield screened her face and little music notes trailed from the dash, indicating the presence of a radio. "This," Lana beamed, "this all day."

Lincoln stroked his chin and Johnny hummed to himself. "Alright," Lincoln said, "I think we can do this. First we need to make sure we have all the material on deck."

What would they need, though? Lincoln had a broad idea of how to do this and what would go into it, but that working knowledge only went so far. He could build and design as he went, but he wanted to have everything he'd need right up front so he wouldn't have to worry about stopping every time he needed a new part.

An idea struck him. "I'll be right back."

Leaving Lana and Johnny in the garage, he went in, went upstairs, and climbed into the attic. A stack of boxes marked LINCOLN sat underneath a window through which a shaft of sunlight fell at an angle, dust motes swirling through like wind driven snow. He knelt and started going through them, shifting old clothes, broken toys, and lost media out of the way (oh, look, Duke Nuke 'Em Forever and DEATHMETAL). Finally, he found what he was looking for underneath a copy of Can I Sit Next to You, Girl? b/w Rockin in the Parlor on vinyl.

A model soapbox car.

Okay, it wasn't exactly a soapbox car, but it was close enough.

Car in hand, he went back downstairs. "Alright, gang," he said, "we're going to be doing a little reverse engineering."

As Johnny and Lana looked on, he took the car apart, studying every piece and jotting it down below Lana's drawing. When he was done, he made a list of material. "Now we gather our stuff."

That afternoon, they got most of what they needed from the scrapyard on Route 29. They picked up the tires from an old Craftsman riding mower, the brakes from a '97 Chevy, the seats from Ford, and various misc parts from other sources. Back at the house, they connected the tire rods and put the wheels on, then worked on the brakes. By the time they were done, it was getting late and Lana had to leave. "We'll pick this back up tomorrow," Lincoln said.

After dinner, Lincoln and Johnny sat in their room, relaxing. "How long until this race?" Johnny asked.

"Next week," Lincoln said.

"Think we'll have the car done by then?"

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Of course we will. The frame will take us a day maybe. The rest of it will be detail work."

"Man, I hope you're not jinxing us with that," Johnny said. "Every time someone say something will be easy, it winds up being hard."

He wasn't wrong...but he was in this case. The frame took the whole next day to build but once it was done, the majority of the work was done. They screwed it onto the undercarriage and put the tires on. Lincoln tested the brakes and they held up, but he wanted to do a dry run once the racer was finished. They put the front bumper on and called it a day.

The next day was a school day so they got started late, but they managed to get the front and back seats in (after cutting them to fit with the Sawzall) and the windshield installed. While Lana painted, Johnny got underneath and did some last minute things to the axles and Lincoln put in the steering wheel. Lana had to leave early but Johnny and Lincoln kept working on the drive shaft until it was done.

That Thursday, two days before the race, they pushed the car out to the highest hill in Royal Woods. The paint job glimmered in the light of the sun and the face on the front grinned in anticipation. Lincoln strapped a helmet on and climbed in behind the wheel. He insisted on testing it alone in case something went wrong. Lana and Johnny gave him a push and the car started down the hill, picking up speed as it went. Lincoln steered left and right, tapped the brakes, and tested the radio.

Everything was in working order.

At the bottom, he hit the brakes and the car stopped. Johnny and Lana ran up cheering and they all shared a big, excited hug.

On the day of the race, Lana came over just before 9am. "I was wondering if you guys wanted to come with me," she said coyly and scuffed her foot. "Since you helped me and all."

Bet.

The race was held on Ann Arbor's north side, where a massive hill sloped down to the Pine Forest neighborhood. Tape and barricades had been set up and onlookers lined the street. Lincoln did one final check of the car to make sure everything was as it should be. "Alright, we're good," he said.

He and Johnny helped her push the car to the starting line. Other races flanked them on either side. Some of their cars were better, some were worse, literally slapped together from crates. Johnny handed Lana her helmet and she climbed in. "I want you guys to come with me," she said.

"Are you sure?" Lincoln asked.

"If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't even be here," she said. "I'd still be in the driveway trying to figure out step one. You did a lot to help me." She lowered her head contritely. "In fact, you did more than I did. You deserve to be in the race."

Lincoln and Johnny looked at each other. "Someone has to push it," Lincoln said.

"I'll do it," Johnny said gravely, "this was your thing from the beginning."

He and Lincoln dabbed up and hugged each other.

The official called for all racers to get into position, and Lincoln pulled his helmet on and climbed in. He put his seatbelt on and buckled his chin strap. Johnny got behind the car and laid his hands on the rear windshield, ready to push them off at the official's signal. "You ready for this?" Lincoln asked.

"I've been ready my whole life," Lana said and wrapped her hands around the wheel.

"On your marks," the official called, "get set...go!"

Johnny pushed the car and hopped in beside Lincoln. He pulled on his helmet and did the chin strap. "I decided to come along after all."

There was no time to talk, the race was already on. The cars jostled for position and gained speed as they hurtled toward the bottom of the hill. The wind lashed Lincoln's face and filled his lungs, making it hard to breathe. On the left, a car inched ahead, and to Lincoln's surprise, Lana slammed into it. It spun out of control and took out another car before crashing into a hay bale. Lincoln looked back, unsure if the driver was okay or not. "Jeez, Lana, you could have killed that guy!"

"All's fair in love and racing," Lana said.

Another car tried to pass on the right, and Lana cut him off, clipping his front end in the process. The frame shook and the wheels wobbled, but it kept steady and came up fast. Lana blocked him again, but while she was preoccupied, a car shot by on the right. Lana hunched over the wheel and barked at Lincoln and Johnny to lean forward. "We need more weight up front!"

The sharp edge in her voice left no room for argument, so they obeyed.

Little by little, the car went faster, gaining on the one ahead of it. Lincoln watched its back end come closer and closer. Right before they rammed it, he braced himself for impact. Their car's front bumper speared the other car's back bumper, and the other car swerved left and right. "Stop!" Johnny screamed. "You'll kill us all!"

Ignoring him, Lana jerked the wheel to the right and whipped around the car. Lincoln looked back just as the other car went sideways and took out three other racers. Even though none of the cars had engines, he expected a huge explosion.

It didn't come.

One car did flip, though, and another crashed through a barricade and took out a street sign. Lincoln's hear pounded and his stomach threatened to spill its contents. Next to him, Johnny held for dear life and stared in slack-jawed trauma. Have you ever seen a black man go completely white? Lincoln had.

At the bottom of the hill, they zoomed across the finish line and a guy waved a checkered flag. Lana jerked the wheel and the car half-spun to a stop, its tires screeching on the pavement.

Just like that, it was over.

They won.

"We did it," Lincoln mumbled, unable to fully conceal the shock in his voice. He thought they were going to die. He turned to Johnny, who squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head as if in denial of what had just happened to him. Lincoln shook his shoulder, and he cried out in alarm. "Dude, we made it."

Johnny creaked one eye open. "We survived?"

"And won."

As soon as those words left Lincoln's mouth, Johnny's demeanor changed. The color came back to his face and a relieved sigh escaped his throat. He visibly relaxed and breathed easier. "Dope."

Lana hopped out of the car and took her helmet off. A dark shadow fell over the car, and all of them looked up. A tall woman in a red and yellow jumpsuit, her brown hair tucked under a red baseball cap, stood there, hands on her hips. Lana's mouth dropped open and her eyes got big and shimmery. "That was really good driving," Bobbie Fletcher said.

Poor Lana could only open and close her mouth.

"You ready for that ride?"

Lana nodded. "Can my friends come? They helped me build my rig."

"Sure," Bobbie said, "the more the merrier."

Lincoln didn't know what a ride along with Bobbie Fletcher would entail, but then he found out. They raced around a closed track at a million miles an hour. The noise was deafening, the protective gear made him sweat, and the G force kept him pinned to his seat. Lana sat up front and she and Bobbie laughed and shouted to each other. Saying what, Lincoln did not know.

At the end of the day, they sat on the low concrete wall running along pit road and ate ice cream while Bobbie's pit crew worked on the car. "That was so awesome," Lana raved. "I wanna be a race car driver just like you when I grow up."

"Something tells me you'll be one of the best," Bobbie said. Before she left, she took her hat off and put it on Lana's head. "Always follow your dreams and don't let anyone tell you you can't do something...because you can."

Lincoln thought of those words often.

Two days later, he tried them out on Mom when she said he couldn't play video games after dinner.

She grounded him.

THE END.