Running Wide Open by Lisa Nowak

soap.”
    Race frowned a little, like he wanted to object, but couldn’t find a way to argue with such impeccable logic.
    When the Domino’s guy showed up, Race paid him, all the while grousing about the need to educate me on where to get a decent pizza. Apparently Track Town, over by the University, made a pie that was the stuff of legends.
    “Tell me, kid,” Race said a few minutes later, as I devoured the remains of my first slice and licked the sauce off my fingers. “If I hadn’t shown up, how were you gonna pay for this?”
    I still had that twenty the truck driver had given me, but he didn’t know that. “You’ve got a checkbook over there on the counter.”
    “You have to sign checks, y’know.”
    “Yeah,” I agreed, “but I coulda done it before the delivery guy got here and said you’d signed it for me.”
    Race gawked like he actually believed I would. “Kid, forgery is a Federal offense.”
    “Only if you get caught.”
    While it was never hard to mess with my uncle, the easiest way to do it was to mention Kasey. Race’s confidence dried up like a snowflake in southern California every time I talked about her in a way that didn’t relate to racing. And God help me if I said anything he could interpret as the least bit disrespectful. Sometimes I had to get creative to string him along. Other times the opportunity just fell into my lap, which was what happened Friday morning.
    I was rummaging through the kitchen for breakfast when I knocked a dirty pan off the counter. Race gave me his usual glare from the couch.
    “Sorry,” I said as I opened the fridge to grab the milk.
    “Right.”
    “You working here or at the shop today?” I never knew where he was gonna be. A couple days before, he’d walked in on me scribbling in my writing notebook. Luckily, he seemed to think I was doing some homework.
    “Here,” Race said. “I’ve got a logo to finish.”
    I opened the milk and held it up to take a chug.
    “Hey, get a glass! I didn’t pay a buck fifty for that milk so you could slobber in it.”
    The instant the liquid hit my tongue I knew something wasn’t right. It took a second for the sour taste to really register, then I was running for the sink, spitting and leaning my head under the tap to run water in my mouth.
    “Why all the melodrama?” Race asked.
    “The milk’s sour.”
    “Can’t be. I just bought it two days ago.”
    “Well, you taste it, then.” I thrust the carton at him.
    “I think I’ll take your word for it.” Race crawled off of the couch and hunted through the laundry on the chair for a pair of jeans. Coming up empty-handed, he pulled some from the dirty clothes mound that had rematerialized under the coffee table. They looked like they’d been used to mop up Prince William Sound after the Exxon Valdez ran aground.
    “Just have a Pepsi instead,” Race said.
    “On my cereal?”
    “Eat it dry. I’ll get more milk later.”
    I reached into the refrigerator. “Hey, this stuff’s warm.” I checked in the freezer and discovered a couple pounds of hamburger, some microwave burritos, and Race’s Twinkies lying in a melted half-gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
    “Gross. I hope you don’t expect me to clean this up.”
    “You could use that ice cream on your cereal,” Race suggested.
    I didn’t honor the comment with a reply.
    “Well, let me take a look.”
    “Oh, yeah, the great mechanic. What makes you think you can fix the fridge if you have to get a chick to work on your race car?”
    “Hey, none of that sexist bullshit in my house.” Race looked in the fridge, smacked it a few times, then wiggled it forward to check the cord. It was still plugged in.
    “So, like, what’s the diagnosis?” I asked, perching myself on the counter where I could get a better view of his futile attempts.
    “It’s, like, broke.”
    I gave him a look of mock surprise, ignoring the dig at my grammar. “Really? God, Race, you’re a freakin’