Running Wide Open by Lisa Nowak Page A

genius.”
    “Hell, I don’t know anything about refrigerators.”
    “Guess we’ll have to get a girl to fix it.”
    Race scowled at me. “Go to school.”
    Laughing, I hopped down from the counter. “Hey, don’t let it getcha down, dude. While Kasey’s fixin’ the fridge, you could always sew some curtains for her living room.”
    Race cocked an ear toward the door. “Isn’t that your bus I hear?”
    I glanced out the window. “No,” I said. “It’s a garbage truck. And I think there’s a woman driving it.”
    * * *
    It had rained most of the week, but Saturday morning a stiff wind blew away the clouds. Kasey stopped by to look at the fridge before we left for the track. She laughed when she saw my Radioactive cats have 18 half-lives shirt. Then, in about thirty seconds, she figured out why the refrigerator wasn’t working.
    “The condenser coils are filthy,” she told Race.
    “Imagine that,” I said. “And in such a surgically sterile environment.”
    When Race went out to the van to get the Shop-Vac, Kasey eyed me in a way that made me want to crawl under the nearest large object.
    “You’re a smart kid, Cody, and I realize Race plays right into your hand, but just because you know how to push his buttons doesn’t mean you should.”
    “It was a joke! It’s not like he doesn’t know how to sling it right back.”
    Kasey patted my shoulder. The gesture sent a tingle surging along my spine. “I’m just suggesting you might want to tone it down,” she said, smiling to take the sting out of her reprimand. “Try using your gift of intuition for good instead of evil.”
    * * *
    At the speedway that night, my uncle qualified faster than everybody in his class. It was apparently the first time anyone but Addamsen had done that since halfway through the previous season. The announcer made a big deal about it, and about the fact that Race was now only two points behind his rival. The idea must’ve torqued Addamsen, because he smoked Race in the trophy dash. Fortunately, the dash wasn’t worth any points. That was one thing I’d learned this week.
    “So when are you gonna let me take this baby out for a few laps?” I asked later, patting the hood of the Dart where I sat scarfing down a hot dog. Out on the track, another trophy dash was heating up.
    “Maybe in thirty years or so.”
    “Aww, c’mon. I won’t wreck it.”
    Race gave me a measured look. “Do you even know how to drive?”
    “Nah, Mom wouldn’t let me get my permit.”
    “Well, that’s just a crime. On Monday, I’m taking you to the DMV right after school.”
    “Seriously?”
    “Seriously. I can’t have it getting out that my fifteen-year-old nephew doesn’t have his driver’s permit.”
    A couple of the Super Stocks tangled and smashed into the wall. Within seconds the stomach-turning stink of burnt rubber drifted into the pits. Both tow trucks scrambled toward the track and a big black car rumbled past us through the cloud of dust they left behind.
    “What’s that?” I asked.
    “The track ambulance.”
    “It looks like the Ghostbusters car.”
    “Almost,” said Race. “It’s a ’67 Cadillac hearse. You’re only off by about eight years.”
    “Isn’t that kinda morbid, having a hearse for an ambulance?”
    “Well, it’s not like it’s a real ambulance. If anyone ever got seriously hurt they’d call 911.”
    “Still,” I said. There was something warped about the idea.
    Race’s heat began with a snarl-up that slammed him against the outside wall. In spite of it, he immediately gained three positions when they got the race restarted. Then after a couple of laps, something began to change. Each time Race went into a corner, the back end of the Dart would hang out so far that the car was sliding almost sideways through the turn. It looked way cool.
    “Why’s he doing that?” I asked Kasey.
    “It’s not intentional. I think he has a tire going down.” She glanced at me, weighing my level of interest.