Yellow Flag by Robert Lipsyte Page A

can.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” said Mr. G.
    Good question, thought Kyle. I wish I knew. “Kris should be back in the car next week. I’ll be back in my chair.”
    â€œI heard should be, not will be,” said Mr. G. “What if he isn’t?”
    â€œIs this Law and Order: Band Room ?” said Jesse. When nobody laughed, he pointed a finger at his temple and shot himself. Nobody laughed at that either.
    Kyle thought, I don’t know. He said, “Hire another driver.”
    â€œWhy not you?” said Mr. G.
    Kyle felt as if the thumbscrew on his music standwere tightening around his head. “I had a one-race waiver for age. I don’t know if they would give me another one.”
    â€œWhat if they do?”
    He felt anger bubble up. “Then I’ll keep Kris’s seat warm as long as it takes, and I’ll miss Friday rehearsals so I can make the practices and qualifying before the races.”
    â€œWhy can’t we rehearse around that?” said Del. “A couple of weeks of extra practices during the week, maybe Sunday night, too.”
    â€œWorks for me,” said Jesse.
    Nicole glared at Todd until he said, “Sure, count me in.”
    Mr. G was expressionless. After a while he nodded and said, “Okay. Kyle? Can we count you in?” When Kyle nodded, he said, “We’ll do the names next time. Let’s perpetrate some sound.”
    Mr. G looked relieved. Maybe he just needed to show who was in charge, thought Kyle.
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    He waited until they were out of the building. “Thanks.”
    â€œBreaking in a new trumpet player is like training a puppy,” she said. “Too much trouble.”
    â€œWhatever.” But he touched her arm. “No kidding.Thanks.” He thought, I’ve thanked more girls the past couple of days than in my whole life.
    He thought the fierce little eyes softened. Hard to read her. “You going to be able to handle it all?”
    That got to him. She understood what he was going through, or at least she was trying to. He wished it were night and she were inviting him back to her house. The words “I don’t know” were forming in his head, but before he could decide whether or not to say them, Todd swaggered up. “Am I interrupting something?”
    â€œYep,” she said. Todd shrugged and swaggered off, but the moment was gone. “You busy now?”
    â€œGot to go over the race shop,” said Kyle. “Look at the replay, see what happened.”

TWENTY-TWO
    They watched the race on the big screen in Sir Walter’s office, ten of them sprawled on the couches and chairs. Uncle Kale with his bad fat back was stretched out on the carpeted floor. Jackman was holding the DVD player’s remote control. Sir Walter was at his desk, autographing eight-by-ten glossy hero cards of himself while he watched. When the tape got to the wreck, everybody perked up. It looked bad from up high. In the car he had seen mostly thick smoke. Then Jimmie’s voice cut through the screaming metal. “Go to the wall.”
    â€œWhat took you so long?” said Uncle Kale.
    â€œCouldn’t see,” said Jimmie.
    â€œYour job.” The fat head rose a few inches off the carpet. “Here’s where you blew a chance to get himpast the nine car. Pause it.”
    The image stopped, flickered. Through the smoke Kyle could see number 12’s nose inches from number 9. He didn’t remember that.
    â€œHe’s blocked,” said Jimmie.
    â€œLook at the angle,” said Uncle Kale. “Kiss that rear fender, sucker’s gone.”
    Kyle looked around. Jimmie’s face was flushed. Dad, Sir Walter, Billy, Jackman, nobody had anything to say. The post-race analysis was Uncle Kale’s show.
    â€œTrying to get through the wreck,” said Kyle, “not add to it.”
    â€œYou do what you need to do,” said Uncle Kale. “You don’t have