Yellow Flag by Robert Lipsyte Page B

to react to every bump or block just because they want you to. Sometimes you just grip the wheel a little tighter and hold on. And sometimes you have to bump their tail to show them you’re there. You got that, Jimmie?” When she nodded, he said, “Okay, hit play.”
    Kyle tried to catch Jimmie’s eye, smile at her, nod, but her head was down. Uncle Kale and Mr. G, he thought, two control freaks who always need to be right or at least to be standing on top of somebody.
    But he was feeling pretty good. It was the first time he had ever watched a video of one of his own races with the entire Hildebrand Racing team. It was like playing a solo.
    On-screen, Number 12 was driving slowly under a yellow caution flag. Kyle watched himself hold his line. He was driving steady.
    â€œWhat you doing wrong here, Kylie?”
    He shook his head. He had no idea.
    â€œWhy don’t you tell him, Jimmie,” said Uncle Kale.
    â€œIf I knew, I would’ve told him then,” she said. Kyle thought she sounded annoyed. Not the type to take a beating, even from Uncle Kale.
    â€œAnybody?” He hoisted himself to a sitting position and looked around. Even if he was such a genius, why did he have to be so nasty?
    It came to Kyle. Or he figured it out. Or he remembered it from one of the thousand dinner table conversations. What else did they ever talk about? “I should’ve been going side to side, keep the tires warm.”
    â€œBingo,” said Uncle Kale. “So why didn’t you do it?”
    It didn’t get much better after that, Kale picking on him and Jimmie. With two laps to go, Kyle just behind the purple Toyota, Slater on his right, Boyd coming up on his left, Uncle Kale said, “Here’s the big rookie mistake. You let Slater sucker you in.”
    Kyle remembered seeing the sudden opening between purple and green and driving into it, feeling triumphant as Slater faded back. He was almost door to door with the purple Toyota when Slater bumped himon the left fender and spun him into the wall. Slater hadn’t missed the perfect angle to kiss that rear fender. Sucker’s gone. Me.
    He remembered the sick feeling when the car stalled. The helplessness as everyone passed him, a few hitting him. Jimmie was screaming at him to go to neutral and turn left. The car sputtered, and Randall Bean tapped him hard enough to get him started again and over the line.
    â€œRookie luck,” said Uncle Kale. “Got a girl and an old man to save your sorry butt.”
    Sir Walter lifted the stack of signed pictures and tapped them into an even pile. “We’re gonna have to send you to charm school, Kale, before the Family Brands people get to hear you.”
    â€œIf we win,” said Uncle Kale, “Family Brands won’t care if I talk like one of them comics on HBO.”
    Everybody laughed at that, even Jimmie.
    Uncle Kale clambered to his feet, groaning and punching his back. Lose a hundred pounds, thought Kyle, you won’t hurt so much. Did he really say, “The kid was out there to win, and you can’t teach that”?
    â€œWhat time’s school out, Kylie?”
    â€œFive thirty.”
    â€œSo late?”
    â€œBand practice.”
    â€œOh.” He dismissed that with a wave. “Need you at Goshen Raceway by three thirty tomorrow for some real practice.” Swaying from side to side, he lumbered out of the office and headed to the repair bays.
    Dad wouldn’t meet his eyes. Have to talk about this at dinner. No more deals?
    Jimmie followed him out to the parking lot.
    â€œDon’t feel bad,” she said. “It’s his way. You did good.”
    I should be trying to make you feel better, he thought. “You did good.”
    â€œWe did good.” She stuck out her hand. It felt just as he’d imagined it, square and strong, but warm. “So what are you gonna do?”
    â€œAbout what?” He was