Chapter Twenty-One

El grips my hand as soon as we climb into the Uber. I snake my fingers through hers. "We'll find her," I whisper. "Don't worry. We made it here; that's the hard part."

She doesn't reply, just squeezes my hand.

The driver takes us through Richmond, past shops and restaurants. Then, the city starts to change, going from bougie hipster neighborhoods into distinctly more frayed-at-the-edges ones.

"Are you sure this is the address?" the driver, a middle-aged Black woman named Rita, who has a collection of soccer ball stickers with her kids' names and player numbers on them covering the back of her minivan, asks us as we pull up outside the Clark's Gold Star Pawnshop. We're in the middle row of the minivan, and the entire back row—the non-professional riding area according to Rita—is filled with kids' shoes, uniforms, toys, and a booster seat.

We all pause for a moment, taking in the bars over the grimy windows, the collection of guns hung behind the counter, and the two skinny white men outside the shop, smoking and eyeing us warily.

The Gold Star is no less sketchy than Riley's apartment, but it doesn't feel right. Rita frowns, looking like she wants to give us a juice box and deliver us to school play practice, not leave us at the doorstep of whatever trouble El's sister is tangled up in.

El pulls out her phone, swiping to the address Riley gave us. "This is the place," she says, showing Rita the phone.

Rita raises one eyebrow, saying everything with that small gesture. Like: How did you two get into this mess? What are you doing here without parents? Why are you stopping at this pawnshop? Who are you looking for? Should I really drop you off here, even though it's my job?

All very, very good questions.

"Do you think Riley was just fucking with us?" I ask in a low voice. "How do we know Max works here?"

El bites her lip, her confidence visibly evaporating under my question. She was magnificent this morning as she drove us here to find Max, but the Gold Star has left her stumped.

"I don't know … for sure …" she says. "But Riley was so wildly specific. He could've just said she was in Richmond, but he said Clark's Gold Star Pawnshop, on East Oak Street. He even wrote down the Harley-Davidson garden gnome in the window."

I peer at the pawnshop window, and, sure enough, beyond the grimy glass and collection of for-sale knickknacks sits a small ceramic gnome in a Harley vest and leather chaps. It's hideous, but certainly memorable.

"I don't think Riley is smart enough to lie in such detail," El adds.

That is probably true.

"Do you think you can wait for us?" I ask Rita.

"I don't normally do that, and I can't afford to miss another ride," she says, eyeing her watch.

I pull a twenty out of my wallet and hand it to her. "I'll give you another when we get out," I promise. "But, please, just wait? We won't be long."

With another eyebrow raise, she takes the money. "Five minutes, girls. Be back in five or I'm coming in after you. This isn't a place for kids like you."

"Or a place for Max," El mutters beside me.

Even from inside the minivan, I can see Max isn't in the shop. Not unless she's suddenly turned into a bulky white guy with tufty gray hair and a fondness for pinkie rings.

"Be careful in there, girls," Rita calls as I open the door.

"We will."

Once the door is slammed shut behind me and Rita has locked the doors behind us, I turn to El. A strand of her hair has popped out of her half ponytail and I smooth it behind her ear. She exhales softly at my touch.

"Ready?" I say.

"I think so." She has Max's jacket draped over her arm and there's a hard glint to her eyes.

"Do you need to go into the shop alone?" I ask.

"Not even a little bit. We've come this far together; we're not splitting up now."

Ignoring the guys on the sidewalk, we push open the pawnshop door. A bell jingles as we walk in, and the guy behind the L-shaped counter just grunts, not looking up from his phone. Behind him, next to the guns, hang rows of acoustic and electric guitars, looking like they miss their owners. On another wall are rows of designer purses, some of them in bright colors and all of them secured by a loop of metal wire and padlocks. For a moment, we look around at the display cases, running our fingers over them. Beneath the glass are watches, rings, earrings, and necklaces.

"You here to sell something?" the man behind the counter booms at us, still not looking up from his phone. "I take gold, silver, coins, some stamps, designer bags—but no fakes—only on the days when my bag girl is here. Also, we buy guns, guitars, electronics—"

"Your bag girl?" El interrupts. "Who's that?"

It's clear from the note of hope in her voice that she's hoping this is Max.

The man finally looks up at us at El's question. "Not in the habit of talking about my employees to customers," he says.

"She's not just an employee!" El bursts out. "I'm looking for my sister. Max. She's supposed to work here."

The man's eyes narrow. He looks toward the back room quickly in a way that's utterly suspicious and then scratches his nose with one paw of a hand. "How do I know you're not lying? Max told me she got into some trouble. How do I know you're not here to turn her in to the cops?"

"Do we seriously look like the cops?" I ask, gesturing between us.

My comment is lost, however, in El's triumphant "AH-HA! You said someone named Max DOES work here."

The man scowls at her. "She might. Still doesn't mean I believe she's your sister."

With a huff, El starts tapping at her phone and then she brandishes it at the man. As it flashes by me, I see a picture of El and Max, standing by the R1, grinning.

"Is that her?" El demands. "Is that the Max who works here?"

The man grunts.

"And as you can see, that's me," El continues. "Standing by my sister, whom I've not seen in months."

"Maybe she is your sister, but it seems to me if she's not been around in months, maybe she doesn't want to be found."

"If she didn't want to be found, why did she send me these!" El pulls a handful of postcards from her bag and flings them onto the counter.

"Not my business," the man says. "My business is buying and selling. Now, if you want me to give you cash for that gold necklace your friend has on, I can do that."

My hand flies to the gold race car charm hanging from the chain around my neck. I'd rather put the Harley gnome in my room than sell this guy the necklace my mom gave me. "It's not for sale," I manage through a surprising surge of emotion. Just the thought of a random stranger wearing this last gift from my mom makes me weepy.

El squeezes my elbow. "We're not here to sell anything," she repeats.

"Buy something then," says the man. "Or get out. I'm not telling you anything about Max."

El's face falls, crumbling like a piece of paper that's been discarded.

"At least tell us if she's here!" I say, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill from my quickly dwindling stock of cash. "Can you do that?"

The man holds out a hand for the cash and I put the bill into it. He closes his hand around the bill and goes back to his phone. "She's not here right now. Not on the schedule for a few days. Now get out."

Right as he says it, one of the guys from outside comes through the door. "Who's not here?" he asks, moving around us to slip behind the counter.

"This one says she's Max's sister," grunts the other man. "Wants to know where she is, but doesn't want to buy anything."

The younger man eyes the twenty-dollar bill in my hand. "I'll tell you where she might be for twenty bucks."

I slip him the bill.

"Check Mama Maple's Bacon and Eggs. It's a diner just a few blocks from here. Walking distance really. Max is usually working there if she's not here. Or she'll be at the racetrack."

The other man gives him a fairly murderous look, and gestures for us to get out.

"What racetrack?" El says as I grab her arm.

I wrack my brain, trying to think of what NASCAR tracks are around here.

He makes a face at us, like we know nothing about racing. "The Richmond Raceway."

"It's our local track. Super popular with fans and drivers. We have NASCAR here two times a year."

Of course. I remember now. Richmond was one of Mom's favorites. But there are twenty-six tracks in the circuit and she'd had many favorites. Somehow, in the rush of sneaking off with El, spending the night together, and looking for Max, I'd forgotten about their racetrack until now. My stomach flips as I remember that I'd missed Mom's last race here for a school thing. And now I'll never see her race again.

El presses the guy for more info. "What would Max be doing at the Raceway?"

The guy shrugs. "Beats me. Said she had some mechanic experience. Not sure if she's working there, but I've got a buddy who works there and I put them in touch. But try the diner first. That's where she usually is this early in the week. Not a lot of action at the track on a Sunday afternoon."

El opens her mouth to ask another question, but the big guy has had enough. "Get out. Now. You're going to scare off other customers."

There's not another customer in sight, but still, I grab El's hand and pull her out of the shop.

"Well, that could've gone better," El says, once we're outside again.

We wave to Rita, who taps her Apple Watch.

"What do you want to do now?" I ask, wanting desperately to see the track again. But also knowing El might want to go to the diner.

"I think we should split up," El says tentatively. "If that's okay with you. I mean, what if Max is in one place, but we both go to the other, and then we miss her?"

"It makes sense to split up," I say, weirdly relieved somehow. "I'll take the Raceway. I mean, unless you want it. But I sort of know my way around tracks, and I wouldn't mind seeing it again. And—"

El puts a hand on my arm. "Jo. It's fine. Go to the Raceway. I'll find this diner. I bet Max is there anyway. She's probably got a proper job and is making good money. I bet this pawnshop job is just a temporary thing."

Her voice shakes as she says it, as if she's convincing herself more than me.

"I bet that's it," I say gently. I wrap her in a hug. "We'll find her. Don't worry."

Rita honks at us, and unrolls a window. "It's been way more than five minutes. I've got to get going. I've got another fare to pick up. I can drop you girls off at one place, but that's it."

"We're going in different directions anyway," says El, holding up her phone. She turns to me. "Mama Maple's is just a few blocks away. I'll walk. You get a ride to the Raceway and let me know what you find."

I look around the slightly rough neighborhood. "Are you sure? I can go with you."

El shakes her head emphatically. "I'm fine. Really. It's super close and it's run by like some famous chef. It's got great reviews and is probably crowded even at this time of day. Don't worry about me. Now, get to the Raceway."

She pops a quick kiss on my cheek, and then turns away, walking with determined strides down the street.

I should go after her. I really should. But she's right that we're more likely to miss Max if we don't split up. Plus, El might need some time to clear her head. A lot has happened over the last twenty-four hours—no, less than that. It's been less than twenty-four hours since we raced Riley and I won.

Just that thought makes my hands itch for a steering wheel. For the feel of track under my wheels. For going so fast, I don't have time to think or miss my mom or worry about the F1 Academy application or what's happening between El and me or the trouble we're going to be in when we get home.

"Your friend isn't coming with us?" Rita asks as I climb into the front seat of the minivan.

I shake my head. "She has something to do at Mama Maple's."

"That place is amazing. We should've asked her to get us some takeout. Where are you headed?"

I buckle my seat belt. "The Richmond Raceway, if it's not too far."

Rita turns the key in the ignition. "We've got time, hon. Don't worry. I'm a fast—but safe—driver. My kids like to tease me and tell me I should be driving a race car."

I close my eyes, leaning against the seat. "My mom was a race car driver," I say softly.

"She is not!" Rita exclaims as she pulls away from the pawnshop.

"Was," I say, opening my eyes. I turn around and look for El, but she's already turned down another street and out of view. "My mom was a race car driver. She passed away a few months ago in a crash."

"Oh hon," Rita says, placing her warm hand over mine. "I'm so sorry. Want to tell me about it?"

I shake my head.

"Want a juice box?" She opens the center console and pulls out a juice box and a granola bar. My stomach rumbles at the sight, reminding me I've not eaten for hours.

"That would be great, thanks," I say, taking both with a feeling that could be relief, but might be something else.

"We'll get to the Raceway soon," Rita says. "But in the meantime, want me to tell you about the time I drove a famous F1 driver around Richmond for the day?"

"I'd love that," I say, taking a long sip of sugary juice. "Tell me all about it, please."