Chapter Five

The day after I absolutely trounce El Blum at kart racing—it felt amazing to race again and my anxiety disappeared the moment I hit the gas—I wake early and linger on my air mattress, staring at the ceiling and deciding what to do with my day. Sunlight filters through the lace curtains in the craft room where Grandma Jolene has set up a space for me, and I've been awake for almost an hour already. Just lying here.

Rolling over, I grab my F1 Academy application from my messenger bag and read it for the thousandth time.

Name, Age, Experience, Short Paragraph About Why You Want to Be Part of the F1 Academy, Awards Won, Career Goals …

Everything is completed, except for the blank line on page four, which needs my dad's signature since I'm underage. I scowl at the empty space. If Mom were here, she would've signed it the minute I printed the form.

Of course, if Mom were still here, then we'd still be working on our plan for my career and I could've afforded to wait a bit longer. Now that she's gone, though, I have to make my own way in the racing world.

Sighing, I let the application pages drop onto my face in a heap.

I could just forge Dad's signature, but then if I get in and it's discovered I did that, I'll probably be banned from F1 for life, so that's not an option.

I haven't even told Dad about the form yet or my dream of leaving Dell's Hollow later this summer to join the F1 Academy, which is a training program for young elite female drivers. How can I ask him to sign this when he won't even let me get my license?

But how can I not ask him? If I wait until I'm eighteen, six months from now, it might be too late. I might be too slow. Too out of practice. Too distracted. Plus, if I don't apply this summer, I'll have to wait another full year for the next application window.

From underneath the sheets of paper, I can feel my racing future moving further and further away from me.

Shit.

Sitting up, I let the application sheets waterfall off my face and down my torso. I have the day off from Grandma Jolene's, and I wasn't planning on attending El's volunteer club meeting. I really, truly wasn't. After all, I won the go-kart race and our bet, meaning she had to cover for me.

But, let's face it, what else am I going to do? Sit around the farmhouse and watch Grandma pack for Italy? Help her decide whether Florence would like her better in a red sundress or a pink one? Of course, I could just spend the day wandering around Dell's Hollow on my own. Or I could stick to the couch, bingeing HGTV and talking to myself like the friendless shut-in I am. Shudder and no thank you on all fronts.

Plus, I kind of hate the idea of El thinking badly of me. Like a lot. Even now, remembering the frown that scrunched up the place between her eyebrows when I asked her to … how did she put it, "help her to scam herself"? It makes me cringe.

She's the cutest girl I've met in ages. Who also happens to be into Fast Furious. And funny. And hurting now that her sister has disappeared.

Oh no.

Am I crushing on El?

That's ridiculous. I've met her like twice—and thought about her all last night after I left Putt by the Pond, and checked out all her social media, but who's counting that? Not. Me.

Really, there's only one way to confirm if I'm solidly in crush territory: see El again. And that means going to the volunteer gig at a place called Syed Rescue Farm, of which I have vague memories from my childhood visits to this town.

Yes, okay, fine. I also looked up all the club's scheduled events, and planned out the quickest bike route between Grandma Jolene's house and the farm. But there's nothing suspicious about gathering information. That's called being prepared.

Right.

I'm so prepared, I can still remember how El's hand felt in mine as I helped her out of her kart. And how her laugh sounded. And that she smelled like coconut shampoo and motor oil.

Hello, I am officially a creep. Okay. Time to go see this girl for real, rein all this in—ha! horse puns for a day at the horse farm!—and figure out how to get my license without tricking interesting girls into helping me.

After a shower, clean clothes, and—Lord, help me—some actual winged eyeliner and lip gloss, I pound down the stairs. (Not a crush. I just have on a dress and makeup to look nice. To help brush horses and clean out stables. Ooof. I am in trouble, aren't I?)

As I skid into the living room, I see Dad in the kitchen, working on his laptop. He stares intently at the screen, ignoring me as I grab my blue Doc Martens instead of the usual grimy brown ones I wear to work. Boots and backpack on, I'm almost out the front door when Dad hollers at me.

"JoJo, come in here, will ya?"

I freeze. It's his serious tone of voice. His "we-need-to-have-a-talk" tone. Has he somehow figured out I have the F1 Academy form? Or that I'm hoping to leave Dell's Hollow for the world of racing?

Faking confidence I don't feel, I call out, "What's up? I need to get going."

"Come talk to your old dad for a minute."

A long sigh escapes me. Since Dad's been so busy with finding work and keeping up with his fitness (i.e., riding his dorky bike around the local bike trail in a loop for several hours a day), this is the first time he's wanted to talk in a while. There was a time after Mom died when all he did was lie on the couch and cry. Then, he started seeing a therapist who wanted him to talk, and he pulled me into that. For a few weeks this spring, he was constantly asking me what I was feeling and how my grief was shaped.

Seriously. How my grief was shaped. Like I could give a coherent structure to the bone-deep ache of never being able to feel Mom's arms around me again or the finality of her just suddenly being gone.

I had no idea what to tell him then and I still don't now. All I know is that if I keep moving fast enough, my grief doesn't have a chance to catch up with me or to take a clear shape. And that's been enough to keep me going these last few months. Well, that and the hope of getting into the F1 Academy.

"Hi, Street Racer," Dad says as I walk in. "Grab a biscuit. Just made them fresh."

Swiping a biscuit off the pan on the stove (Dad's been baking, which is a good sign, since he's not baked anything since Mom died), I turn a chair around backward and straddle it. "How's it going, Dirty?"

For reasons that are beyond both my understanding and my desire to know, everyone in town, including his own mother, calls my dad, whose real name is Brian Boyd, "Dirty." It's an absolutely unsettling nickname, and I cling to the hope that it has to do with his days as a mechanic and head of Mom's pit crew and not something more sordid. But who really knows with southern country boys and their nicknames?

"Dad," he corrects, holding back a grin. "Please, please don't call me ‘Dirty.'" He runs a hand through his thick brown hair—my hair, though the rest of me, from my lack of height to my face shape and eye color, is all Mom—and takes a long sip of coffee.

I pull my biscuit apart, letting steam escape and breathing in the sweet scent of butter and flour. "Fine, how's it going, Dad?"

"Better," he says, gesturing to his laptop. "I've found a job selling car parts online. Should bring in enough money to get us our own place."

It's ridiculous to think that my dad, a man who used to stand by the edge of the most famous racetracks in the United States, cheering loudest of all in a stadium of thousands as Mom's car whipped around the curves, would take a job selling auto parts online.

"Don't we have a shit ton of life insurance money from Mom? And all her money from endorsements? Why do you need to work?"

Dad massages his temples. "We do have a lot of money, yes, but I've put most of that aside for your future. Plus, I need to stay busy."

What he doesn't say is that he hasn't been able to set foot on a track in months. And that he's turned down multiple job offers from race teams across the country. But, still, even if he's processing his grief, I can't imagine him hunched over his computer all day.

"We don't need our own place. I like Grandma's house," I say quickly through a mouthful of biscuit.

"Sure you do," he says with a sigh. "I bet you love sleeping in that tiny craft room on a lumpy air mattress."

"It's not that bad."

It really is, and it makes me long for my comfy queen-sized bed, which has been in storage since we moved. But I'm not telling Dad that. The last thing he needs is to be worrying about me while he's dealing with his own pain.

"And what about Dell's Hollow? How are you settling in here?" Dad takes another sip of coffee.

"That's a totally different question, but I'm figuring it out. I'd be able to settle in better if you let me get my license."

Dad shakes his head. "Nice try, but you know the terms. Do the volunteer stuff, and we'll talk about your license."

I finish my biscuit and stand up. "Well, you're on. As it so happens, I'm on my way to my first activity with the volunteering club now."

Surprise crosses Dad's face. "Really? What are you doing with them?"

"Horse stuff? I don't know exactly, but we're working at the Syed Rescue Farm."

"You're wearing that to go work at the stables?" His eyebrows raise at my purple babydoll dress and leggings, and it occurs to me that I've not worn a dress since Mom's funeral.

I push away from the table. "Gotta go, Dad! Tell you all about it later."

Before Dad can ask any more questions, or try to give me an awkward hug, or say he's proud of me for doing the bare minimum, or really dig into why I'm in a dress for a day of stable cleaning, I hurry out of the house.

When I pull up on my bike, El is already at the stables, looking her usual blend of serious and adorable. Today she clutches a clipboard to her chest and wears a gray tank top, jeans, and scuffed-up motorcycle boots. Once again, there's a pen stuck behind her ear, and she's talking earnestly to a pretty girl in a green hijab. Behind them, inside a paddock, stands a brown-and-white horse. It nudges El's shoulder with its nose, and she rubs its cheek affectionately. Three other kids stand a bit farther down the fence, petting a gray horse and feeding it carrots. I tuck my ridiculous bike away beside the barn and head toward El. My heart, of course, gallops along like a merry horse out for a ride.

Keep it cool, Jo. You're just here to help.

"Hi!" I say rather too brightly once I'm beside El and her friend.

Both El and the other girl jump about a foot.

"JoJo?" asks El, her eyes widening as if I've materialized from thin air rather than walked up to her. "What are you doing here?"

"Volunteering."

"But our bet … you won … you don't have to be here." Her eyes flick to me and then back to the clipboard.

Beside El, her friend nudges her in a not-so-subtle way, and they share a look. Right. They've been talking about me. I know that look.

Ignoring El's confusion, because I don't want to blurt out my real reasons for being there, I turn to the girl at El's side. "Hi, I'm JoJo. Race car driver, new to town, and eager Horse Girl in training." I stick out my hand like a businesswoman, which is probably totally weird and good grief, why aren't I better with kids my own age? I would give anything for CJ to be here, ready with one of our inside jokes and something encouraging to say about my chances with El.

The girl laughs at that and shakes my hand before I can overthink my life choices any further. "I'm Zaynah. Certified Horse Girl?, El's best friend, and future neurosurgeon. This is Pickles." She nods toward the brown-and-white horse. "And this is my family's farm. I'm glad to meet you. El told me a lot about you on the way home from work."

This earns Zaynah a fierce glare from El. But I like her instantly.

"Nice to meet you, too. So, what do I need to do to be part of this group?"

El fumbles with her clipboard and then thrusts it in my direction. "Sign up here and we'll get started. First thing we're doing today is mucking out stables. We'll pair up and then get working."

"You two can work together," says Zaynah quickly, with a gleam in her eye. "I'll see who else needs a partner over there."

"Wait, Z, you don't have to go!" protests El.

But Zaynah hurries away and then it's just El and me. We stand there for a second, and I shift from one foot to another, painfully aware of how overdressed I am for today's event.

El narrows her eyes at me. "So, why did you really come today?"

"I've never mucked out a horse's stable in ninety-three-degree heat. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"In that dress? You look like you're going to a Goth prom."

"It's not like there was a dress code on the paperwork. Besides, this is a totally functional outfit and you have no idea if I've got a Goth prom lined up after this."

El snorts, but her face softens just a bit. "You have to take this seriously, you know. Zaynah's parents are counting on us to do a good job. The work we're doing in the volunteer club matters—to the town, and to me."

I mock salute her. "Fear not, brave leader, I'm here to do good work. Though I will need a pen if you want me to sign this in something other than my blood. Which upon consideration might be perfect as a pre-Goth-prom activity."

"Why are you so weird?" deadpans El as she pulls the pen from behind her ear.

"Why are you so cute?" I mutter under my breath as I sign my name with a flourish and put my email and phone number in the appropriate sections on the attendance form. So much for El waiting until a first date to get my number. Check and mate. I chuckle.

"What?" El takes back the clipboard and pen, her voice tense.

"Nothing. Let's go scoop some horse poop."

Once we're inside the stable, I immediately regret my decision to come to today's volunteer activity. It's not that I don't need the workout—as an aspiring F1 driver, fitness is a huge part of my life and I've not been great about running or training lately—and it's not that I really mind shoveling poop or replacing dirty straw with clean stuff. It's just that El is so damn close, I'm barely resisting the urge to pluck out the pieces of straw that have ended up in her hair. She's also shoveling at a truly alarming rate and ignoring all my jokes.

"So, last night I talked to Grandma Jolene about your sister's jacket," I say without preamble after yet another of my jokes flops.

"What?" El spins around. Her shovel clangs onto the concrete floor and she grabs at it, but misses. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

I shrug—I guess I'm back to that as my default response with El. "You seemed very busy with the clipboard and the horse poop and my upcoming Goth prom."

El looks like she's going to fling a shovel full of poop at me. "Well? What did Jolene say? Does she know where Max is?"

I'd found Grandma Jolene sitting on the back porch of the farmhouse last night, watching the sun sink below the spine of the Appalachian Mountains.

"Hey," I'd said, plopping into the rocking chair next to hers.

"Howdy. Want some sweet tea?" Grandma had gestured to the glass pitcher and the extra glass on the side table. "I figured you might join me."

I poured myself a glass of the sweetest sweet tea (Grandma Jolene's secret recipe, which is famous for making your teeth hurt after the first sip) and we sat there for a long minute while I gathered the courage to ask her about Max without giving away my interest in El. Which would be tricky, since Grandma Jolene knew me better than I knew myself at times.

"So, I have a random question for you," I said, taking a sip of my sweet tea. "Something about an employee you had once."

Grandma Jolene raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

"It's about Maxine Blum. Max?"

"Now how do you know about Max?" asked Grandma Jolene with an edge to her voice. "You're not hanging out with her old crowd, are you?"

"No ma'am." I took another fortifying sip of tea. "It's just that I bumped into her sister at the garage and she asked me about Max and I didn't know what to tell her and so I said I'd ask you and …"

"Ahhhhh." Grandma Jolene slid me a smirk that looked just like my own. "Little Eliana. I've been wondering how she was doing. Is she a friend of yours?"

"Not even a bit. I just met her today, but she was really worried about Max, and I thought I might be able to help."

"Mighty sweet of you, JoJo."

"I hesitate to use the word hero, but if it fits …"

Grandma Jolene cackled at that reply and swatted me. "Pour me another glass of sweet tea and I'll tell you what I know, though I'm not sure how helpful it'll be."

There was a lot Grandma Jolene told me that I don't think El needs to know, or wants to hear. I wouldn't, if it was about someone I loved.

"Grandma Jolene does remember Max," I say now to El, carefully. "Though she couldn't tell me where Max is and she wouldn't show me any of her files. But Grandma Jolene thinks the jacket might be with some of Max's friends. She mentioned someone named Riley, who stopped by the shop to pick up the stuff your sister left behind. Do you know who that is?"

El shook her head. "Never heard of him."

I paused, not quite sure how to reply. Grandma Jolene had a lot of things to say about Riley. None of them kind.

"I only know what she told me," I say, trying for casual but coming across a bit squeaky. "But, according to her—and these are Grandma Jolene's words, not mine—'Riley is an asshole and total dirtbag. He was Max's on-again, off-again boyfriend and they used to get into trouble. He loves bikes and races them illegally, but he also is a jerk.'"

El scoffs as my words land. "That can't be right. Max always told me about her boyfriends. And she wouldn't date a guy like that. I know she wouldn't."

"I just know what Grandma Jolene told me." I kick at a clump of hay. "I'm not sure why she would lie, but it might not be true."

"Of course it's not true," snaps El. She scrunches up her face, as if she's holding back tears.

That look tells a different story than El's defensive words. It says that if Max was keeping one secret from her sister, maybe she'd been keeping other bigger secrets. Maybe El didn't really know the person she misses. Shit. These are big feelings and hard ones.

Suddenly, I know in my bones that getting close to El is about a whole lot more than flirting with a cute girl. If Max was the person Grandma Jolene depicted and not the perfect older sister El had in mind, it is going to hurt for El to wrap her brain around that fact. And I'm not sure how much hurt I can take while grappling with my own pain. Maybe the best thing to do is to leave it alone. Get out of there before I get to know El any better and this tiny crush of mine digs in and becomes anything serious.

El interrupts my thoughts. "So, Riley has Max's jacket. Do you think he knows where she is?" She leans against her shovel, all her certainty gone, her shoulders slumped.

"That's what Grandma Jolene thought."

El chews on her bottom lip. "Max didn't exactly ask me to find her. My parents don't even want to find her, and … I don't know how to do this alone." Her voice shudders on the last word, the one syllable, her voice carrying months of heartbreak and doubt.

It's her hesitation that makes up my mind. It's sweet, vulnerable, and somehow it feels like she's trusting me with an enormous secret. Besides, I can't do much about Dad's pain, but this is a problem I can help solve.

"Hey." I put my shovel down and rest my hands lightly on El's shoulders. Her eyes widen at my touch, but she doesn't move away. "You're not alone. Where you ride, I ride, remember?"

El shoots me a tentative smile, making my heart leap. Okay. Fine. This is definitely a crush, I like El, and I don't want to see her hurt. CJ would probably tell me this fierce, protective feeling is due to my not having anyone else to talk to besides my dad and Grandma Jolene, but it feels like more than that.

Two days, JoJo. You've known this girl for two days. Keep. It. Together.

I drop my arms and pick up my shovel.

"Thank you," El says, picking up her own shovel.

We finish cleaning that first stable and move on to the next one. Conversation flows, and I find out El's favorite ice cream flavor—licorice! unbelievable—her first movie crush—Letty Ortiz, relatable—and that she likes to sing ‘80s songs under her breath while she works. ("Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." Adorable.)

After we've groomed the horses and ridden a few around the paddock (my first time riding a horse in years, and it's not like a bicycle; you definitely forget, and I nearly fell off several times), things start to wrap up. I say goodbye to Zaynah and the others, but there's no sign of El. Which is fine. Totally fine.

Except she's waiting for me by my bi-bicycle.

"Nice wheels," she says, holding back a smile.

"Barely street legal," I say as I strap on my helmet.

"So, will we see you at the next volunteer gig?"

"Remind me when it is?"

"Next Saturday, at the Dell's Hollow Nursing Home. We're doing crafts with the seniors and helping them bake cookies."

That's so not my scene, but I can't say no to El. And maybe there's more to this volunteer stuff than I thought. I liked helping today. I liked being useful, being a part of things.

Maybe Dad is onto something with making me do volunteer work. Or maybe it's just the thought of seeing El again. But whatever it is, I know the answer.

"I'll be there."

"Good," she says, holding up her clipboard. She waves it in my direction. "We can make a plan of attack for the asshole street-racer slash secret boyfriend." Her smile is weak, but at least she's making jokes. "Plus I have your number now." She walks away, heading toward Zaynah and the other members of the club.

"I guess that means this was our first date," I say to myself as I get on my bike and ride away.