Shift

1

Iknow the very moment I fell in love with Dustin Bridges. It wasn’t the first time my brother’s best friend and I were alone together on a dusty track under the assault of the cruel Arizona sun. It would be far from the last, too. So many weekends of my life were spent in the infield of some endless loop, inhaling gassy fumes while I sheltered in my parents’ truck camper shell. It was always the three of us—me, Dustin, and my brother, Tommy. They were two rowdy boys, hell-bent on making me miserable and reminding me that no matter how hard I fought back, there would always be two of them and one of me. They would always be older, bigger, and capable of far more devious pranks—like the time they filled my duffel bag with slugs they dug up at the creek’s edge during one of our overnight trips.

We were the ultimate love-hate triangle. I’ve never blamed Dustin for taking up for Tommy all those times. It was his best-friend duty, in all honesty, and I was the annoying baby sister. I lived up to my moniker, too, busting in on their private conversations, tattling every time they lit things on fire out in the desert, and pretending to cry just to get them busted when they play-punched me in the arm. It never actually hurt.

When it came to race time, though, I was one-hundred percent on their crew. Team Eat My Dust—that’s what they were called—always crossed the finish lines first. And if they didn’t, my loud mouth was the first one shouting about the cheaters who stole first place. I was a part of their squad on the weekends, and even though I never touched a tool to the kart in my family’s garage, I still somehow had a stake in their race. I don’t think a person can spend that many hours riding in cars and traveling together without feeling that kind of kinship. The three of us fought like hell sometimes, but we were also friends. Best friends. Family.

But something changed that March morning when I just turned thirteen. Dustin dropped his invisible armor, and I saw straight into his defenseless and wounded insides. It was the first time I felt desperate to soothe his pain and help fight his demons, both real and imagined. Maybe it was the first time I fully understood. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my thirteenth birthday and how hot Dustin’s tears were when they landed on my bare, sunburnt shoulder as I held his quaking body tight.

Even now, four years later, on the verge of my seventeenth birthday, those few moments haunt me. I’m surrounded by dozens of friends and family and more gifts than any girl truly deserves, yet all I feel inside is emptiness and ache. Because while my eyes scan the crowd gathered around the outdoor picnic table to serenade me with the happy birthday song, I keep coming up short. The only person I want to celebrate anything with . . . ever . . . at all . . . didn’t bother to come.

4 YEARS AGO

The trip from our hometown of Camp Verde to the track south of Tucson is always miserable. It’s a long drive, yeah, but it’s also littered with traffic, even at the crack of dawn. The constant starting and stopping has made my stomach turn over at least a dozen times, and Tommy keeps trying to force me to sit up in the cab of the truck with our dad. I probably should, but if I move up there, I won’t be able to hear my brother and Dustin talk. The growl of the roadway is too loud to hear people in the camper through the small window from the cab.

That’s probably exactly what Tommy wants. My brother is fourteen and a freshman, so he’s into girls and smoking weed and looking at porn. The last two things he doesn’t know I know about. He’s been going back and forth with Dustin for the last hour telling super dirty jokes that my dad would hate. I think the two of them are trying to make me blush, but instead I keep laughing, even at the ones I don’t understand.

I don’t get embarrassed. Not easily, at least. I think I owe that to the fact that most of my life has been spent under the wings of these two. If I’m a hard nut to crack, it’s only because they made me one.

Tommy’s phone battery ran out about halfway here. He never leaves his phone on the charger overnight, and he always asks to borrow mine when this happens. My brother would never take my phone from me, though. He’s actually very protective when it comes to anyone threatening me physically. That doesn’t mean he won’t resort to a classic guilt trip. He almost had me giving in about fifty miles ago, with his sad puppy eyes and promises to let me drive the kart through the dirt hills at night next week. Dustin made him stop pressuring me before I gave in. As protective as Tommy is over me, Dustin’s sense of duty is even stronger. I think it’s because he sees me as an extension of his best friend, and he’d do anything for my brother.

The truck chassis dips and I knock my head into the back window from the harsh bump in the road as we turn off the highway, finally reaching the track. The sun is up, and we’re later than my brother and Dustin like to be for the event.

I told you we should have left at four, my brother shouts, pounding his fist against the glass that separates my dad from us. My father turns to the side and glares at my brother with a weighted brow, a warning shot to get his temper in check if he wants any semblance of freedom this weekend.

You know he hates this drive, I say in defense of my dad, and maybe a little to admonish my brother.

"You know he hates this drive." The voice Tommy uses to imitate mine is shrill and nasally—and nothing like me. I flip him off as my dad lowers the tailgate.

You see that? Tommy points over his shoulder at me as he slides out of the back.

Yeah. My dad sighs. I’m sure you deserved it.

I pucker a smile at my brother, but it fades under my dad’s shadow as he peers under the camper shell to stare at me.

Sorry, I mutter.

He shakes his head and leaves the back end of the truck open for me to gather my things. I’ve learned to bring my own chair for these races. I end up following my dad and the boys all over the place, but mostly, it’s a lot of standing. I learned fast that I prefer a lot of sitting.

I pile my blanket and backpack on my chair inside the foldable wagon we use to haul our cooler and water for the day. The boys are already disconnecting the kart from the trailer and prepping it for check-in. This is one of the few times I will get to wander around this place completely on my own. I don’t waste any time, and scope out the best places to watch the race.

Most girls my age would probably be pretty bitter about spending their thirteenth birthday in the middle of a dirt track with their brother and his best friend all day, but I can’t think of any place I’d rather be. Besides, I like the hot dogs the food trucks make at these things, and my mom’s making my favorite cake for when we get home. This is kinda my dream birthday lunch and dinner.

Despite the long drive to Southpointe Raceway, this place will always be my favorite. Maybe because it’s the first place my brother and Dustin ever raced. They were seven; I was six. We’ve come a long way from the kiddie karts they started in. They’ve graduated to the biggest tracks they can get on before that next big step—stock. That’s always been the dream. I’m not even sure who came up with it first, Dustin or my brother. I only remember they started messing around with an old kart my dad picked up at a rummage sale and days later, this long-term vision was locked in.

There was also never any question that Dustin would drive. Not that my brother can’t drive; he just doesn’t have the edge it takes to win. Dustin, though? He’s all edge. My dad told me that most people are born with their own limiters, just like cars. His and Tommy’s, and even mine, are set a little higher than average. We like to compete. Dad says his passion for winning is what makes him such a good attorney. But in the Judge family world, we always obey the rules.

Dustin? He lit the rulebook on fire the moment he was born. If the rule is no running, he’s going to sprint. There’s no such thing as a quiet library when he’s inside. And if a car can be made to go a little faster, or be driven a little bolder, Dustin is going to push the pedal to the floor and find a way to hug the curves and come out ahead. Anyone in his way is simply another object, and if he can’t get around them, he’ll go right through. Even if he gets burned in the process.

Short-sighted. That’s the one phrase I remember my dad lecturing him about when he came in third last month. My brother tunes out the things my dad says during our drives home, but not Dustin. He’s engaged the entire way, even if he’s mad as hell about losing a race. That’s what gives him his edge—he’s willing to listen to what he did wrong. He’s not willing to change, though. Sure, he’ll shave off a bad habit here and there, but when a race comes down to the wire, his instinct to become ice cold takes over and nothing can stop him from driving his way.

"Hey, you’re that kid’s sister, that Tommy kid or whatevah, right?" I turn toward the voice barking at me from above. There’s a huge bar in the middle of the racing complex with seating around the outside. It’s a great view, but every time I try to sit up there someone kicks me out.

I’m Hannah, yeah. I squint as the reflection of the rising sun glints off the window behind the man. He leans forward over the railing and spits out what looks like dirt. I think it’s tobacco.

You tell Dustin I showed up . . . like I said I would. The man looking down at me has a shaved head and a long beard that twists to a point at the base of his throat. He pushes his reflective sunglasses down his nose to peer at me over the tops with his deep black eyes that somehow look like holes under the dawn light. His white T-shirt isn’t very clean, and neither are his jeans, kinda like he’s been walking around the track in them for a day or two. Maybe he lives out here.

Who are you? I bunch up my mouth and cock my head to the side as if I’m actually the tough girl I pretend to be. I certainly dressed the part today, wearing a pair of Tommy’s old jeans with holes in the knees and my gray Thrasher hoodie. My muscles are primed to drop my wagon handle and sprint toward the boys if I have to. I wish I had gum in my mouth; I look tougher when I’m chewing gum.

It takes the man a few seconds to answer, the slow drawl of menacing laughter spilling out before his words.

You tell him it’s Colt. He winks before pushing his glasses back up over his eyes. My stomach rolls like I’m going to be sick.

I hold my stare on him to keep up my act, nodding before turning back to retrace my path and hunt down Dustin and Tommy. I don’t walk any faster than I did on my way up the path, but I want to. I want to very much.

It’s ready, dude. Relax. We’ll pass; we always pass. My brother is never stressed before a race, but Dustin becomes a ball of nerves. He’s pacing around the kart as I walk up to join them.

We’re up next, boys, my dad says, standing back to make room for the race inspector.

There’s a lot of cheating in kart racing, or at least in our region. People like to mess with the speed governors and make small adjustments that will get them one mile per hour over the next driver. My brother has a mechanical brain and he knows how to push everything right up to the line. Dustin always worries that he’s pushed a little too far. What’s funny is how opposite they are when it comes to driving. When Dustin’s in the kart and working to pass people, lines don’t even exist. I’ve heard people say he drives dirty, but my dad says he drives aggressive.

A quick glance over my shoulder confirms that the mystery man is still standing on the bar ledge, waiting for me to deliver his message. The glow from a cigarette flares briefly near his head. I turn back to face the kart as the inspector paces around it, then he kneels to measure tire pressure. Dustin’s knees pop in and out, the kind of dance a little kid does when they have a potty emergency. My brother is the exact opposite, his mouth rotating the toothpick he almost constantly chews. Dad is on his phone, probably texting my mom, so used to this process by now that he’s just counting the hours until he has to drive us all back home.

Start her up. The inspector glances toward my brother first, but Tommy nods at Dustin, who glides his way into the driver’s seat. Eventually, he gets the kart rumbling.

You came back fast, my dad says at my side.

I startle a little because I was deep in my thoughts, worrying about the message I have to deliver. I don’t have a good feeling about it, and I’m not sure telling Dustin before he hits the track is a good idea.

Yeah, I ran into someone. My expression probably looks confused, but it also must show my nerves because my dad turns me to face him and inspects me for injuries.

Not, like . . . literally. I mean, someone is here . . . for Dustin.

The color leaves my dad’s cheeks at my words, and his calm demeanor is replaced with a tightness in his jaw as his eyes harden their focus on me.

Is something wrong? Clearly there is.

Stay here, he says, squeezing both of my shoulders as if he’s physically planting me in place.

My dad leaves the boys to handle the rest of the check-in process and moves to the front of his truck, his eyes scanning the growing crowd to get a better view of the area around us. I glance back toward the bar where I left the stranger, but the area is filling with people hungry for breakfast before a full day at the track. When I turn back to alert my dad, he’s already gone. I ignore his orders and move from my spot to the front of his truck, where I hoist myself up on the hood for a better view. I spot my father a few race groups down, policing the area for a guy I’m pretty sure is bad news.

The boys clear inspection easily, as they always do, and prep the kart for their heat. I want my dad to come back. The uneasy feeling I got from the bearded man has only gotten a stronger chokehold on me since my dad left. It’s a little cool out this morning, but that’s not the reason I feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing. Something isn’t right, and the fact Dustin and Tommy are heading out to the track under this dark cloud kinda feeling has me seriously on edge.

I stand on the hood of my dad’s truck to gain a better view, turning slowly to scan the heads in search of my dad’s dusty orange hat. When I don’t spot it on my second pass over the crowd, I decide to hop down and drag the wagon up the hill to our regular viewing spot, away from the bar.

When I die, I’m sure the coroner will find proof of years of octane-infused air in my lungs. I don’t do much to avoid it. Rather, I like the way it smells—the burn of gas and oil, the pungent scent of tire tread smoked along rough asphalt. Other girls can have their bath bombs and body sprays; racing aroma is my fragrance of choice.

I get my chair set up for the best view and pull the binoculars out of the bag my dad packed with snacks for the day, taking a granola bar for myself while I’m at it. I nibble at the oats and honey while I study my brother and Dustin as they inch up to their starting position. They have a good spot, not near the front but high for the first turn. Dustin will work his way out of the middle by the first two laps, easy.

I see you found the snacks, my dad says from behind me.

Sorry I left. I didn’t want to miss the start. I hold the binoculars up for him to use. He shakes my offer off, still more interested in studying everybody but Dustin and Tommy.

Yeah, it’s okay. He’s not paying attention to me and I can tell. I didn’t even tell my dad what the man looked like. I wonder whether he thinks this is about someone else, or if something is worse than it actually is.

He had a beard, I say, giving my dad details he hasn’t bothered to ask for.

Yeah, I figured. He nods but his eyes don’t shift to me. He’s still on guard.

Who is he? I focus on my dad’s face, looking for a sign as his mouth tightens and his eyes wrinkle at the sides. He hesitates to answer me, but he knows I won’t let up. I’ve never been the kind of kid who accepts what I’m told. I question everything. I’m going to be a lawyer one day.

Kiddo, Dustin’s family isn’t like ours. You know that much, right?

I nod because yeah, I know more than he probably thinks I do. Dustin has always gone to the same school as me. He can be a handful in the classroom, and when we were little, he got in fights on the playground all the time. He still throws a lot of punches, but he’s bigger than most of the other kids in junior high, so he doesn’t get hit so much himself. Somehow, though, his arms and sometimes his face, they always look bruised.

That man you saw. That’s Dustin’s dad, I’m pretty sure.

My instinct is to respond with Dustin has a dad? It’s just that none of us have ever seen him. When we all hang out, it’s always at our house. I’ve never asked why, but as I got older I assumed he was embarrassed about living in the trailer park. We have a pretty nice house with a pool, so it makes sense that when friends want to do something, we do it there.

Does Dustin know he’s here? I glance up to meet my dad’s waiting gaze as he hands the binoculars back to me with a shrug.

I’m guessing no, he says.

I suck in my lips and think about all the questions I could ask but don’t really need to—and maybe don’t want to. Thankfully, Dustin is driving in the first heat, and the announcer is making the last call for racers to take their positions. My dad pulls the cooler out of the wagon and takes two Cokes out, passing one to me when he sits on the closed lid. We crack them open as the motors vibrate from the track below.

How are they going to do today? I ask this question about every race. I grin as I take a sip of my soda, anticipating my dad’s usual answer.

With Dustin driving? I’d sure hate to be in one of the other cars.

I chuckle against the can and meet my dad’s sideways glance with my own. He winks as the race kicks off and we both consume ourselves with the track below. Fifteen laps for qualifying. It’s twenty-five for the final. I know Dustin and my brother are going to be doing this with bigger cars one day, the sponsorship sticker-covered kind that get hauled around the country on eighteen-wheelers. I bet Dustin will have his own life-size cutout one day, too.

As expected, Dustin cuts his way to the front of the pack before the second lap is done. He’s sitting comfortably in fourth, and though one more spot might get him a better start for the final, he doesn’t need to do more than finish where he’s at. Dustin likes starting from behind, though.

Kid’s a chaser, and he likes to have an enemy, my dad always says.

I always thought that made sense with the competitive side I’ve seen of Dustin at school during recess kickball games or when we got older and he played flag football with my brother. He’s always an impossible defender, fast enough to run anyone down. But now that I’ve seen the guy who might be his dad—and stared into his dark, coal eyes—my dad’s words conjure a different meaning. Maybe Dustin has one enemy, and I’m not so sure he’s chasing him as much as running away.

This is the part of the race when I can usually sit back and relax, but my dad is still poised, leaning forward and surveying every camp spot around the track. It’s making me do it too. I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad, but as Dustin finishes his twelfth lap, my eyes land on our target.

I found him. Dad! I point as my dad leans against my shoulder to follow my sightline, and as soon as he sees the man I’m signaling to, he hops over the short embankment wall in front of us and jogs down the hill to where my brother is cheering on his driver.

I glance around at our stuff. We don’t have anything worth much except the binoculars, so I stuff those in the front pocket of my hoodie and head down the hill in my father’s footsteps. The sun is finally warming things up, and my dark hair sticks to my neck and face. I’ll be melting under the sweatshirt soon, so as I walk I pull the string from the hood and use it to tie my hair back before freeing myself of the sweatshirt, opting to carry it like a bundle. I step up next to my dad and set my things on the ground between my feet, looking up as Dustin whips by at the final curve.

Go, Dustin! I shout as he passes. He doesn’t balk. He says he can hear me, though, even with his helmet on and the rumble of the track drowning out the world, so I always cheer.

My dad digs his feet into the gravel and folds his arms across his chest. His sunglasses are the kind that wrap around his face, which makes it hard to tell what he’s looking at. Based on the flex of his biceps and the way he positioned himself between me and the bearded man walking our direction, I have a pretty good idea where his eyes are fixed.

You must be Tom, the man says, reaching to one side and hitching up his slouching jeans as he walks. He runs his palm along his hip before holding it outstretched. My dad pauses for a second before gripping it.

Colt, right?

My dad’s forearm is flexed.

Riiiiiight, Colt answers, dragging the word out as a smirk takes over his face. Both men let go from their shake, their faces reflected in each other’s lenses.

I lean forward to look around the standoff at my brother, hoping he has a better idea about what’s going on, but he’s more focused on Dustin’s route. I have a feeling he’s trying to ignore our guest, and I wonder how much he knows about Dustin’s parents.

You living down here now? my dad asks, pulling my attention back to their conversation. I tie the sleeves of my hoodie around my waist and pull the binoculars out to make myself look busy while I listen. I follow every curve Dustin takes,