Racing Storm Mountain, page 4
He opened his snowmobile binder and reviewed his shortcut map just to be certain he knew the way. With that route, and everything he’d learned from the snowmobile pro YouTube videos, plus all his practice in the garage, he had a solid chance to win tomorrow’s race.
He settled down on the back bench seat from Mom’s minivan, comfortable with the warm breeze from the droning heater washing over him. And he closed his eyes for just a moment.
A BLAST OF COLD AIR AND THE ROAR OF A LOUD SQUEAKY engine jolted him awake. Kelton sat straight up, blinking, bright headlights blinding him. “What’s going on?”
Mom’s minivan was parked outside the garage, snow still coming down. “Kelton! What are you doing out here?” She jumped back into her vehicle and drove into the garage. She shut off the minivan lights and revved the engine a little. Kelton knew that inside the vehicle she’d also turned off the radio and heater. She was revving it, the better to charge the battery so the van would start next time. Leaving any of the electrical stuff on when shutting off the engine was just asking for a jump start next time she had to go somewhere.
“Were you sleeping out here?” Mom shouted when she got out of the van. She slammed the driver’s-side door. “What are you doing? It’s after midnight! Where’s Steve? What did I tell you about running that heater, Kelton?” She cursed, spinning the control dial to shut the heater off. “Electric bill will be through the roof! Get inside! Where’s Steve?”
“I don’t know!” Kelton said. “I’m sorry. I just dozed off. I didn’t mean to run the heater that long.”
“Don’t run that heater at all, Kelton!” Mom snapped, checking her cell phone. She started tapping the screen, probably texting Steve. “There’s no reason for you to be out here to need that heater! Get inside! Go to bed.”
Kelton didn’t argue. Arguing with Mom never got him anywhere anyway, especially when she was this mad. Kelton rushed inside to his room, shut the door, changed into his old Iron Man pajamas, and dropped under the cold blankets. He shivered there, waiting for his bed to warm up, and was asleep after a few minutes.
Some time later, he heard the expected shouting, the cursing, the slamming doors.
“Where were you? You were supposed to take care of Kelton!”
“It’s Winter Carnival! I was out with Trevor and the guys. That kid can take care of himself!”
“Trevor and the guys! Trevor and the guys! It’s always Trevor and the guys. It’s never a job! Never looking out for Kelton! Just you and that stupid old Monte Carlo you can’t afford, out spending money we don’t have!”
“That car is an American classic, Josie!”
Fights like this weren’t uncommon, but lately they were louder, longer, and more frequent. This went on for a long time, until, at last, Mom took the final step. “Out! Get out! We’re done! Take your stupid Monte Crapo and leave! I’ll drop the rest of your junk at Trevor’s! Get out!”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
More swearing.
“I don’t need this!”
“Fine!”
And after the final slamming door, the little house fell silent, save for the sound of his mother’s sniffles and quiet sobs.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Kelton whispered to himself beneath his blankets. “I’ll win that race tomorrow, sell that fancy custom snowmobile for a pile of money, and then you and me and maybe Scruffy will be fine. We’ll be fine, Mom. For real.”
CHAPTER 4
THE NEXT DAY MOM WAS OFF TO WORK, AND STEVE WAS still gone. No big loss there. Except when it came to working on his old Monte Carlo, he was kind of lazy. And he got mad a lot. The bigger problem Kelton had now was that stupid knife.
The thing had sat in an old wooden cigar box at the back of the closet. Steve had only shown it to Kelton that one time when he moved in. Then it was kind of forgotten. But if Mom was going to move all Steve’s stuff over to Trevor’s, maybe that cigar box would be on top of the pile. Maybe Steve would look inside it while he had it out. And if that happened, he’d know Kelton had taken the knife.
Borrowed the knife, really.
OK. Maybe he’d stolen the knife. He hated stealing. It made him feel like a real scumbag, as though the things people said about him and his mom were true.
Worrying about it all made Saturday drag on forever. McCall’s snowmobile race used to start in the morning, but it had been revised so that it started later in the day when it was slightly warmer. But what difference did it really make, when all the racers were packed into cold-weather gear anyway? Kelton just needed to get out there, win the race, and get the knife back. It all would have been a lot easier if Steve hadn’t had a big fight with Mom and gotten himself kicked out.
After the longest wait in his life, a Saturday spent checking and rechecking his gear and snowmobile, a day when he didn’t eat nothing because he was so nervous, it was finally time to get ready and get to the race. Suited up, with one extra sweatshirt added to the two already beneath his outer waterproof jacket, he sat down for a moment on his snowmobile.
Kelton reached over and tugged the five-foot pole that held up his orange safety flag. It was required by McCall law when riding in town. He’d checked the regs on the city website. A snowmobiler wasn’t allowed to ride in town except directly from his house to the gas station or to the trailheads outside of town.
That orange flag reminded him of one of the most important things he’d figured out in life. There were three kinds of people in the world. You had the Populars—the Pops—who were usually also Richies, people who had everything handed to them and never had a problem their mommies and daddies wouldn’t fix. Then there were the Grits, people who had nothing going for them, poor people with no advantages, no breaks, and they whined about it like they were helpless, like, Oh, boo-hoo! Life ain’t fair so I’m just gonna sit on the couch and eat chips the rest of my life. The more he thought about it, the more he figured Steve was one of those helpless kind of Grits. But there was a third kind of person, the Fighter Grits. This type of Grit was poor and barely had any chance, but still fought back. Like, a lot of the teachers thought Kelton would never do anything good. But, thing was, what they didn’t know was Kelton was more a Fighter Grit, a guy who bent the rules sometimes, as long as he didn’t hurt anybody, to get ahead of—no, to finally catch up with—the Richies and the Populars.
So he’d temporarily stolen a knife so he could pay for his snowmobile registration, the belt, and the race entry fee. Now he’d bend the rules again. He’d read the Idaho and McCall snowmobile regulations websites over and over again. He’d even asked the librarian if he understood the rules right, and she agreed with him. The state of Idaho recommended that people under sixteen ride with an adult. Recommended, but not required. The city of McCall said a rider had to have a driver’s license to ride a snowmobile in town, requiring that riders be at least sixteen. It wouldn’t be a problem for Pops like Hunter Higgins or Bryden Simmons, whose parents would either cart their sleds on a trailer down to the trailhead outside the city limits or would drive the snowmobiles down there themselves before turning them over to their kids. Kelton had neither a snowmobile trailer nor a parent willing to drive the sled to the trailhead. How was that his fault? What had he done wrong to not technically be allowed to drive his snowmobile to the start of the race?
Nothing. But Kelton wouldn’t sit around like Steve, endlessly complaining about life being unfair. He’d only be bending the city law a little bit while he drove his snowmobile across town and up Warren Wagon Road to the start of the race. He knew and would obey all the traffic laws. Nobody would get hurt. And when he was wearing all his gear, nobody would even know the rider of his snowmobile was under sixteen and didn’t have a license.
Kelton pull-started his snowmobile and laughed a little when it fired up on the first crank. “Yeah, nobody’s doing me any favors,” he said quietly. “Gotta take every chance I can get.” Like his shortcut overpass in the race. A little risky, maybe, but he wasn’t chicken. And for once, Kelton Fielding was going to come out on top. For real.
He slipped on his helmet and dragged his sled out of the garage. The snow was even thicker now than it had been last night. It hadn’t snowed all day, but a big snowstorm was forecast for the overnight, and already the first few gentle flakes were falling. He shut the garage, hopped back on his sled, and then glided down his driveway, heading toward the race.
“ONE HALF-CAFF, NO-FOAM, EXTRA-HOT, EXTRA-SWEET, nonfat caramel mocha,” Cynthia said, handing the large white paper cup to Swann.
Swann smiled, surveying the parking lot that would serve as the starting point for the snowmobile race. Peggy at Max Motorsports had the machine hauled down, gassed up, and ready. “With whip?”
Cynthia nodded. “Whip and a drizzle of caramel on top.”
Swann took the black plastic lid off. She never liked sipping through the tiny hole. That was always a gamble. When is the hot coffee going to hit your lips? How far back do you have to tip it before the coffee comes out? Will it be too hot to drink? She’d spare herself the surprise and the possible minor injury by just popping the lid off. “No double cup?”
Cynthia sighed. She was usually pretty patient with Swann, but she had her limits. “It’s a small town, Swann. No Starbucks here. Sharlie’s Coffee Shop won’t double-cup.”
Swann was about to sigh and roll her eyes, but she stopped herself, smiling instead. Sharlie was the name of the lake monster that legend said swam the depths of Lake Payette on the north side of McCall. Cynthia must have noticed Swann’s self-control, because she grinned, sipping what was no doubt her normal plain black coffee. Cowboy coffee, she always called it. Cynthia knew of Swann’s determination to avoid becoming the spoiled-rich-girl-moved-to-a-small-town character like the one from the Hallmark Christmas movie Back to the Hometown Christmas, in which Swann’s mother had starred.
More and more snowmobiles slid down from Warren Wagon Road to the starting line in the parking lot. Bryden Simmons was all set up with his super-good snowmobile from his parents’ shop. His family had arrived really early, bringing out a few rental machines, so he had secured a great position for his snowmobile up near the starting line.
Swann pulled out her phone and took a few photos of the machines lining up for the race. If Margo, her parents’ publicist, said the shots were OK, she’d post them to her FriendStar account.
Bryden spotted her and did that thing where he looked at her, but then looked away, and then started to approach her, but then acted like he wasn’t thinking about approaching. She’d seen this a lot before, from different boys, especially here in McCall. She only hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to go with him to the winter dance or to a party. She wasn’t going to commit to something like that, at least not out here in front of everyone.
Finally Bryden stepped up. “Oh, hi there, Swann. You, um, is that . . . you got a coffee there?”
Swann smiled, trying to help the guy, so he wouldn’t feel so horribly uncomfortable. “Yeah, a mocha.”
“Ah,” Bryden said. “That’s good. You got the, um, the snowmobile. Mom said you’d ordered, you know, rented it. That’s good.” He shifted his weight. “Is it, you know, good?”
Swann grinned. “Oh yeah, Bryden. It’s great. Thanks.” One thing Swann had learned about junior high boys was that what they liked to talk about most was themselves. Clearly, Bryden was miserable with whatever he was trying to do, so she’d help him out. “What kind of snowmobile do you have? Is it a good one?”
The veil of awkwardness was lifted from him, and his coolness she’d seen in him before returned. “Oh yeah! It’s a Polaris 850 Switchback Assault. A pretty awesome machine. My dad says if I’m going to be out shredding powder, I need to represent the shop, so I usually go with a pretty great sled. This one’s only a couple years old. What’s great about the Polaris 850 . . .”
Swann nodded as though she were still listening, sipping her drink. Not that what he was saying wasn’t interesting. She just didn’t want to hear quite that much information right at that moment. He seemed happier talking about it, though.
A truck pulled up, and Hunter and Yumi Higgins worked with some men to unload a snowmobile from a trailer. Hunter and Yumi. Those two were always together. “Must be nice,” Swann said quietly. She supposed she was with Cynthia even more than the Higgins cousins hung out, but Cynthia didn’t count, being like fifteen years older and paid to be there.
Hunter talked to the men a little, and they patted his shoulder, bumped fists, and did other things boys and men did when about to begin a sports contest. Then he rode ahead slowly, Yumi walking at his side.
“Hey, Swann!” Hunter called when he saw her. He slid to a stop next to her. “So you decided to do the race after all. Cool.”
Swann held up her helmet, ready to slip it on in a moment. She looked over the crowded parking lot. “Shh.” She leaned closer to Hunter. “My parents might be around here somewhere. They don’t know I’m racing. I’m trying to keep it a surprise.” Before either of them could ask questions about that, Swann turned to Yumi. “Not racing?”
Yumi shrugged. “Not really my thing. I go out on the snowmobiles once in a while but not in a race. Anyway, I prefer skiing or sledding.”
“Oh, do you ski?” Swann asked, happily surprised.
Yumi swung her arm in a sweeping gesture. “It’s McCall. The outdoors is what we do. Of course I ski.”
Swann and Yumi hadn’t talked much. Swann hadn’t been in volleyball or basketball with her, and there wasn’t much time to talk between classes. Yet still Swann noticed the stand-off attitude, the hostility toward her, Swann the outsider, Swann the rich girl. This was one of the several reasons Swann worked to try to avoid seeming like that character.
“Cool. Maybe we could go skiing together?” Swann tried. “My parents and I have gone skiing a few times, but I’m not that good. Maybe you can offer me some pointers.”
Yumi flashed a strange expression, like a reluctant smile. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”
More snowmobiles came down off the road. It would be a crowded race. Finally, Swann spotted one of the newcomers riding to a halt among the racers and taking off his helmet. Kelton Fielding.
Hunter must have followed her gaze, because he frowned when he saw Kelton. “I’m going to try to move my snowmobile up a little.”
“Higgins, just let it go,” Yumi said quietly, stepping closer to Hunter. “It’s stupid.”
“No, I’m not going to let him cheat,” Hunter said.
“It’s not against the rules,” Yumi replied. “He’s not cheating.”
“It’s the spirit of the thing,” Hunter said. “I’m not letting him win that way.”
Swann stepped up to the two of them, downing the last of her mocha. “You might want to keep it down. The more people hear about Kelton’s shortcut, the more will try to take it themselves.”
“You’re going to take it?” Yumi asked.
Swann shrugged. “It seems like the best way to win. And like Hunter said. Better me than Kelton.”
“That’s not what he said,” Yumi offered.
Swann smiled at Hunter. “You do what you want. I’m taking the shortcut.”
An air horn pierced the air, and then a familiar voice came over a bullhorn.
Good afternoon, racers! Good afternoon!
Swann shoved her helmet on as her father and mother climbed up onto the bed of a pickup truck. People applauded wildly as soon as they realized who was speaking. Dad was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with an open puffy jacket, new stuff he’d bought to look rustic and try to fit in around McCall. Mom had a super-cool new snowmobile outfit with pink trim lines and pink snow boots. They both smiled warmly.
I’m Amir Siddiq. You may have seen me, and a certain fantastic snowmobile, in the hit action movie Snowtastrophe III.
People cheered. Snowtastrophe III had been an even bigger hit than the first two movies in the franchise.
Swann’s mom took the bullhorn.
I’m Aurora Siddiq. We’re so happy to be here.
She returned the bullhorn to Dad and he put his arm around her as he spoke.
Aurora and I absolutely love it in McCall. You all have been so welcoming and kind. This is the best place on earth. And when I heard there was going to be a Winter Carnival and a snowmobile race, I wanted to say thank you. That’s why I’m donating, in addition to the regular annual five-hundred-dollar cash prize, my customized Yamaha Sidewinder SRX LE snowmobile, the actual machine that my character used in Snowtastrophe III.
People applauded. The clapping sounded strange, muffled as it was by gloves. Swann clapped to blend in.
Now, this snowmobile doesn’t actually fire high-powered, weaponized lasers. Those are illegal, even in gun-friendly Idaho, and more importantly, the laser blasts were actually added by the wizards in the computer effects department. But it does have some cool lights, and it is, absolutely, fast.
Dad laughed.
Seriously. I was able to tear the thing away from my stunt double a couple of times, and the thing just tears up the snow. It’s like a rocket!
Her parents were so cool. So kind and so much fun. It’s just that they’d moved the family home to Idaho, but the family business remained in California. They were gone all the time. There were her parents warming a crowd and, although she knew they had to do what they did for a living and she’d never ask them to do otherwise, she only wished she had a little more of their fun warmth for herself.
