Racer katy evans pdf6/29/2023 “Sorry I’ve only got two hands and they’re both spoken for.” I don’t even glance his way-it’s true that everybody is always nice to me, but I try not to get too friendly with the other teams. “Lainey, that for me?” one of the mechanics calls. There’s a whistle as I pass our neighbor’s tent. This fall, while testing possible drivers, I’ve gained two bright spots on my cheeks, thank you wind-chill combined with sunlight, and judging by the way my face is stinging now, I’ll bet the red is spreading to my ears and nose. The autumn cold air cuts into my cheeks and steals under my ponytail to freeze the back of my neck. I sigh and carry the lemonade cups back to our tent. None of those cars are being driven by one of our drivers. Other than the fact that they are all Formula One race cars, they have one other thing in common: none of those cars are ours. Blue, black, yellow colors flying by, helmets with rainbow visors, sponsor logos, and testosterone galore. My brothers and dad stand by our tent at the side of the track. My name is Lana, but to them and my dad, I’m their Lainie baby even at twenty-two. My whole life I’ve been coddled, protected, bullied, bribed, and all of that is all fine, because I love my brothers, I love my family, but sometimes I wish I were the eldest, so I wouldn’t be underestimated the way I am now. I’m the youngest in the family, the fourth child born after my three brothers. There’s something about being the last child born in a family.
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