Checkered Flag Read Free Page A

outside, but he couldn’t get around a faster car. That put him behind #17 with #33 only a few cars back in the pack. When #17 moved left and took a position on the inside, her dad was left alone and fell to 15th. But as her dad had said a billion times, sometimes bad things led to good things. The race leaders bunchedup, and when a tire blew on one, six cars were taken out in a plume of smoke and debris.
    “Go low. Go low,” Scotty said. “Watch for #22 coming down the track toward you. Come on. Come on. . . . Okay, good. Clear.”
    Her dad made it through the wreckage and pitted again, picking up 10 spots, but he was unable to shake the #17 and #33 cars.
    “More trouble coming behind,” Scotty said when the green flag flew again. “You got #13 breathing down your neck.”
    “I figured we’d meet up at some point,” her dad said.
    Jamie shook her head and turned, spotting someone in a dark jacket behind her. It was Chad Devalon.

Chapter 4
Boiling
    TIM’S BLOOD BOILED as he watched Butch Devalon bump Dale going into a turn. The #14 car’s rear end slid to the right, and Dale tried to correct.
    “Hang on to it. Hang on!” Kellen shouted.
    “Whoa!” the announcers said.
    “I can’t believe what I just saw,” one of them said.
    “Well, that’s how a veteran driver will hang on to it,” another said. “And you won’t see a better piece of driving. To hang on at these speeds is amazing.”
    “No yellow flag,” Tim said.
    “I hope his tires hold up,” Kellen said.
    “I hope he lets 13 by him and spins him out,” Tim said.
    Kellen laughed.
    Ever since Tim had seen the DVD someone had left at the garage for him—the one showing that Butch Devalon had caused his dad’s death—he had been trying to come up with a way to get back at the man. He’d been banned from the tracks because of a stink Devalon had made about Tim at Brickyard, so he knew he’d have to do something off the track. But what?
    While Tim mulled over his options, Dale made his way to the back of Devalon and was drafting him. The #13 and #14 cars were in tandem with several other cars lining up behind them, pushing them faster and faster around the track.
    It was lap 148—only 50 left—when Dale got to the inside of #13 on turn three and the cars behind followed him. Devalon tried to move low and get in line, but he bumped the #33 car and spun him into the infield.
    The yellow flag came out, and when the smoke cleared, Devalon and #33 (as well as three other cars) were out of the race.
    Tim gave a whoop, and Kellen pumped his fist in the air. Mrs. Maxwell walked into the garage rubbing her hands. People from their church had joined them, watching the race in the living room, but Tim couldn’t concentrate with all those people, the food, and the small talk.
    Kellen told her what had happened, and she stared at the TV. “Where’s the #17 car?”
    Tim studied the ticker at the top of the screen. “He’s dropped back to 23rd.”
    Mrs. Maxwell looked like she was computing some big math problem in her head. “He’s close to the Chase. If he can stay here and keep this position . . .”
    With 10 laps to go, Dale was in third but the #17 car was moving up fast.
    “Smoke!” Kellen said.
    “There’s smoke coming out of the #17 car,” the announcer said. “It’s not clear whether that’s from a tire or—”
    “It’s the engine,” another announcer said. “This close to the Chase and the engine goes. I guess that’s racing, but it’s a real shame.”
    Tim and Kellen danced around the garage like monkeys who had found fresh bananas.
    Dale pushed his car to the end and wound up in fourth place.
    “And Dale Maxwell does the improbable here today—only a month ago no one would have given him a chance at the Chase, but now he’s in the 12th spot,” the announcer said.
    “You can bet those leaders are starting to look over their shoulders,” a commentator said. “With the right car, this guy can outrace anybody on the