“Well, yeah, if you’re going to be literal. But a win at MOC can set you up, make you a legend in Odyssey circles, just like how history doesn’t forget Indy winners. Maybe we can do some pictures for Professor Tuttle of the winner’s circle at the speedway. Good omen of things to come.”
“I think you just want to see the fast cars.”
“Yup.” He laughed as if I’d made a joke, and while I hadn’t meant my statement to be that funny, I joined in. I didn’t believe in omens, good or otherwise, but I couldn’t completely deny Conrad his fun.
We arrived at the Speedway in midafternoon, and the vast parking lots were all but deserted. I had to admit, the sheer size of the place was staggering. I’d been to New York City during Fleet Week with my family to see the big ships, but Conrad wasted no time in telling me that an aircraft carrier would fit in the middle of the speedway. Indeed, the long walls seemed to go on forever as we made our way to the large tower that housed the front entrance. We took some pictures there before wandering to the museum located on the infield of the track.
Admission was ten bucks—twenty bucks if we wanted a tour around the oval—and I could pretty much see Conrad deciding which meal he’d shortchange himself on next.
“We’re here. We should do the tour, right? It’s only thirty minutes…” His mouth twisted.
“If we do that, we should get fast food for dinner. Save time.” I kept my voice decisive and didn’t mention the obvious fact that it would be a big cost saver.
“That works.” He gave me a grateful smile, a full-wattage one that made suffering his love of junk food worth any sacrifice. We paid our admission, then he gestured at one of the cars in the lobby. “Here, let me get a picture of you by this car for the professor.”
The car was an old-style roadster, festooned with bright-colored flags and a gleaming grill. Benches surrounded the raised platform, and I took a seat near the front tires.
“Use my phone.” I’d picked up on his phone being crappy even before our trip. He could never seem to look up rules for the game like the rest of us. Now that I knew more about his family situation, I found myself strangely angry on his behalf. Like, what sort of parents cut off their kid just because he wasn’t straight? Thinking about it made it hard to smile when Conrad prodded me.
“You look like a hostage proof-of-life photo, but I sent it,” he said before he handed me the phone back while we were waiting for the tour to start. Our fingers brushed—something that had happened dozens of times over the years, but this was the first time it made my breath hitch.
“Thanks.” My voice came out huskier than usual, and I swore I could feel his lingering warmth on the phone.
His eyes narrowed, almost as if he was about to speak, but then my phone buzzed with a reply from Professor Tuttle.
Looking good, Alden! Pleased to see you both having fun! Kiss the bricks for me!
I blinked several times, trying to decode the message. Did he have some sort of sixth sense for our earlier conversation about kissing? “What the—”
“He means at the end of the tour.” Conrad leaned over my shoulder to peer down at the message, not even bothering to hide his nosiness. “That’s what the winners usually do—they kiss the finish-line bricks.”
“But they’re probably filthy!”
“It’s tradition.” Conrad shrugged. “And it’s not like they’re using tongue or something.”
I made a weird squeaking noise, just as he and Jasper had predicted the night before, but I couldn’t help it. The thought of Conrad kissing someone, tongues tangling, invaded my brain and short-circuited something vital. I still hadn’t recovered by the start of the tour and quickly realized that I should have read the tour’s description closer. We were crammed onto a small bus with no option but to sit together because a large family with grandparents, parents, and a bunch of kids was taking up most of the seats. This meant that our legs rubbed together with every jolt, far closer than we were in the car.
At the front of the bus, the tour guide droned on about all the sights, but my every cell seemed to be honed in on all the spots where Conrad and I were touching—the brush of his arm, the press of his leg, the accidental thump of his foot as the bus jostled along. I was undoubtedly missing out on many great historical facts, but all my brain seemed capable of was wondering what brand of shampoo Conrad used. When we had the option of exiting the bus at the start-finish line, I was only too eager to escape, drinking in big lungfuls of the fresh air, trying to chase Conrad from my consciousness.