10/10ths: A Young Adult Novel of La Carrera Panamericana

By Suzy Witten

14-year-old Andi Gazek, a lifelong car nut, mini-MacGyver, and expert strategizer (i.e., fibber) from Montana, hits the road one abandoned summer in search of the racer father she never knew. Finding him is not enough. Now she wants him to drive the world famous 2,500-mile vintage car rally race—La Carrera Panamericana—with

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamwand
• Release date: Feb 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9780991371518

Suzy Witten

Suzy Witten's career spans over twenty-five years in the entertainment industry as a filmmaker, screenwriter, story analyst, and editor for film and television. As a filmmaker, she was nominated for a Lillian Gish filmmaking award by Women In Film. She was a Walt Disney Studios Fellowship finalist for her period screenplay about the Salem Witch Hunt of 1692. Her novel based on that story, "The Afflicted Girls", won the 2010 IPPY Silver Medal for Historical Fiction (Independent Publisher Book Awards). 10/10ths is her second novel. In addition to writing novels, she is an External Affairs Media Relations Specialist and public information spokesperson for the U. S. Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) in the aftermath of disasters.

Book preview

10/10ths

A Young Adult Novel

of La Carrera Panamericana

SUZY WITTEN

DREAMWAND feather

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Suzy Witten

All Rights Reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part.  Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced without prior written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

Published in the United States by DREAMWAND feather (Books)

An Imprint of DREAMWAND feather

715 N. Croft Avenue, Los Angeles, California 90069-5303, USA

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016909083

Witten, Suzy

10/10ths Suzy Witten—1st ed.

ISBN: 978-0-9913715-0-1 (pbk.)

Book & Cover Design: Suzy Witten

Author Photo: Janet Wallace / Art Marks, Los Angeles

An eBook Original

In Loving Memory of my best friend

Joan Leahy...

Thank you for so many amazing adventures feather

When it comes down to me against a situation,

I don’t let the situation win.

— MacGyver, a TV character

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright page

In loving memory

MacGyver quote

Chapter 1: Part One.  Andi. "Why do they always hold these things

Chapter 2: Doyle... Doyle Firestone.

Chapter 3: Laurel, Montana, my hometown

Chapter 4: Two days later at breakfast

Chapter 5: Puffy bloodshot eyes squint out

Chapter 6: You know how when you wake up

Chapter 7: I am one big aching muscle

Mexico map

Chapter 8: Part Two. La Carrera Panamericana. Adrenalin pumps through

Chapter 9: About two miles from the jefatura hotel

Chapter 10: At approximately 10:30 a.m.

Chapter 11: A few days have passed

Chapter 12: It's after 11:00 p.m.

Chapter 13: La Carrera Panamericana. Day One. We're barely doing 38 mph.

Chapter 14: A crowd half the size

Chapter 15: La Carrera Panamericana. Day Two. Me and Sampson

Chapter 16: Team Culp--nope, not today

Chapter 17: A bunch of greasy, grimy pit crew guys

Chapter 18: Hornet and Charlene are acting

Chapter 19: La Carrera Panamericana. Day Three. My heart sputters

Chapter 20: Everyone knows it's a Pan Am custom

Chapter 21: La Carrera Panamericana. Day Four. This morning I was

Chapter 22: Tonight's big Pan Am party

Chapter 23: La Carrera Panamericana. Day Five. Not daylight yet

Chapter 24: Doesn't look good,

Chapter 25: Soon as we hit the Mex-85, I vroom

Chapter 26: The Big Hairy Goddess of Luck

Chapter 27: All of this year's La Carrera Panamericana winners

Afterword

Author's Note

About La Carrera Panamericana

About The Author

PART ONE

(Andi)

Chapter 1 vintage car image

WHY DO they always hold these things on the hottest day of the year?" complains Priscilla, my older sister, carefully dabbing another gush of sweat off her overly made-up face.

Don’t like it? Stop contributing to climate change, I tell her. Or do plastic surgery on your sweat glands. (As I unconsciously polish my own evaporating self with a backhand swipe to the forehead.)

Fact is, while I hate the prospect of an entire planet overheating, in this particular time frame I don’t mind being cooked in an oven since it’s the oven I’m driving to our Montana State Fair. Yep, me, Andi Gazek, driving! Who’ll someday be a motorsports legend! With top racing sponsors!

About 18 miles back at the peak of her hypochondriac heat stroke, my sister decided we should change places. I was happy to comply. That’s the reason her nonstop spillage of whine got cancelled out by soothing engine hums and wheel swooshes. But now her exhausting windpipe is backfiring again.

Andi! Pay attention or I’ll…

I was 100% paying attention! I defend, admitting only to myself how I might have taken that last curve 12 miles too fast. But only to test our accelerator… and only because sometimes I get distracted when I’m picturing my racing future. So what if her purse fell off her lap and her useless crap spilled out? I shrug. 50 cents says you can pick up all that junk without wrecking your crappy manicure.

It’s already ruined, she mutters frowning, while reaching across me to reposition my driver’s-side visor because the sun is in her eyes. Accidentally (so she claims) elbowing me in the cheek while trying to force it into an impossible angle, breaking off one of the hinges. She leaves it dangling in front of my face now and orders me to fix it! Not a fan of one-eyed driving, I finish the job and drop it in her lap.

Okay, I know it doesn’t take much to do damage to this relic of Chevrolet ruin from the late 1990s, which would have been rotted in a junkyard if not for our uncle and me. But I am not the one who broke it!

I retort with a snort, Only if you pay for parts.

She throws back a fraudulent claim about me owing her $15 bucks for causing two of her fake fingernails to break off this morning while we were wrestling for the car keys—in a fight she instigated right after she said I could drive! So her reason is bull crap. But I let it go because I’d rather be flooring my gas pedal undistracted as I enter this back road’s first long clear straight.

Slow down! You’re breaking the law! the siren screams at me, then doubles down with a threat: Otherwise, that’s it for driving!

Slow down? I frown. She wants slow?

I shut down major glory and maintain a pokey speed of 40 mph… but only because the Law-Above might be watching. Yep. A while ago I saw this tiny prop plane tool by upstairs. And who knows who’s reading its radar? What I do know is that chugging along under 70 mph is not easy for a natural-born speedster like me.

As far as that goes, my car jockeying began early—specifically, when I was about three and a red pedal-car at pre-school honked at me. After yanking out that other kid, I took my first spin around life’s playground. Never looked back since, except in rear-views.

Same era, Priscilla’s toy-of-choice was the Barbie, that most useless invention and waste of family income in history. But during our lean years did my sister ever once consider how a chronically depressed single mom with two needy kids couldn’t afford to feed her habit? Or that it cut too deep into mine? Nope. Not in her. She’d just crank up her whine till she got every new trendsetter to hit the market… while I had to make do with Goodwill finds. I’m not resentful though… at least not regarding toy history. Just amazed her fashionistas survived their fatal car wrecks in my toys-of-choice. But they did… and apparently have shot way up in value. Our mom is always trying to get Priscilla to cash in her collection on eBay.

Come to think of it, not too surprisingly, that’s probably why when my sister hit puberty she turned into Barb herself. And that’s who I’m carting around in this oven. Same mother. Same father. Same specs. Go figure.

On one point, though, Priscilla’s right: I’m not driving legally, being only fourteen. But that makes her the lawbreaker, not me, since she’s the one with the driver’s license who handed me the keys. But in order to keep the peace between us, and this sweaty wheel gripped, I keep pedaling like a little old lady. More specifically, like a big little old lady named Edna Brickell, otherwise known as Big Mouth, our neighbor from down the street.

I only mention Edna at this point because she plays a part in today’s saga. It began when our phone rang during breakfast. Being in the middle of our usual Saturday fare—scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast—we ignored the first four rings. But then our weakest-willed member caved.

It was Big Mouth calling to tell our mother (whose name is Charlene) how she didn’t want to drive to the fair alone. Also, to remind our mom how she owed her a big favor. Less than 15 minutes later we heard her obnoxious van honk in our driveway.

Charlene shoved in her last few scraps, scrambled upstairs to get her purse, came back into the kitchen and slapped down the car key on the table, also $30 cash. Admissions, lunch, souvenirs, she said. Then she bid us "adieu" (no joke), took her cake contest entry out from the fridge, quickly packed it into a pre-prepped cardboard carton, grabbed her sweater from the pantry hook, and reminded us where to find her later.

Soon as Edna’s van pulled out, predictably, my sister pulled her usual switch. Complained of cramps and a headache. Said she wasn’t going.

Boy, did I go nuclear without a countdown!

Eventually I got Priscilla to relent out of guilt. Not because a Gazek will win a ribbon. Charlene won’t. She’ll get a booby prize if they give ’em—that cake she baked last night is stiffer than the box the mix came in. But I guess one should never say never to a hope fiend. Considering all possibilities, there’s always an underdog’s chance she could win an honorable mention for her cinnamon icing, which is unique. I think she’d be happy with that, unless no fans are there to root for her.

I emphasized to my sister exactly what would happen when our mother got home later, which was something she could easily picture. See, things can get pretty rough around here when Charlene feels rejected.

Being the practical one, I urged: Take two Midols. Wear sunglasses. Let me drive. If we get stopped, you can tell the cop you felt sick and needed me to get you to the nearest bathroom. He’ll see the car’s an automatic, which even a seven-year-old can drive. And once did.

Same time I was betting my explanation ploy wouldn’t be needed, since it’s only 48 miles to the state fairgrounds southeast of Billings on a hardly ever patrolled road. I guess I convinced her. I’m driving now, aren’t I? And, bless my big sister’s heart, she’s been keeping an eye out for speed traps.

But let’s just say—for argument’s sake—that we did get stopped and the Law disbelieved her. He’d still let us go in the end. Why? Because Priscilla’s pretty in her genes, not to mention in that skimpy sundress she’s wearing today instead of jeans. He’d take one look at her pop-tarts and forget what speeding tickets are.

Do I care a Fig Newton she inherited all the beauty genes? Nope. Because I know how in ten years Barb will also inherit the maternal blubber… while I’ll be lean and mean.

I base this on the fact my mother claims she looked exactly like Priscilla when she was her age. Twins! she always says, convinced folks couldn’t have told them apart. (Which is only provable by time-travel since we don’t have any family photos.)

All I know is that when Charlene was under twenty, she had a husband—our dad—who was a bit older than her and drove racecars. His name was Hornet Lafferty. He wasn’t famous or anything. He was just a majorly cool dude.

According to my sister, though, he was a jerk and a loser. But she got that from our mom, who never talks about him to me. Probably because he abandoned her right before I was born—which makes me the reminder of bad times, as well as the remainder.

My whole life I’ve resented that we live like he never existed. I’ve never even seen his picture, since during one of Charlene’s major collisions with herself she burnt them all.

Priscilla remembers this happening, but she doesn’t remember what he looked like? I don’t believe her. Who cares that she was only three? His signature’s not on my birth certificate either—only on hers. So I’m a Gazek on paper. But I’m all Lafferty in my genes!

Worms trapped in a can. That’s what family secrets are. A can kicked down the Corridors of Time till somebody finally trips over it, picks it up, uses a can opener, and spills the beans… which hopefully aren’t rot-mush.

But as I’m not in the mood for rot-mush, and would much rather mash a straight road, I lean sideways and glance up into the rear-view imagining I’m his spitting twin—right before, for the umpteenth time, Priscilla swivels the mirror in her direction.

I turn it back toward me again, revving my voice up by a few decibels: Stop doing that or it’s gonna break… like the visor! These hinges are old! And if I can’t see behind me, we’re gonna wreck! Are you gonna make me pay for a new car then, too?

She swivels it back toward herself. Snivels, I need to see if my makeup is melting. Weren’t you the one who said you’d fix the AC?

Don’t blame me if Charlene won’t shell out for parts.

My sister has no snarky answer for this, because she knows exactly how every extra cent our mother has been making on eBay has been going into a jar at the back of her bedroom closet labeled: ‘Priscilla’s Surprise’. Which, from some easy snooping, I've discovered (and I suspect my sister has, too) is petty cash for their two-week vacation in Paris for my sister’s high school graduation present. Can you guess who’s always wanted to go there? Yep. Both fashionistas.

No skin off my back. I’d rather spend my summer in a dust bowl hanging out with Sampson, my best pal and great-uncle, who’s also our town’s only master mechanic. He owns Laurel, Montana’s premiere filling station and garage, where I’ve worked part-time since I turned twelve.

Sun, rain, wind, even blizzards, it’s all just weather to me. But to Sampson, it’s his seasonal business.

Yep. Like those late spring thunderstorms we had this year? When all our local roads got washed out and the Yellowstone River flooded? Well, potholes bring us customers! Omigod! A ginormous one’s about to hit!

Sinkhole! I yell, and swerve sharply, earning my sister’s biggest swat yet. Because the lipstick she was in the middle of applying just gave her a big pink mustache!

I snort and howl, Just be grateful the tube didn’t go up your nose and cause permanent disfigurement.

That observation gets me an arm pinch then a swat, both ignored, as I spy someone else who wasn’t too quick on the reflex either—yep, about a mile up the road is a guy parked on the shoulder fixing a flat, whose car hood is up. Did I mention… keen eyesight is also genetic?

I wouldn’t smirk if I were you, Priscilla smirks. You smell worse than a roadside toilet.

I shrug. Ain’t me, sis.

A quick sniff to her underarm confirms it. So she starts searching frantically in her purse for an antidote, unaware how her tissue’s failure to absorb has just transformed her mustache into a clown face.

This time, I’m happy to swivel the mirror in her direction.

After drenching herself with Island Kiss, she aims that small sample bottle at me. I block with an elbow. Don’t you dare spray me! Your perfume stinks worse than you do.

She lunges sideways with an upraised arm. Take a good whiff, sis.

I breathe in deeply. Hey, you’ll be right at home at the livestock exhibit. Maybe even win a ribbon. I feel a sudden urge now to hog-call, which I do while finessing a perfectly calculated sideways skid to the dirt shoulder.

Andi! Don’t stop! Not here! Priscilla coughs. That guy could be a… she sputters, aghast, serial…

Not that I haven’t considered this. I’m not naive or stupid. It’s just that something else in my genes just can never say ‘no’ to an upraised hood.

As dust pours in through our four rolled-down windows, I’m also blinded and choked. But I don’t slam on the brakes. Always cool under pressure, I steer to a halt from memory.

That broken-down car is a rusted-through-the-metal blue Studebaker, which from this distance I peg as a ’72 or ’73. An auto which, while barely recognizable to my generation, is of major significance to a car-nut.

I’ve never seen an actual Studie in the flesh before now. Just looked at pictures of them online, or in old auto magazines. Sampson’s got shelves of old car stuff at his house, including manuals from every decade—but not because he needs them to fix old cars… he doesn’t. He can already remember every bolt and spec of every car ever manufactured, sometimes even by part number and dimension. And if a part’s nonexistent now, he knows what to modify to substitute—except for parts that go into car computers, which confuse him.

It’s his age. 70-plus on the high side. Nothing virtual makes sense. But he is an encyclopedia, as far as old mechanics go.

Ignoring another dire warning, I get out. I saunter up to the stranded motorist, who’s currently installing a spare. I note his Canadian plates, Maple Leaf tee, and how his ponytail’s longer than mine is. Because his hair’s black, it makes him look like an Indian, sort of. But more likely he’s just some young vacation guy heading down to Yellowstone to camp out, hike, fish, or rock-climb. We get a lot of them passing through here in early summer after the Canadian colleges let out.

But doesn’t every victim in every roadside slasher flick usually think the same thing?

Keeping my foot suspension arched, I blurt the only protection I can think of before I reach him: My sister’s watching you. So don’t try anything funny.

The Studie guy looks up. Then he turns and looks over at Priscilla. But, I mean, he really looks at her. In a way that makes me suddenly feel uncomfortable.

She’s not too worried, anymore. Standing outside our car, she’s leaning back against it while fanning herself with the flyer Charlene left lying on top of the dashboard for directions. Wrecking my quick-getaway-if-needed plan!

You a Canuck? I ask, drawing the Studie guy’s attention back.

He nods.

What part? I inquire further with a fake cheek-stretching grin.

Saskatchewan… Saskatoon… outskirts, he mumbles.

Wow, you’re the first person I ever met from Saskatchewan! Indian name, right? What’s it like in Saskatoon?

He tightens his spare wheel’s last hub-nut, lowers the jack, then stands up facing me. Nicer. Folks don’t think twice about stopping.

I shrug. Well, we thought twice. Yep. One of us thought: ‘motorist in trouble’. The other thought: ‘serial killer faking a flat’.

Hey, Priscilla! I turn and wave at her. Guess where this guy’s from?

That was just a ploy. Soon as he turns to look, I run forward for my own quick look under the Studie hood. Original engine, except for the clutch. But boy is it flooded. Scrutinizing further, I soon detect the cause. I call out to advise the guy, Hey, some jerk put the carburetor float bowl in upside down! Fuel’s flushing through! Got any ratcheting wrenches?

Jack in hand, he stomps over. Frowns down into his engine. And, without clobbering me, heads to his trunk. Of course, I have to follow. But I hop aside when he opens it… just in case he attempts a grab. He puts the jack in.

I need a ride up the road, he mutters. Think you can go ask your sister?

As I mull his request, I stare at the open tool kit inside his trunk. Makes my fear-gears shift back to expertise.

I yell over at Priscilla, Hey, sis! Tell him I can fix it!

Same time, he reaches in past me and takes two beers out from a cooler, and a Coke—a can of Canadian Coke—which he hands to me.