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Chapter One

Darien

T he tram screeches along its cables with a shriek that rivals upset children. I chuckle as I check my phone to find at least ten messages from M?e. I might only be in California for another handful of days, but that hasn’t stopped my mother from putting me to work in her garage.

Mind you, I suck at anything cars most of the time – regular cars. I possess only the bare-bones skills with karts and single-seaters. I can’t do much else. But I am good at drawing and painting, which translated to bodywork, making people’s rides look pretty. Painting, tints, wraps: that was what I grew up helping M?e to do in the auto shop she founded, deep in San Francisco proper and about twenty minutes from our Oakland home. The garage was where I picked up one of life’s most important lessons: you want something done right, you’d better be willing to get your hands dirty.

I hear the garage before I see it. The boom-boom bass thump of Brazilian funk tells me the day’s already begun.

I heft my backpack further up onto my shoulder and blow a hair from my forehead. It’s not quite as hot here as everyone makes it seem, now that we’re closing in on the fall and getting ready for the winter. I’ve put on a hoodie and sweats to combat what is basically a light chill for us here in San Francisco, but I never wear anything too nice to the shop. Oil stains tend to get you in that line of work.

‘M?e!’ I call, rounding the corner to where both of the big garage doors are open so you can see all the work going on inside. You wouldn’t think that anyone in there is cold with all the heat the cars and tools generate. This is nasty, greasy, smelly work, contrasting starkly with the pretty blue neon Magalinho’s sign over the two white doors, plastered against the brick facade.

I see her sneakered feet peeking out from beneath a Civic that’s in less-than-ideal shape, so even though she doesn’t answer, I let myself in. I drop my bag near the big black rolling tool chest. ‘M?e!’ I repeat over the music.

‘ Oi , Magalinho!’ My mom rolls herself into view on her mechanic’s creeper, a broad grin on her face as she sits up. I keep telling her she should take Manuel up on his offer to do the undercarriage repairs, but she’s just way too stubborn. Maybe I’m also extra, because Miss Célia Cardoso-Magalh?es is coming up on her mid-forties and still in the best shape of her life. She’s been working on cars since she dropped out of school at thirteen and took up a job at the local garage, if you could even call it that, in Rocinha, to help her parents pay class fees for her younger siblings.

‘Hey.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘What’d I tell you about the undercarriage?’

She clicks her tongue and waves a dismissive hand my way. ‘No, this is my life. It’s been my life since I was younger than you. I can’t stop now.’

‘You love the bottoms of cars that much?’

‘Look, Darien.’ Something in M?e’s voice changes, something sterner and more fragile. ‘It was your father who taught me how to work on the undercarriage. We were just kids then. It’s … it’s a silly thing that keeps me close to him.’

Oh? I hadn’t actually known that. I sigh. ‘Okay. If permanent back damage brings you closer to Pai.’

‘Maga- lin -ho!’

‘M?e!’ I throw my hands up in surrender. ‘I’m done. Promise. So what do you need me to do here?’

My mother glares at me, but she gestures to the Civic. ‘This Honda, customer wanted a new paint job, maybe to race or something. We will take care of the internal, but you can start on the body. Matte black and white, he said.’

I can’t help but laugh at that one. ‘He’s gonna look like the cops.’

‘Hmm.’ M?e steps back, regarding the Honda as if trying to imagine it with the new paint. ‘Reminds me of when you almost got arrested. Remember, that one summer? When was that, you tried to take the Chevy out on the street and—’

I groan like only a kid being perpetually embarrassed by his mother can groan. ‘That was so long ago!’

‘So, it being long ago means I cannot remember it?’ She gives me the I’m still your mother look, complete with a twinkle of mischief in her eye – where I get it from, I’ve been told. ‘I am not that old yet, Darien.’

‘Oh, god. Let’s just start on the car.’

The garage begins to come alive as the rest of my mom’s crew trickles in. I recognize all of them. M?e was reluctant to look for new sets of hands once she’d found mechanics she could trust, and her mechanics didn’t want to go anywhere else, so they stuck. The team that made up our Magalinho’s family were the best around.

‘Hey, look who decided to pay a visit!’ a stocky, bronze-tanned guy just years older than me calls out as he strolls into the garage.

‘What can I say? Mom wants help, I have to respond,’ I joke. Manuel Soares da Costa brings me straight in for an enormous hug. It’s been almost a year, as it tends to be with Formula seasons. Off on the winters, that’s about all the holiday we get other than the brief summer break, now that they’re cramming our schedules full of races at every possible turn.

‘Good to see you. E parabéns! ’ He wolf-whistles, gripping me by the shoulders. ‘I saw that contract you signed. Dude! The numbers on that thing!’

‘Ah, best part is still having that car,’ I point out with a smirk. ‘She’s the queen of my heart.’

Manuel presses a hand to his forehead and swoons, which goes wrong when he has to hop over a fallen wrench. ‘Can you imagine popping the chassis of an F1 car and stripping that engine?’

‘Just you, bro,’ I tease him. ‘You and your engine fetish.’

‘Hey, there’s a reason your mama trusts me with her cars! And there’s definitely a reason you trusted me with yours,’ he teases me back. He’s quite right, though. Something about engines and their many parts just lines up in Manuel’s brain. We used to work together to get my kart going absolutely nuts in local races. Manuel was, I like to say, my first engineer, and – without a doubt – my best.

‘When do you go back?’ he asks, dropping his bag beside mine.

‘Like, three weeks.’ I smile at the thought of home. ‘Can’t wait. Bro, I hear that trolley going outside, and it’s …’

‘Santa Teresa.’ Manuel reads my mind with a snort. ‘Damn, you talk like my v? . All you need’s a cane and dentures.’

‘Shut up.’ I elbow him in the ribs. ‘You need to go. I’ll take your ass there myself.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Of course, I want to go. And I would, but I’ve got Vanessa here, a kid on the way … not quite the time to jet off.’

It takes a minute for that one to sink in.

‘Yo … you got what? ’

Manuel’s my age. We literally grew up together. I guess with the way I live, I forget that everyone else’s lives keep on going. Even this guy, the dude who won a bet and made me pierce my ears before deciding that he wanted his pierced too, the guy who got so drunk he went skinny-dipping in someone’s pool the rich neighbourhood over. And now he’s having a child .

‘Pick your jaw up off the floor.’ He laughs, partly shy, partly proud.

‘Dude! A kid ,’ I yelp, pulling him into another hug. ‘ Parabéns , brother. Wow .’

‘Thank you, Dar.’ I can hear the happiness in his voice.

‘Well, then, all three of you better come over sometime,’ I prod him, trying my best to sound more upbeat than I feel. Maybe it makes me a terrible friend to say it, but man … this news has me all up in my own head.

‘You said it.’ Manuel winks and rolls over to his tool stand. ‘Are you guys going to see Teresópolis when you go back? Please take good photos if you’re there. Ness loves that Paquetá guy.’

‘Yeah.’ The nostalgia fills me like a can of my favourite cold, fizzy Guaraná. ‘It’s been a pretty long time.’

For the most part, my early memories of Brazil were nonexistent leading up to Pai’s death, save for bits and pieces. But I remember my whole family piling into a minivan and driving the nearly two hours to Teresópolis. The place was pretty, lots to see and do, nature and hiking if you were into it. However, it was also home to Granja Comary, the training facility of Brazil’s national football team, the stomping ground of the CBF, the Brazilian Football Confederation. I remember looking up at Granja Comary, with its big lawn bearing the shield of the national team, gated and unreachable. It looked like some kind of top-secret police headquarters, or a military fort. Four-year-old me, dreaming the dreams of every Brazilian kid, thought to myself, Dang, I’ll make it up there some day .

That was my first and only time in Teresópolis, but I think about it often. Now, it’s no longer about visions of going pro in football, it’s about what it means to be at the very pinnacle of your sport. And after years and years of work, it’s crazy to think I’ve finally reached the motorsport equivalent: Formula 1.

‘You think they’d let you into Granja Comary?’ Manuel echoes my thoughts.

I grab my spray gun. ‘I could call in a favour from the guys.’

‘The guys …’ Now it’s my friend’s jaw that goes slack. ‘Bro. That’s crazy. A selec?o? ’ The team?

‘Just maybe.’

‘Get out ,’ hisses Manuel. ‘I should be asking you to get Ness a signed jersey or a voice message or something!’

‘I will!’ I say with a laugh. ‘You know I will!’

‘God.’ Manuel is still reeling as he begins to take a look at the engine. ‘Getting into Granja Comary … imagine training there … and the food …’

His musings make me chuckle. I load up the black paint for my spray gun and don my safety goggles and mask.

‘Or how about a Granja Comary of your own. For driving and karting, big track all around the whole thing.’ Manuel is really getting into it now. He looks like he’s just had an earth-shaking vision, a dreamy look all over his face. He is so much sometimes.

‘Now that,’ I snort, ‘is crazy.’