Carousel of Progress

APRIL They had put my father in an orange driving suit and a hel- met and shown him how to get inside the cockpit of a Formula Ford racecar. Being tall and broad-shouldered, he didn't exactly slide right in, feet first. Rather, he had to stuff himself into the ground-hugging vehicle by tucking and compressing his body in ways that made me wish for a giant shoehorn. "At least we're getting a tan," said my mother, to my left. Her oiled midriff was turning deep brown. The smell of cocoa butter made me hungry. It was my father's turn to work on cornering, the technique explained in the classroom that morning. Instead of laying out by the hotel pool a second day, my brother and I had tagged along with him. Sonoma was the pits -- Peter and I renamed it Sominex -- but driving class turned out to be an exception. The instructor, a cool, soft-spoken ex-racer, drew pictures on the chalkboard and talked about getting on the right line when driving into blind curves. From the driver's head he drew an arrow way across the track to a tree, and told the class to aim their wheels at the tree if they wanted to come out with any speed. They had to quickly unwind their steering wheels, too, to regain lost speed. There were a dozen things to remember. After my father's fifth revolution, the other drivers started getting in their cars and zooming onto the track. The swarm of them would soon be like giant hornets going round and round, sawing my head open with the sound. "I'm broiling out here," I said. "Can't we go back to the hotel?" "Don't complain, Meredith. It's boring. And tuck in your chin, please. You look like a monkey." According to my mother, who was sexy and exquisite without trying, I stuck my chin out all the time, especially when I was in a bad mood. I wasn't aware of doing it, but according to her it was extremely unattractive. Peter's racecar noises, on the other hand, didn't bother her a bit. My little brother hung from an imaginary steering wheel to my right, jerking his shoulders violently whenever my father's car went into a turn. I elbowed him and said cut it out. "Men." My mother sighed. She'd been doing it a lot lately, talking -- complaining, really -- about the problems between men and women. "There's a woman out there, too," I said, removing my camera from my neck. The weight of it made me slouch, plus there weren't any good pictures to take from the bleachers. "She doesn't have a family. She can do what she wants," my mother said. "How do you know she doesn't have a family?" "Meredith, you are being argumentative. I'm not in the mood, honey." Those of us not enrolled in driving school were getting grouchy. How had my parents imagined that watching my father have all the fun would be an enjoyable family vacation? Peter revved up. "I'll bet he's at four thousand RPMs!" "Could be," my mother said. We continued following the bright-blue car, number seventy-three, around the track, even though all we could see was his helmeted head peeking out the top as if it belonged to a mannequin. I decided not to speak for the rest of the trip. They could beg me, trick me, tickle me, but no more "argumentative" words would pass my lips. I let Reese Phillips's gorgeous face take over my mind. I had seen it for the first time just days before, at school, and immediately made him my new fantasy guy. All I needed was the face. I could take it with me wherever I went, whenever I neTanney, Katherine is the author of 'Carousel of Progress' with ISBN 9780375505379 and ISBN 0375505377.