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things, but hetoo believes in Naming for the Famous. His dog, Queen Elizabeth II, is living proof of that.
    “Dale’s back,” I told Lavender, and he looked up as Dale skidded to a halt, sending up a spray of fine white sand.
    “Hey, little brother,” Lavender said.
    “Hey yourself,” Dale replied, ditching his bike and plopping down beside me in the shade. He leaned back in the cool grass and crossed his tanned legs. He’d slipped into a fresh shirt—black, as usual.
    “How’s Mama?” Lavender asked.
    “Fine. She’s out in the garden. Daddy came by—for a few minutes, anyway.”
    Lavender shot him a sharp look. It was awful early for a farmer to be home, even one sorry as Mr. Macon. “Everything okay?”
    Dale’s shrug said it all: Mr. Macon had come home drinking again. Lavender tossed his ratchet in the toolbox harder than he needed to. “What you hooligans doing this evening?” he asked, slamming the Monte Carlo’s hood.
    “Tonight’s Karate Night at the café,” I said. “Mr. Li’s coming over from Snow Hill to teach everybody some new moves.” I tried to sound modest. “I may not have mentioned it, but I’m a yellow belt.”
    Dale sighed. He hates Karate Night, but he hates Mr.Macon’s drinking more. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dull. “Karate Night. That’s probably what I’m doing too.”
    Lavender wiped his fingerprints off the Monte Carlo’s hood. “Sounds good,” he said. “In fact, it almost sounds better than fine-tuning this car for the Sycamore 200.”
    “The Sycamore 200?” Dale said, sitting up straight. “That’s big time!”
    Lavender smiled. “I wouldn’t say big time, but it’s a step up—and good money for the checkered flag. All I got to do is check out this engine.”
    “Since when do you race for money?” I asked.
    He closed his toolbox. “There’s nothing wrong with money if you know how to spend it,” he said. “Anyway, I’m short somebody to time laps tonight, and I’d hoped you two might help me out. You two
can
tell time, can’t you?”
    “Us?” Dale yelped. “Time laps?”
    It was an undreamed-of honor.
    “I’ll ask the Colonel if I can go,” I said, jumping up.
    “Sam’s taking the car over on the flatbed,” Lavender said, looking at his watch. “We’ll take my truck. Let’s leave at four o’clock. That’ll give us an hour to get there.”
    “Count me in,” Dale said, grabbing his bike. He leaned close. “I’m going to see Mr. Jesse. We could use the pocket money,” he whispered, and winked. The reward money! “Pick me up at the bridge,” he shouted.
    Lavender nodded. “Mo, tell the Colonel I promise to have you home by ten.”
    “I’ll wait for you at the café,” I said, setting off at a dead run.
    “Hey, bring that newspaper clipping,” Lavender called after me, and I waved without looking back.
    I pounded home, changed shirts, and stuffed my laminated newspaper article in my pocket. I bolted for the kitchen, where I found the Colonel dressed in faded fatigues, a bag of spuds at his feet. He smiled as I skidded across the floor and hurled myself into a chair by the stainless steel work table. “Afternoon, Soldier,” he said.
    “Afternoon, Colonel,” I panted.
    “Thought I’d make some garlic potatoes tonight. Steamed turnip greens with fresh green onions, grilled chicken. While I was away I picked up a teriyaki baste I think you’ll appreciate. Broth, ginger root, sesame oil, a dash of teriyaki. …”
    “Sounds great,” I said. “Actually, Colonel, I was hoping you might handle the supper crowd on your own tonight. That is, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    He raised his right eyebrow. “You’re here to request leave? On Karate Night?”
    I nodded.
    “Reason?”
    “Deployment to the Carolina Raceway,” I said. “Meand Dale been asked to time laps for Lavender. Don’t worry, sir, it’s not dangerous,” I added.
    “I see,” he said. “Transport?”
    “GMC pickup driven by Lavender Shade