Aw, y'all are great to me, reading and reviewing the first chapter of my fic so FAST!!! So I'm posting chapter two. Some of y'all will like this one MUCH better!!!

---------------------------------------------------

2: Home Work

Slumped on a tool bench, a sandy haired youngster swung his legs over the edge. The heels of his large Niked feet thumped into the cabinets beneath, causing a racket about equal with that within his head. He clutched a notebook in his left hand, one speckled with smudged thumb and fingerprints, and smeared with streaks of dirt. In the boy’s right hand was a chewed-up golf pencil, which he twirled in circles on the page. He released a heated puff of breath, planted his right elbow into his leg, and smooshed his chin into that hand. The end of the golf pencil left a graphite freckle beneath his pursed lips.

“Uh!” he hissed, shaking his head. “I don’t get it!”

A fire suited individual hopped up onto the counter beside him. “Well let me see it again,” he requested, gently pulling the notebook from the boy’s grip. The NASCAR driver raised a hand to his chin and tapped his index finger to his lips. Brilliant azure eyes scanned the sheet, and brightened. “Oh, I see! Yeah, I see where you’re having trouble! See,” he held the notebook out to the boy, and pointed to the chicken scratches that graced the top page. “You forgot to take the square root of that number back there.”

The kid stammered. “I, I can’t do square roots in my head, Mikey!”

Michael Waltrip turned to the boy, and looked him in the eye. “Well, the truth is, no one can. Not unless you’re some kind of math genius or something. But there’s some you can memorise, especially the low numbered ones, like this one here. Just figure it out by multiplying numbers by itself until you get the right one. It’s called brute force.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, the boy looked back to the page and was silent for several seconds.

“What’s two times two?” Michael prompted.

“Four.”

“And what’s three times three?”

“Nine.”

“And four times four?”

“Twelve.”

With a grimace, Michael shook his head. “No, that’s four times three…”

“Oh yeah…” the boy trailed off. He scrunched up his nose, and stuck out his lower lip. “This is stupid!”

“Oh nonsense!” Michael replied, waving a hand in the air. “This is practical stuff! See, math helps your thinking, and thinking makes you a better race car driver… you do want to drive Winston Cup some day, don’t you, Junior?”

Dale Earnhardt, jr. scratched his head and squinted up at Michael. “I guess so!”

“You GUESS so! That’s all you ever talk about, boy!”

Junior grinned. But the smile fell off his lips when he turned back to the page. “So… so the square root of 64 is… eight?”

“You got it, buddy!” Michael slapped the boy on the back. “See, you’re getting there!”

As Michael slid off the work bench, he noticed his brother leaning against the hood of his #30 KoolAid car. His face lit up. “Well hey there, DW!”

“Shouldn’t you be preparing for the race?” Darrell asked, thumping his hand into the hood a few times.

“Aw, I’m all set!” Michael held a hand to his waist. Then raised one to gesture to the boy hunched over the notebook. “I’m just helping Junior here with his homework.”

Darrell sighed. He couldn’t help but think that his brother didn’t take racing seriously.

“So what are you doing here?” Michael asked, snatching an open Coke can from the counter and taking a swig. “You ain’t racing today, are you?”

“No. I’m just here to watch.”

Slowly, Michael nodded. He lowered the Coke can from his lips and placed it back on the bench. Then broke eye contact with his brother and shuffled his feet. Michael glanced at Junior, watched as the boy furiously scribbled out something in his notebook and wrote something else. Again his gaze wandered to his car. He watched as mechanics hovered around it, making alterations as they saw fit. He had a good pit crew. And, with that thought, he smiled.

Junior hissed behind him. “Aw, NOW what am I doing wrong?”

The two Waltrip brothers made eye contact again before Michael focused his attention on Junior. “Can I see whatcha got?”

Junior thrust the notebook away in disgust. It slid across the work bench, into Michael’s awaiting hands. Michael leaned over the counter and studied the equation. “You know,” he commented. “This one IS a toughie! And it doesn’t help you any to be using that itty bitty pencil. We should find you another.”

Michael scanned the bench but came up empty. So he approached his crew chief and got one from him. He then went back to the notebook, leaned over it for a couple of minutes with his brother and Junior looking on. Nodding, he tapped the pencil into the page and smiled. “Oh I see it now!” He drew the notebook closer to the student. “Junior, you forgot to add this before you divided that.” Michael thumped the pencil into each side of the equation.

Junior’s eyebrows slanted in confusion. “Huh?”

“Junior, what are you doing?” a voice boomed from behind Michael. The driver stepped back as Dale Earnhardt, sr. briskly approached. The older Earnhardt halted and crossed his arms.

Junior’s lower lip drooped as he stared up at his father. “M, Mikey was just, just helpin’ me with my algebra.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be bothering Mikey before a race,” Dale sr. replied, and Junior gulped.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Now run along,” Dale swatted the kid, who took off like a shot. He shook his head as his son scampered away, then turned to Michael. “I’m sorry ‘bout that.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a problem,” Michael smiled, showing some teeth. “I really like that son of yours!”

“Yeah,” Dale looked in the direction in which his son had gone. “But he can be a pest sometimes.”

“He’s only a kid.”

Dale straightened up as he smiled. “Yeah, he’s a good kid.” He made eye contact with the other driver. “You have a good race today,” he pointed at Michael. “You hear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Boy do you make me feel old,” Dale murmured, then headed deeper into the garage area, mumbling a “Hey, DW” as he passed the man.

That left Darrell and Michael alone, just looking at each other.

“Um…,” Darrell shot a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go get to my seat, okay kid?”

“Yeah,” Michael smiled, taking in a breath.

“You have a good drive out there.”

“Sure thing!”

---------------------------------------------------

A/N: Aw! Isn’t Junior adorable as a teenager? I had WAY too much fun writing him at age fifteen! If you look at pictures from 1990 of him with his father, he DOES look like a little squirt! I have no idea what he was like then, so I just made up stuff as I went along. Tell me what you think of Boy Junior!

- dj