"Come on out, Alex!" Mom called; she never let me sleep past noon. The sun barely hit the horizon, and she had already been yelling at me. How come Dad and Sheriff, even Fillmore for Pete's sake, got to sleep in? How come I couldn't? I was just like everyone else!

I groaned, driving out of my cone; I usually slept in the tenth one, far away from the chaos going on down in this...hillbilly hell...that people called "home". How in the heck was Dad able to adjust to all this? I don't enjoy having to drive two miles just to get something to eat.

Not only that, but my mom went way too far on the cone theme; looking around at the cone-shaped pictures and clocks and all, I debated with myself as to whether or not my mom was a serial killer or something.

I made my way over to Flo's, giving a small smile to Lena. Lena was my best friend. She was the only tolerable car here. She understood me, unlike Mom and Dad...or anyone.

"You look tired," she said with a smug grin. I returned it with my own weary one as my mom gave me the usual breakfast.

"Where's Dad?" I asked.

"He's down at Willy's Butte," said Mom. "You okay, Stickers?"

Was she blind? I wasn't Dad, I was Alex.

"Ew, Mom," I grimaced, "Don't call me that; that's Dad's thing."

Mom stifled a laugh as Lena smiled.

"You need to start going to your dad's races more often, Alex," she encouraged, "He gets upset knowing you're not there for him."

"I'm there for him," I said, defensively. "I'm just not...there, there."

Mom looked down.

"Yeah..." she answered, trailing off.

I mentally groaned.

"If I go to this one, will you leave me alone?"

"At least do it for your dad," she insisted, "He's not going to be racing forever, and I'd hate for you to miss a single race, while he's still on the tracks."

There was a brief silence.

"Fine," I agreed, "just this once,"

"Thank you, Sweetheart," she responded before driving off. I rolled my eyes, digging into my now-cold food. Lena smirked at me.

"You'd be a pretty darn good racer," she commented, "I'm surprised you've never tried it out."

"I didn't lose anything on a race track." I blatantly stated.

"So, you've never gone to even one of his races?"

"Not a single one."

"Why not?" she inquired, "I would have gone to all of them."

I gagged on my food, and Lena narrowed her eyes.

"I don't see what's so bad about it,"

She looked back down at her food as I glanced back up at her.

"All I'd ever be there is "McQueen's daughter" or "McQueen's kid" or the "race-car's kid"; I'm not going to be labeled just so I can watch my dad win a race."

I was never in the spotlight, not that I ever wanted to be. I enjoyed staying in my cone all day, listening to music, or just reading or something. My dad always nagged me to get into racing and stuff, but I never really bothered with it. I just put it on the shelf and moved on.

"You would be a great racer!"

"We can get you a really cool paint job!"

"Imagine all the sponsors you'd get!"

And of course:

"Maybe, you can even get Dinoco to sponsor you like Strip Weather's nephew, Cal!"

I am the daughter (unfortunately) of Lightning and Sally McQueen.

Did I ask to be?

No.

But, would I change anything in about it?

Probably not.

---

It wasn't long before we made it to the stadium where the race (the Dinoco 400) would be held. It was hard to hear much of anything since there were millions of cars there. I followed Mom into the pit where the others were waiting. Mater had been speaking with my dad; Luigi and Guido were doing their own thing and getting tires ready. I didn't see Lena, so I assumed she was just late.

My dad's eyes lit up like Christmas lights when they landed on me.

"Glad to see my little girl's finally coming to see the old man win again," he remarked.

I looked at Mom.

"He's been a little cocky lately about racing the new generation," she informed. My dad jumped in.

"I'm not cocky," he was quick to defend, "I'm just tired of Storm rubbing his wins in our faces; I can't stand him..."

"Whatever you say, Stickers."

He rolled his eyes, then fixed his gaze on me.

"Go ahead and look around," he encouraged, "enjoy yourself; we have a little while before the race starts."

"A while?" I repeated, "How long?"

"About thirty minutes, I think."

I turned and drove off. Might as well take my time, because it was obvious that I was gonna be stuck in that pit for the next few hours.

I hadn't even seen Lena, but her voice startled me.

"Playing Dora, are we?"

"I'm allowed," I informed with a teasing grin, "It's not like last time with the museum."

"What's even around here?" she asked, ignoring my statement, "You know, other than crews and pits...and boring stuff."

"It's not boring," I corrected, "Just...a little uninteresting."

I was mean, but I wasn't that mean.

"Keep telling yourself that; I still think you'd be cool as a racer."

"I don't."

"Why not?"

I didn't answer; I was too busy staring at this one race car. He was black, with blue highlights and the number #20 painted on both sides of him, designed as "2.0". His headlight stickers were different from the other racers; they were skinny and blue, nothing like my dad's wide headlight stickers that were outlined in the same red hue.

His eyes were gray and icy looking.

I had been staring for a good moment, but soon as I realized who he was, someone pulled me from my thoughts.

"Whatcha looking at?"

I just about jumped out of my paint.

"Nothing," I spoke, "Why would I be looking at anything?"

There were a few moments of awkward silence before Lena gasped, after seeing the look on my face.

Oh no.

"O.M.G.," she erupted, "You were checking someone out!"

I shushed her, but some racers seemed to already be staring at us, including the one I was recently gawking at; he smirked but proceeded to pay attention to what I assumed to be his crew chief, judging from the headset and his position on his ramp.

"No, I wasn't!" I whisper scolded.

"Who was it?" she nosily asked without a care for her volume, "You've gotta tell me! Are you crushing? Wait, is it a racer? You have a racer crush! You've gotta spill, Alex!"

"It wasn't anything!" I argued defensively, hindering her fangirl moment, "Stop being embarrassing; you're worse than my dad, and he once nagged me for a whole day about that one boy I talked to at school who was helping me with my homework for home ec.!"

"You were pretty close to him, Alex."

"He couldn't see my paper! How is that my fault?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Can we just not have this discussion?"

"Oh, come on, Alex!" she whined, "I'm your bestie; we're supposed to tell each other these things."

Lucky for us (more like me), the reporters, Bob Cutlass and Darrell Cartrip, announced that the race was beginning.

I "raced" back to Dad to wish him good luck.

"Good luck out there, Dad,"

"I'm Lightning McQueen," he confidently reminded with a grin, "I don't need luck."

I smiled at him.

"Come back in one piece," Mom chimed in. I then turned around, because the last thing I needed was to be scarred by their "Good Luck" kiss.

I personally thought that was just an excuse to show PDA.

Yuck.

---

After that whole spy thing that my mom told me about, I didn't really trust Mater as my dad's crew chief. Obviously, my dad did, so I would just have to work with it. Mater guided him along the track throughout the race.

"That's it's, buddy," Mater praised, "Now stay inside, and show 'em what Doc done taught ya."

I'd realized (before Lena interrupted my staring session with the dude by fangirling so loudly that the entire country could hear) that he must have been that Jackson Storm guy that Dad had been so grumpy about. I didn't understand what the dilemma was; I mean, that guy seemed pretty attractive...in an I've-Never-Seen-You-Or-Your-Races sort-of way.

I glanced over at Mom, who was focused on the Jumbotron hanging in the middle of the track.

"Hey, Mom," I piped up, "Is that #20 car Jackson Storm?"

"That's him."

"He doesn't seem that bad,"

"Oh, trust me," she insisted, "I'm sure you wouldn't like him, but the other girls watching are hood-over-wheels; he's just...such a jerk."

I wondered why she was so entertained by these races, but I guess she just loved Dad enough that she didn't mind staying in a pit for hours. I didn't know why, but I began to have a bad feeling about all this.

"He'll be okay," I told Mom, "...right?"

Mom smiled at me.

"He'll be fine, Alex. He's been racing for years, and he knows what he's doing. He's just been under pressure since the new generation began the season with him."

It had been about three or four (long, agonizing) hours before my dad raced into the pit.

"Come on, come on, come on!" he instructed, rushing Guido, "I gotta get back out there before he does! Quick! Now, hurry up!"

You can only change a tire so quick, Dad. Yeesh.

"Dad, relax," I encouraged, "It's a race, not Minute to Win-"

I assumed my dad didn't hear me, because soon as the last tire was put in, he sped back out there. Guido had also interrupted yelling, "Bato! Bato!" right before Dad hurried off. We watched on the Jumbotron, and he appeared to be speaking with Storm a while later.

It didn't look to be going well. Was this why I had that weird feeling, earlier?

I looked back at Mom, who seemed worried, then looked back to see my dad slowing down.

Why was he slowing down? Was he okay?

"Dad?" I asked myself. He then began speeding back as if he were trying to chase Jackson down. He seemed to be struggling, and I was praying things would be okay.

Then, there was a boom.

I prayed that Sheriff unintentionally fired off, but I'd forgotten Sheriff wasn't here.

I raced out of the pit, to see my father onscreen, and I watched him hit the wall.

"Dad.." I trailed off.

Then, he went flying.

"DAD!"

I looked to the Jumbotron in terror, at the form that had been zoomed in on; it was a red race-car, dented, his spoiler torn off, eyes shut, embers still fading on the ground of the track.

I denied that it was my father I was staring at and that what was on that screen was nothing more than a sick dream; one of his three remaining tires was turned a certain way, and he was scratched all over. Figures, he had flipped over in the air numerous times before crashing.

It was excruciating to watch.

The reporters had fallen lifelessly mute; the auditorium was deathly silent.

"I think the unbelievable just became believable, Bob," stated Darrell, one of the two reporters. Bob was the other one. There was a third one who didn't speak, "Did McQueen really just go off the rail and crash?"

There had been a few cars that flew to the scene to help tow him back. I rushed over, evading cars that were still racing; everyone else in the pit quickly followed suit.

"Dad?" I asked; he was motionless. I glanced up at the Jumbotron.

By now, the race was over and Jackson had won, but I didn't care. At the moment, I was terrified as to whether or not my dad had just died onscreen. Though I had zero ideas of what occurred between the two of them, there was still one car that I blamed for all of this:

Jackson Storm.