Latitude Zero (5 page)

8

KALEIDOSCOPE. SHARP
images. Spokes and derailleurs. Tires and chains. Everything spinning, spinning, spinning. A high-pitched whining sound.

Then I was on asphalt, spitting dirt.

That whine, and scraping sounds, went on and on. It took me another moment to realize it was the sound of bikes falling. People behind me continued to crash.

I eased myself up on one elbow. My cleats had come out of the pedal clips. My bike was several feet away.

“Riders down! Riders down!” people shouted. More approaching cyclists swerved, way out to the opposite road shoulder. Some got off their bikes to help people; others kept going. I hoped Juan Carlos was one who kept going. I hoped he wouldn’t see me like this.

Juan Carlos. The necklace. I reached up and felt the cross outline beneath my jersey, and the gold chain firmly clasped. Still there.

I checked in with my arms and legs, my fingers and toes, and, lastly, my head. Everything moved. I crawled over to my bike, then dragged it to the road shoulder. My beautiful Bianchi. The pretty mint-green frame was scratched up. Two spokes were bent in the front wheel. How could I have been so stupid not to look behind me when I pulled out?

I turned and took in the full horror of the scene. Another paceline had stopped short to avoid me. Some cyclists ahead of me had crashed, too, maybe startled by the noise. I counted ten riders down behind me, eight up ahead—including some from Team Maureen. Riders were groaning, holding knees and elbows, surveying damage to bike frames.

I knew I should help people. Instead, I froze. What if someone recognized me as the girl who had
caused
this pileup? Sure, the road was wet. But that was all the more reason for me to have been more careful riding outside of my skill area.

A huge gray shark, jaw flapping, made its way up the road, hovering above the crowds. Hallucination? Head injury? I blinked. No. It was an inflatable shark, like for a swimming pool, lashed to the top of a support van. All the support vans, sponsored by various bike shops, had animal or fish floaties for visibility. Jake had told me to watch out for them. Support vans carried mechanics but also ride officials.

The van’s horn blared. Cyclists, still coming up to the crash scene, veered right to let it pass.
COMPA
SS BIKES, CAMBRIDGE, M
A
, I read on the side of the van. In smaller letters:
TAKING YOU PLACES
. The store logo was an old-fashioned compass rose on a bike wheel.

The van stopped when it got to the pileup. A girl who looked to be around my age jumped out of the driver’s side. She wore a green Compass Bikes T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up. She scanned the downed riders and, spotting me, frowned and ran to my side.

“Are you okay?” The girl dropped to her knees. Her short brown hair barely made it into a ponytail. She blew her long bangs out of her eyes in order to look at mine. “Did you hit your head?”

“No. I landed on my side.”

“Can you move your arms and legs?”

I demonstrated.

She held my right arm and inspected it. She looked tough, like she might lift serious weights. Her fingers were blackened with bike grease. Yet her face was pretty, her features soft. She had large brown eyes, full lips, olive skin, and a look of intense concern on her face. I hoped she’d sympathize with me and not ask too many questions.

“You’re lucky. Your brain bucket worked.” She reached over and tapped my helmet. “Looks like you’re walking out of this with just a nasty case of road rash. That must kill.”

It didn’t, until I followed her gaze. My right arm and leg looked like raw meat spiced with sand. Then the pain hit all at once. I sucked in my breath.

“I’ll take you back to the medical tent.” She offered an arm.

“N-no, thanks,” I stammered. “No medical tent. Really. I’m fine.”

“They can give you something for the pain. And you’ll want to get those scrapes irrigated. Let’s get you up. Go easy.” She was shorter than me by several inches but pulled me to my feet with her strong arms. She looped one of my arms over her shoulder and helped me limp toward the van, pushing my bike along with her free hand. “I’m Mari, by the way. What’s your name?”

Clearly she didn’t recognize me from TV. Still, a fake name—Teresa—flew out of my mouth. “I can’t get medical services,” I added, thinking fast. “My rider number flew off.”

“No worries. We’ll look you up in the system,” Mari said. “So what happened out there anyway?” She suddenly looked a little less friendly. Her gaze was intense. Was I imagining it, or did she suspect me of being the cause of all this?

“I saw people suddenly wipe out in front of me. I couldn’t stop in time.” I winced. What was wrong with me? I went to a school founded on Quaker values, a school that launched people like Preston Lane into the world. And here I was, leaking lies all over the road.

Mari lowered me into a seat in the van, giving me a long look. “Where’s your friend?”

“What friend?” I felt dizzy.

“That guy you were with. He was wearing a black jersey like yours.”

She’d seen us together. I
knew
we’d attract attention.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t with anyone,” I managed to say. Part of me wanted to rat Jake out. Payback for having dropped me. But the old instinct to protect him kicked in.

“I’m sure I saw you on the road together earlier. Who is he? And where is he?”

“I really don’t know who you’re talking about. I was doing the ride alone.” That was almost true. I got dropped. I
was
doing the ride alone, in the end. “I swear,” I insisted, when she crossed her arms. “A friend of mine was going to do it with me, but he—he changed his mind.”

“So your guy’s not somewhere out on the course now.”

“Honestly? I have absolutely no idea where he is.” No lie.

Mari’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer. Then she glanced back at the cyclists on the road shoulder. “Okay, then. I have to go scoop up more roadkill. Be right back.”

Relieved she no longer seemed interested in Jake, I caught sight of myself in the rearview mirror as I took off my helmet. I did look like roadkill. Sweaty. Streaked with dirt and blood.

I felt like bolting and rejoining the ride. But my bike was a mess. Make a run for it? No. My arm and leg killed. I’d just get my wounds cleaned up and find somewhere to wait for Juan Carlos.

The van filled up with six other riders complaining of injuries and busted bikes. Everyone tried to piece together what had happened as Mari turned around and drove back down Great Marsh Road, past the ride still in progress. One woman said a novice rider probably started the crash. “People ride outside their skill area and their speed group; it’s a recipe for disaster,” she said, and everyone murmured their agreements.

I shrank into my seat and stared out the window. The trees at the edge of the conservation land seemed more crowded together than before, concealing all their secrets.

Was Juan Carlos’s spare bike still in those woods? Doubtful. Unless Juan Carlos had gotten my text and sent someone in to retrieve the bike, the fence must have found it by now.

One thing was for sure. Even with this road rash, I’d find a way to talk to Juan Carlos after the race and tell him what had gone down in those woods. I pictured the look of gratitude on his face when the police brought the mango man into custody and returned Juan Carlos’s stolen spare bike.

Then at least one good thing would come out of this horrible day.

9

IN THE
medical tent, Mari helped me into a folding chair and handed me a bottle of cold water. I gulped it down gratefully, forgetting that, as a bandit, I was not even entitled to an ice cube.

“So I’m going to go look you up in the system and get your medical release form,” said Mari. “What was your rider number again?”

“292.”

“Okay. Patricia here will take care of you.” She seemed warmer now, but still wary of me, as she turned me over to an EMT, an unsmiling woman who immediately set to work cleaning my wounds. I hoped Patricia worked fast. Partly because the pain was excruciating. Partly because Mari would discover soon enough that I’d given her a fake registration number.

A siren wailed in the distance. My whole body tensed. What if someone were really hurt badly, all because of my dumb split decision?

Patricia switched on a bright lamp and inspected my scrapes. “Twenty-one?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“No. Miles per hour. I’m guessing how fast you were going when you went down.” She squirted my leg wound with a syringe of antiseptic.

“Not sure.” God, that stuff stung. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. I pictured the slick asphalt and those few thrilling moments of near-flight when I’d drafted.

“You’re lucky it’s not worse,” said Patricia. “At least it’s only skin abrasions. I’ll put on some antibiotic dressings after we clean everything. You can use vitamin E oil for scarring prevention. It’s not like, you know,
cancer
,” she added, plunging into my leg with the tweezers. “Whatever you’re going through right now, it’s not chemo. There are survivors among us.”

I nodded, feeling smaller by the second.

“Hey.” The woman looked up and studied my face. “Have I seen you before? Maybe in a TV commercial or something?”

“I doubt it.”

“Hmm.” She studied me, then shrugged and continued harvesting dirt from my leg.

With my good arm, I unwound my long braid and shook out my hair, letting it fall messily around my face in a lame attempt at disguise.

Mari returned with a skinny, fortyish guy wearing a green Compass Bikes T-shirt like hers, and a Chain Reaction baseball cap, backward. He had salt-and-pepper hair and an eyebrow ring. An aging hipster type.

He was also someone I’d met before. Gage Weston. The former mechanic from Team EcuaBar.

I averted my face. My heart thudded. We’d met only a handful of times, at races and one party. I hadn’t seen him since October, the end of racing season last year. Maybe he wouldn’t remember me.

“This is Gage, my boss,” said Mari. “He’s the manager of Compass Bikes. And he’s one of the ride marshals. Gage, this is Teresa.”

Gage looked down at his iPad. “What’d you say your rider number was?”

“292.”

“Nothing’s coming up.”

“Maybe it was 291? Or 293? I’m so bad at remembering numbers.”

“I checked all the 290s. You’re under eighteen?”

The air in the tent felt close. “Yeah. But I’m going to be a senior in the fall?” I added, as if that might compensate. I tipped my head and flashed him my
KidVision
smile.

“Congratulations. But if you’re a minor, we need a medical release form signed by your parents. Plus a consent and liability form. You filled those out when you registered?”

I looked down at my lap.

Finally, Gage looked at me. “I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you Jake Collier’s girlfriend?”

My cheeks burned. I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what Jake and I were right now. And I could feel Mari’s laserlike stare. Judging me. Hating me. I felt so small. Other people nearby—people being treated for injuries or waiting for friends—also turned to look. Including that redheaded EcuaBar girl I’d seen before, still carrying her basket of samples.

“Yeah,” said Gage, sizing me up. “I thought you looked familiar. Jake’s girl.”

Jake’s girl.
That’s what some of his teammates had called me. I’d embraced “Jake’s girl” like a cool shirt that wasn’t my style. Now I didn’t love it. I had my own name. I had my own life.

A muscle twitched at Gage’s temple. “You know what I think?

“What.”

“I think you were bandit riding.”

Goose bumps.
How did he know?

“And bandits usually ride in teams. Anyone else on the course I ought to know about?”

God knew where Jake was on the course. Again, I was tempted to rat him out. But I didn’t want to go down that road again, dealing with Jake and accusations. And even though I was mad at him, there was no point getting him in more trouble. I didn’t need revenge.

I glanced at Mari, who looked like she was about to speak up. “I’m on my own,” I said before she could talk. “But bandit riding isn’t illegal.” I met Gage’s gaze. “We all pay for the roads. It’s a free country.” That was one of Jake’s favorite arguments in favor of bandit riding.

“You’re right,” said Gage. “God bless America. It’s not a crime to be on the ride. But it sure as hell is a safety issue during a major cycling event. Allow me to educate you, young lady. The ride organizers hire support staff like EMTs, police officers, and bike mechanics. They reroute traffic and close down roads. All these safety precautions are based on the number of registered riders. Having extra riders out there puts everyone in jeopardy. Especially when unregistered riders engage in reckless behavior.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I protested. “I swear, I had just decided to quit the ride.”

“You had no business on the route at a big event like this.” Gage’s voice rose. “And imagine if you’d been hurt worse. Unconscious. We wouldn’t have known who to contact. Mari here left the support vehicle to help you. You’ve taken one of my top mechanics off the road.”

I stole another glance at Mari. She stood with her hands in her shorts pockets, all the warmth and sympathy drained from her face.

“You’re wasting our time and resources,” Gage said. “Maybe you thought hijacking was all for yuks, but there are serious riders out there still, who may have equipment failures or other medical issues going on, and we’re here babysitting a teenage bandit. You’ve let down those riders, their sponsors, and every individual volunteering today.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. No lie. I wanted to go back on the course and apologize.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman at the station next to me, holding an ice pack to her elbow. Staring at us. The woman from Team Maureen. The one who’d seen my unsafe merge. I turned my head away.

“You’ve said sorry,” said Gage, “but words won’t erase what you’ve done. As soon as you’re cleaned up, why don’t you hightail it out of here. Got a ride?”

I shook my head. Jake? Forget it. Besides, I couldn’t leave. The awards ceremony was just a few hours away. I had to stick it out and meet with Juan Carlos, like we’d planned.

“So get busy. Call someone.” Gage looked like he wasn’t going to budge until I made that call. What was I supposed to do? Calling Jake was out of the question. I was too mortified to call my best friends. Kylie would be horrified, given how she felt about cancer these days. Sarita, the world’s Oldest Living Girl Scout, would lay the guilt on thick. My dad? I was the apple of his eye, and might have his sympathy. But he was at a weekend men’s retreat, drumming in the woods, under a doctor’s strict orders to “explore stress reduction techniques.”

That left only one person.

When I got my mom on the phone, I was sure everyone in the tent could hear her freaking out. (“You did what? I need to pick you up where? This is unbelievable! We are going to have a SERIOUS TALK.”) After she was through with me, my mom was going to need to explore a few stress reduction techniques herself—and maybe I was, too.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Mari, after Gage stomped off to deal with some other crisis.

Mari glared at me. “You crash cancer rides? Why would you do that?”

“Not
rides
. Just this one. It’s . . . complicated.”

“I’m sure it is.”

It was one dumb mistake,
I wanted to tell her.
Can’t a person make one dumb mistake?
Patricia got up to get more supplies.

“So. Your boyfriend,” said Mari. “Or whoever he is. He’s out there, isn’t he? Riding.”

I hesitated. “He is.”

“He’s Juan Carlos’s old teammate?”

“Yep.”

“He’s just bandit riding? That’s it?”

I hesitated. “What else would he be doing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“He’s training. It’s a secret. He’s planning a big comeback. He’s not taking any ride resources. I swear.”

Mari tipped her head, considering this. “All right,” she finally said. “Whatever drama you guys have going on, I won’t spill it.”

“Thanks. And hey. I want you to know, I was bailing on the ride. I—”

Mari held up a hand and walked away.

Patricia came back and dove into my leg again with the tweezers, with renewed zeal, and the pain took my breath away. I bit down on my thumb.

I thought of Juan Carlos.

He’d seemed different out on the course. Usually when he rode, I pictured wings streaming behind him. The way he held his shoulders back so proudly always stirred something inside me. Watching Jake ride made me feel proud, too, but tense, as if I were the one burdened with looking after his worries, an emotional coat-check girl. Watching Juan Carlos ride had made me feel joy. As if the wind he left in his wake stirred up possibilities in my soul and made me want to fly, too. Especially when Jake and I hit our rocky patches.

But not today. Today Juan Carlos had seemed broken. Off his game.

I wished I could ask him what had happened out there. But clearly our after-race rendezvous was off. My mom was on her way to get me right now.

At least I could text Juan Carlos and let him know I couldn’t see him. And I could tell him properly about his bike and the fence. I took my phone out of my pocket again, noting the battery warning sign flashing red. Weird. I was sure I’d charged it up before the ride. I went to my text message app.

But the text I’d sent to Juan Carlos in the woods wasn’t even there. Maybe I hadn’t sent it after all. It was possible I’d accidentally deleted it when I got startled in the woods.

I went to my contacts list and to
J
. But Juan Carlos’s number wasn’t there now, either. I frowned. I checked
M
for
Macias
and even
E
for
el Cóndor
. Nothing.
Nada.
I’d somehow deleted all his contact information. Another stupid move today.

Then my phone went dark. Dead battery. With a sigh, I repocketed it.

“Squirmy one, aren’t you,” Patricia commented as her tweezers probed my arm.

“You really don’t have to keep working on me.” I clenched my teeth through the pain.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not letting you walk away with abrasions like this. Regardless of what brought you on the course, I am morally obligated to treat you. Hey!” She pointed at me with the tweezers. “I just figured it out!”

“Figured what out?”

“Where I’ve seen you before! You’re that character! On
KidVision
!”

I wanted to sink into the floor.

“You’re the host! Yeah! My daughters, they’re eight—twins—they watch that show every Saturday morning.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “You got me.”
That character
. Was that what I was? Maybe I was delusional, thinking someday I’d have more say in the direction of
KidVision
.

“The pizza boxes! Yeah! Last week, that was a terrific show. Who knew all those things you could make out of pizza boxes? My kids made the desk and chair set.”

“Glad they liked it.” My eyes tracked Gage and Mari, who both passed by again, heading toward the tent’s exit. Gage was frowning as he listened to someone on a cell phone. “Yep. Okay. Call you right back.” He reached for a remote control. He turned up the volume on a TV in the corner of the tent, where GBCN was showing nonstop event coverage.

The screen showed an ambulance and a figure being loaded onto a stretcher. The reporter’s words filled the tent. Everyone in the tent stopped talking. Patricia turned to see, too.

“The crash victim has been identified,” said a familiar-looking male GBCN reporter. The same guy who’d tried to stop Jake and me for a pre-ride interview. “He is eighteen-year-old Juan Carlos Macias-León, an Ecuadorian citizen, and a cyclist for Team Cadence-EcuaBar.”

Juan Carlos!
No!
I leaned forward, ignoring the stabbing pains in my right side. My hand flew to the necklace. I squeezed it through the cloth of my jersey.

“Witnesses say he had become separated from his team even before the race began,” the reporter went on. “The young cyclist has already led the local upstart team to victory this season, in a number of national races. He’s been predicted to do so again at the upcoming Pan-American Cycling Tour, a tri-country series of road and circuit races that will culminate in his hometown of Quito, Ecuador. But it looks like this young cyclist’s racing future will be an uphill battle. He has sustained injuries to his head and neck and remains in critical condition.”

Somebody cried out. Mari. She stared at the screen, which now showed the stretcher being loaded into the ambulance.

And a familiar yellow diamond sign in the background.
SLOW DEAF CHILD
.

Oh, no. Juan Carlos had crashed maybe ten yards behind me. Close enough to have been affected by the pileup.

The pileup
I
had caused.