Motocross Me (22 page)

Ash holds me in his arms for a moment longer and before I’m ready to be released, he pulls away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, tomorrow,” I say. Tomorrow seems so far away, yet, in a few hours I would be reporting to work before the sunrise. We say goodbye and I turn toward my house once more. This time, walking away from Ash when I’m not mad at him is even more of a Herculean task. With every fiber of my being, I want to run back to him, jump into his arms and live there forever.

“By the way,” Ash calls out.

“Yes?” I almost do run into his arms this time. 

“Whose car is that?”

I look in the direction of Ash’s gaze and see a car that has never been in the driveway before. My heart catches in my throat. Parked next to my truck is a red Honda. My mother is here.

Chapter 20

I roll out of bed at four in the morning eager to start the day despite the five hours I tossed and turned all night instead of sleeping. The pungent coffee aroma doesn’t trigger my gag reflex and that assures me nothing will ruin this exciting day. Today is the biggest day of Mixon Motocross track’s life – Nationals. My nerves are stretched to their limit with excitement for Dad’s business and for Ash’s race. I dress quickly and pull my hair into two messy braids that fall down my back.

I don’t bother with makeup but I do apply sunscreen to my face so I won’t regret being outside all day. Then I rush through brushing my teeth, most likely unnecessary because I am so ready to sink my teeth into one or even two of Molly’s breakfast burritos. Shelby is working at the track today so she’s probably already waiting in the kitchen for me.

I scramble through the hallway and to the stairs, anxious to see Shelby and start our day. Before descending, I notice something different in the hallway – the door to the usually empty guest bedroom is closed.

Memories of last night slam into me at record speed. How is it possible that I had fallen asleep and forgotten such horrible news? I was exhausted from last night’s activities and had come home to a sleeping house and passed out in my bed before I had time to dwell on the idea of Mom being here.

Now, while looking at the closed bedroom door, I have time to mull it over. Why is my
mother
here? And why did she have to bring Danny with her? Had she driven here like a mad woman wanting to yell at me for missing her wedding? What does Molly think about Dad’s ex-wife staying here? Molly is sweet; I’m sure she was just as hospitable to my mother as she is to any other guest in her home.

Another thought comes to me as I stand in the hallway paralyzed with anger – since I hadn’t actually seen my mother last night; maybe it isn’t her after all. Maybe it is one of Teig’s friends…is Teig old enough to have friends who drive? Probably not, I realize, remembering that Teig’s best friend still plays with toy dirt bikes in the sand.

I take quiet steps down the stairs and hope whoever was in the guest room will stay asleep until after I am at the track.

“Good morning,” Molly greets me from the kitchen where she drinks coffee and flips through the newest issue of
Amateur Motocross
magazine. I look around the kitchen and find it spotless as usual and this bothers me.

“Breakfast?” I ask, fully aware that I am being an ungrateful teenager but she had me accustomed to delicious freshly made burritos every race morning. I’m sure what to do with myself without them.

“Breakfast is in the score tower this morning.” She smiles, unfazed by my rudeness. “Since we have so many extra people working today, I ordered kolaches and doughnuts from the shop in town.”

This is great news – now I have another reason to rush to the track before Mom, or whoever is in the guest bedroom, wakes up.

“Shelby is there too,” Molly adds.

“Awesome.” I grab my sunglasses from the counter and slide them on top of my head. I may not need them at four in the morning, but I will later.

There is a calm and uneasy vibe in the room and I can tell Molly feels it too. We are both thinking about who is sleeping in the guest room. Instead of bolting out the back door, I turn to her. “Mom is here, isn’t she?”

“Jim invited them to come watch the Nationals.” She takes a sip from her coffee mug to conceal her fake smile.

“What?” I balk. Then in an effort to keep them asleep, I add in a much softer voice, “Why would Dad do that? Does he hate me?”

Molly shakes her head. “He just doesn’t like you two fighting. Plus he’s very proud of these races, and he wants everyone to see how well his track is doing.” 

I roll my eyes to the ceiling and groan. Molly holds out her arm to give me a hug and I lean in to let her. I close my eyes and let my head rest on her shoulder. Inhaling, I can smell her perfume. The vanilla scent is comforting, even mixed with the coffee scent that permeated the kitchen.

From the gray strands in Molly’s curly brown hair, to her smell and the wrinkles in her eyes when she smiles – all of it reminds me of a real, storybook mother. My mom never looks or smells or smiles the way Molly does. I promise myself to tell Molly one day, when the time is right, exactly how much she means to me.

“Why don’t you wake your mom and Danny and show them where the tower is for breakfast?” Molly asks.

“I’d really rather not,” I reply sarcastically.

“Very well,” she concedes and pours another cup of coffee. “I’m sure they’d like to sleep in anyway.”

I turn to leave again, but she interrupts me. “How was last night? Did you have fun with Ryan?”

“Actually,” I say, biting my bottom lip and deciding not to rush out the door anymore. “Do you have a minute to give me advice…on a boy problem?”

Molly pulls out the chair next to her. I take a seat and tell her my dilemma. I leave out the majority of the details over the past two months. Instead, she hears a condensed version involving me liking Ash and Ryan and them liking me back but hating each other. She listens without interrupting and I appreciate her patience.

“So who should I pick?” I ask, hoping her motherly instincts and adult wisdom will prevail, giving me the perfect advice. She answers immediately without taking a moment to think about it like I’d assumed she would.

“Honey, I’m not going to tell you who to pick because that is your choice.” Seeing my shoulders fall in disappointment, she pats my arm.

“They are both fine boys. But I will tell you this, in the ten years I’ve known them, Ryan has brought many girlfriends to the track.” I sigh. Somehow, I can believe that. She sips from her coffee. “Ash has never brought anyone.”

The track is almost unrecognizable this morning. The air fills with the hum of generators. I’m used to people camping out the night before a race in their motor homes, RVs or even tents. But today the only people camped out are multi-million-dollar motocross corporations and the professional riders. Large eighteen-wheeler rigs are set up with canopies protruding from the sides. Under the canopies are a dozen or more dirt bikes lined up and ready to be raced. There is a set up like this for every brand of dirt bike and every motocross team. The gates don’t open until six A.M. for regular people like amateur racers and spectators.

The concession area now boasts four stands that are each double the size of Frank’s food truck. People set up merchandise stands and unpack boxes. Several cargo trucks line up with one wall opened to reveal portable stores. T-shirts, hats, jackets and stickers hang from the walls. There is a section of merchandise for every professional racer. I can tell who the more popular racers are by how big their section is.

I try to picture Ash’s name and number on a T-shirt hanging from those trucks and feel a surge of energy run through me. It could happen for him – one day.

A special VIP section of the pits is located behind the scoring tower for the famous and exceptionally rich professional riders. I am dumbfounded as I walk past a real police officer standing guard at the entrance to their pits and figure even my status of being the owner’s daughter wouldn’t allow me access in there. I know Shelby will shriek with excitement when she meets the real pros, but I am new to the motocross world so I’m not all that star-struck. 

Since today is the amateur races, the professionals will be signing autographs and doing interviews for news reporters until their races tomorrow. Although I have never seen the pros race, I am excited for tomorrow because apparently the pros are twice as fast as Ash or Ryan. I can’t even imagine watching a race like that.

When I have taken in all of the grandeur that is set in place for Nationals, I head to the scoring tower like I do for every other race. When I get to the stairs, I am surprised to find a man I don’t know walking up them. He definitely isn’t a member of the staff, or I would know him by now. He’s in his late twenties and must have snuck inside the gates to catch a glimpse of a famous rider.

“Hey,” I say, rushing to the stairs before he reaches the top. “This is for employees only. You aren’t even allowed to be here, dude.”

The stranger holds up his hands to surrender. “I apologize. I’m just looking for Jim Fisher. I used to ride here when I was younger.”

I rush past him on the stairs and put my hand on the doorknob, blocking his entrance. “He’s probably too busy for you. And you really shouldn’t be here,” I say, opening the door an inch and peeking inside. “Dad, some guy here wants to talk to you.”

Dad comes to the door and I enter the tower to leave him to deal with the nuisance. As soon as the door close behind me, I am caught off guard by a mass of purple bombarding me and wrapping me in a hug.

Shelby wears the offensive shirt, shorts she borrowed from me, and a smile that is so big it makes her face look disproportioned. She is the epitome of a star-struck, over-caffeinated, hyperactive teenager and I don’t hear a word she shrieks to me because the only thing I can focus on was her shirt – a purple polo with Mixon Motocross Park emblazoned across the chest in the tackiest shade of burnt yellow. “Shelby” is stitched on the left sleeve. I look around the room and to my horror, every member of the staff wears one.

Shelby is still talking but I’m not listening until she grabs my arms and shakes them as she jumps up and down, causing me to break eye contact with her shirt. When my mind returns to our one-sided conversation, I catch only the end of what she’s saying.

“…and he said the winner of today’s race will be offered Pro sponsorship by FRZ Frame Energy! Can you believe it?”

“That’s cool,” I say, uninterested. The only thing on my mind right now is those ridiculous purple shirts.

Dad enters the room and bring the man I saw earlier. They wear smiles of nostalgia as the man compliments Dad on the new score tower, saying it’s a huge improvement from the old one. I frown; the guy did know my dad after all.

After refusing Dad’s offer of donuts or coffee, the man says he needs to get back to work. The moment the door closes behind him, Shelby grabs my arm. “Mr. Fisher, you know him?”

Dad smiles, “Yep, he grew up riding at this track.”

Shelby’s jaw hits the floor.

“What am I missing here?” I ask. They turn to me with the sympathizing look I often get when asking something about motocross.

“That’s Dylan Bakers,” Shelby informs me. With a dreamy glaze in her eyes, she tells me how he is the world champion motocross racer two years running and something about being on Team Yamaha. I roll my eyes and remember there are more important tasks at hand than getting star-struck over some semi-famous guy.

Dad is in the corner of the room eating a chocolate doughnut. He winces when he sees the glare I give him. Disregarding Shelby, I march over and throw my arms in the air.

“You didn’t tell me we had to wear shirts.” He finishes his pastry and takes a folded purple shirt from the table behind him.

“Well I have a good excuse,” he says, tossing the shirt to me. “I knew you’d hate it. So I didn’t tell you.”

Admittedly, the shirt isn’t the worst thing in the world, but I don’t want to wear it. I look cute in my lacy camisole and have no desire to look like Barney or a big purple billboard for Mixon Motocross Park. My dad has some nerve making us wear these shirts when he is already on thin ice with me. He reaches for a kolache but I take it before he grabs it and point it at him as I speak. “Dad, not telling me about the shirt was one thing, but did you have to leave me in the dark about Mom visiting?”

Out of spite, I took a bite of the warm kolache; it tastes even better because I stole it from him.

“I’m sorry doll,” he says, grabbing another kolache. “I didn’t know she was coming until yesterday afternoon and I couldn’t get a hold of your cell phone because you didn’t have signal.”

I didn’t have signal at the lake? Is that why Ryan never called? My mind races with thoughts of how Ryan probably panicked when he couldn’t find me and my cell phone was unreachable. I need to see him as soon as possible so I can explain.

“Plus you can thank your buddy Ash,” Dad adds, winking at me. “He’s the one who suggested I invite her.”

“What?” Shelby and I say in unison.

“Yep,” Dad answers. “He didn’t like that you skipped your mother’s wedding for Shawn’s race and he wanted you to be able to make up with her. Shelby, your brother’s a good kid.”

Shelby nods to my dad and then looks at me with empathetic eyes. Then Dad joins the other members of the staff, leaving us alone. Shelby apologizes on behalf of Ash. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s been so weird lately…depressed or something.”

I finish my breakfast and put on the purple prison shirt with my name on it. Although I have no intention of telling her, I know exactly why he is depressed.

Molly and the other track wives work inside the tower, handling the massive amount of registrations for the amateur races. This leaves Shelby and I to work the sign-ins at the gate in the sweltering heat. The two of us would have been enough on a normal race, but today’s turnout required four extra helpers.

Unfortunately, all four of them are the daughters of other local track owners and none of them had experience in the menial task of operating a clipboard and taking money. Shelby and I work twice as hard getting everyone signed in, but I enjoy staying busy. It gives my mind something else to focus on besides wondering when the black Dodge will arrive.