Motocross Me (4 page)

“What the hell was that?” Dad scans the horizon before looking down and seeing me. “Oh god, Hana.” He rushes to pull me up. “Are you okay? Did you break anything? You’re not bleeding, are you?” His voice cracks. His eyes dart from my arms to my head and then to my legs that are now visibly beginning to bruise. He lifts my left arm and then my right, as if checking to see that they are still attached. I want to laugh at him for being so ridiculous, but unfortunately I keep sobbing.

“Dad, I’m fine,” I groan, rubbing my knees. “Actually, I hurt everywhere, but I’m okay. Sorry about breakfast.” I look down at the scattered rolls of aluminum foil now covered in dirt. My stomach growls, cursing my clumsiness.

“Don’t worry about that. We need to let you rest.” He helps me walk up the remaining stairs and makes me sit on the futon while he fetches Molly. I am not bleeding and nothing is broken, but he refuses to let me leave the stupid futon until Molly appraises my head injury.

The pain in my face pulses along with my heartbeat. After a few agonizing moments, the sharp pain recedes and I dare to touch my face. The area between my right eye and cheekbone is swollen. A mirror would help me survey the damage, but I don’t see one in the room. I try to compare the swelling by touching the other side of my face. My heart sinks. It’s a noticeable difference. I probably look like a freak. Even this short and now dirty skirt will be no help with Ryan today.

The door opens and Marty walks in eating a burrito, the basket in his hand.

“Wow, what happened to you?” he asks. Always the sensitive one.

“I fell.” I point out the obvious. “I can’t believe you’re eating those, aren’t they covered in dirt?”

Mom always said men would eat anything, and I suppose she was right. He pours a cup of coffee from the tower’s new coffee maker and drinks it black.

“Nah, just the foil was dirty, they’re fine inside.” He holds up the burrito to show me. It smells so good. “You want one?”

I take the one he offers. He’s right – the burrito itself is perfect thanks to Molly’s amazing foil-wrapping ability. At least I didn’t ruin breakfast for everyone after all.

Molly finds no reason to send me to the hospital. She does try to persuade me to go home and rest, but I insist on staying under the guise of being excited to see how the races work. I know if I had told her the real reason I wanted to stay, to confirm my suspicions that Ryan had washboard abs under his jersey, she wouldn’t have been so thrilled.

When I feel better, she puts me on sign in duty. I stand at the entrance to the track and hand the clipboard to each car that enters, just like Molly did yesterday. I find it weird that no one bothers to read the waiver they sign. I read it, though. I lose count of how many times the word
death
is mentioned in the fine print.

It isn’t long until the driveway and half a mile of the entrance road is lined with cars. I can’t believe this many people come to race at my dad’s track. When I was a kid, the track didn’t have races, only practice. Now as I stare at the line of at least fifty vehicles waiting to get in, my heart swells with pride for my dear old dad. He’s made a name for himself with what used to be a rinky-dink hang out for punk kids on dirt bikes.

Everyone is friendly in the motocross world, but I get tired of explaining to them what happened to my face and confirming that yes, I’m Jim’s daughter. I abandon my ice pack when it melts into a bag of water. As long as I don’t squint my eyes or smile very wide, it doesn’t hurt. That’s easier said than done when the sun is shining and everyone keeps saying hello.

An hour later my sign-in sheet has all fifty spaces filled, and I flip to a new page. According to the race schedule, there is still one more hour of this left. I count down the minutes until I’m free to roam around and scope out Ryan.

The next truck pulls up and I ready my clipboard. It’s an older Mazda with faded red paint and a blue dirt bike in the back. Shiny decals on the bike’s number plate read 336. The guy driving is about my age. He would fit in perfectly with the hot motocross guys if his hair wasn’t a foot long and dread-locked. It makes him look wild, like someone who frequently breaks the rules and doesn’t care. A white grease-stained shirt and board shorts complete his look. It is the exact opposite of Ryan’s clean-cut, designer label, you-can-bring-me-home-to-mom style. He takes the clipboard and signs it in two places.

“Good morning.” He hands it back along with money. “Hana Fisher, right?” His teeth are remarkably white when he smiles. Maybe it’s not a bleach thing. Maybe there’s something in the water that gives Mixon boys great smiles.

“Yeah, something like that,” I say, bored with small talk. I’d spent the entire morning confirming my name to people and talking about my black eye and stupid things like the weather, or how exciting it is being at the races. All he needs to do is sign, pay and leave me alone so I can discuss the same thing all over again with the next person in line.

“I’m paying for me and the girl in the car behind us,” he says.

“That’s nice.” I glance toward the blonde he’s referring to. “Girlfriend?”

“Sister actually, but she costs as much as one.” He laughs as he leans forward and shoves his wallet back in his pocket. “I’m Ash, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand and flashes me another smile so wholesome, it makes all my visions of him robbing a convenient store seem unrealistic. He drives forward and I wave the girl through, wondering why dreadlocks have such a stigma about them anyway.

Eventually, the cars thin out, and only one or two trucks come in every few minutes. I lean against a tree and daydream about Ryan. Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. It must be Molly coming to relieve me of sign-in duty.

“Thank God you’re here. I’m tired of standing.” I turn around to greet her, but face Ryan instead.

He smirks. “Didn’t think you’d be so thrilled to see me.” He has no idea how right he is, but I can’t let him know that.

“I thought you were Molly. I’m sick of standing here and wanted her to take over for me.” I yawn and plaster an apathetic-but-cute look on my face. I’m not blowing this again. I concentrate on tilting my head down and to the right so he can see more of the good side of my face and less of the blackened, swollen side. He wears what must be his pajamas from last night; khaki cargo shorts and a white undershirt. He holds two Styrofoam cups and hands one to me. “I thought you could use some coffee.”

 I swear, if he smiles one more time, my knees will collapse, which isn’t exactly an exaggeration considering how weak they are from my run-in with the stairs.

 “Wow, thanks,” I lie as I take the cup. Of all the drinks in the world, he had to pick the one I hate.

“Jim told me about your little accident.” He puts a hand to my chin and turns it toward him to examine my bruise. I don’t want him to see how ugly it is, but I don’t want him to let go either, so I comply. He’s touching me. I can’t believe it. Actual skin-on-skin contact. This is a huge step after only one day of knowing him. My heart shrieks for joy. My face shrieks in pain.

“Ouch!” I gasp.

“You poor thing.” His thumb slides over my bruise and I jump back at the quick burst of pain.

“I wish my father would learn to keep his mouth shut,” I groan. If he told Ryan about my accident, then it’s likely he’ll tell everyone else today. Ryan shrugs, but I’m sure he heard me. He takes a long sip of his coffee and checks his watch.

“Well Hana, it was nice talking with you, but I’ve got to get ready for practice.” He crumples his now empty coffee cup and tosses it in the garbage can next to the tree.

Think of something witty!
My brain scans through every witty thing I’ve ever said, but comes up fruitless. All I manage to spit out is a weak, “Yeah, you too,” as I watch him walk away. With the tree as my only company, I stand here defeated, until the next footsteps I hear really are Molly’s.

By seven in the morning, the track’s atmosphere simmers to life as riders dress in head-to-toe protective gear. Dads work on dirt bikes and moms hand out breakfast sandwiches from fast-food bags.

A boy no older than seven buckles his boots while his mother straps a brace around his neck. Then he layers a foam chest protector under his jersey and puts another clear plastic one on top of that. She hands him gloves and places his helmet on the seat of his dirt bike. A much smaller boy plays with toy dirt bikes in the sand and makes little
braaaap
sounds as he moves them jump through the air, crashing into the dirt.

I sit on a wooden bench below the tower, watching as everyone around me prepares for the day’s race. The PA speakers crackle, distracting me from my intriguing task of zoning out. My dad’s voice fills the air, announcing that practice will start in fifteen minutes.

Almost immediately, several dirt bikes fire up and riders everywhere finish getting dressed and buckle their helmets. Molly’s voice appears out of thin air and asks me to help in the tower. I jump, forgetting the walkie-talkie hanging from a lanyard around my neck. Carefully, I go up the stairs for the second time today.

Before going inside, I look around at the track below me. Ryan sits on the roof of his truck with his helmet in his hand, talking to his dad. Ash’s truck is a few cars away and he appears to be the only rider not yet dressed in layers of protective gear. His sister reads a book. No wonder he had to bribe her to come along today.

Registering the racers is just as boring as signing in the racers. They tell me which class they want to race and pay a whopping forty-five dollars each. The day has twenty different races, or motos as everyone around here calls them. The kids usually race in one class, while the older, faster racers race in three or four different classes. Motocross is not a sport for the poor, I realize as I shuffle stacks of cash into the register.

None of the class names make sense to me; they’re ordered by size of bike, age of rider and if they were a beginner, novice or expert. I just write them down as the racers say them and pretend to understand. Ryan’s dad signs him up for four classes. One of them is the Amateur Pro class, or Pro for short.

It seems contradictory to have the words
amateur
and
pro
in the same title, but Molly explains it in layman’s terms for me. Real Pro motocrossers are like NFL players, and the Amateur Pros are like college football players. The Pro class is the only race that gives cash prizes for first through third place. Ryan’s appeal skyrockets because not only is he gorgeous, he signed up for the infamous Pro class.

“Hello again,” Ash says, looking into his wallet. “250 Pro and 250 open, please. Ash Carter.” I scribble his name next to the two classes and take the cash he shoves under the cutout in the glass window. It’s odd that he’s still wearing normal clothes when the rest of the riders who signed up were already in their racing gear.

I almost don’t believe the boy with dreads who hadn’t bothered practicing yesterday would be racing in the Pro class with Ryan. Maybe he’s one of the delusional guys who want to be faster than he is. He rubs his eyebrow and draws in a deep breath.

“Hey, if you get disqualified and haven’t raced yet, can you get a refund?”

“Um, I don’t know,” I say, wondering what someone could be disqualified for in motocross.

“Can you ask Mr. Fish- eh…never mind.” He walks away as his voice trails off, but I think I catch an
, I don’t care
mumbled under his breath. That was weird, but so are dreadlocks, so I dismiss it and greet the next rider in line.

After signups, there is a brief rider’s meeting, where my dad goes over the flag colors, (of which I already know, thanks to Molly) the rules of the race and other boring things that pertain to riders. Ryan listens to the meeting while standing with his friends, who are all muscular and sexy in some degree.

Yeah, I can get used to this life. Also I owe Felicia an apology.

I meander through the crowd and stop next to Ryan as casually as I can manage while pretending to check my phone for messages. He gives me a quick nod then returns his attention to my dad. Dad wraps up the meeting by urging everyone to enter the drawing to win a Mixon Motocross T-shirt during intermission.

When Ryan walks away, I go in the same direction pretending to have something on my mind. “Hey Fisher,” he says, striding up next to me. “Where ya going?”

“I’m supposed to be looking for, uh, this thing.” I point ahead to where I know his truck is parked, so we can walk together for a while.

“Want to see my new bike?” he asks. Right, as if he had to ask.

He shows me his two custom-modified racing dirt bikes. Not that I care what kind of motor it has or how many strokes it is, but I pretend to. I do a pretty good job of swooning over the custom graphics and aftermarket pipe, handlebars and suspension – whatever all of that means.

I officially meet his dad, who lounges in their motorhome watching the morning news. He’s the first adult who hasn’t fawned over meeting Jim’s daughter. And although my greatest wish has been that everyone just leave me alone, it kind of hurts my feelings when he does just that.

Ryan talks a lot about racing. He tells me how many sponsors he has, how many amateur championships he’s won, and generally everything great about himself. I manage to drink an entire Redbull between saying, “Oh really?” and “That’s cool.” It’s more boring than listening to Dad talk about motocross families and his
feelings
. Still, I refuse to believe that Ryan isn’t perfect in every way.

I mean, maybe he’s not stuck on himself. Maybe he’s just nervous like I am and doesn’t know what else to say. When his soliloquy comes to an end, he hops up in the bed of his huge truck and sits on the tailgate. He offers his arm to me and helps me climb up beside him.

“So you got a boyfriend?” He sounds as bored with the question as I am thrilled.

“Nope.” I try to sound bored like him, but I know I’m not fooling anyone. “If I did, I don’t think he’d want me hanging out with you.”

Ryan’s eyes go wide for an instant. “True.”