Motocross Me (7 page)

“Yeah, the trophies are way bigger. And if you win in the Amateur Pro class Ash races in, you’re basically guaranteed sponsorship and a ticket to the real pros. He’ll be famous.” She caps the nail polish and fans her hands over her toes. “It’s his dream. It’s the whole family’s dream.”

“So you know he’s gonna win?” I ask, fixing a smudge on my pinky nail. Ryan beat Ash last weekend, and if these were Nationals, then he would have even more people competing against him this time. But I don’t say any of that.

“Well, no,” she concedes. “But it would be nice.”

The pizza comes from a family-owned restaurant in Mixon. It’s my favorite. Every time I visit Dad for the holidays or Teig’s birthday, we order it, and I eat until my stomach wants to explode. I fill my plate with a mound of cheesy bread and one slice of pizza. Oh, yeah baby. Cheesy, parmesan coated slices of heaven occupy me while everyone else talks.

“Too bad I didn’t know we were getting pizza, or I would have told Ash to stay for dinner,” Dad says between bites of double pepperoni on a golden brown crust.

“Well it’s a good thing, I guess, because he loves cheesy bread, and he’d have to fight Hana for it.” Shelby eyes the food on my plate while taking a dainty bite of her pizza.

Everyone else looks at my plate while I bite off half the bread stick at once. Between chewing I say, “Yeah, he wishes.”

Shelby brings up Nationals, and she and Dad start debating about the best new riders in the area. He says Ash has a great chance of winning because this is his home track, but that everyone would have the same disadvantage because the entire track is changing for the race. Dad hired a crew to demolish the jumps and turns and do a complete redesign of the layout. He says it insures that this year’s National will be equal to the professional races.

Teig pokes me in the arm. “Is that your phone ringing?” I don’t hear anything, but he strains his neck and listens again. “Sounds like it.”

I bolt out of my chair without excusing myself, run up the stairs and dive on the bed to grab my phone off of the nightstand. It’s still ringing, and the number isn’t familiar.

Breathless, excited and on the verge of freaking out, I answer. “Hello?”

“Hey there.” Ryan. It’s Ryan. He called.
Say something,
my brain yells.
Say something cool, or casual, or just say anything because it’s already been three seconds, and he’ll think you’re an idiot.

“Hey, who is this?” I say. Ha! Not only am I casual, I’m clever.

“It’s Ryan, from the track.” He’s clever too. He can’t possibly think I wouldn’t remember him by name alone.

My heart races as I run a hand through my hair. “What’s up?”

“I was calling to see if you’d like to do me a favor.” He’s smiling on the other end of the phone, I can hear it. If the favor is making out with him, then yes, I would love do him a favor.

“Sure,” I say, casual again. I’m getting good at this.

“Can you save me an RV spot with electricity for Saturday but not Friday?” His voice is sexy on the phone. I can picture his face and his perfect white teeth and how his bleach blonde hair covers his eyebrows when he talks. I want to tell him yes and that I’d love to save him a spot, but electricity spots are first come first serve only. Dad made it really clear that I’m not supposed to reserve them. I don’t even know how I would. But then he gives me a “Pleeease” and I think of those blue puppy-dog eyes and I break down and make the stupid promise.

“Wait, did you say Friday night?” I ask, remembering that races are on Sunday.

“Yeah, it’s the regional qualifier this weekend. Races are Saturday this time.” He does this dramatic gasp. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“No, of course not.” I didn’t exactly forget, since I didn’t know. Maybe I should start paying attention to the race calendar in the kitchen, or to the flyers I Xerox, or to daily conversations with my dad.

“Good, I’m not staying Friday, just Saturday.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” I lie, knowing I’ll never be able to reserve a spot for him.

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

I lay the wrong way across my bed with my feet hanging off the edge for a full minute after we say our goodbyes. I save his number in my phone and analyze the handful of words we had just spoken to each other. It was pretty much business only – no hidden love messages for me to decipher. But there’s always hope for the next time.

A voice at my door startles me and ruins my daydream of Ryan. It’s Shelby, hand on her hip and one eyebrow cocked.

“Well well,
who
was that?”

Chapter 7

Shelby bounces on the air mattress and listens to every single detail about my crush on Ryan. She doesn’t say a word as I recount walking past Ryan and his friends at the tower and when he asked for my number. She just gnaws on her newly polished thumbnail and looks around the room a lot.

“And then he said it was great talking to me and we said goodbye,” I finish. Felicia would be freaking out by now, clapping her hands together and squealing in delight. She’d tell me how excited she was, immediately jumping into wedding planner mode and figuring out what kind of cake we should have. Shelby, on the other hand, stays quiet and bites her lip.

“What?”

“I don’t know if it’s a great idea to like him.” She says it in a voice only one level above a whisper.

“Go on…” I’m all-ears now. I hope he’s not her ex-boyfriend or mega crush or anything else that would jeopardize our new friendship.

“I’ve known him since we were five-years-old.” She curls her lip like the sheer thought of that makes her want to vomit. “Ash has too, obviously. They hate each other.”

“Is that all?” I can breathe normally now. It’s just a hatred. Not a crush.

“It’s worse than it sounds. They are both really good riders, but Ryan has a lot more money than us. He’s Ash’s only competition for making it to the pros, and he makes Ash’s life as hard as possible. Ryan knows everyone in the business and exploits that to his full advantage. Ash works hard for what he has.”

“So that’s why they hate each other?” I ask. “Money?”

“I don’t know actually – he’s never told me.” She frowns and fluffs the pillow in her lap. “It’s the only thing he’s kept from me. We tell each other practically everything.”

“Will he get mad at you for being friends with me if I start dating Ryan?”

“Yes,” she says with no hesitation. “But he’ll get over it.”

Shelby calls her parents and gets permission to spend the night (“Ash says thanks a lot for leaving him with the cousins from hell.”) and we veg out in front of my flat screen enjoying an
I Love Lucy
marathon. Not once does Molly, Dad or Teig come in my room. If I ignore the luxury pillow-top mattress under me and pretend Shelby has lighter skin and brown hair like Felicia, my new life would be exactly as boring as my old one.

Well, that isn’t all true. Although my home life is as exciting as that of a fat housecat, my social life has improved ten-fold since moving to Mixon. I now have exactly two friends, (two and a half if you count Ash) a job, and a family.

Oh, and a belly full of cheese bread.

Three of the trash bags of clothing in my closet are open – the remaining mound has yet to be sorted through. I find the two marked pajamas, drag them in my room and launch them on my bed. Shelby eyes me as I rip them open and pile matching sets of tank tops and shorts on her air mattress.

“I haven’t unpacked all of my clothes yet.” I point to the pile. “Pick something you want to sleep in.” I hold up a pink shirt with a faux-tuxedo printed on the front and its matching shorts, “Cute, huh?”

“Wow.” She takes the pajamas from me and puts the shirt up to her chest. “
All
of these are pajamas?”

“Yep.” What can I say, Mom loved to shop and I loved to accompany her.

“I don’t even own any pajamas, I just sleep in T-shirts.” She eyes the piles on my bed and chooses into the tuxedo set. I think of the beat-up cars she and Ash drive. That’s probably why she sleeps in T-shirts.

We crawl into bed around ten, and although I’m not exactly tired, I know an early night means waking up on time in the morning. I face the wall opposite Shelby, because I tend to sleep with my mouth open and it’s embarrassing. Shelby’s mattress squeaks but it doesn’t sound like she’s laying it in it. I peek over my shoulder and see her kneeling on the floor with her hands clasped in prayer.

I really like Shelby and her family. They are good people. The kind of people my dad would talk about when mentioning the motocross family to strangers. I close my eyes to give her privacy and silently apologize to God for never praying. And then I ask to please, please, please let Ryan like me.

Shelby stays true to her claim of being a morning person and wakes up before I do. She changes into her clothes from yesterday and is brushing her teeth when I finally throw the sheets off me and climb out of bed. Her hair is silky and naturally as straight as mine would be after an hour of raking a flatiron through it. Lucky.

I trudge into the bathroom and brush my teeth. Shelby sits on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub. She tells me about the dream she had last night, talking with her hands. Even at five in the morning, she’s awake and perky as always, while I feel like the living-dead and wish I had a coffin to sleep in for the rest of the day.

Her dream retelling goes on as I brush my teeth, pull back my hair and throw my makeup. It’s not that I’m not interested, but it’s just so early in the freaking morning, I can’t help but zone out.

When I look as beautiful as I can make myself, I venture into my closet and motion for Shelby to do the same. She rambles about princesses with fanged teeth and Prince Charmings who were coming to save her as I find something to wear. I’d need something sexy enough to be eye candy for Ryan but durable enough to walk around all day, drenched with sweat, and possibly survive another tumble down (or up) a flight of stairs.

I settle on dark blue denim shorts and hold up two shirts to get Shelby’s opinion. She points to the pink one with sequin decorations on the neckline. I toss it to her and change into the other shirt, a blue V-neck with similar sequin decorations.

“I pointed to this one,” she says, wiggling the pink shirt in her hand.

“You’re wearing that.” I pull a sock on my foot.

“I can’t borrow any more of your clothes.” She goes to hang up the shirt.

“Yes you can.” I push the shirt away from the rack. “You can’t wear the same clothes you wore yesterday, and besides, I don’t mind.” I adopt a maternal look and point a finger at her, “Now, missy.”

“Okay.” She blushes through her tan skin. “Thank you.”

“Take some shorts too, I think we’re the same size. I’m a six.”

“Me too,” she squeals. She drops to the floor and digs through my bag of shorts. I think she’s getting the hang of borrowing things.

Exhaust fumes fill the air as the day progresses into the hottest day ever of my new life in Mixon. Though harmful to the environment, and probably my brain cells too, the smell of exhaust has grown on me. Unlike most sixteen-year-olds, I don’t work in a greasy fast-food joint or in a retail store with pushy customers. I have an easygoing job outdoors with little supervision, great pay and dozens of hot guys who prefer to walk around shirtless. Life is pretty sweet.

Although Shelby offered several times to stand at the front gate with me, I banished her to the tower with Molly, saying she should enjoy the air conditioning that it so graciously provides. My real reasoning for standing solo in the sun, bored to death, signing in riders is so I’ll be alone when Ryan inevitably shows up to practice.

After investing two hours alone at the gate, it finally pays off when I hear the low bass beat of rap music thundering in the distance. Ryan’s black Dodge rounds the corner and rumbles to a stop in front of me. There are no other cars in line, so he cuts off the engine and jumps out of the driver’s seat, landing with a thud on the paved road.

He’s as gorgeous as ever in shredded-up jeans that were probably bought that way, a black shirt embossed with a motocross brand logo and a backwards baseball cap.

“Good morning, Miss Hana,” he says. I hand him the clipboard and admire how he towers over me by a foot. This is fortunate because I’ve always thought I look better from a tall-boy angle. He must think so too because he watches me the entire time he prints, signs and dates the form on the clipboard.

I offer the only bit of conversation my brain can think of under the stress of being within five feet of him. “I don’t know if I can save that electricity spot tomorrow, but I’m seeing what I can do.”

“Thanks, it’s not a huge deal. I could always get a hotel.”
Perhaps he should entice me with a kiss
, I think, blushing. Since when did I become so skanky? He adjusts his hat.

“What’s that look for?”

“What look?” Had I really been that obvious that I was internally gushing over him?

“Just looks like you’re up to something.”

He touches my chin with one finger and raises it so my eyes meet his. I love it when he does this. His cologne gives me butterflies.

“I don’t think I’m up to anything,” I say, staring at his collar bone.

He reaches into the pocket that covers his perfect backside and gets his wallet. In a moment of sheer flirty courage, I decide to win him over by saving him ten bucks.

“Don’t worry about paying today.” I wave away his wallet and put the envelope of practice fees behind my back, daring him to try to pay me. He hesitates, his head cocked to the side. His eyes meet mine. I smile, and he seems convinced.

“Well, thank you.” He tips an imaginary hat at me and gets back in his monster of a truck. He drives to the pit area and parks in his usual spot. It’s a shame I have to stand at the gate and can’t watch him change into his motocross jersey. I lean against the tree where he brought me coffee a week and a half ago and analyze every move and word he said in our thirty-second conversation. Something is seriously wrong with me, I know.