Motocross Me

by Cheyanne Young

  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.

  The analyzing turns to fantasizing until Ash’s dusty truck pulls up, crushing my daydream of Ryan and me making out. He doesn’t have to leave his truck since it isn’t lifted ridiculously high off the ground. His window lowers and I rest my forehead on the top of his door while he signs the clipboard.

  We don’t speak as he prints his name illegibly, signs it even more sloppily and writes the date. He pulls the stick shift into neutral
. He watches me a few seconds before saying, “Anything wrong?”

  We’re the same level as I stand outside his truck with my head still pressed to the dirty surface of the door. I’m scared to move it now, figuring I’ll have a dirty smudge across my forehead.

  “Nah.” I take the clipboard and decide to be generous to him as well. “You don’t have to pay today. It’s on the house.”

  “No, I can’t do that.” He pulls the clipboard away from me and slides ten dollars under the clasp. He pushes a couple dreads behind his ear and returns the clipboard. “Thanks for stealing my sister last night. It was really horrible not having her around.”

  “Anytime.” I snicker and he shakes his head at me, smiling as he drives away. I wipe my forehead and press the talk button on my walkie-talkie.

  “Molly, tell Shelby her brother is a dork. Over.”

  Shelby spends most of the day with Ash, watching him practice and cleaning his goggles when he comes back to the pits to rest. Thursdays are uneventful; nothing happens besides signing in riders and the occasional phone call. Molly and Dorothy play cards in the tower, while my dad stands on the sidelines of the track teaching Teig valuable riding skills. Since everyone is busy, no one will notice if I turn off my walkie-talkie and abandon my job to head to Ryan’s truck.

  I climb to the top floor of the tower, holding onto the railing for balance as my knees tend to wobble when I’m three floors off the ground. The view of the track is amazing from this high. I can see the night track, the day track and even the kid track, all spread out over twenty acres. I find Ryan’s bright yellow helmet and follow it around the track. He zips around turns and flies over jumps twice the length of semi-trucks.

  Ash is his only competition in the state, yet I they never ride together. When Ryan is practicing on the track, Ash will ride on the other track or stay at his truck. Without fail, Ash always pulls on his gloves and cranks his dirt bike within a minute of Ryan exiting the track. Their hatred for each other is as thick as the padding in their helmets. I can almost feel it, and I’m a hundred feet away, viewing them from the top of the tower.

  As soon as Ryan pulls off the track, I hustle down the stairs as fast as my fear of heights will let me. Ash rides past me on his way to the track and waves. I wave back hoping Ryan is out of eyesight. A dark feeling forms in my chest. I have a mini-secret that I’m keeping from Ash and Ryan. Ryan doesn’t want me to be friends with Ash, but Shelby is my friend and I truly like her. Shelby and Ash are a package deal, regardless of what Ryan wants. Besides, it’s not that big of a secret, and I’m sure he will understand when I get around to telling him (or not telling him).

  If I only knew why they despised each other so much, there may be a way to resolve the fight, and we can all be friends. I mull over the things two seventeen-year-old guys would fight about. All I come up with are girls and maybe something motocross related. They may be rivals on the track, but I’d heard enough of Dad’s “Motocross is a big family” talks to know that most rivals were enemies on the track and friends off of it.

  Just because they’re the two fastest two-fifty Pro riders in Texas, doesn’t mean they have a reason to hate each other. I promise myself I’ll find out the big secret that Shelby doesn’t know. I’ll find it and I’ll fix it. But when I see Ryan, all thoughts of anything remotely comprehensible drift out of my mind like a message in a bottle, tossed out to sea.

  He’s on the tailgate of his truck, slouched over with his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground and breathing heavily. A half-empty bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade teeters in his hand. Sweat rolls off his hair in all directions – down his ear, through his bangs, and probably down the back of his neck though I can’t see that far. It’s amazing how something as gross as sweat can be so gorgeous sparkling in the sunlight on a sculpted, beautiful, and extremely talented body.

  I have to stop thinking in metaphors, or my heart might share the fate of an over-inflated water balloon. There I go again. I slow my steps so as not to seem eager, and approach him with as much apathy as I can gather in my weakened state of mind. Apathy is, after all, one of my more prominent talents.

  “Hey there,” I say, hands in my front pockets. Ryan looks up and sweat rolls down his temples like water. For something with no body fat, how was that much sweat coming out of his head?

  “Hey.” He shuffles to the left and taps his hand on the spot next to him. The tailgate is as high as my neck so there is no way I can climb up there. He sees my hesitation and grins.

  “Put your foot on the tire and grab my hand and I’ll pull you up.”

  I do as he says, and when my foot is on the tire I grab onto the side of the truck and reach for his hand. In one swift motion he pulls me onto the tailgate like how Wesley saved Buttercup from harm in the Fire Swamp. There may not be any Rodents of Unusual Size under Ryan’s truck, but it’s fun to daydream.

  My legs swing freely below me. I need to say something clever that will show off my intellect and charm, or at least make it seem like I have some. Ryan gulps the rest of his Gatorade and tosses the bottle on the ground.

  “So what kind of gas mileage do you get with this thing?” I ask.

  He laughs. All of my careful conversation planning, and he laughs.

  “If you really want to know, I get about ten miles to the gallon with these tires.”

  He leaps off the tailgate, grabs the empty bottle and tosses it in a blue plastic trashcan. Then he comes back to his truck and unzips a large duffle bag full of clothing and extra riding gear.

  “Sometimes it’ll get up to twelve.” He chooses a white t-shirt from the bag.

  “That must get really expensive.”

  “I can afford it.” He grins, removing his jersey in a quick motion. My heart stops and a chill runs through my body. I curse myself for wasting sixteen years of life never noticing how gorgeous a man’s chest can be. How could I have been missing out on this? But then again, I’ve never seen one this close. With the t-shirt still in his hand, he stands in front of me on the ground, letting his eyes meet mine. I’m so high in the air, I can probably see over the top of his head if I dared to look away from his shirtless torso, but that isn’t a dare I want to make.

  “Girls ask a lot of questions about my truck but that my dear, is never one of them.”

  “Well, maybe I’m just not that kind of girl.” Girls ask him about his truck? Way to be original, Hana.

  “And what kind of girl are you?” He keeps the shirt in his hand and put his elbows on the tailgate on either side of me. My stomach does a somersault.

  “Whatever kind of girl you want me to be,” I say. It’s lame and cliché, but it feels like something a guy like Ryan would want to hear.

  He’s close to me. Really close. Closer than a guy has ever been to me. He is still shirtless. Does he want me to feel this uncomfortable and intimidated? Do I want him to? My heart is no longer dead; it is, in fact, beating faster and louder than it has in that whole semester I took of cross country running.

  He curls out his bottom lip and peers into my eyes. We are so close now I’m afraid to breathe. My heart thumps and my brain is a blurred frenzy trying to make coherent thoughts from the electrical currents shooting through my veins.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He leans closer to me. “I really like your little good girl image.”

  His lips hover inches from mine. I brace for him to kiss me. He backs away and puts on the shirt. I sigh with force of the breath I had been holding. Ryan notices. How freaking mortifying. At least it’s dusk and the sun is setting in on us because my cheeks burn with the fury of a thousand suns. What if he wasn’t about to kiss me and I just thought he was and now he thinks I’m a loser?

  He straightens the shirt over his abs and reaches up to help me jump down. My feet hit the ground and a little poof of dirt covers my shoes. His arms slip around my waist and pulls me straight into him. We kiss. Right on the lips.

  And we’re still kissing.

 
; KISSING.

  His hands let go of me and his lips tear away from mine. I think he says something but I don’t know. All I know is I just got my second ever kiss and this time, it wasn’t from a lanky kid with braces.

  As the sun sets on my wonderful day, the track continues to thrive with life. Kids under six are given free rein to ride on the big track now that practice is over. Bugs crowd together under the glow of the lights and generators roar to life. The campers cook dinner or have pizza delivered. Many of them have small fires in their pit. Anticipation for tomorrow’s race hangs in the air, and it is one of the most positive vibes imaginable. I have the feeling at this very moment no one is worrying about work or school or that funny-shaped mole on their back. All everyone cares about is tomorrow.

  I leave my walkie-talkie in the tower and since no one is in there, I change out of my Chucks and put on sandals. Then I run my fingers through the braids in my hair, leaving my head a wavy mess. Since Ryan isn’t camping out tonight, I can relax and not have to focus on making my every move perfect. I go find Shelby to see if she wants to sleep at my house tonight instead of in their tent.

  The Carters’ pit is larger than usual, since their cousins are staying a few extra days, so I can’t see Shelby at first. I search for her face in the crowd of people sitting around the campfire.

  Someone plays the guitar and the song is familiar – an oldie maybe. Her cousins roast marshmallows, and her parents cuddle in a two-seater lawn chair. When I spot Shelby, she’s holding a little boy’s hand, dancing by the fire.

  As I get closer, I realize the bluesy guitar rhythm comes from Ash, sitting on an old tractor tire. He looks different when he’s not wearing riding gear. Almost like a normal guy and not a motocross fanatic. He is so laid back and relaxed all the time, I can’t picture the boy wearing any emotion other than serenity. The hair, of course, makes him look like one of the guitar-playing hipsters who collect change in a guitar case on the bench outside of the mall. At least he sings better than those guys.