Motocross Me

by Cheyanne Young

  He nods. “Fireflies.”

  Several more fly all around us, lighting up for a brief instant then turning dark once more. The one by my head lights up again, but this time it’s in front of Ash. He swoops it his hand and catches it. He cups his other hand around it, encasing it in a little ball. We watch it light up, go dark, then light up again in the circle between his thumbs. The little glowing light only lasts for a few seconds, but those few seconds are mesmerizing.

  “They’re romantic,” I say.

  Ash nods. “We used to squish off their tails right as they started glowing-”

  My lip curls. “Ew.”

  “-and then we’d smear the goo on our arms and it would keep glowing for a few hours while we played ninjas.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not romantic.”

  He releases the little bug and brushes dreadlocks out of his face. We’re only inches away now, close enough for him to do something sweet like kiss my forehead. He opens the truck door for me. I climb in, still grasping onto hope that he may do something, anything sweet. He glances back at his house and the pain returns to his eyes. He isn’t thinking about forehead kisses or whispering romantic nothings in my ear. He’s thinking about his brother who, at this moment, is in a coma at the local hospital.

  “Drive safely, Hana.”

  Chapter 11

  A week later, I come home from the mall and find Marty’s Jeep in our driveway. It’s blocking my entrance to the garage so I pull around to the front and carry my new dress inside. It’s a strapless satin thing in baby blue – the color of the unhappiness I feel in attending another one of Mom’s receptions. It was also the first thing on the sales rack that fit me. I have never been more unenthusiastic about shopping. Except maybe for that year Mom’s bridesmaid dresses were puke green.

  It’s Friday afternoon and Mom thinks I’m leaving early tomorrow to spend the weekend with her and attend her reception on Sunday. I haven’t even packed. My plan is to leave Sunday morning, stay as little as possible and then make the drive home that afternoon. It would be eight hours of driving and two additional hours of partying misery. If this doesn’t show her how much I disagree with her lifestyle - nothing will.

  Voices drift in from the kitchen. I roll the garment bag into itself and tuck it under my arm. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it up the stairs without Molly noticing. If she sees me, she’ll want me to model the wretched thing, spinning around like a child for her amusement. She would probably throw in some more guilt trips for not allowing her to shop with me today.

  I turn the handle on my door, taking care to be quiet. Dorothy’s voice catches me off-guard. “We want to donate our pay this weekend. We ain’t got much money but that’s the least we can do.”

  I lean over the banister and listen to the voices below. Why are they donating their paycheck? Curiosity takes over and I toss the dress onto my bed and rush down stairs to find out. They’re all seated at the dining table around an empty pizza box. Molly takes notes in a spiral. She sketches something like an advertisement or flyer.

  “Dad, what’s going on?”

  “We’re organizing a fundraiser race for the Carter’s,” he says. Molly asks if I got a dress and I pretend not to hear her. “What’s a fundraiser race?”

  “It’s something we do when a valued member of our motocross family gets seriously injured. We hold a race and donate all of the money,” he explains. Marty and Dorothy nod in unison. “Our last fundraiser race was for Davie Hicks who is now paralyzed for life.”

  “We raised enough to pay for his hospital bills and get him a motorized wheelchair,” Marty says. Dorothy adds, “And we set up a college fund for him. Just because he’s paralyzed doesn’t mean he can’t get an education.”

  “So now you’re raising money for Shawn’s medical bills?” I think of their shabby home and how Shelby was so embarrassed about it. Ash won’t even accept free admission in the track. Will they even accept help? Sure they accepted Molly’s dinner, but you’d be insane to turn down her cooking. The last time I counted the money at the races it was over fifteen thousand dollars. Most families feel awkward accepting that much money.

  “They lost their insurance and poor ol‘ Rick’s been taking day labor jobs to supplement the engine repair shop.” Dad says.

  Molly fills in the bubble letters drawn at the top of the flyer. RIDERS DOWN FOUNDATION. Further down on the page is Shawn’s name and a square. Inside it she had written, PHOTO HERE.

  Marty frowns, his eyes far away. “It’s a damn shame,” he says. “Those are some good kids.” Everyone agrees.

  “I’ll donate my pay too,” I say, taking a chair next to Molly.

  “That’s sweet of you, but you won’t be working that day.” Molly pats my shoulder.

  “What?” Like I would miss this. She’s out of her freaking mind.

  She shakes her head. “You’ll be in Dallas.”

  I pace my room staring at my cell phone. I have to call Mom and let her down. There is no other option. Mom is good at disappointing me. She’s fantastic at it. She totally forgot about my eight, twelfth and fifteenth birthdays.

  When Felicia’s cousin asked me to his junior prom, Mom promised to take photos of us in front of the fireplace but then never came home from work. Things went downhill after Grandma died. Mom has been letting me down for sixteen years. But somehow, it feels different when her shoe is on my foot.

  It’s not like I want to disappoint her on purpose. But I can’t miss this race. Mom will get divorced within the year and remarry again so what’s the big deal if I miss one lousy reception? My face burns thinking of the slap she’d give me if I ever said that out loud.

  I need to call Mom. I have to call Mom. Why am I so scared? I’m more scared to call my own mother than I was to text Ryan. Now it seems so pathetic that I would ever break a sweat over someone as repulsive as him. Screw. Ryan.

  And screw being scared. I hit the speed dial button for Mom’s cell and listen while the phone rings.

  “Hi sweetheart,” Mom sings into the phone. Jazz music plays in the background.

  My chest tightens. “Hi Mom.”

  “I miss you so much sweetie. I can’t wait till you’re here.” Ugh, she isn’t making this easy. I have to break it to her now before I chicken out. “I’m really sorry but I can’t make it tomorrow.”

  “So you’re leaving Sunday morning?” She sighs. Holy crap, it sounds like a real motherly concerned sigh. I almost feel guilty. “Make sure you get here extra early so we can get Maria to do your hair.”

  “I can’t make it Sunday either, Mom.”

  There is a full minute of silence before speaks again. “What are you saying?” Every ounce of love in her voice vanishes. She always likes to make me repeat myself when I’m telling her something she doesn’t want to hear. It’s as if she wants me to suffer saying it as much as she suffers hearing it.

  “Something important – really important – came up.” I sit on my bed. I know she’ll give me the silent treatment, so I try to elaborate, “I’m really sorry but my friend-“

  “Friend?” I pull the phone a few inches away from my ear. “I can’t imagine anything – any – thing – on this earth that would be more important than your mother’s wedding party.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “So why don’t you enlighten me and tell me what this important thing is?”

  There is no use in explaining, but I do anyway. “My friend’s brother is hurt really bad and-” On the other end of the phone, Mom gasps.

  “Excuse me? Your friend? I am your mother!”

  She’s so not going to forgive me for what I’m about to say.

  “Everything is more important that your stupid fifth husband. I’m not going to the party and I won’t go to your next wedding either. Bye Mom.”

  I end the call and throw my phone at the wall.

  Chapter 12

  Sunday morning is bittersweet. The excitement in the air is overshadowed by the reason we’re here. My own
personal struggles with Mom are tucked deep in the back of my brain to be dealt with later.

  Three of us are needed at the gate to take entry fees. I’ve never seen so many people here and what seemed like limitless acres of parking is now a crowded sea of vehicles and dirt bikes. A cop directs traffic on the main road because the line of cars waiting to turn into Mixon take up both sides of the two-lane road.

  The flyers Molly made aren’t the only reason for the large crowd. Oak Creek, Mixon’s competitor, closed this weekend and urged everyone to attend our fundraiser race in lieu of their series race. Molly says it’s their way of contributing to the cause, because even though we compete for business, the entire motocross community comes together for injured riders.

  Camille is Fred Johnson’s wife. They own Oak Creek motocross park. She’s also a volunteer worker today. Felicia would consider her a Trophy Wife, the very thing Felicia desires to become before she turns twenty-five. Camille helps Molly and me sign in at the gate. Although the tattoo on her lower back might suggest otherwise, she is not the life of the party. While Molly and I greet everyone with a smile when they sign the clipboard, Camille just repeats the same thing to each passing car, “Print and sign.” “Print and sign.”

  I enjoy working the gate much more now than when I first arrived in Mixon. I know all the usual racers by name and dirt bike number. One of the toddlers always gave me a high-five while her mom signs in.

  As I walk to the next truck in line, I hear a deep bass rumble and can’t help but look for the tall black Dodge accompanying it. The sound gets closer as it turns from the street into the driveway. It’s a truck, but it’s red.

  Disappointment creeps up, and I try to push it away. I don’t know why I keep thinking of him with everything else on my mind. He should be the last thing on my radar. He shouldn’t even be allowed to be on my radar. The bass booms again as the red truck gets closer. I look at it even though I don’t want to. The silver ram logo on the grill mocks me. Ugh. It’s also a Dodge. And it has the same sound system as Ryan’s truck, which means it also has the same kind of tailgate I was sitting on when Ryan kissed me.

  At eight-thirty, I figure I’ve suffered enough and don’t want to sign-in whoever is driving the Ryan-clone truck. I walkie-talkie Dorothy and ask her to take over my work at the gate. I blame it on cramps – every girl’s ticket out of manual labor – and Dorothy rushes out to relieve me.

  With nothing to do, and no desire to ask for something to do, I wander around the track aimlessly, trying not to think about Ryan. There’s no way he’ll show up today. Spending money on a race that will help the Carters is probably not his idea of a charitable deed. If only I knew why they hated each other. I can’t ask Ryan. And it’s definitely not a good time to ask Ash. I doubt there will ever be a good time for that.

  Practice starts, and the roar on the track is louder than usual. On the trek from the gate to the tower, it takes me several minutes to weave through the trucks, bikes and people walking around. I pass Mr. Carter on the way and he nods at me. He’s with a group of motocross dads and all the attention is on him.

  Teig appears on his bike, catching me off guard. He peels out in the grass and rides a donut around me before stopping at my feet. Dirt flies in my face.

  “TEIG!”

  His eyes widen under his helmet. He knows he’s in trouble. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you all dirty.”

  “Who taught you that? I’m going to beat them up.” I spit out grainy bits of dirt. Teig revs his bike to keep the motor from dying.

  “Ash taught me. Go ahead. Beat him up.” He laughs. Of course it was Ash. Teig worships Ash’s mechanic skills as well as his riding skills. My little brother is grossly mistaken if he thinks I won’t beat up the guy I’m crushing on. After all, it will give me a reason to touch him, which is a pretty awesome thing when it came to crushes.

  Wait. Did I just admit I have a crush? On Ash?

  “I’m racing moto number four. Will you watch me?”

  What did he just say? I nod. Oh my god, I have a crush on Ash.

  “Hana?”

  I slap his helmet, knowing he’ll only feel a slight tap. “What?”

  “Moto number four,” he repeats.

  Right. I need to watch Teig race. Not think about Ash. I slap my hand on his helmet again, shaking it from left to right. “Of course.”

  I make it to the tower without any more dirt attacks and go inside the office. The door has an Employees Only sign that Dad is pretty strict about, but Shelby doesn’t apply. I find her sitting on the futon reading a motocross magazine. The color has returned to her face, and her hair is washed for the first time in a week. She’s wearing an outfit I gave her.

  “Hana!” She moves over and makes room for me to sit by her. Her smile looks a lot like the old Shelby’s smile, and it’s great to see her like her old self again. I rush over and give her a hug.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say, sitting next to her. She tosses the magazine on a side table.

  “Can you believe this?” She peeks out the window behind us that overlooks the pits. “Can you believe so many people are here?”

  “Yeah it’s amazing.”

  “Is your mom here?”

  Her smile fades. “She’s at the hospital. She didn’t want to leave him in case they bring him out of the coma today.”

  “How is he?”

  She runs a hand through her hair. “He doesn’t have any brain damage. The doctors say they will take him out of the coma any day now.” She gazes out the window. “It’s too bad Mom and Dad won’t let them ride anymore.” Her voice fades into a whisper.

  I had to have misunderstood that. “You mean Shawn can’t ride anymore?”

  She sighs. “Neither can Ash.”

  My mouth forms a circle as I try to say what but nothing comes out. Her expression falters, the same way Ash had looked when he walked me to my truck that night.

  “Ash made a deal with them.” She looks out the window again, at everything but me. This time I follow her gaze and see Ash standing in line at the concession stand. “He wants to race the national next month. If he doesn’t win then he will stop riding.”

  Relief sweeps over me. “Well that’s good, right? I mean, he’s going to win.” If I say it with enough conviction, it has to be true. Ryan flashes in my mind. And so does the thought of slashing his bike tires right before the race.

  Shelby yawns again. She used to be so confident in Ash’s abilities and now she can’t even back me up. Her phone rings.

  “It’s Mom, sorry,” she says, going to the other side of the room to answer.

  I mouth, “I’ll be back” and leave the tower. I go in a totally random direction that just happens to end at the concession stand.

  Frank owns the mobile box trailer-turned food truck. Like Marty, he is one of my dad’s best friends. The side of the stand is painted with pictures of the food he sells. The picture of a snow cone is the only distinguishable one because he isn’t much of a painter. One time I decided to pick on him and asked for the mashed potatoes on a stick and he said, “Girl, that’s cotton candy!” The next day he brought a bottle of pink paint to touch up the painting.

  Today there is a cardboard box fashioned into a makeshift sign duct-taped next to the illustrated menu. It reads: ALL PROCEEDS WILL GO TO SHAWN CARTER – SO BUY TWICE AS MUCH FOOD!

  Ash is at the end of a long line of people. I’m excited to see him after our last conversation in his bedroom. Maybe he has collected all those pieces of his shattered ego and is ready to date me. I go up behind him and prepare to say hi, but two other girls approach him from the other side. They get to him first.

  They aren’t wearing riding gear and are clearly “spectator girls” which means they can’t be trusted. Shelby’s rule of not trusting that type of girl may seem biased and rude but as I watch these girls who are much prettier than me talk to Ash, I know it is true. One is a blond, tall for a girl but still shorter than Ash. She touches him on
the arm and smiles as she talks. He doesn’t notice me step into the line behind them to eavesdrop.

  “You’re Ash, right?” she asks him. She pretends to brush something off his arm. What a tramp.

  Ash nods and takes half a step backward. I stay where I am, now half a step closer to him. He’s like a whole different person without the twenty pounds of riding gear he usually wears at the track. He rocks lime green and orange Nike’s, something I have only seen Lil Wayne wear. Only a guy with dreadlocks down his back and a T-shirt that fits tightly around his biceps can make neon shoes look sexy.

  How did this blond bimbo know Ash’s name? He doesn’t even look like a racer today. She isn’t a usual visitor to Mixon - that I am sure of. Shelby and I love to talk about the girls who have taken a few laps around the track without a dirt bike, if you know what I mean. These girls aren’t one of them.

  Ash talks to her now, saying things I can’t hear over the raging fit of jealousy pounding in my heart. The blond girl’s friend looks bored, probably pouting from her friend claiming dibs on Ash. She doesn’t say a word though her tightly closed lips. She just stands there and texts on her phone. Miss Tall-And-Thin is laying it on thick with a fake high-pitched voice and eyelashes that can bat a thousand times per minute. She squeezes his arm. Holy crap I want to punch her. That’s my friend’s arm. Not hers.

  “That’s why you’re so fast.” She fake-giggles again. “You must work out a lot.”

  “I try.” Ash is so modest. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from slapping her. My hand closes around my house key and Hello Kitty keychain in my right pocket.

  “You should come to Oak Creek. It’s a way better track than Mixon.” Blondie McTrampFace bats her eyelashes again, and something inside of me snaps.

  I take out my keys and fling them on the ground. A braver girl may have said, “What do you think you’re doing? Ash is my man!” But I’m so livid I can’t speak or even think clearly, so all I do is throw my keys and stand rigid, wanting to scream.