A dirty blond mass of knotted hair catches my attention next. Ash is a few spectators away from Molly, standing with Shawn (whose wheelchair is parked on the ground) and his parents. He is dressed in his riding pants and boots but isn’t wearing a shirt. My imagination slips away from me and I think about how gorgeous he would look if the clouds darkened and it suddenly started pouring rain. I groan. What good are men for if all they do was make me weak in the knees and never ask me out?
He runs his hands across the top of his head and lets them rest on his neck as a pained look stretches across his face. Even from this far away, I can tell he’s stressed and it crushes me. There is no way I can leave my post as flagger and talk to him before he races. Although a dozen crazy scenarios play in my head, from faking a seizure to alien invasion, none of them will work.
Molly, Ash and Shawn jump at the same time I hear Marty announce, with biased enthusiasm, that Teig passes a rider and is now in second place. I turn back to the race and search for him in the crowd of bikes. The finish line flagger holds out the white flag and has the checkered flag at the ready, meaning the race is almost over.
A yellow bike with the number forty-seven is in first place and I don’t recognize him. He must be one of the many riders who traveled from far away for Nationals. Now I realize what Ash had meant when he said he was the “Ash of Mixon.” Just because Teig is the fastest around here, doesn’t mean another kid from far away isn’t faster.
Teig finishes in second place but appears to be happy about it when I see him run to his mother in the pits and give her a huge high-five. I wish I could be there to celebrate with him, but it will have to wait until later.
With the excitement of Teig’s race over, I slip back into my zombie-like state of agonizing over the approaching Pro class’s race. They are moto number twenty-four, the last moto. Instead of three laps they ride for twenty minutes plus two laps. Ash’s only hope now would be for Ryan to fall, break his bike, and not be able to finish the race. That doesn’t seem likely since Ryan never falls.
Ash is no longer on the bleachers but that doesn’t stop me from looking over there every other lap, wishing I could see him. There isn’t much else to look at. None of the riders are falling in front of me, so I stare at the dirt below and make out shapes – somewhat like cloud-watching but much less romantic. Occasionally, I’ll look over at Shelby who is either watching the race as if she would be quizzed on it afterward or smiling and waving at me, happy to be a part of Nationals and oblivious to my internal struggles.
Moto twenty-three starts and finishes before I have time to panic. I know the Pro race is coming. It is an inescapable truth, but I’m still not prepared for it. I’ve dreaded this moment all day and now that it’s here, it feels like it isn’t real. This can’t possibly be happening, can it? Ash is about to be released onto a track he doesn’t know how to handle and thanks to me, his competition knows exactly what to do. My stomach knots and my knees grow weak.
One by one all twenty riders draw their gate pick. I squint to make out the numbers on the bikes; it is the only way to tell who each rider is because they all look the same dressed in head-to-toe protective gear. Ryan has much broader shoulders than Ash, but even that is concealed in long-sleeved jerseys and plastic chest protectors. Unlike the kids, these guys don’t show emotion when seeing their number so I have no way to tell if Ash draws a higher number than Ryan.
As if luck isn’t already on Ash’s bad side, he gets one of the last gate picks and has to choose a line on the far left. Judging from Teig’s excitement on getting a right line, this can’t be a good thing, but Ryan has a much better gate pick and chooses a line only three riders away from Ash. I am now curious and confused and my heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my skull.
Marty calls out each rider’s name and hometown over the speakers and sometimes he adds a random fact about a particular rider. Dad and a few other staff members scurry around the starting line getting everything set up. Ryan has one foot on the ground steadying himself and the other hovers in the air while he leans to his left and chats with the guy next to him. If he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it.
Ash sits on his bike with both feet on the ground. The riders on each side of him wait with their fathers but Ash is alone. His gloved hands are clasped together and rested on his seat. His helmet is lowered to his chest and he sits there, unmoving for several seconds. Finally, his head lifts and he makes the sign of the cross across his chest. I exhale, feeling adoration for him swell inside me until I think I might burst.
I should pray too, I think. I’m not experienced in praying and don’t have a clue what I should say. I think back to when Grandma was alive and she took me to church on Sundays, but none of those prayers stuck with me through the years. Time is running out and all I can’t think of anything to say except for please.
Please help.
Dad jogs to the front of the starting line and makes a swift slicing motion across his neck. The riders kill their engines; a wave of helmets look to their left and right, and then to my dad for an explanation. He speaks into his walkie-talkie and a moment later the speakers crackle and Marty makes an announcement. “Attention: Due to the dry weather today, we have decided to water the track before our Pro class goes on and therefore we will be taking a fifteen minute intermission. I urge everyone to check out the chili cheese fries at the concession stand, they are delicious!”
My yellow flag drops out of my hand and sticks into the dirt, standing straight up before wobbling and falling to the ground with a thump. I have been granted a fifteen-minute window to find a way to tell Ash the secret so he would have a miniscule chance of winning.
All the commotion around me seems to disappear. I stand frozen trying to think of a way to get to Ash. Slowly, the sound of Shelby’s Chuck Taylors slapping on the ground behind me jolts me back to reality. Maybe she will have an idea of how we can get him off the starting line – if I just tell her it is vital for me to talk to her brother…
Her hand wraps around my wrist as she jogs past and pulls me into step behind her. I follow because I have no other choice; her hand is pretty tight around my sweaty wrist. She’s out of breath but smiling as she turns to me and says, “Can you believe this? I’ve been waiting all day for this race and now we have to wait longer – jeez!”
“What… are we… doing?” I manage through gasps of air. Running through the paths of a motocross track requires a lot of effort; the dirt sinks several inches with each step we take.
“We’re going to wish Ash good luck, of course!” she answers, still grasping my wrist and pulling me along.
So it was as easy as this: just run to him while he’s on the starting line, no convoluted schemes or excuses. Not a bad idea, I think, struggling to match her fast pace. Her legs are much longer than mine are.
We duck below the row of triangle flags that serve as a barrier between the spectators and the starting line. Only a select few people are ever allowed on this part of the track: racers and their parents, or pit crews, in the case of the real professionals.
A bold move like this doesn’t match Shelby’s usually shy demeanor but as a proud sister and member of the staff now, she has a newfound courage. Plus, we both know I am the owner’s daughter and that gives me special privileges.
Although the crowds in the bleachers have mostly dispersed to the merchandise stands or restrooms, the racers don’t have time to leave the starting line so they relax and talked with each other while waiting. Ryan’s father is next to him and they talk in low but direct voices. His jaw stiffens as he tells his son something Ryan disagrees with.
Ash doesn’t notice our arrival until Shelby knocks on the back of his helmet and startles him from staring at his handlebars. He hugs her with one arm and holds onto the bike with the other. I can tell by the way his cheeks are stuffed into his helmet that he has a huge smile as he listens to her talking rapidly about how confident she is that he will win.
I stay a
few feet away to give them a special sibling moment and admire the fondness they have for each other. Teig and I may not be that close yet, but I vow to always be there for him in the way Shelby supports Ash.
The big water truck lumbers across the last section of the track. Time is running out. I clear my throat to get their attention but it goes unnoticed as some of the riders start their bikes. I try again.
“Shelby-” They hear me this time. Ash waves to me with a gloved hand while Shelby gasps and covers her mouth, embarrassed she had forgotten about me. More bikes start up and I know I’m treading upon our last few minutes of free time.
I bite my lip. “Do you think I could have a minute alone with Ash?” I’m not exactly lying to her but I feel awful asking her to leave so I can tell him something I’m keeping secret from her.
“Of course,” she replies, giving us both a sly smile as if she thinks we’re going to have a full-blown make out session and declare our love for each other right here on the starting line. “I’ll head back to my flagging station.”
I watch her walk away, fully aware that Ash’s concerned blue eyes are waiting for me to say whatever it is I couldn’t say in front of his sister.
“Hey,” I start, twisting the ring on my finger and focusing on the yellow metallic paint of his helmet. Looking into his eyes isn’t an option I can deal with right now.
“Why do you look as though I have no chance of winning?” He gives my shoulder a playful punch. “Come on girl…give me more credit than that.” I smile, finally brave enough to look under his helmet visor, through the shaded goggles and into his kind eyes. He has no reason to be friendly with me, yet he is. That is the guy I want for a boyfriend. Not Ryan.
I sigh, feeling the heavy weight of regret in the pit of my stomach. “I feel really bad about telling Ryan-”
“No.” He silences me with a gloved finger pressed over my lips. “That’s in the past. Plus, I have a good feeling about today.” He points to the foam padding in the center of his handlebars. Taped to it is the sticker he had kept from that breakfast burrito weeks ago. My heart skips a beat.
“Oh, my gosh,” I say, putting a hand to my face as my cheeks go all warm and fuzzy.
“Even though you go on dates with other guys and help them cheat…” he says. I swallow, of course he has to ruin this heart-melting moment by bringing up my act of betrayal. “I still have my good luck charm,” he finishes with a tap of his finger to the paper.
A man appears on the other side of Ash. At first I think it’s my dad coming to gripe at me for leaving my post, but then I see the broad shoulders and realize it is Ryan’s dad, not mine. He has the same smile as Ryan but in place of muscles, he has a few extra pounds and his hair is short and cropped unlike Ryan’s messy locks.
“Good luck out there, son,” he extends a hand and Ash shakes it. Ash replies in a strong tone, unlike the soft voice he used when talking to me. “Thank you, Sir.”
Ryan’s dad nods to me and leaves us alone again. It feels odd to have the father of your biggest competition wish you luck, but then I remember that same man gave Ash his first dirt bike. If it wasn’t for him, Ash wouldn’t be here today.
Out of curiosity, I steal a glance at Ryan. He’s staring at us and by the way he sits on his bike, rigid and unmoving, I know he saw our encounter with his dad.
“Hey Carter,” he calls out from three bikes away. Several heads in helmets turn in unison toward Ash and me. The loud engine revving seems to fade away. Ash is slow to acknowledge him, but eventually he turns to face Ryan.
“You’re wasting your time.” The sneer in Ryan’s voice is obvious but he removes his helmet to make sure we catch it. “She’s going home with the winner, you know.”
Ash flings an arm around me, more confident than I have ever seen him, and says, “Guess I’ll see her at my house tonight.”
I flush with pride. There is still hope of becoming Ash’s girlfriend. I like this sexy new Ash; smack talk is never something I’d imagine him doing a month ago. Ryan doesn’t feel the same way…his jaw is clenched and I can see his chest rise with the deep breath he takes. He lifts his helmet and before putting it on he says, “Good luck to you, man. If you win, you can have her. Then you can see how cute she is when she gets kissed.” He tugs the helmet on his head and adds, “I know I have.”
The confidence inside Ash falls from the air and explodes into a mushroom cloud of disappointment. He kick-starts his bike and revs the engine a few times while I stand here, rooted in shock. I touch his arm and he shrugs off my hand.
“Ash, I can explain,” I plead. He revs the engine once more. With his other hand he rips the sticker off his handlebars and tosses it to the ground.
“HANA!” Dad stands in the middle of the gate, getting ready to drop the lever. I glance ahead and see the girl standing in front of us holding the thirty-second sign. Panicked, I grab Ash’s arm again, “Ash, listen to me-“
“Get off the track!” Dad yells. Overhead, I hear Marty announce the racer’s names again. All twenty dirt bikes roar as the racers ready themselves for the gate to drop.
“Ash, look at me,” I yell and this time he turns to me. His eyes are cold. In the back of my head I hear Dad screaming at me to get away but none of that matters right now. I have to tell Ash the secret.
“Don’t do the big jump,” I lean toward him and speak into the front of his helmet since it covers his ears. His eyebrows narrow – did he not hear me or did he not understand? “Just don’t do it, okay? Go around it!” Dad yells again. Reluctantly, I take a step away from Ash and mouth the words, “I’m sorry.” He nods once and returns his attention to the gate in front of his bike.
I back away from the starting line and reach the edge of the track at the same time as the girl holding the now sideways sign. She shoots me a look that I understand to mean, Are you crazy?
“No,” I say aloud, giving her the same cruel look she bestowed upon me. I slip under the row of flags and jog back to my flagging station. Marty’s voice beams through the PA system as the gate drops. I wish I could turn around and watch them take off but if I’m not at my section with the flag in my hand by the time the first bikes reach me, Dad would be furious. So I run with every ounce of strength I have and hope for Ash’s sake that he had understood my last words to him.
I don’t notice the crowd of spectators who had gathered for the race, filling the bleachers and every inch of ground along the side of the track. I don’t see Shelby standing with her hands on her hips desperately wanting an explanation for my unruly actions. When I reach my yellow flag, breathless, the only thing I am aware of was Marty’s voice through the speakers, “And the holeshot goes to Ash Carter!”
Chapter 22
Running faster than I had with Shelby, I reach my section and have just enough time to swoop up my yellow flag when the trail of bikes head straight for the new section of the track. Most of the bikes are close together and hard to distinguish since they just left the starting line, but Marty hasn’t said another word so I assume Ash is still in the lead.
The mound of dirt forming the berm I have to flag blocks my view of the special new fork in the track. I walk around the back of it, figuring it is still within my jurisdictional flagging area and watch as the bike in first place comes around a turn and aligns with the face of the new jump.
No! My fist clamps around the flag in my right hand. I specifically told him to go around it and he appeared to understand, yet now he’s doing the exact opposite. Shelby watches in awe, blissfully unaware of the mistake her brother is making as he speeds to the face of the jump and soars through the air with invisible wings.
All of the bikes behind him follow, each rocketing two stories high in what is sure to be a mesmerizing view from the bleachers below; all of them except for one. I hold my breath and feel as though I’ve been dropkicked in the stomach as I watch Ryan’s fire-red dirt bike veer to the left, tires streaming across the dirt like a jet ski on water, and bypass the enti
re jump before Ash even lands.
Ash’s helmet turns and I can almost feel the heartbreak reverberate through his soul as he watches himself slip into second place. Marty slurs something into the microphone about how this new section will either make or break a rider. I grit my teeth, furious at Ryan for cheating, at Ash for not listening to me and mostly at myself, for causing this entire mess.
The sea of bikes grow farther apart. The last few riders are either hitting the jump or going around it, while Ryan and Ash near the end of the first lap where Shelby and I are stationed. Numbers 519 and 223 are in third and fourth place, respectively, close on Ash’s heels as he takes a sharp left at Shelby’s turn and heads toward mine.
Ryan comes to my turn at full speed and waits until the last possible second to slam on the brakes. Clunk, clunk, clunk, he shifts gears and the motor wheezes softly, slowing down as he steers the bike around the top of the berm. Halfway through the turn, he pulls back on the throttle and the back tire spins out, pelting me with an onslaught of dirt. The clumps feel like chunks of earth being thrown at me from all directions, slamming into my chest and knocking the breath out of me. I drop the flag and fling my arms out to deflect the flying dirt-rocks away from my face.
Two seconds later, Ash flies around the berm and I am attacked by another roost of Mixon’s finest dirt. My face reddens, realizing that the hundreds of people watching this race just witnessed me flailing around. Not wanting to be roosted by the next eighteen racers, I grab my flag and hurry around the berm, back to the safety of my original spot.
Overwhelmed with anxiety, Shelby bounces on her heels, watching the race through narrowed eyes. Her flag looks like it is about to split in half from the death grip she holds on each end. I glance at the bleachers and see that every spectator has risen from their seats to watch the race. Even the smaller kids perch on their tiptoes, collectively holding a breath of anticipation for the outcome of the race.
Motocross Me Page 19
