by Amy Gregory
Honor stepped into the kitchen shuffling her oversized purse and the bag of groceries and blindly reached down for the backpack she instinctively knew was on the floor. She let out a breath as she grabbed the strap and hung it on its dedicated hook on the wall just inside the door. After setting the paper bag down on the small kitchen table, she turned the radio on and flipped the light switch—in that order. In only a matter of moments, Dallas had completely stripped off his school clothes. He traded his jeans and a motocross t-shirt for riding gear, and was back in the kitchen looking for food. He grabbed the new package of cookies out of her hand before she could even place them on the counter.
“Hey, brat.” Honor teased lovingly before hip-checking him out of the way. “That’s why you’ve grown so damn much so fast. No more food for you.”
“Ah, Mom…”
It was their joke, said more and more as Dallas skated the edges of puberty at the ripe old age of eleven. Honor shook her head chuckling. “Keep it up and you’re going to eat me out of house and home.”
Dallas rolled his eyes as he opened the fridge, searching for more. “I’m hungry.”
“You always are.” She laughed. “I don’t know where you put it. You look like a damn string bean with muscles.”
Leaning on the open fridge door, he patted his abs. Even though they were covered with his jersey, he was proud of them. His Uncle Mac had set him up with a small workout area in their shop out behind the house, complete with a routine that Dallas was thriving on. Honor smiled as a swell of pride coursed through her at the thought of all he’d accomplished. She couldn’t give him what the other racers at the tracks had, but he took what she could and made the best of it. It was enough that he was starting to make a name for himself.
“I had abs before you came along too, babe.” Honor winked and threw a bag of grapes and a package of cheese slices his direction. Dallas turned to put them in their appropriate spots in the refrigerator, but not before rolling his eyes.
“Gross.”
Honor wasn’t quite as toned as she once had been, but there had been a day long ago when she was almost perfect. From the time she was little until she found out she was pregnant, her life had revolved around two things—ballet and New York City. As a single mom years later, it was all she could do to pop in a workout video a couple of times a week, but years of training left a permanent mark.
Having always been thin, it was cleaning houses that kept her fit these days. What started out as a way to work around Kolby’s work schedule, keeping Dallas out of daycare, had since turned into her own small business. Having two people under her afforded her the flexibility of working hard while Dallas was at school, but left her weekends free to live at the various tracks they now jokingly called home.
“You’re a brat.” She stuck her tongue out at her son, and then roughed his sun-streaked light brown hair up when he made his way back to the open package of cookies.
He had always been a beautiful baby, then an adorable little boy, but now as he was aging. Honor had to laugh. Growing up in a speck of a town outside of Nashville was their life, but her son looked more like a California surfer boy. His hair was a little shaggy, curling at his neck and over his ears, bleached from more time spent outside than in. He even had the start of what would become a dark golden tan by the end of the summer.
It was that twinkle in those gray eyes that haunted her. On more than one occasion when his voice dropped an octave, she could hear it. His humor the exact same. The inflections certain words had. Her son was a carbon copy of his father. Some days the resemblance stole her breath.
“Yeah, but I’m your brat,” he said then showed her his mouthful of chewed-up nastiness.
Yep, fucking identical.
Some days it scared the absolute hell out of her.
“You’re disgusting. Hey, buddy…” Her tone had softened with the last two words.
Immediately, the shine left and his gray eyes lowered, his shoulders sagged. “I know, Mom. You don’t have to say anything.”
“I was just going to say, it’ll be okay. I promise. We’ll just keep reading extra at night, and I’ll take you to the library more so you can work on those math websites. We’ll stay on top of it. Okay?”
Honor hated that school was so hard for him. Dallas was extremely bright, she could see it, could feel it. But his grades didn’t show it. Meeting after meeting with his teachers, counselors, and even the principal this time were beginning to wear her down. It was completely taxing to be the only one fighting for her child. They had been trying to convince her for the last two years he had ADD.
He didn’t.
She knew her son. She knew him better than any one at that school. There wasn’t any proof that she could use to her advantage, only a gut feeling. The statistics and lectures the professionals gave her said it all in black and white. But a mother knows her child—and she knew Dallas. The over-the-hill teacher he had this year was her biggest opponent and lacked any patience with a child who didn’t catch on immediately to whatever she was trying to teach. As far as Honor was concerned, the old bat should have done their small community a favor and retired two decades ago.
Honor kept holding on to the hope that once he got into middle school, and wasn’t stuck with the same teacher all day every day, it would be better. That if he had some variety with his schedule and the classes, he might flourish. Projects he did at school that were hands on, went great. It was all the rest of the work that seemed to deal him fits. She knew that once he hit the higher grade levels, he’d fall in love with science and the experiments. In technology classes, drafting, and design, like in shop, she knew he’d excel. But the elementary teachers just never saw what she did.
He would listen to his uncle, hanging on every single word, whether it was about motocross in general, his bike, or working out. How could a child learn to fix something on his bike, just by watching it done—once? Knew the statistics for all the professional riders…he had ingrained them in his memory. Set up changes to be made for his bike, and when they needed to be made. Dallas knew and had every intricate detail down pat. Things the average race spectator wouldn’t even give a second thought to, he could pick apart, instantly. Like cornering a berm, if the track was loose. He could watch the riders in practice and see what they were doing wrong, and before he ever kicked his own bike to life, he knew what to do to guarantee he’d be going faster than any other racer. He knew what weather conditions did to a track, to tires, and to his stamina. And he could adjust the corrections accordingly.
If it had to do with racing, Dallas was all there.
When it came to schoolwork, Honor tried to help him at home. She never lost patience with him, she let him take breaks between subjects as he did his homework. He was fine at home. Dallas would grumble here and there, but he did the work. It was a slow and tedious process, and together they struggled through each subject, night after night. Honor knew school didn’t come easy for her son, there was a piece to the puzzle missing, but he was brilliant. She could hear it in the way he discussed racing and the mechanics of the bike or the physics of a track layout. It was in his vocabulary, and more than obvious in the patience it took to become the best at a sport he loved so dearly.
Three months. It was March, if they could just survive until May, it would all be good.
Or so she had thought.
Today’s meeting was a shock. Honor was still reeling. She did not like being backed into a corner, but they’d ambushed her, bringing in the counselor and the special education teacher from the middle school that he would attend in the fall.
She brought her fingers up under his chin, her heart breaking as she read the disappointment written across his face. “Honey, this isn’t you. You know that right?”
“The other kids call me stupid, Mom.”
“You’re not stupid—do you hear me?” She waited for him to nod. “I just think you process it all differently. You have manuals to every bike you’ve ev
er been on memorized. You can do complicated math formulas if it pertains to your bike or the way a jump should be hit, or when you and Uncle Mac go to design and build something new on the track out there.”
She waved a hand dismissively toward the window of the kitchen that overlooked the track. Small and extremely technical. Tight corners, steep jumps, and whoops. What started out as the only thing he found interesting enough to do with his son, Kolby had begun building the track on the ten acres out behind their house when Dallas was only three. As he got older and the bikes got bigger, they added to and made the original flat circle track more and more difficult with Mac’s help.
Now it rivaled any indoor arena racetrack. It was also the reason that Honor fought like hell to stay up on the bills. The thought of having to sell their small ranch house wasn’t that upsetting, but she couldn’t bear the weight of having to move Dallas away from the track he rode daily. She knew what would happen to his racing if he couldn’t practice as much as he did. She also knew what would happen to the boy if he couldn’t ride whenever he wanted to. It was his escape. His life was hard enough. She couldn’t take that away from him, no matter what.
“I hate school, Mom.”
The knife in Honor’s chest twisted another quarter turn, and she looked to the ceiling. As usual, there was no answer in the sprayed white pebbles above her.
She took a deep breath and forced her tone to be encouraging. “It’ll be fine, Dallas. We’ll get through this, you and me. Like always.”
“’Kay.”
In a move that only happened these days in the privacy of their own home, Dallas wrapped his arms around her waist. Honor grabbed him tight to her chest. She couldn’t help but notice every time he hugged her he was stronger and taller. It wouldn’t be long and he would pass her up at five foot five. Honor blinked back tears. She had never let them fall in front of him before, and she wasn’t about to start. That was something that only happened after she knew he was fast asleep, in the dark of night. It was then, as she tossed and turned, her worries getting the best of her, that she finally allowed the tears to fall.
She swallowed hard and pasted the smile back on. “Love you, buddy.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
“Picked up your oil today.”
“Sorry, Mom.” His voice was soft.
Honor pulled her son away to arm’s length and shook her head, the tsk-tsk-tsk sound coming from her mouth. “Don’t you worry about it.” She raised her eyebrow at the end for added emphasis.
“But—”
“No buts. You go grab the oil out of the car and take it to the shop. Uncle Mac said he was going to come by tonight after work. We’ll eat and then the two of you can go change it, plus he wants to look at your suspension.”
Guilt spread over the eleven-year-olds face. She could see the war building in him. He loved riding, but no matter how much she tried to hide how much it cost, somehow Dallas knew. She appreciated his gratefulness, his deep desire to please her because somehow he understood the sacrifices she made for him. It was moments like these, in the dedication to his racing and the basic sweetness of the boy, when she knew he would grow up to be a better man than his father was.
Honor winked. “I got it, buddy. Now get out there and practice before your uncle gets here and wonders why you’re not sweaty yet.”
The corners of Dallas’s mouth turned up. “’Kay, Mom.”
With both hands lightly gripping the sink under the window, she watched her son walk the thirty feet to the small metal outbuilding where his bike was stored. Her mind and heart were weary. She was torn between wanting to be excited for Friday and being scared as hell. It seemed like everything bad that had happened in her life had been delivered to her in a phone call.
Now as she watched Dallas walk the bike out of the shop and start it, she was torn between expecting bad news, hoping for good news and wondering if she could truly accept the help if it was offered.
Kicking a rock with the metal tip of his heavy riding boot, Dallas gritted his teeth in frustration. He could feel his mom’s eyes on his back, so he was careful not to turn around. There was no way he could let her know he was upset. She had enough to worry about.
Twisting the garage door handle, he pulled upward with all his might to lift the old, heavy door to their shed. Once inside the small garage, he finally let out a sigh of relief, seeing the one joy that made at least most of his stress fade away. Running his hand over the fender, he felt the crack that had happened when he cased a jump at his last race. Thank God, he’d stayed upright and was able to keep going, but his bike was starting to show wear and tear.
Turning around, he scanned the old wooden workbench for the red electrical tape his uncle Mac had bought him. There wasn’t money to replace something cosmetic, so Dallas did the next best thing—he patched it up himself. Hopefully the tape would keep the broken part hidden from his mother a little longer. She hadn’t noticed it when they’d loaded up after the races, and he knew she’d feel guilty if she saw it. It was bad enough he had to ask her to sew a hole in his jersey. Dallas wasn’t stupid. He saw the sadness in her eyes as she pulled the needle and thread through the orange, green, and bright blue sleeve.
Throwing the tape back on the bench, Dallas grabbed the gas can and filled up his bike. Riding was the one thing that let him forget about school, about their lack of money, and about the kids in his class. His reputation at the tracks started to get back to his classmates, and the teasing was starting to slow down now that they heard he was being talked about at the national level.
However, he knew his mom was worried about how hard school was for him, and he couldn’t help it. Sometimes, things just didn’t make any sense. Plus old Mrs. Porter was a grouchy hag. No, she was worse—she was a bitch. Dallas knew better than to say that word out loud. His mother would have a bar of soap in her hand before he could apologize. That didn’t mean he couldn’t think it, and he did—every minute of every school day.
Dallas yanked the 65cc bike off its stand and rolled it out of the garage. With his helmet strapped on, he pulled on both gloves, and pushed their Velcro straps down into place. Adjusting his goggles, he kicked the bike four times, and finally with the rev of the engine, he breathed deep. That sound was the most relaxing noise in the world to him, loud and obnoxious to some, but as tranquil as a lullaby to Dallas. Within seconds he was sailing through the air, and all his worries were gone—at least until he ran out of gas.
CHAPTER THREE
Scooting his chair in closer to the table, Eli narrowed his eyes, studying the television screen as the racers rounded the corner. Scrutinizing the way the pack thinned out, he waited for one bike in particular to jump out in front. The students had cleared out of the lunchroom located in the far corner of the shop, leaving the area fairly clean, considering they were mostly teenage boys.
Carter walked in and headed straight for the refrigerator. Grabbing his lunch and a bag of chips off the counter, he settled in next to Eli.
Eli pointed the remote at the television mounted in the corner and paused the race, still recorded on the DVR from the previous weekend. Never mind the fact that he’d already watched the same race twice, he always found something new to catch or zone in on.
“Did you see Ralston come off the gate this week?” He asked as he helped himself to the bag of chips Carter had just opened. “He nailed that start.”
“Yeah, I’m with you. Our boy Cody is looking great. He’s really stepped it up the last couple of years since he moved up to the big bikes. Hey, by the way, you saw that tumble Lance took—have you heard if he’s okay or not?”
“Jess talked to Reid this morning. He’s got a broken wrist. Out a good four to six weeks.”
Carter shook his head, “Ah damn, poor kid. We were hoping it was just tweaked a little. There goes Vegas. First year on the big bikes and he was really looking sharp. No one can go through the whoops like he can. Well, at least he’ll be healed for the outdoor se
ries.”
Eli glanced at the door as it was opening and smiled as Molly came through. She appeared distracted as she trailed her hand across Carter’s shoulders, kissing him on the cheek, and then squeezed Eli’s neck to greet him also.
“What’s bothering you, Gorgeous?” Carter tried to reach out to her, but missed as she continued to the refrigerator.
Molly added dressing to her salad, put the lid back on, shook it up, grabbed a fork and turned toward them. She was so quiet today. Eli stuck his hand in the bag of chips without taking his gaze off her. He took in the slight smile she graced Carter with when he squeezed her arm in support as she sat beside him, Eli raised his eyebrow.
“Are you worried about the meeting?” Eli asked, after he swallowed his food.
Molly only shrugged to answer.
“Is it Dallas? Are you really that worried he won’t get accepted? I think you know he will, Mol.”
“I know he will. It’s just…something the uncle said has me worried.”
Eli turned to Carter for information, but his face was scrunched and still focused on Molly, apparently waiting on an explanation also.
“Why’s that? You didn’t say anything the other day. I thought everything was cool.”
Molly continued to stab at various pieces of lettuce, the poor leaves taking the brunt of her frustration. “Well, it didn’t strike me at first, but now, I don’t know. It’s just—“
“What is it?” Eli interrupted.
“The uncle said he needed to talk to the mom. Looking back on the conversation and the way he said things, he made out like he might need to…I don’t know. Convince her?”
Eli’s hand was halfway to his mouth with another chip when it dropped back to the table. “What the hell? I don’t mean to sound egotistical, but excuse me? Who wouldn’t want their son to come to our school?”
“No, not like that, E. More like she’d be hard to convince because she’d have trouble accepting the help. Kind of like…a money thing.” Molly said, the softness of her voice making her sound terribly sad.
