“Move, baby! Move!” Peter cried.
He felt the bump again. Only this time it was harder, hard enough to thrust the rear of Peter’s bike slightly to one side and off its line.
Peter twisted the throttle, trying to slow his bike and bring it back under control. He shot his legs out to help keep his balance, and that of the bike, but already the front wheel had skidded to the right. It was too late.
The bike rolled over, and he went with it, letting go of the handlebars as he lost control of the bike.
He rolled over and over, praying that he wouldn’t be struck by an oncoming bike, or even by his own.
He wasn’t, and when he came to a stop, he quickly scrambled to his feet, finding himself almost up against the fence that lined the right side of the track. His bike lay a few feet away from him, its front wheel still spinning, its rear wheel turning slowly, knobbies clawing at the dirt.
The other bikers were speeding by it, keeping to the left of it, a couple of them missing it only by inches. Peter sprang toward it, lifted it to its wheels, then glanced toward the finish line.
Despair welled up in him. Already most of the riders had streaked across it, the checkered flag whipping down as each one sailed by.
“Keep going! Keep going!” someone shouted to him from behind the fence. Others joined in, encouraging him to ride on.
What’s the use? he thought. What’s the difference whether I finish the race now or not? I’m way behind, thanks to that punk Jess Kutter.
But he rode the bike ahead and across the finish line, and came in twelfth place despite the seconds he had lost in the accident.
He looked around for Jess and saw him some distance away on the track, sitting on his bike. Next to him was Dex, straddling his. Both were looking back at him; then they turned away when they saw him looking at them.
Peter’s blood boiled. Smirk, you rats! he thought. One of these days I’ll get even with you for this!
But when? When would he be able to avenge himself? His stay with the MacKenzies was indefinite. Probably they’d keep him another week at the most. If they did, he’d have his chance. It would have to be on the track. That was the only place the showdown could be held.
Giff and D.C. came running up to him as he got off his bike and began brushing the dirt off his suit. There was a tear in the material of his right elbow, and he felt a slight burning pain there now that he hadn’t felt before.
“Peter! You okay?” Giff cried.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” said D.C., looking at him plaintively. “You could’ve come in ahead of Kutter. I’m sure you would have.”
He looked at her and realized that she — and probably no one else — had seen Jess Kutter bump deliberately into him. It was most important for the track marshal to have seen the infraction, in which case Jess would be disqualified. But obviously even he had not seen it, or an announcement would have been made by now.
“Yeah. I suppose,” he said, holding the smoldering anger deep down inside him.
The announcement of the winners started to come over the public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, winner of the second heat, number forty-four, Dexter Pasini!”
A roar exploded from the fans, and died as the voice continued. “In second place, number one-oh-one, Dave Melburg!”
Another roar resounded. Number 101, Peter remembered, was a silver-tanked, blue-fendered Yamaha.
The Derbi 125 came in third; Giff fourth; Jess Kutter fifth. D.C. came in eighth.
Only the first four winners picked up trophies, but the first eleven each picked up points. For his first-place victory in both heats Dex Pasini earned forty points — twenty points from each heat — to add to his total of sixty-one. Giff earned nine points for having come in third in the first heat, and eight for having came in fourth in the second heat, bringing his total up from forty to fifty-seven.
Not a good day’s run for him, Peter thought as he contemplated how eager Giff had been to beat Dex for a change.
He said nothing about the infraction to anyone till D.C. brought up his mishap again at the dinner table. She was helping her mother serve a steaming-hot casserole when she looked at Peter and met his eyes. “Peter, I saw Jess riding pretty close to you just before the race finished,” she said and paused, frowning. “The next thing I saw was your bike going out of control.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“Did he bump into you?”
He shrugged. Would she believe him if he told her? Would anyone believe him?
“Did he?” she repeated.
“Yes, he did. But I guess no one noticed. Not even the track marshal.”
“Who should have,” D.C. said. Her lips pressed together defiantly, and her eyes flashed. “I got to thinking about that later,” she said. “Knowing Kutter, I knew he must have done something. He and Dex are like two peas in a pod. I wouldn’t trust either one of them as far as I could throw a bull.”
“There’ll be a race coming up Wednesday at Sun-way,” Giff intervened. “Next time, keep far enough ahead of him so that he won’t have a chance to pull anything dirty.”
“All right, let’s cut out the character smudging right now,” Mrs. MacKenzie said. “Remember the saying ‘He who points a finger at someone points three at himself.’ ”
“Uh-oh, the wise old sage herself,” D.C. said, and smiled. “Forgive us for pointing, Mom.”
“Shush up now, and talk later,” her mother said, and reached over for Peter’s plate.
He handed it to her, feeling his appetite whetted as he watched her ladle steaming beef tips, noodles, and stewed tomatoes onto his dish.
12
We got a call last night from Dr. Bentley, Peter,” Mr. MacKenzie said to him at breakfast on Monday morning. “He and his wife want to know what we intend to do with you.”
Peter had just finished eating. He figured that Mr. MacKenzie had waited for him to finish his breakfast before he mentioned the call because of how it might affect him.
He’d been thinking a lot about the Bentleys, wondering what they intended to do if he and the MacKenzies didn’t come to a decision soon. Most of yesterday was a drag because he couldn’t stop thinking about what was going to happen to him.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, stared at the empty bowl in front of him, and began to feel a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that usually came to him whenever he got to thinking about the Bentleys and his running away from their home.
“I told him that we weren’t quite sure yet,” Mr. MacKenzie said. “I asked him to give us another week.”
A fly landed on the edge of the bowl and began to rub its front legs together. Peter swiped at it, and it flew away.
“After Peter stays with us another week, what then, Dad?” D.C. asked, curious. “Are you going to ask the Bentleys to come and take him back?”
“That’s not for us to say right now, D.C.,” said her father. “Anyway, you know that Peter doesn’t want to go back and live with them.” He paused. “You still determined on that stand, Peter?”
Peter glanced at him, then turned his attention back to the bowl again as if it had suddenly produced an overwhelming fascination for him. “Yes,” he said stiffly.
“Let’s not embarrass Peter by talking about that now,” Mrs. MacKenzie intervened politely. “There is one thing we should say to you, though, Peter. The Bentleys would like to have you back. I talked with Mrs. Bentley last night. She says she and her husband both want you to come back to them. She promised that things will be different. What those things are, she didn’t say. But I feel that we should let you know what she said.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Things would be different? What things? She was still working, wasn’t she? She would have mentioned it if she weren’t. And her husband was still doctoring, wasn’t he? He wasn’t going to cut his hours just to accommodate Peter. It was their absence from home that had ma
de life so lonely for him. That and their son’s unbearable behavior.
He couldn’t go back there. He wouldn’t go back there. He just had to wait and see what the Mac-Kenzies decided to do with him. If they wanted him to stay, he would. Oh, God, wouldn’t that be great, he thought. I’d be in a real good home at last, with a family that’s tops.
What about D.C.? he asked himself. Would she get to like him better? Well, the ice seemed to have melted between them. She was talking to him more than she had during his first few days of living with them. And she had seen — had thought she had, anyway — Jess Kutter bumping into him at the motocross. Didn’t that mean that she was taking an interest in him, in what he was doing? At least she was becoming more aware of his presence. That alone meant a lot.
Mr. MacKenzie brought up the question about school. It was the first time the subject was mentioned. Peter said that he was a junior in high school. He confessed that his grades in his sophomore year weren’t anything he could brag about, but at least they were good enough to get him into the eleventh grade.
“Is there something you would like to do after you graduate?” Mrs. MacKenzie asked him. “I know it’s too soon to make a decision yet, but have you thought of any career at all?”
“Oh, Mom,” Giff said, turning to look at her. “He’s only sixteen. My age. And I haven’t figured out what I’d like to do yet.”
“Neither have I,” said D.C. “Except, well, maybe an airline stewardess.”
“Dear, you haven’t even been up in an airplane yet,” her mother declared, flashing a surprised smile.
“I know that, Mother,” D.C. replied emphatically. “All I’m trying to say is that I know what I’d like to do when I’m out of school.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I was too abrupt,” said her mother apologetically. “Forgive me, dear. Anyway, I had addressed the question to Peter.”
Peter smiled and cleared his throat. “No, I haven’t thought of what I’d like to do,” he said.
Mrs. MacKenzie shrugged. “Well, like Gifford said —”
“I like to draw, though,” Peter cut in.
“Oh?” Mrs. MacKenzie’s eyes lighted up. “What do you like to draw, Peter?”
“Cartoons.”
“Cartoons?” Her eyebrows arched.
“Hey, that’s great!” Giff cried. “That’s terrific!”
“Some cartoonists become very rich,” D.C. cut in, looking wide-eyed at him, as if she were suddenly seeing a new and different person.
Peter smiled. “Rich? Me? I might be lucky to even make a living at it.”
“Don’t cut yourself short, Peter,” Mr. MacKenzie said quietly. “If you have the talent and like doing it, you could do very well.”
He went to bed that night thinking of what Mr. MacKenzie had said, and of becoming a famous cartoonist. Maybe he’d have a comic strip syndicated in a hundred newspapers someday, he thought. Maybe five hundred.
They left right after dinner on Wednesday evening for the Sunway Racetrack some thirty-five miles south of Cypress Corners. Mr. MacKenzie had borrowed a Chevy pickup from a neighbor to haul the three bikes on it, plus a couple of spare tires and a few sparkplugs — just in case.
Sunway was a small track, less than a mile from start to finish — 0.8 mile to be exact — and rough. Giff and D.C. had raced on it several times, they said, and had fared better there than on the Bumble Bee Speedway, but that was because it didn’t attract the better, faster riders that Bumble Bee did.
Twice Giff had come in first place, and D.C. once, the only time, she told Peter, that she had ever come in first place. Could lightning strike again? There it might, she’d said optimistically, the corners of her eyes crinkling up with hope.
Thirteen riders competed — including three whom Peter dreaded to see there: Dex Pasini, Jess Kutter, and Bill Rocco. All three had their own same bikes: Dex his Corella, Jess his Yamaha, and Bill his Fitz RK.
There was no high hill to climb to knock off the fledglings as there was at the Bumble Bee Speedway, but the choppy track took its toll nevertheless. A green Suzuki and a black Honda careened into each other going around a hairpin curve halfway around the track, and it was mainly the choppy track that was the cause. Giff had warned Peter about it before the moto had started, but he didn’t realize how really treacherous the curve was until he had gone over it a couple of times.
There were two heats, twenty laps in each, with trophies going to the first-place winner and the two runners-up. Peter wasn’t as keen about winning any of the three top spots as he was about actually participating in the moto. It kept him busy, and his mind free of worries. He’d be in a moto every day if it were possible.
He wasn’t surprised that one of the three cohorts he had hoped not to see at the moto started to give him a bad time. This time it was Bill Rocco.
Rocco’s Fitz RK was a German make with silver-gray fenders higher off the wheels than most American- or Japanese-made bikes. It was air-cooled and quick as a cat. Peter noticed its maneuverability when it headed into the hairpin curve just ahead of him, then shot directly into his path as he started to pass by it going down a short stretch. He almost rammed into the Fitz’s tail and had to cut his speed to avoid a collision.
Thereafter, for the next four laps, he and Rocco were hub to hub most of the time. On the thirteenth lap they were cutting another sharp curve, and were again hub to hub — their legs off the pegs to help balance their bikes — when Rocco, riding on the inside, caught Peter’s ankle with his foot and gave it a violent jerk.
Peter lurched, causing his Muni to twist crazily to the right, heading for sure destruction into a fence unless he could bring the bike back into line without causing it to lose its balance.
Paralysis gripped him for a brief instant as he stared at the fence. It was about four feet high, with spectators standing on the other side of it, their eyes wide and intent on the scene that was happening before them.
Quickly he rose from the seat and leaned over to the left — giving the handlebars as much twist as he dared without risking letting the bike go into a dangerous skid — and just briefly grazed the fence.
Then he was clear of it and once again speeding down the track. Rocco was some twenty feet ahead of him now. Peter watched him shooting down the straightaway and tried to swallow the anger that had welled up in him. Were those three guys — Dex, Jess, and Bill — taking turns harassing him?
Then it was over. Peter crossed the finish line a poor ninth. Dex came in first, D.C. second, a Honda third, and a Suzuki fourth. Giff had not been able to finish. His rear tire had blown on the eleventh lap, forcing him out of the race.
An announcement came over the public address system that Peter paid no attention to until he saw D.C. turn and stare wide-eyed at him. Then her face lit up in a broad, happy smile, and she began to jump and wave with joy. Peter gave his full attention to the announcement then, and his heart quickened as he heard his name.
“… causing Peter Lewinski to lose control of his bike, thereby endangering Lewinski and other bikers on the track. The infraction, according to the judgment of the race director, disqualifies William Rocco in the first heat, and also in the second.”
“He did see it!” Peter exclaimed, incredulous, and gazed around for Rocco to see what his reaction was to the announcement.
“Yes, he did!” D.C. declared. She grabbed Peter’s arm and clutched it tightly. Her eyes were big and round. “Peter! Didn’t you get hurt? No bruises?”
He shrugged. “A little hurt here and there. But not much.”
“I can’t believe that … that punk,” she said, looking around.
“Believe it,” said her brother. “They’re three of a kind.”
“Where are they?” D.C. asked. “I’d like to see Rocco’s face.”
“You can’t. Not yet, anyway,” said Giff softly. “He’s standing there at the concession stand with his back to us. Dex and Jess are next to him.”
Peter and D.C. saw them. De
x and Jess were leaning against the stand, holding cans of soft drink. Dex was peering directly at Peter. Peter gazed back at him, unflinching.
“Just keep an eye on him during the next heat,” Giff advised quietly. “He’s smarter at dirty tricks than Jess and Bill are put together.”
“I doubt that he’ll try anything foolish, though,” said D.C. skeptically. “Jess might, but not Dex. He won the first heat. He’ll want to make sure he wins the second one, too.”
But the second heat turned out to be a disaster for all three of them — Giff, D.C., and Peter. Giff had another blown tire, D.C.’s Yamaha a blown gasket, and Peter’s Muni conked out five minutes before the race ended. Carburetor trouble, Peter discovered when he checked the machine.
There was little said during their ride home, and most of it was about the upcoming motocross at the Bumble Bee Speedway on Saturday.
“You guys will have to get that engine fixed up for me before then, that’s for sure,” D.C. declared. “I can’t miss that one. They’re giving away goodies.”
“Oh? Like what?” Peter asked.
“Like tires, jackets, and helmets,” Giff replied.
Fine, thought Peter. I’d settle for any one of them. But what I’d really like to do is beat Dex, who was still on his lucky streak. That, mused Peter, would be the frosting on the cake.
13
Sleep came hard to Peter that night. He tossed from one side of the bed to the other, wondering if the MacKenzies liked him enough to keep him or not.
He had hoped that something about it would have been said at the dinner table or later on in the evening. But not a word of it was brought up.
The next morning he worked on D.C.’s bike. He took the engine apart while Giff rode his BLB to Max’s parts store and purchased a new gasket.
He put the gasket on, then checked the YA 125 Yamaha as thoroughly as if it were the bike he was going to race in the motocross Saturday. Several minor adjustments were required: the points, a tiny leak in the gas line, some loose spokes in both wheels.
When he was finished and had double-checked the bike by taking it out on a ride, giving it his stamp of approval, D.C. hand-washed it and then polished it to a bright, glistening sheen.
Dirt Bike Runaway Page 8
