When I’m all done, he says, “This whole situation could also have been avoided if you’d asked me for a ride.” I keep twitching away from him, because he’s scrubbing pretty good and it stings. But he pins my arm down and says, “I’m surprised your grandmother didn’t insist.” He eyes me. “She does know what you’re doing, doesn’t she?”
“She knows I’m spending the weekend at Dot’s …”
One bushy white eyebrow arches up.
“And I told her Marissa was giving me a ride …”
His eyebrow arches up even higher. “But …?”
I look down and confess, “But I never told her that the ride Marissa was giving me was on her handlebars.”
He studies me with a frown, then pops open some disinfectant and smears it all over my arm. “A vital piece of information conveniently omitted?”
“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell her.”
Hudson doesn’t say a word. He just puts gauze on my arm, wraps it up, and starts working on my knee. And I’m feeling bad, like I did lie. “Hudson, it was either go with Grams to visit Lady Lana or spend New Year’s at Dot’s. What would you have done?”
“Rita’s gone to Hollywood?”
“Uh-huh. And she was really pushing for me to go with her.” I scowl at him and mutter, “Like I want to start my New Year with a tour of the set they used for Lady Lana’s GasAway commercial.”
“Could’ve been interesting to see your mother’s work environment.”
“It would’ve been torture! Besides, seeing her for two days at Christmas was enough to last me for another year.”
Hudson sighs and says, “I heard about your angora sweater.”
“It’s pink.”
“I know.” He tries to stifle a grin. “I guess I’d have chosen Dot’s, too.”
“Exactly.”
Hudson snaps his first aid kit closed. “So let’s get you there in one piece, shall we? I’d give you a ride, but I sense that being chauffeured is not what you had in mind.”
“It’s really nice of you, but I …”
“But you don’t want a lift when your friends are riding.”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
Marissa and Holly have been kind of standing around, keeping quiet, but when Marissa hears that, she says, “Maybe our bikes would fit in the trunk?”
Hudson smiles. “I have a better idea.”
He disappears down the side steps, and when he comes back, about ten minutes later, he’s pushing a bike alongside him. Now this bike is old, but it’s old like his car, Jester. Shiny old. Tons-of-chrome old. Whitewall-tires old. Way-too-cool-to-ride old.
I take one look at it and say, “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. What am I saving it for? It’s just collecting dust.”
“But what if I wreck it?”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Then you wreck it. It’s seen a few adventures in its lifetime. A few more won’t hurt.”
So we divvied up the duffels and started off again, and let me tell you, I couldn’t stop smiling. Hudson’s bike was smooth and fast, and the wind in my face felt like something I hadn’t known in ages. It felt like freedom.
But if I’d had any idea what we were riding toward, I’d have turned right around, returned the bike, and jumped the next train to Hollywood.
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