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She pauses for a moment and then hits the gas, spinning the wheel to make a U-turn. We charge back down Knock Hill.
But we pass the house. “I can take the bike,” I blurt out.
“No, we’ll drive you,” she says.
“You want to change?” Mace looks at me then to Coral.
But we’ve already passed the house. I look to Codi. “Give me your clothes.”
Her brow wrinkles as her eyebrows damn-near touch her hairline.
She starts removing her clothes, and in minutes I’m in her jeans and she’s in my dress. I pull her hoodie over my head. “I’m not sure if Hunter has a phone,” I tell whoever’s listening. “Can you text someone at the dance. Ask them to tell him I’ll be really late?”
Mace gets on her cell, typing away.
Cruising into Fallstown, we can barely maneuver around traffic, whether it’s vehicles or people on foot. Coral just ends up pulling as far ahead as she can and parking.
“Thanks, guys.” I hop out. “Sorry to drag you here!”
I start to run, but then I notice Coral turning off the car and everyone climbing out. They walk up to me, fixing their clothes. “You’re going to need a ride back,” she says.
“I can find one,” I tell her. “Are you sure?”
But just then, Mace’s face lights up. Or it lights up to about as amused as I think she ever gets. “Holy shit.” She looks around at the track, the crowd, and the bikes racing by. “I’ve never been here.”
Codi’s wide-eyed, chewing her gum, and I smile. “Come on,” I tell them.
We stroll in, bypassing the metal detectors, and I nod to Pax, one of the security guys dressed in a black polo.
“Hey, Dylan,” he says.
“They’re with me,” I tell him, gesturing to my friends.
He lets us pass, and I lead them to the stands. “Concessions are over there.” I point to my left and then wave my hand to the seats. “Sit anywhere.”
Superbikes race to my left, while I hear a motocross race going far in the distance, over the hills, on a track deep in the field. People are spread all over the place, standing on the sidelines, watching, and some sitting in their own chairs they brought. Beer flows, and I smell the food trucks serving burgers, sandwiches, and pretzels.
My brother sits in the media booth, a pair of binoculars around his neck that he’s not using, because he’s playing games on my dad’s phone.
I run up, jumping onto the edge of the booth and swinging my legs over. I slip his binoculars over his head.
“Hey!” he blurts outs.
But he doesn’t put up a fight.
I look through, spying Noah in his green and gray uniform flying over the hill, into the air, and setting back down with ease. He’s not even close to first place. “Come on…”
“Van der Berg standing tall, feet on the pegs, powering through the ruts,” Shane Benchly tells the crowd.
“Sinclair, Fahl, and Weisman climbing high,” the other one whose last name, I think, is Dubois adds. “Richter falling back to fifth.”
“And here were go, last lap…”
I watch Noah put his foot down, speeding faster and faster.
“Stuart closing back in,” Dubois says. “We saw Weisman wobble there, back tire caught in a rut, and Van der Berg trimming four seconds off Sinclair’s lead…”
My dad is down in the pit, his headset on, probably talking to Jax in the tower.
