Page 93 of Detour

As it turns out ‘play’ means doing stunts on motorcycles. I stand off to the side, watching as different guys in helmets alternate between wheelies and what I’m learning are stoppies—a wheelie done on the front tire instead of the back. Coty’s one of the more daring riders, along with Marc and Beckett actually, and they do some complicated looking tricks together in perfect synchronization much to everyone’s delight. It’s all very impressive. And loud. And dirty. Between the smoke and the dust, I can barely make out some of the bikes so I wander around, looking for a cooler, knowing there’s no chance I’ll be the designated driver tonight. The thought alone makes me smile as I reach a tub full of beers. I dig around for a hard cider, then twist the top off with my sleeve when I find one. My hands are shaking and it has nothing to do with the vibration from the ride out here.

I pass cars low to the ground with spoilers high in the sky. Racing stripes and custom paint jobs adorn imports while meaty exhausts accentuate the American muscle. I cringe, imagining all the dust collecting through the open doors and windows. Occupational hazard.

Different songs spill out of pulsing speakers, causing the cars to vibrate with an energy all their own. Motorcycles rev long and loud, fighting to be heard over the lyrics being belted from all directions. Clouds of smoke collect overhead in a lazy trail upward while stars blaze from above, begging for the adoration they rightfully deserve.

The backdrop, though chaotic, reminds me of the painting with the quote in Coty’s room, and I reflect on how many chances I’ve been taking lately. Ever since graduation, there’s been a shift. Not only between me and Coty, but with the other two as well. There’s an attachment growing that somehow still feels like a liability—I just can’t figure out for who though.

It being a hot desert night, I take the hoodie off and tie it low on my hips, then head back to where I left the boys. A white and gray bike catches my attention on my way over and something about the rider makes me stop and stare. I’m not sure what exactly makes them different from the others but I can’t take my eyes off them if I tried. Not when they pull into a wheelie then step on the seat with one foot, not when they look over to pose for a picture holding the other leg up at a tricky angle, not when they land with practiced accuracy then pull over to park, and certainly not when they take off their helmet to reveal the difference between her and every other rider here. Yes, her. She shakes out long, wavy hair similarly colored to mine but darker with hints of red. Her smile—as big and mesmerizing as her riding skills—doesn’t reach her eyes which lock with mine for a split second before glancing away altogether. Men surround her on all sides, clapping her back, ogling her fit physique. She accepts their praise without really receiving it. I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s a melancholy there, a sense of invisibility only other lost people recognize. Suddenly, two guys break from the rest, implementing some sort of crowd control and her whole demeanor changes. The smile she offers them is genuine, warm, and I wonder if she’s in the same predicament I am.

I hear a deep voice beside me, breaking my reverie and turn to find Marc looking at me expectantly. I didn’t even see him approach.

“What was that?”

“He doesn’t even see them.” He nods his head back toward his roommates. A handful of onlookers, mostly female, surround Coty and Beckett as they slap box each other, laughing and dodging half-strength blows. “I wonder if he ever did.” Marc’s eyes glaze over, deep in thought, and I hesitate, not wanting to break this rare moment.

“Maybe he should?”

He eyes me from the side. “Is that what you want?”

“I-” don’t know. I pick at the label on the bottle in my unsteady hold, clearing my throat. “He should have a chance with someone that’s worth his time.”

“And you’re not? Because you had a shitty childhood?”

His tone is gentler than I expected but still holds the same air of criticism I’ve heard a hundred times over. He doesn’t get it. No one does.

I drop the cider to my side, flinching when some sloshes out the top, landing next to my feet, and stirring up dirt.

“I’ve never seen a stable relationship in my life. To me they’re just a myth, a fairy tale for little kids who know nothing about the harsh realities awaiting them. How am I supposed to give Coty everything he wants out of life—marriage, kids, happiness—when I don’t even believe in happily-ever-afters myself?”

A few minutes pass of Marc glancing around the scene while I stare at my shoelaces, willing away the muddy spots there. No matter how hard I try, I’ll always be tainted.

“The first time I rode a dirt bike, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I just wanted to get away from my dad. I used to hang out in our farm’s workshop, full of spare parts and tools. It was hot and dirty and nobody wanted to spend time in it unless they had to, so my father didn’t think to find me there. One day someone dropped off their kid’s old dirt bike hoping we could salvage its working parts. It ran, but not well. I didn’t care though. I didn’t see what was wrong with it, I only saw the one thing I wanted more than anything else—freedom. I bought it on the spot with some birthday cash I’d saved and jumped right on it. No instructions on how to handle it, no rules where to go, nothing. I literally started the thing and took off, no destination in sight other than away. Far, far away.”

Quietly, I ask, “Did you make it?”

Marc barks out a laugh. “Fuck no. I ate shit ten seconds in.” He looks at me, a smile still playing at his lips before disappearing completely. “I was doing it for someone else. I wasn’t riding with my own goals in mind, only what I knew I didn’t want. So, I pushed the bike back, worked the rest of the afternoon on it and by the time I went to bed that night, I had a passion. One that gave me more than a distraction from my problems. It was something I liked, something I chose.” All these choices. How do they know they’re picking the right ones though? “Once I poured my heart into it, it became more than just a way to escape, it became my life. I treated that bike better than I’d ever treated anything and the next time I tested it out, I took my time. I rode my bike the way I wanted to, not the way I thought I needed to, and it worked. From then on, I rode everywhere, not just away.”

I think over his words, imagining his younger self putting in long hours on a secondhand dirt bike. What started out as feeling like a necessity to him, turned into a luxury he treasured and later made a life out of. One he didn’t even know anything about to begin with. While that may have worked out for his career path, and friend circle, it didn’t fix his relationship issues. Unless…

“Is that why you sneak around with Kary?”

Marc’s eyes narrow. “With Kary?” Shifting his glare above my head, he says, “You don’t know what you’re taking about.”

Before I can apologize for sticking my dirt-covered foot in my mouth, I catch a girl breaking away from the herd going straight for Coty as he stops for a drink.

I watch as she places her hand on Coty’s shoulder, the same shoulder I was sinking my teeth into just this morning to keep from waking his roommates, and my feet carry me forward without even deciding to move. Floating closer to the gathered crowd, I watch the whole thing play out while wishing I didn’t have to.

Coty brushes her off, locking eyes with me, but I stay rooted. She notices the exchange and her vigilant gaze falls over my body, landing at my shoes. I bite my lips between my teeth, closing my eyes briefly, and willing myself not to fidget.

I hear her sneer, “Are you with her or something?” but miss Coty’s response.

“Where’d you find that piece of trash?” My eyes pop open, knowing she’s undoubtedly talking about me. “Do you and Daddy share his projects now?”

And that does it. I dart away in the next breath, getting in her face. “I found him actually. I searched ‘guys that have taste’ and his name popped up. Crazy, right?”

I try my hand at imitating one of Amity’s trademark cheerleader smiles, leveling it directly at the girl. It feels more clownish than anything but I’ve always thought the two were one and the same. They both sport stretched out, borderline maniacal, smiles while performing choreographed routines. It’s the visibility of the teeth that sets them apart and with the thin layer of dust settling on mine I’m hopefully leaning toward crazed cheerleader status. Either way, it’s unsettling—for all of us.

Off to the side Beckett pipes up, whining, “Hey, what does that say about me?”