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“I don’t even own any pajamas, I just sleep in T-shirts.” She eyes the piles on my bed and chooses into the tuxedo set. I think of the beat-up cars she and Ash drive. That’s probably why she sleeps in T-shirts.
We crawl into bed around ten, and although I’m not exactly tired, I know an early night means waking up on time in the morning. I face the wall opposite Shelby, because I tend to sleep with my mouth open and it’s embarrassing. Shelby’s mattress squeaks but it doesn’t sound like she’s laying it in it. I peek over my shoulder and see her kneeling on the floor with her hands clasped in prayer.
I really like Shelby and her family. They are good people. The kind of people my dad would talk about when mentioning the motocross family to strangers. I close my eyes to give her privacy and silently apologize to God for never praying. And then I ask to please, please, please let Ryan like me.
Shelby stays true to her claim of being a morning person and wakes up before I do. She changes into her clothes from yesterday and is brushing her teeth when I finally throw the sheets off me and climb out of bed. Her hair is silky and naturally as straight as mine would be after an hour of raking a flatiron through it. Lucky.
I trudge into the bathroom and brush my teeth. Shelby sits on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub. She tells me about the dream she had last night, talking with her hands. Even at five in the morning, she’s awake and perky as always, while I feel like the living-dead and wish I had a coffin to sleep in for the rest of the day.
Her dream retelling goes on as I brush my teeth, pull back my hair and throw my makeup. It’s not that I’m not interested, but it’s just so early in the freaking morning, I can’t help but zone out.
When I look as beautiful as I can make myself, I venture into my closet and motion for Shelby to do the same. She rambles about princesses with fanged teeth and Prince Charmings who were coming to save her as I find something to wear. I’d need something sexy enough to be eye candy for Ryan but durable enough to walk around all day, drenched with sweat, and possibly survive another tumble down (or up) a flight of stairs.
I settle on dark blue denim shorts and hold up two shirts to get Shelby’s opinion. She points to the pink one with sequin decorations on the neckline. I toss it to her and change into the other shirt, a blue V-neck with similar sequin decorations.
“I pointed to this one,” she says, wiggling the pink shirt in her hand.
“You’re wearing that.” I pull a sock on my foot.
“I can’t borrow any more of your clothes.” She goes to hang up the shirt.
“Yes you can.” I push the shirt away from the rack. “You can’t wear the same clothes you wore yesterday, and besides, I don’t mind.” I adopt a maternal look and point a finger at her, “Now, missy.”
“Okay.” She blushes through her tan skin. “Thank you.”
“Take some shorts too, I think we’re the same size. I’m a six.”
“Me too,” she squeals. She drops to the floor and digs through my bag of shorts. I think she’s getting the hang of borrowing things.
Exhaust fumes fill the air as the day progresses into the hottest day ever of my new life in Mixon. Though harmful to the environment, and probably my brain cells too, the smell of exhaust has grown on me. Unlike most sixteen-year-olds, I don’t work in a greasy fast-food joint or in a retail store with pushy customers. I have an easygoing job outdoors with little supervision, great pay and dozens of hot guys who prefer to walk around shirtless. Life is pretty sweet.
Although Shelby offered several times to stand at the front gate with me, I banished her to the tower with Molly, saying she should enjoy the air conditioning that it so graciously provides. My real reasoning for standing solo in the sun, bored to death, signing in riders is so I’ll be alone when Ryan inevitably shows up to practice.
After investing two hours alone at the gate, it finally pays off when I hear the low bass beat of rap music thundering in the distance. Ryan’s black Dodge rounds the corner and rumbles to a stop in front of me. There are no other cars in line, so he cuts off the engine and jumps out of the driver’s seat, landing with a thud on the paved road.
He’s as gorgeous as ever in shredded-up jeans that were probably bought that way, a black shirt embossed with a motocross brand logo and a backwards baseball cap.
“Good morning, Miss Hana,” he says. I hand him the clipboard and admire how he towers over me by a foot. This is fortunate because I’ve always thought I look better from a tall-boy angle. He must think so too because he watches me the entire time he prints, signs and dates the form on the clipboard.
I offer the only bit of conversation my brain can think of under the stress of being within five feet of him. “I don’t know if I can save that electricity spot tomorrow, but I’m seeing what I can do.”
“Thanks, it’s not a huge deal. I could always get a hotel.” Perhaps he should entice me with a kiss, I think, blushing. Since when did I become so skanky? He adjusts his hat.
“What’s that look for?”
“What look?” Had I really been that obvious that I was internally gushing over him?
“Just looks like you’re up to something.”
He touches my chin with one finger and raises it so my eyes meet his. I love it when he does this. His cologne gives me butterflies.
“I don’t think I’m up to anything,” I say, staring at his collar bone.
He reaches into the pocket that covers his perfect backside and gets his wallet. In a moment of sheer flirty courage, I decide to win him over by saving him ten bucks.
“Don’t worry about paying today.” I wave away his wallet and put the envelope of practice fees behind my back, daring him to try to pay me. He hesitates, his head cocked to the side. His eyes meet mine. I smile, and he seems convinced.
“Well, thank you.” He tips an imaginary hat at me and gets back in his monster of a truck. He drives to the pit area and parks in his usual spot. It’s a shame I have to stand at the gate and can’t watch him change into his motocross jersey. I lean against the tree where he brought me coffee a week and a half ago and analyze every move and word he said in our thirty-second conversation. Something is seriously wrong with me, I know.
