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“It’s unhealthy,” he says, losing his smile. “For guys and girls. You shouldn’t go out of your way to make someone like you.” I uncross my arms and put a hand on my hip.
He shrugs off my glare. “Either they like you as you are, or they don’t.”
“So you think Shelby shouldn’t look cute because, god forbid, some guy might be attracted to her?”
Ash says calm. It annoys me because I’d like to see him show some emotion about something. “Looks aren’t everything, Hana.”
Anger builds inside me. I want to tell him he doesn’t know anything about dating or he’d have a girlfriend right now and wouldn’t have to waste time in my garage working on bikes or giving his sister dating advice. But I don’t want to blow up and cause a scene and make Shelby mad at me. So I smile the fakest smile I have. “Whatever you say, Ash.”
There’s nothing wrong with changing a few things about yourself to make someone like you. After all, this is what I do every day for Ryan. “Whatever kind of girl you want me to be” was without a doubt the craziest thing I’ve said that wasn’t part of a private daydream. And it worked, thankyouverymuch. Ash doesn’t know what he is talking about. I doubt he’s ever had a girlfriend in his entire life.
Dad returns with the burritos. Ash gives Teig some pointers for the day’s race while they eat. He tells Teig to stop looking behind him when he rides because it’s never good to see how close your competition is to passing you. “It’ll make you paranoid and you’ll lose all concentration,” he says. He also tells him to clutch in the turns instead of using his brake so he’d keep his momentum. This advice seems misleading and impossible to do, but I’m not in the mood to talk to Ash anymore. The clutch doesn’t operate like a brake. Maybe that’s why they wear so much protective gear; they go through turns without braking. But what do I know?
Teig hangs on every word Ash says and Dad does too, for the most part. If my dad hadn’t hurt his back in his twenties, I’m sure he’d still be riding today. He always says motocross was his life whether or not he’s on a bike.
When the burritos are gone, Teig dresses in riding gear and makes Ash promise to watch him race today. Shelby rides with Ash to the track, leaving me to ride with my little brother on his newly repaired dirt bike.
I wrap my arms around him and hold on as we ride through the back yard. He zooms across the wooden bridge, which is terrifying. My eyes snap shut and I clench my teeth together until we jolt to a stop in front of the tower.
Marty works on the paperwork for today’s race. He explains how the top six finishers in each moto will qualify for the Nationals in two months. It is imperative that the qualifying racers are recorded correctly. That will be my job. No pressure or anything.
Thanks to Dad’s friend who maintains the Mixon Motocross Park website, it now has an option to register and pay online the day before the races. A lot of riders took advantage of this so registration at the tower is slow. Dad makes me handle the in-person registrations instead of sign in duty. I don’t like the idea of sitting in the tower all morning, because I won’t get to see Ryan. During a slow time, I skim through the list of early registered racers. I don’t see Ryan’s name. Hell-to-the-yes! That means he’ll have to stop by and register. And see me.
I hold onto the hope of seeing his gorgeous face until his dad shows up – without Ryan. His eyes are lined with dark circles, probably from waking up so early.
“Good morning,” I say with more spunk than necessary. “Where’s Ryan?”
He fills out the forms and doesn’t acknowledge me until he finishes. “He’s not here yet.” He slaps money on the table, turns around and leaves without another word. Good freaking morning to you too, asshole.
Shelby joins Ash to register a few minutes after Ryan’s dad leaves. The pins are out of her hair and it’s tied into a messy bun with her bangs left to roam freely around her face.
“What happened to you hair?” I ask, annoyed that my artwork from this morning is now a mess.
“Malissa was wearing her hair the same way,” she says, reaching up and touching her bun. “I had to take mine down because I didn’t want her thinking I copied her.”
“That’s dumb.” I sigh. All of my hard work, wasted.
“I’m serious,” Shelby pleads, desperate to keep my feelings intact. “I really liked it, I swear.”
“This is true,” Ash says, glancing at the top of Shelby’s head where the pins used to be. He takes his wallet out of her hand and counts out five bills. I catch myself trying to discern some tell-tale sign that proves he liked me, like a wink or a smile or a glimmer in his eye. But his eyes are tired and he yawns instead of smiling.
“Two-fifty Pro and two-fifty Open. Ash Carter.” He leans in to the hole in the plexi-glass that allows us to talk to each other.
“Oh really, is that your name? I totally forgot.” I smirk as I write his info on the form. If I’m lucky, my friendliness will patch the sore spot from my rudeness earlier. Ash lifts an eyebrow as he signs the registration papers.
Dorothy has me watching the finish line like a hawk for the entire first half of the races. I’m not even allowed to go to the restroom unless someone can fill my place. We sit next to each other with clipboards and record the bike number of every racer as they cross the finish line, keeping track of how many laps they complete and what order they finish the race. There is a ten-second gap between each race. I take these opportunities to ask Dorothy to explain the more detailed rules of motocross to me.
Motocross races are divided into a series of several races and riders get points for each race they complete in the series. First place gets thirty points, second place gets twenty-nine, and so on. At the end of the series, all the points are added up to determine the overall winner.
Dorothy is excited about the series trophies they ordered for this year. She says they’re more elaborate than any previous Mixon trophies. First place is six-feet tall. The first place trophy we usually give out for series races is half that size. So the racer who earns the new one will have something to brag about. Teig’s bedroom and half of the study are filled with trophies, and he’s only nine years old. I can only imagine how many trophies guys like Ryan own.
Teig wins his first moto and I write the number fourteen with pride in the first place spot for his class. The next several motos run into one seemingly endless race. My eyes start to hurt from watching flashes of dirt bikes fly over the finish line jump and scrambling to write their number before the next one zooms by. Sometimes three bikes cross the finish line at once, and I write one long number and then section it into three when I have a second to spare.
Marty’s announcing voice goes from monotone to superstar sportscaster when the two-fifty Pro class starts. Unfortunately, I can’t watch any of it except the finish line. Ryan leads the first lap, followed by Ash. I write ninety-six and three-three-six on the paper, followed by the rest of the racers who are behind by more than five seconds. Five seconds in motocross is not good.
Ryan keeps the lead for three laps, but Ash pulls ahead by the forth lap. Although I can’t see it, the crowd’s reaction is loud enough for me to hear in the tower, even over the roar of engines and Marty’s excited cheers.
The white flag waves, signaling the last lap. This time Ryan and A
