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What started as an hour-long morning beautification ritual has, in recent weeks, morphed into a sloppy ten-minute shuffle around my room to get ready for work. The days of high heels and manicured toenails are long gone; I’m lucky if I bother to shave three times a week. I no longer care what I look like at the track, as Ash doesn’t seem to notice if I wear designer labels or old sweats and I very much admire that about him. I find a pair of shorts and a Fallen Rider’s Association T-shirt on the floor and wriggle into them while feeling under the bed for my other shoe.
I am also accustomed to the smell of coffee rising from the kitchen, up the stairs and creeping in under my door every morning. It no longer makes me nauseous, but I still refuse to drink the stuff. The scent this morning is mixed with another more delicious one?
??syrup? Surely Molly isn’t putting syrup into the breakfast burritos. I skip down the stairs while pulling my hair into a messy, wadded bun and take pride in my sense of balance as I only slam into the railing twice.
Although it is thirty minutes past four in the morning, I hear Dad talking in the kitchen so I can’t be reprimanded for being late if he hasn’t left either. Sometimes I wonder if he told me I had to report to the track earlier than needed since I am almost guaranteed to be late every day.
My parents, brother, Marty and Dorothy are all in the kitchen talking enthusiastically as I saunter in, still in a zombie-like state from having just crawled out of bed. It doesn’t take me long to register the abnormal amount of excitement in the room. And that’s not just because of the stack of pancakes and bacon Molly cooks on the stove. I know the National races are a big deal for my dad’s track, but I had no idea everyone would be this excited about it.
I take a seat next to Teig and remember what Ash had told me a few days ago.
“The Nationals are the biggest thing that could happen to a motocross track. It would be like the Boston Red Sox asking to play a game at the local high school baseball field. Your dad is envied by every track owner in Texas.”
We gather in the dining room for breakfast. Talk at the table goes in my left ear and out the right one without a second thought from me. I’m busy drowning my pancakes in syrup and daydreaming about Ash. I probably won’t see him today since the track is closed to riders. Shelby and I have plans to meet at the local McDonald’s for lunch. I’m tempted to ask her to bring Ash, but the angel on my shoulder keeps shouting a warning at me. “Friends don’t use each other for their hot brothers.”
I look over my left shoulder and visualize what the little metaphorical angel would look like perched on my collarbone and wagging a finger at me. She would be wearing white, obviously, and her tiny eyes would have dark circles under them from all the stress I put her through trying to keep me in line.
The chatter continues but I tune it out. Over my right shoulder, a tiny version of me dressed as a devil would reside, if in fact these intangible parts of my subconscious were real. She would probably have a motorcycle too. She’d ride donuts around my shoulder while telling me to go ahead and do the bad things that were tempting me. She and I would get along great. I smirk, chin still turned to my shoulder, and then Teig’s mouth falls open in confusion as he watches me make faces to thin air.
“Hana has a date tonight.” My father’s words rip through the thick shield my ears wear when I tune out adult conversation. I almost choke on my pancake. Dorothy and Molly burst into big grins as they launch into hyperactive mother-figure mode and bombard me with questions.
“Who is it?”
“Is it Ash?”
“Where are y’all going?”
“It’s Ash, isn’t it?”
“Have you kissed him yet?” That one was from Dorothy. Molly playfully elbows her when my face turns an obvious shade of red, judging by how hot my cheeks are. I struggle to hear my thoughts well enough to make them into words. Teig watches me, waiting for my answers while he shovels food into his mouth at record speed. Dad and Marty are absorbed in their own conversation about spark plugs for the tractor.
Dorothy asked if I had kissed Ash yet. It’s as if she and everyone else know about my crush on him. But I certainly haven’t kissed him yet and I haven’t even been on a date with him, so why is she asking me this? And that’s when I remember…I have a date with Ryan tonight.
Well, it isn’t really a date, more like attending a barbeque with him. No big deal. I swallow. “It’s Ryan not Ash. No, it’s not a date, and of course no to the kissing,” I answer in one breath that will hopefully end the topic of my pseudo-date. Teig mutters an ewww under his breath.
“I don’t trust that boy as far as I can throw him,” Dorothy says.
“He’s not so bad,” Molly intercedes, throwing a sincere smile my way. “He’s a nice kid.”
Dorothy’s bony finger points straight at me. “You tell him to keep his hands to himself, you hear me?”
Molly and I start hanging banners before the sun is out. These banners are three times the size of the usual ones we use for race days. All of the big name motocross brands are featured on them, from dirt bike manufacturers to clothing and accessories companies. We cover the walls of the tower and then nail some to the main entrance of the track.
While Molly chats about some darling woman who is married to the owner of a local cycle shop, I help her nail the shop’s banner to a fence post in silence. Normally, I’d try to add to her conversation by throwing in a few “Ahhs” and “oh cool”s, but all I can think of right now is Ash and Ryan.
As much as I don’t want to admit it, I like both of them and both of them seem to like me. Ash is obviously the better choice, as Ryan tends to charm me and then ignore me. I should let Ryan fall to the wayside and concentrate on Ash; it would be the smart thing to do. But Ash hasn’t asked me out and Ryan did. Why did I agree to hang out with Ryan tonight? And more importantly, why do the butterflies still do summersaults in my stomach when Ryan smiles at me?
What if Ash finds out about my so-called date with Ryan? A large, elephant-sized portion of me wants him to find out. If he knew I was spending time, not just any time, but flirting time, with his worst enemy then he would have to spring into action and make me his girlfriend. He needs to know that other guys are interested in me so he can fight for my affection. My heart sinks as I reach for another nail and hammer it through the plastic banner. Somehow, I can’t picture Ash being the fighting type.
By noon, the track gets overtaken by a half dozen bulldozers. A high-pitched beep pierces the air every time one of them shifts into reverse. Unfortunately for Molly and me, that’s about every ten seconds.
We sit on the floor of the score tower, opening and organizing boxes of new T-shirts that will be on sale at the races tomorrow. They read “Mixon Motocross Nationals” with tomorrow’s date on the front, and a screened image of a racer whipping through the air on the back. I had seen Ash and Shelby wear Nationals shirts from other tracks, all with the dates of previous races on them. We have at least three hundred shirts ordered. Molly assures me we would sell all of them so if I want one I should take it now.
My phone lights up and vibrate from across the room. Hoping to see a message from Ash or Ryan, but knowing it is probably neither, I lurch across the pile of shirts and unlock my phone. Molly gasps at my ninja-like moves.
“It’s just Shelby,” I say aloud, obviously disappointed as I take my spot on the floor between the adult small and child large piles. Molly rolls her eyes. I read the message, typed in perfect English because Shelby hates typical text lingo.
“I’m so excited and I can’t wait to talk to you. Jake and I went to dinner last night and he totally KISSED me! I know you’re busy at work now, but can we hang out tonight and gush about it?”
