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“Thanks Dad,” I say, running to Molly before he can change his mind. Taking money and making people sign a clipboard has to be easier than continuing to fight with that staple gun.
Molly is still smiling when I get to her. Her face hasn’t changed from that brilliant smile in the four days I’ve been in Mixon. Maybe it’s some kind of new plastic surgery? I don’t know, but as weird as it is to see someone perpetually happy, it beats having Mom’s drunken, makeup stained face any day.
By now, the track entrance is lined with trucks and motorhomes, all of them with dirt bikes in the back. The next truck drives forward and Molly hands the clipboard to the driver. It’s a man, his wife and their three sons. He signs all of their names, hands Molly fifty dollars and drives away. Seems simple enough, if you know how to count by tens, a skill which I am lucky enough to have.
“Do you want some help?” I offer. I don’t mind if she wants me to stay, but I need a shower so bad I can almost feel the hot water splashing down my back. Or maybe that’s just the sweat. Ugh.
“No, but you could stay a bit and meet some of our friends. My best friend Maggie is two cars down. We both married motocross men! Can you believe how lucky we are?” She gushes like a teenager and hands the clipboard to the next person in line. They sign it, pay and drive off. The next truck is Maggie, who was almost as happy to meet me as Molly is on a daily basis. Her husband Joe is cute for an older guy. He asks how someone as pretty as me could have come from someone like my dad. I turn a deep shade of red.
A brand new – as in no official Texas license plates yet – Dodge Ram with an RV hooked on it is next in line. It’s black, shiny and about five feet taller than me. Loud rap music blasts from the speakers, the bass sound system shaking so much I can feel it in my feet. Molly waves him through without making him pay or sign.
“Why doesn’t he have to pay?” I ask.
“He’ll pay. He can park first because there’s no way I’d be able to reach into that truck of his.” She rolls her eyes, frowning that sort of frown that looks like a smile.
We sign in a few more trucks and she introduces me to everyone. Most of them already know who I am before she announces me as Jim’s daughter. I’m not sure if it’s flattering or weird or just plain mean to be told how much I look like forty-year-old man.
The sun starts to creep down the horizon, but it’s still as hot as ever. I am soaking in sweat and wisps of my hair stick to my neck despite my ragged ponytail. My muscles have had all they can take today. I’m about to find Dad and ask for a four-wheeler ride back home when I hear footsteps behind us.
He’s tall with shaggy blond hair and muscular arms. He’s holding a twenty-dollar bill. He’s muscular. And he’s holding a twenty-wait, I already said that. My heart speeds up. My eyes go wide and then I try to stop them by squinting, which probably makes me look like I have a nervous twitch.
I manage to step back and choke on my spit in the one millisecond it takes him to look at me from head to toe and then speak to my step-mom. He says something, but I have no idea what because I’m pretty sure I just died. I don’t know what to do with my hands, oh God what should I do with my hands? Shoving them in my pockets, I squint into the distance, as if there is something so amazingly important over there that it requires all of my attention.
“Trust me, I know it,” he says in a voice that was as sexy as his huge strong shoulders and charming blue eyes. Oh, wow. I’ve been watching Lifetime movies to
o much. “It’s just my dad and me today,” he says as he hands her money.
“Where’s Jackie?” Molly asks.
He takes the clipboard. “Visiting my grandparents. She may come up here tomorrow.” He signs it with his left hand. He’s a lefty just like me. Not that I’m paying attention or anything.
“Ryan, this is Hana.” Molly introduces us with a wave of her hand from him to me.
He gives me the look-over again and holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet Jim’s daughter.” He grins, showing teeth that are so impossibly white, they must have been bleached in some crazy cosmetic experiment. I mumble something in agreement and shake his hand, all while trying to keep my knees from buckling.
“Ryan’s one of the fastest guys around here,” Molly says.
Ryan rocks back on his heels. “The fastest, actually.”
“Oh? That’s cool…” I say, like some kind of lobotomized freak.
A drop of sweat rolls down my back. I’m standing in front of the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever met, in a pair of old shorts and a paint-stained shirt soaked in a gallon of sweat. Holy crap. I have to get out of here and save any bit of dignity I have left. Wanting to run, I excuse myself as ladylike as possible and then dash through the woods, over the bridge and into the house without looking back.
Dinner is delicious. I haven’t eaten food this good since Thanksgiving dinner with Grandma. And Grandma’s been dead longer than I care to remember. I load up my plate with Molly’s homemade macaroni and cheese, baked chicken and mashed potatoes. Working at the track all day drained all my energy. My stomach grumbles as though I can never eat enough food to satisfy it. But I’ll keep trying.
Dad doesn’t stop talking about me at the dinner table. He says everyone liked me, and that it’s great to have me around. He doesn’t even mention the banners I failed to hang in a timely manner.
“Honey, you’re officially part of the motocross family,” he says, putting down his fork, then grabbing my hand from across the table.
“You mean our family?” I ask with my mouth full of macaroni. I’m already plotting my maneuver to grab more of it from the large bowl on the counter.
“The motocross family is everyone. The riders, the workers, the spectators.” Dad points his fork in the air as he talks. “We’re all a part of the motocross family, and now you are too.”
I nod. Motocross family? That’s about the cheesiest thing I have ever heard. Motocross is just a sport, like soccer or baseball or underwater basket weaving and I’m pretty sure baseball families and soccer families didn’t exist. At least not in the way my dad is portraying motocross families. But he’s sitting here holding my hand like we’re on a Dr. Phil episode and he looks so proud, so I don’t say what I’m really thinking. I just smile back and say, “Yeah, that’s awesome.”
I shower until the hot water runs cold and then I plop into bed wishing I had skipped that third helping of macaroni. I’m exhausted from working today and mortified at meeting Ryan while looking like a deranged, smiling freak who hasn’t bathed in days.
As I lay in bed, I can see the lights from the track through my window. One of those lights belongs to Ryan, where he is prepping for the race tomorrow. Where he will inevitably see me again. And although he doesn’t know it yet, the next time he sees me, I won’t just be Hana, Jim’s daughter.
