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I’ll be Hana, Jim’s HOT daughter.
Chapter 4
I wake up before my alarm the next morning. That’s improvement number one from the old Hana way of life. I hadn’t slept much, but I’m still energized because it was the kind of sleepless night where you’re too excited to sleep. Ryan had filled my every thought while I stared at the ceiling as the early morning hours ticked by.
Today I will be confident and sexy, not the mumbling idiot I was yesterday. Ryan will trip over himself when he sees me again. I was never like his in Dallas. But Dallas boys were either book nerds or party nerds. I hate studying and I hate partying. But I’m okay with motocross. And muscles.
Motocross and Muscles. Now that should be a Lifetime movie.
Just yesterday I thought I would drop dead of exhaustion if I had to wake up this early, but now I couldn’t sleep longer if I had to. Last night I mentally tried on every outfit I had until I imagined the perfect ensemble that would make Ryan drool. I’m so glad I shoved that denim skirt into my bag when I left Mom’s house.
I stand in front of the big mirror in my closet with my eyes closed. When I finally get the courage to peek at the new skirt-wearing me, I open one eye first and then the other. It isn’t as bad as I’d imagined, save for my pale and unshaven legs. Hopefully Molly has an extra razor.
The skirt works on two levels. First of all, it’s the sort of thing guys love to see. Secondly, it will help with the humid and disgustingly hot weather I’ll be baking in today. So I swallow my doubt and try to push back my fear of showing skin in public. Again, Mom creeps into my mind. I am not becoming like her. I am not becoming like her.
No, I’m not.
I’m just improving the old me.
Downstairs, Molly has breakfast burritos waiting in the basket and, though they smell delicious, I know the butterflies in my stomach won’t let me eat today. She doesn’t hand me the coffee thermos today, but it isn’t because the staff finally realized how gross it is and quit. Apparently they had an industrial coffee maker installed in the score tower. Now my father and every other delusional coffee-lover will have all of the nastiness they can drink in record brew time.
My black Chucks are drenched from trudging through the dew-covered grass on the walk to the tower. A pair of rhinestone encrusted sandals would’ve made my outfit perfect, but I know I chose the correct shoes for a day of work.
The people who camped out last night are parked so far away, I can only make out a black blob of what I think is Ryan’s truck. The white RV-shaped blob next to it has the lights on. That means not only is he awake – he’s probably shirtless. Today will be an amazing day. I look amazing. I know Ryan will look amazing. Laughing to myself, I climb the stairs. I don’t notice how the metal steps are slick with dew just like the grass until it’s too late.
My foot slips on the third step and I stumble forward, falling hard on the stairs in front of me. The basket of burritos tumbles over the arm rail and crashes in the dirt below. Tears come fast and I stop trying to scramble back up to my feet because every part of me hurts. My knees, my shins, my elbows. My face hurts the worst. The tears sting as they roll down my cheek. The door swings open.
“What the hell was that?” Dad scans the horizon before looking down and seeing me. “Oh god, Hana.” He rushes to pull me up. “Are you okay? Did you break anything? You’re not bleeding, are you?” His voice cracks. His eyes dart from my arms to my head and then to my legs that are now visibly beginning to bruise. He lifts my left arm and then my right, as if checking to see that they are still attached. I want to laugh at him for being so ridiculous, but unfortunately I keep sobbing.
“Dad, I’m fine,” I groan, rubbing my knees. “Actually, I hurt everywhere, but I’m okay. Sorry about breakfast.” I look down at the scattered rolls of aluminum foil now covered in dirt. My stomach growls, cursing my clumsiness.
“Don’t worry about that. We need to let you rest.” He helps me walk up the remaining stairs and makes me sit on the futon while he fetches Molly. I am not bleeding and nothing is broken, but he refuses to let me leave the stupid futon until Molly appraises my head injury.
The pain in my face pulses along with my heartbeat. After a few agonizing moments, the sharp pain recedes and I dare to touch my face. The area between my right eye and cheekbone is swollen. A mirror would help me survey the damage, but I don’t see one in the room. I try to compare the swelling by touching the other side of my face. My heart sinks. It’s a noticeable difference. I probably look like a freak. Even this short and now dirty skirt will be no help with Ryan today.
The door opens and Marty walks in eating a burrito, the basket in his hand.
“Wow, what happened to you?” he asks. Always the sensitive one.
“I fell.” I point out the obvious. “I can’t believe you’re eating those, aren’t they covered in dirt?”
Mom always said men would eat anything, and I suppose she was right. He pours a cup of coffee from the tower’s new coffee maker and drinks it black.
“Nah, just the foil was dirty, they’re fine inside.” He holds up the burrito to show me. It smells so good. “You want one?”
I take the one he offers. He’s right – the burrito itself is perfect thanks to Molly’s amazing foil-wrapping ability. At least I didn’t ruin breakfast for everyone after all.
Molly finds no reason to send me to the hospital. She does try to persuade me to go home and rest, but I insist on staying under the guise of being excited to see how the races work. I know if I had told her the real reason I wanted to stay, to confirm my suspicions that Ryan had washboard abs under his jersey, she wouldn’t have been so thrilled.
When I feel better, she puts me on sign in duty. I stand at the entrance to the track and hand the clipboard to each car that enters, just like Molly did yesterday. I find it weird that no one bothers to read the waiver they sign. I read it, though. I lose count of how many times the word death is mentioned in the fine print.
It isn’t long until the driveway and half a mile of the entrance road is lined with cars. I can’t believe this many people come to race at my dad’s track. When I was a kid, the track didn’t have races, only practice. Now as I stare at the line of at least fifty vehicles waiting to get in, my heart swells with pride for my dear old dad. He’s made a name for himself with what used
to be a rinky-dink hang out for punk kids on dirt bikes.
Everyone is friendly in the motocross world, but I get tired of explaining to them what happened to my face and confirming that yes, I’m Jim’s daughter. I abandon my ice pack when it melts into a bag of water. As long as I don’t squint my eyes or smile very wide, it doesn’t hurt. That’s easier said than done when the sun is shining and everyone keeps saying hello.
An hour later my sign-in sheet has all fifty spaces filled, and I flip to a new page. According to the race schedule, there is still one more hour of this left. I count down the minutes until I’m free to roam around and scope out Ryan.
