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The next truck pulls up and I ready my clipboard. It’s an older Mazda with faded red paint and a blue dirt bike in the back. Shiny decals on the bike’s number plate read 336. The guy driving is about my age. He would fit in perfectly with the hot motocross guys if his hair wasn’t a foot long and dread-locked. It makes him look wild, like someone who frequently breaks the rules and doesn’t care. A white grease-stained shirt and board shorts complete his look. It is the exact opposite of Ryan’s clean-cut, designer label, you-can-bring-me-home-to-mom style. He takes the clipboard and signs it in two places.
“Good morning.” He hands it back along with money. “Hana Fisher, right?” His teeth are remarkably white when he smiles. Maybe it’s not a bleach thing. Maybe there’s something in the water that gives Mixon boys great smiles.
“Yeah, something like that,” I say, bored with small talk. I’d spent the entire morning confirming my name to people and talking about my black eye and stupid things like the weather, or how exciting it is being at the races. All he needs to do is sign, pay and leave me alone so I can discuss the same thing all over again with the next person in line.
“I’m paying for me and the girl in the car behind us,” he says.
“That’s nice.” I glance toward the blonde he’s referring to. “Girlfriend?”
“Sister actually, but she costs as much as one.” He laughs as he leans forward and shoves his wallet back in his pocket. “I’m Ash, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand and flashes me another smile so wholesome, it makes all my visions of him robbing a convenient store seem unrealistic. He drives forward and I wave the girl through, wondering why dreadlocks have such a stigma about them anyway.
Eventually, the cars thin out, and only one or two trucks come in every few minutes. I lean against a tree and daydream about Ryan. Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. It must be Molly coming to relieve me of sign-in duty.
“Thank God you’re here. I’m tired of standing.” I turn around to greet her, but face Ryan instead.
He smirks. “Didn’t think you’d be so thrilled to see me.” He has no idea how right he is, but I can’t let him know that.
“I thought you were Molly. I’m sick of standing here and wanted her to take over for me.” I yawn and plaster an apathetic-but-cute look on my face. I’m not blowing this again. I concentrate on tilting my head down and to the right so he can see more of the good side of my face and less of the blackened, swollen side. He wears what must be his pajamas from last night; khaki cargo shorts and a white undershirt. He holds two Styrofoam cups and hands one to me. “I thought you could use some coffee.”
I swear, if he smiles one more time, my knees will collapse, which isn’t exactly an exaggeration considering how weak they are from my run-in with the stairs.
“Wow, thanks,” I lie as I take the cup. Of all the drinks in the world, he had to pick the one I hate.
“Jim told me about your little accident.” He puts a hand to my chin and turns it toward him to examine my bruise. I don’t want him to see how ugly it is, but I don’t want him to let go either, so I comply. He’s touching me. I can’t believe it. Actual skin-on-skin contact. This is a huge step after only one day of knowing him. My heart shrieks for joy. My face shrieks in pain.
“Ouch!” I gasp.
“You poor thing.” His thumb slides over my bruise and I jump back at the quick burst of pain.
“I wish my father would learn to keep his mouth shut,” I groan. If he told Ryan about my accident, then it’s likely he’ll tell everyone else today. Ryan shrugs, but I’m sure he heard me. He takes a long sip of his coffee and checks his watch.
“Well Hana, it was nice talking with you, but I’ve got to get ready for practice.” He crumples his now empty coffee cup and tosses it in the garbage can next to the tree.
Think of something witty! My brain scans through every witty thing I’ve ever said, but comes up fruitless. All I manage to spit out is a weak, “Yeah, you too,” as I watch him walk away. With the tree as my only company, I stand here defeated, until the next footsteps I hear really are Molly’s.
By seven in the morning, the track’s atmosphere simmers to life as riders dress in head-to-toe protective gear. Dads work on dirt bikes and moms hand out breakfast sandwiches from fast-food bags.
A boy no older than seven buckles his boots while his mother straps a brace around his neck. Then he layers a foam chest protector under his jersey and puts another clear plastic one on top of that. She hands him gloves and places his helmet on the seat of his dirt bike. A much smaller boy plays with toy dirt bikes in the sand and makes little braaaap sounds as he moves them jump through the air, crashing into the dirt.
I sit on a wooden bench below the tower, watching as everyone around me prepares for the day’s race. The PA speakers crackle, distracting me from my intriguing task of zoning out. My dad’s voice fills the air, announcing that practice will start in fifteen minutes.
Almost immediately, several dirt bikes fire up and riders everywhere finish getting dressed and buckle their helmets. Molly’s voice appears out of thin air and asks me to help in the tower. I jump, forgetting the walkie-talkie hanging from a lanyard around my neck. Carefully, I go up the stairs for the second time today.
Before going inside, I look around at the track below me. Ryan sits on the roof of his truck with his helmet in his hand, talking to his dad. Ash’s truck is a few cars away and he appears to be the only rider not yet dressed in layers of protective gear. His sister reads a book. No wonder he had to bribe her to come along today.
Registering the racers is just as boring as signing in the racers. They tell me which class they want to race and pay a whopping forty-five dollars each. The day has twenty different races, or motos as everyone around here calls them. The kids usually race in one class, while the older, faster racers race in three or four different classes. Motocross is not a sport for the poor, I realize as I shuffle stacks of cash into the register.
None of the class names make sense to me; they’re ordered by size of bike, age of rider and if they were a beginner, novice or expert. I just write them down as the racers say them and pretend to understand. Ryan’s dad signs him up for four classes. One of them is the Amateur Pro class, or Pro for short.
It seems contradictory to have the words amateur and pro in the same title, but Molly explains it in layman’s terms for me. Real Pro motocrossers are like NFL players, and the Amateur Pros are like college football players. The Pro class is the only race that gives cash prizes for first through third place. Ryan’s appeal skyrockets because not only is he gorgeous, he signed up for the infamous Pro class.
“Hello again,” Ash says, looking into his wallet. “250 Pro and 250 open, please. Ash Carter.” I scribble his name next to the two classes and take the cash he shoves under the cutout in the glass window. It’s odd that he’s still wearing normal clothes when the rest of the riders who signed up were already in their racing gear.
I almost don’t believe the boy with dreads who hadn’t bothered practicing yesterday would be racing in the Pro class with Ryan. Maybe he’s one of the delusional guys who want to be faster than he is. He rubs his eyebrow and draws in a deep breath.
“Hey, if you get disqualified and haven’t raced yet, can you get a refund?”
