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“Um, I don’t know,
” I say, wondering what someone could be disqualified for in motocross.
“Can you ask Mr. Fish- eh…never mind.” He walks away as his voice trails off, but I think I catch an, I don’t care mumbled under his breath. That was weird, but so are dreadlocks, so I dismiss it and greet the next rider in line.
After signups, there is a brief rider’s meeting, where my dad goes over the flag colors, (of which I already know, thanks to Molly) the rules of the race and other boring things that pertain to riders. Ryan listens to the meeting while standing with his friends, who are all muscular and sexy in some degree.
Yeah, I can get used to this life. Also I owe Felicia an apology.
I meander through the crowd and stop next to Ryan as casually as I can manage while pretending to check my phone for messages. He gives me a quick nod then returns his attention to my dad. Dad wraps up the meeting by urging everyone to enter the drawing to win a Mixon Motocross T-shirt during intermission.
When Ryan walks away, I go in the same direction pretending to have something on my mind. “Hey Fisher,” he says, striding up next to me. “Where ya going?”
“I’m supposed to be looking for, uh, this thing.” I point ahead to where I know his truck is parked, so we can walk together for a while.
“Want to see my new bike?” he asks. Right, as if he had to ask.
He shows me his two custom-modified racing dirt bikes. Not that I care what kind of motor it has or how many strokes it is, but I pretend to. I do a pretty good job of swooning over the custom graphics and aftermarket pipe, handlebars and suspension – whatever all of that means.
I officially meet his dad, who lounges in their motorhome watching the morning news. He’s the first adult who hasn’t fawned over meeting Jim’s daughter. And although my greatest wish has been that everyone just leave me alone, it kind of hurts my feelings when he does just that.
Ryan talks a lot about racing. He tells me how many sponsors he has, how many amateur championships he’s won, and generally everything great about himself. I manage to drink an entire Redbull between saying, “Oh really?” and “That’s cool.” It’s more boring than listening to Dad talk about motocross families and his feelings. Still, I refuse to believe that Ryan isn’t perfect in every way.
I mean, maybe he’s not stuck on himself. Maybe he’s just nervous like I am and doesn’t know what else to say. When his soliloquy comes to an end, he hops up in the bed of his huge truck and sits on the tailgate. He offers his arm to me and helps me climb up beside him.
“So you got a boyfriend?” He sounds as bored with the question as I am thrilled.
“Nope.” I try to sound bored like him, but I know I’m not fooling anyone. “If I did, I don’t think he’d want me hanging out with you.”
Ryan’s eyes go wide for an instant. “True.”
A short while later, a pretty girl in a skirt similar to mine sings the National Anthem, and the races begin. I ask Dad what I should be doing, via my walkie-talkie and he tells me to enjoy the races. I take a seat on the bleachers and try to gain interest in the sport that’s supposed to be in my blood. The first few motos are smaller bikes; kids younger than Teig who make ridiculously slow laps around the track. It isn’t as much fun to watch like the big bikes are. But I stay anyway since I have nothing to do until intermission.
The bleachers are packed, most of them worried mothers or younger sisters who are as bored as me. It doesn’t help that the day gets warmer as time creeps on, and my neck is soon sticky with sweat.
“Hi. You’re Mr. Fisher’s daughter, right?” A girl to my right flashes me an uncomfortable smile, as if she’s being held at gunpoint to talk to me.
“Yeah, that’s me. I’m Hana.” I shake her hand. It’s sticky like mine.
“Your dad’s really excited you’re here,” she says, scooting closer to me. “He talks about you a lot. I’m Shelby, by the way.”
Maybe I’m confusing her with all the people I’ve met recently, but her heart-shaped face is so familiar…it’s like I’m experiencing déjà vu. She’s plain, with naturally tanned skin and no makeup. Her dirty-blonde hair falls loosely on her shoulders. I know this is my first time meeting her, but there is something in her eyes that I can’t quite place.
She flinches and turns back to the race. I realize that only creepy idiots stare at people for as long as I just stared at her. “I feel like I’ve met you before,” I say, trying to sound friendly and not like I have a staring problem. “But I know I haven’t.”
“You’ve met my brother, then.” She smiles, looking a lot less freaked out. “It happens a lot.”
“Who’s your brother?”
“Ash.”
So that’s where I’ve seen her eyes before. They are the welcoming eyes of a stranger this morning when he signed in, and then much colder when he registered a while later.
“You look so much alike,” I say, still wondering why he was worried about getting disqualified from racing.
She shrugs, keeping her eyes on the race. “He’s my twin.”
Chapter 5
