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“The track guys are coming in on Monday to demolish the track and redo it for the Regionals,” Dad says, running a finger down the calendar on the desk in fr
ont of him. “We could cancel tonight’s race since it’s just a night race on the small track. Save ourselves the trouble so we can focus on Regionals.”
“No way,” Marty and I say at the same time. I grab a clipboard off the wall and flip through the pages of pre-registrations for tonight’s race. “The race will go on tonight. It’s just a night race and we can handle it without Lincoln.”
Marty nods. “Racers will be showing up any minute now, so let’s get on with it. The show will go on. We can hire the kid’s replacement later.”
Dad doesn’t seem too enthusiastic, but at least he agrees. I put on a reassuring smile and grab an extra burrito from the basket. Since Lincoln isn’t here today, there are leftovers, and something tells me I’ll need the extra energy if I’m going to pull off a race without that dumbass’s help.
The Regionals are a big deal for amateur motocross racing. The country is divided into five regions, and the winners of each goes on to race for the championship. It’s not as prestigious as the professional National race we hosted last year, but it’s pretty big. Riders of all ages compete and the teens that win this championship are usually the racers who go on to become the famous pros.
Oak Creek, the closest track to my dad’s, has hosted the Regionals a few times, and they’re always competing with Mixon for the honor. But since we had so much press from hosting the pros last summer, I guess that’s why we got the race again this year. It’s going to be a ton of work, but I refuse to let Dad stress out about us being a man short. The race must go on, and all that.
Tonight’s race is just a fun summer thing, a night race that’s not part of a series. Dad has six free weeknights in the summer that aren’t hosting series races or Regionals or something important, so he fills the time by hosting random night races. A lot of people come out to these, especially younger kids who aren’t ready to race against the really fast guys. It’ll be fun and stress-free for the most part. Marty can handle the announcing, Molly can sign in the riders, Frank has the concession stand, and Dad and I will do everything else.
The best part? I’ll be so busy I won’t have time to think about Ash and his new girlfriend.
*
By three in the afternoon, the track is packed. A line of cars waits to check in, and the parking lot is already filling up. The night race takes place on the smaller supercross track. Unlike the sprawling motocross track that we use for day races, the night track is compact, fitting into a space about the size of a football field. Giant floodlights brighten every inch of the track, and there is seating on every side. I like the night track because you can see the entire thing from your spot on the bleachers. On the day track, you can only see the area you’re standing in front of. Here, you can follow the first place racer all the way around the track if you want to.
Molly and I are working the driveway, signing in riders and spectators, taking their ten dollars each entry fee. The races don’t start until six, but people always get here early. My walkie-talkie crackles. “Score tower to Hana Fisher, I repeat: score tower to Hana Fisher.”
The voice makes me lift an eyebrow. I hand the clipboard over to the woman in a minivan, who signs in herself and three kids with her. When she leaves, I click the talk button. “Shelby? What’s up?”
“I accidently hit the escape key and it logged me out of the racing software thingy,” she says. “What’s the password?”
I smile at the approaching driver, a guy in his fifties with a vintage dirt bike in the back of his pickup. “Hi, I just need your signature and it’s ten dollars, please.”
To the walkie-talkie, I say, “Why are you in the score tower?”
“I’m helping out, duh. What’s the password? I need to enter in all of the motos for tonight.”
“Mixon fifteen, capital M.” I take the guy’s money and wish him good luck in his race. “Does my dad know you’re in there?” I ask.
“Of course. He was happy to have the help.”
“Cool,” I say, feeling a little relieved. I didn’t want to leave Molly here alone, but entering the motos into the scoring software takes a while, and I’ve been worried about how I was going to get it done on time. We have this cool new system now where all of the riders get a little poker chip thing that attaches to their bike or their suit. The device tracks them on the course and as they cross the finish line. Instead of a person, the computer keeps track of who wins each race, along with their exact lap times. The racers love it, but before we can use it, each racer has to be assigned a chip and a moto manually. Thank you, Shelby.
An hour later, I’m still signing people in, and the Texas heat is doing me no favors. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the hand towel I keep around my neck and move to the next car in line.
“Hey there,” I say, greeting the driver, who looks about sixteen years old. She’s gripping the steering wheel of her BMW as if she fears it’ll fall off or something. “You okay?” I ask, leaning down to her level.
“Can my car like, drive on this?” she says, peering out of her window.
“On what, the gravel driveway?” I ask, shielding the sun from my eyes with the clipboard. “Yeah, it’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? Because this is a sixty-thousand dollar car.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t want it to get ruined,” another girl says from the passenger seat. They’re both in short shorts and tank tops that leave little to the imagination. Spectator girls.
I have to suppress an eye roll. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Just park in the paved lot over there. That’ll be twenty dollars.”
She reaches into her wallet and takes out cash. When she hands it over, her eyes sparkle and she grins seductively. I lift an eyebrow and then realize she’s not looking at me. She’s staring off behind me. I take her money and turn around. I should laugh instead of groan because my life is just this pathetic right now. But it doesn’t matter what I do; no one is looking at me. Ash just walked up.
“What do you want?” I ask him.
“Oh my god, it’s Ash Carter!” the girls say. “Ash! Can we take a picture with you?”
