Motorhead

by Kate Gilead

  Me: She did? I knew it! Didn’t I say so?

  Brenda: Yep! You were right! K, hun, gotta go. Talk soon! <3

  Me: Nite <3

  Thank God for Brenda. Comforted and happier now, it doesn’t take long before I drift off to sleep.

  The rest of the weekend is uneventful. Saturday, I don’t do much, except hit the gym, go to the track, and do my dutiful laps. Still no crowds there, and I had the track to myself. All good.

  After that I stay home, sit in my room and watch Netflix.

  At least, I pretend to watch Netflix, since I’m really thinking about Mark and our date.

  In addition to that, way down in my deepest self, I’m wondering whether or not I really want to drive in this race.

  It’s been bugging me for a while now. I love to drive but it’s true that I hate crowds and performing under pressure. I’m not even sure whether I can do it. And also, I’m not sure whether I should set that kind of precedent for myself, in front of my family and the world.

  I feel like I can barely keep my head above all the expectations laid on my shoulders as it is.

  Especially…my father’s expectations.

  Because, my Dad is tough…very tough, it’s true.

  But, he has a different side to him, too. I think about stories that Mom told me.

  Like, how, when I was born, she started seeing a soft side of him in a way she’d never seen with my brothers.

  She says having a daughter changed him, made him more conscious of how he behaves…made him more willing to be open and tender and silly with all his children, not just me.

  Brought out more of his father-instinct that ever before.

  She says it started when I was a colick-y newborn.

  The story goes, Mom, suffering with postpartum blues, little sleep and dealing with the aftermath of giving birth to twins, had trouble soothing me one particular day. Dad had stepped up a lot but had to work to keep things running, even more so now with six kids to feed.

  Apparently, Tommy, who was always placid and content, had been sleeping peacefully as usual, but I’d been crying and in pain. Nothing she tried worked… not gripe water, not burping, not rocking, not walking or white noise or feeding nor any lullaby. She said by the time Dad got home from work that day, she was crying too.

  When Dad walked in the door, he found toddlers Bryce and Gavin making a mess in the kitchen with the hasty Spaghetti-o dinner that Callum and Hamish had made, trying to help out. Of course, Callum and Hamish, teenagers at the time, were egging the younger boys on, getting them to paint spaghetti mustaches on their lips and in their hair. Typical boy stuff, not realizing that their mother was at her wit’s end.

  Poor Mom was in the bedroom, trying to feed or burp or soothe me, the both of us crying like someone died.

  She said Dad took one look at the goings-on, marched into the closet and came back out wearing his kilt and tartans over his work clothes. On his head was his Tam O’Shanter cap, the one with the jaunty pom-pom.

  Mom said that was the first time since they’d been married that he’d donned his Scottish tartans.

  Then he’d sung that old camp song, McTavish is Dead, in a thick, broad, Scottish accent and brought all the other boys in sing along, with Bryce and Gavin still covered in spaghetti sauce and giggling like mad.

  To Mom’s amazement, I’d stopped my screaming, fixated on the boys’ shenanigans and watched, fascinated.

  Next, she says, Dad had taken me from her arms. He’d warmed a bottle up and fed me, burped me, changed me and put me in the crib next to my sleeping brother. Then he’d helped Mom into a hot bath, and while she soaked, he cleaned up Bryce and Gavin, and cleaned the kitchen up, too. When she was finished in the bath, he’d fixed a meal of an enormous omelette with toast and home fries, and fed all the older boys with it too.

  Then he’d settled the whole family to watch Disney cartoons, and sat next to my mother and tenderly cuddled her, kissing her head and telling her what a great mom she was and not to worry about a thing.

  Laying on my bed now, it makes me smile to remember how Mom looked when she told that story.

  There are so many ways in which my father has helped me…helped all of us.

  He looks out for us. Worries about us. Provides for us and tells us how proud he was at every opportunity, even if we tried but failed at something.

  Always, he was the most proud of us for trying, always praising our efforts no matter how feeble.

  Now, sitting here, I remember something else Mom says. Which is, that Dad had to learn to let us fall down so that we could learn to pick ourselves up.

  Mom says that’s the hardest part of being a parent and that it was always particularly hard on Dad.

  Why is that? I remember asking her.

  Because it’d be so easy for him to pick you up himself, was her reply. But a good father has to judge carefully when to do that. The truth is, it’s almost never.

  Almost never, Mom?

  Almost. And your Dad may be hard, but he is nothing if not a good father.

  I know she was right. I know it! It’s just that he’s so…difficult sometimes. So… irritating!

  No matter what, I can’t disappoint him.

  So I have to do this race. I have to. I don’t have to win, but I do have to try.

  That’s all there is to it.

  Think, think, worry, worry.

  Story of my life.

  Finally, with effort, I mentally shove all that out of the way.

  I want to think about something good now…something uplifting.

  So of course, I think about how Mark looks… and how Mark feels.

  The angles of his jaw, the size of his shoulders…how it hot it was to be held in place on that bubble stream and given such a crazy orgasm!

  And…and…the heat of his thick length, and how it felt for that one, throbbing moment when I held it in my hand.

  Sigh.

  Mark hasn’t called or texted at all today.

  Which, naturally, makes me entertain a few paranoid thoughts. Like, worry that he doesn’t like me anymore.

  Perhaps, despite his bravado, he got cold feet because of my family. I mean, who wouldn’t?

  Or…wait! Maybe I had bad breath? I brush my teeth religiously but some people just have a bad-breath problem. Maybe I’m one of them and no one wants to say so. Halitosis…bad gut bacteria or something, isn’t it?

  I cup my hand and breathe into it but I can’t smell anything.

  Body odor? Shit, what if I have body odor! I raise my arm and sniff my armpit, as if today’s armpit-sweat can time-travel back to yesterday or something.

  Geez! I laugh to myself. Even I can’t believe how dumb I am sometimes.

  Besides, let’s face it…he obviously changed his mind because my boobs are too small.

  Jennifer, whose knockers are huge, always said she wished she had small, perky boobs like me. She says it’s hard to find a good bra and that she has a lot of back pain.

  But being a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Club is no picnic, either.

  Looking down at my chest, I squish my boobs together with the sides of my arms. Hah, now I have cleavage!

  Course, as soon as I let them go…buh-bye, nice round boobie-mounds.

  Push arms together…and…boobies! Let arms go…and….nuthin’.

  I spend a few minutes doing boob push-ups with my arms and then I lay my head back and contemplate the ceiling.

  Of course, the longer it goes without hearing from him, the worse it gets.

  I stay up late, Netflix playing in the background, doing boob push-ups and wondering if I should get implants, before finally falling into a fitful sleep.

  The next day, Sunday, is another boring day.

  After dinner, I’m up in my room, giving myself a mani-pedi.

  Toes splayed by rows of balled-up tissues stuck between them, I sit back to let the new coat of nail polish dry
and get to work on my fingernails.

  The first coat goes on without incident and just as I’m capping the bottle, that’s when my phone rings.

  Of course!

  I grab for the phone, fumble it and watch as it bounces across my bedspread and then––oof–– I slither across my bed on my stomach and snatch it between my palms just before it goes over the side.

  It’s him!

  My heart does a slow flip in my chest.

  I answer, “Hel-looo,” in my sexiest voice, and he rewards me with a low, delighted, “Well, hi there,” delivered with a boyish laugh.

  We quickly fall into a comfortable back-and-forth, re-hashing our date on Friday, all but coo-ing at each other in pleasure. We enjoy a leisurely hour-long, flirtatious chat, full of pregnant pauses and low voices, interspersed with my giggles and his chuckles.

  “Ah, sweetie,” he says, after a while. “I can’t wait to see you again!”

  “Me too,” I say, hoping this is the lead-in to his asking me for our next date.

  “But we’re backlogged at work, and Abraham, my shop guy, is gonna be on days this week, which means, I’m working nights.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s good that you’re busy at the shop,” I offer.

  “Sure is, but I’m also working on a side project, might be busy this weekend, not sure yet. But I don’t know if I can see you then, either. Unless…I don’t suppose a busy, popular woman like you would keep a Friday or Saturday night open for a last-minute date with an eager suitor?” His voice is teasing and flirty.

  Keeping my own voice light and flirty, I reply: “Isn’t it a little presumptuous to assume that I have a free night on the weekend in the first place?”

  “Is it? Huh,” he says, all innocence. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. So…are you free or not?”

  “Hold on, now…I have to check my schedule,” I say, primly. Of course, apart from practice at the Speedway on Saturday night, I’ve got no plans. But I can mess with him a little bit, just for fun. “Hmm, I don’t know…I’m fairly busy that weekend, too.”

  “Oh, really?” His voice falls, disappointed.

  “Well, let me see…ah…I’ve got, ummm….ritualized nail-clipping Friday night! Yep…yes, and I have to um, wash, dry and, er… polish all the door knobs on Saturday! Yes. So you see, I’m very, very busy.”

  He gives a shout of laughter. “Ritualized nail clipping and door knob polishing, huh? What happened to staying home to wash your hair?”

  “Excuse me? Ritualized nail-clipping is…an….um, ancient tradition,” I’m giggling now, getting warmed up to my own bullshit, “and of course, as you know, Door Knob Polishing is…the, ah…the newest Olympic sport! Yes, indeedy…”

  Chortling, he interrupts. “Now, I’ve heard everything. Alright. How about we just grab a bite on Saturday after practice then? Or do something together? I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer!”

  Oooh! He’s telling me, not asking me. So manly! I’m grinning ear to ear, loving it.

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  “Great. And I’ll call you in between, don’t you doubt it,” he adds. “Someone’s gotta make sure you’re staying out of trouble. Hell, I may drop by and ritually clip your nails for you…if …” he pauses for effect, “you’ll wash, dry and polish my knob.”

  “Why, sir! I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying,” I try for a stern tone but I can’t keep the giggle out of my voice. “I was under the impression you were a gentleman!”

  “Who…me?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marie

  A week later, Saturday afternoon.

  I’m at the Speedway, suited up and waiting for Tommy and my dad to finish messing around with my car.

  My race car is a current model Camaro, painted in pink-and-yellow and lavishly splashed with decals depicting the Sinclair Auto Supply logo and those of a few other sponsors. Lavender flames streak down the sides and doors, enclosing the words “Wee Marie’, which are stenciled in black and white. My entry number, 02, is displayed in its orange and black decal, clashing biliously with the other colors.

  I’m exhausted. It’s been another long week of frustrating, tedious auditing at work, stuck in the cubicle with Tommy.

  We were both back at it today, too, working on our precious Saturday off.

  What a nightmarish task. Our daily, enforced proximity doing this shitty job is making Tommy and I snappish and impatient with each other.

  However, our ‘twin’ bond is still as strong, and once we realized the true situation, our wrath naturally turned on our older brothers.

  Because last week, it dawned on Tommy and me that the elders in the family should’ve had this job done long before now. We figure they procrastinated on it because they didn’t want to do the work themselves, nor spend money on hiring an outside inventory service.

  When Tommy and I went to them and complained, asking for help…they laughed!

  Those buggers!

  Callum, the oldest and biggest of all of our brothers and my dad’s second-in-command, snorted and waved us off when we tried to complain. “We all had to pay our dues. The first year I was here, we didn’t have a janitorial service. Dad made me do it…all of it, including cleaning the toilets. And you think you have a shitty job!” Then he’d snickered and walked away!

  “Yeah,” Hamish added. “Then I had to do bathroom duty when I started. It sucks. That’s why they call it work, yanno.”

  “They made me organize the wiring section at all three locations when I first started,” Gavin added, laughing. “So don’t look at me for sympathy.”

  So, at least me and my twin have a common enemy now, and instead of fighting between ourselves, we switched to blowing off steam by bitching about our brothers and plotting our imaginary revenge.

  They have us by the short and curlies…and, it is kind of funny.

  I guess.

  If I were in their position, I’d probably enjoy it, too.

  But…right now…? I’m cranky and I don’t even feel like doing my practice laps.

  Making matters worse, the announcement about the race went out last week and the response has been overwhelming.

  The official race day is September sixteenth, the day before my twenty-second birthday.

  Only six weeks away.

  Now, here at the Speedway, the place is packed with people. A mixture of officials, drivers and team members, and a lot of looky-loos: racing fans and locals come to check out the newly renovated track and venue.

  For a short promotional period, the racing association is allowing members of the public access to areas that are usually off-limits, including this vast building on the grounds, which houses the garage and storage bays available for rental to racers.

  For today only, the crowds are milling around in here, too, where we’re trying to work and prepare for the race.

  I’m keeping it under wraps as best I can, but I’m pretty much freaking out.

  I was afraid this might happen, afraid that my nerves might get the better of me once the crowds started arriving…but it’s worse than I imagined.

  Obviously I’ve been in crowded venues before. Concerts or events or gatherings or what-have-you, for one reason or another.

  But before now, I was always just one person in the masses of people. I was never expected to perform, or…or… do anything in front of everyone.

  Now there’s all this pressure to be the ‘face’ of Sinclair Auto Supply, to compete in this race and embody the image of this super-confident racing chick. Hah! What a joke.

  For the hundredth time, I think to myself: I don’t know if I want to do this.

  I don’t know if I can do this!

  I mean, who the hell am I to think I can pull this off? What if I crash and burn–literally–in front of all these people?

  Okay, well, probably won’t.

  Probably.

  Hugging my helmet to m
y body, I turn to look around, nervously checking out the crowd.

  Wishing I could fast-forward through this part and be having dinner with Mark, as per our plans for later.

  People mill around in clumps; talking, watching the crews work on cars, offering suggestions, laughing and joking.

  Tinny music plays from the PA system, running calliope-like in the background. Every now and then a squawking announcement interrupts, putting my teeth on edge.

  The crowd moves restlessly, an endless ebb and flow of humanity, creating a continual hum and commotion of noise, motion and activity.

  The hubbub creates a sensation like buzzing in my skull. I shut my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.

  Geez! I wish the racing committee hadn’t decided to let everyone and anyone in here, even just for a day.

  But they’re thrilled with the response. This thing is going to be even bigger than originally anticipated.

  Feeling nauseous, I swallow hard and shift my helmet to my other arm.

  There are more racers to share the track with now, all being regulated by scheduling slots.

  Last-minute, solo practice laps are a luxury of the past now.

  Now, I’ll have to learn to function under the eyes of hundreds if not thousands of people.

  A cold feeling rolls through me, washing into my stomach with the sour taste of acid.

  I shiver and hug myself. I just wanna do my laps and get the hell out.

  Is this what stage fright feels like? Jesus! Despite the cold feeling in my stomach, my palms are clammy and the back of my neck is sweating.

  I have to stop thinking about it and get into my zone.

  Walking away from the crowd into a more-or-less private corner, I stop, stand up straight, close my eyes and roll my shoulders.

  It only helps a little.

  I should be looking forward to this. I love to drive!

  But instead, I’m feeling more pressured than ever.

  “Marie! C’mon, girl, it’s time to go,” Dad calls. “I adjusted the fuel injection. Let’s see how she handles now.”

  A wave of jitteriness overtakes me, making my head buzz and my body tremble.

  What the hell…?

  The crowd of men gathered around swivel their heads to gawk at me. I avoid their gaze and try to maintain my cool.