Motocross Me

by Cheyanne Young

  Now on the second lap, Ash follows Ryan around the new jump and manages to gain a few seconds on him. Shelby jumps for joy and I think her excitement is premature. Anything can still happen. I haven’t given up hope that maybe the Wicked Witch of the West’s house would fall from the sky and land on Ryan.

  “The battle for second place is heating up,” Marty bellows. “Rider number 519 is closing in on number 336. My records here show that 519 is Ethan Andrews out of Anaheim, California, and 336 is Mixon’s very own Ash Carter. Ash better pick up the pace if he wants to stay ahead because Ethan is coming on strong.”

  I pace across a patch of ground so many times that grass may never grow back. It isn’t hard to see from here what Marty sees from the second floor of the score tower. The guy in third place, Ethan Whatshisface, is gaining on Ash. Ugh, here I am thinking Ryan is the only competition to worry about.

  My eyes water from watching Ash so intently that I had forgotten to blink. Wiping my eyes, I look around me at the spectators that litter every inch around the sidelines of the track. None of the faces are familiar, but I know somewhere in there are Ash’s parents and the parents of every other rider on the track. And everyone wants the same outcome for the racer they love.

  “Whoa folks! Ethan has taken second place!”

  My heart fills my throat and I swallow hard, forcing it back in place. Shelby’s shoulders fall. I know she is crushed although I can only see the back of her head.

  “Looks like Ryan’s going to have to stay strong if he wants to stay ahead of number 519!” Marty’s voice annoys me more than Mom’s three in the morning drunken rambling. He can shut up anytime now and I’m sure the spectators would survive. We don’t need constant reminders that Ash is fighting a losing battle, literally, as he is now in third place. The concept of third place seems so foreign to me. I had only considered first and second this whole time – it didn’t seem like there would ever be a need for anything beyond that with Ash. But Ash is only the Ash of Mixon, after all.

  My nerves are strained so taut, that if I didn’t know how infinitesimally small they were, I would swear they are about to shatter right out of my skin. Would Ash ever be able to look at me the same knowing I had (albeit accidentally) ruined his chances of winning this race? I remember the pain in his face when he ripped the sticker from his bike and threw it to the ground. I’ll probably never be forgiven.

  Over the next few laps, Ash’s confidence takes a nosedive and things go from bad to worse. His riding style goes from unrestrained, full-throttle racing to casual practice mode. His shoulders ease and although he never sits down while riding, his body seems to relax as he accepts his fate and settles for third place.

  Number 223 is at least ten seconds behind him, followed by the rest of the racers. As long as he doesn’t crash, Ash will keep his position. But that isn’t anything for him to be proud of. Third place is still a podium finish, and an achievement to be proud of for the average rider. But for Ash, this behavior doesn’t add up. He worked too hard to settle for this. Did he really decide to give up on his dream halfway through the race? Shelby is too caught up in the race to notice me waving for her attention but even she doesn’t look as nervous as before, as if she has accepted his fate too.

  What is wrong with them?

  I kick at the ground, feeling useless here since I hadn’t needed my yellow flag all day. Motocross is everything to these people; it is their life. And if this is life, then I have no desire to keep living.

  Every lap after that one blurs into one long train of bikes rumbling past me and then around and back again. Each one blends into the next. Marty’s words mix with the oohs and ahhs of the crowd and nothing matters to me anymore.

  Finally, Marty announces something that isn’t spur of the moment and spoken as if he were hanging of the edge of his chair, “Twenty minutes are officially over, folks. Now we’re down to the last two laps of the race. Flyin‘ Ryan Russo still has the lead, followed by Ethan Andrews, Ash “The Flash” Carter, John Martin-” He says the name of every rider as they gear up to cross the finish line for the second to last time. Dad walks out on the podium at the top of the finish line jump, holding a white sign with the number two on it.

  The sign must have magical powers bestowed upon it straight from the gods above, because the moment Ash notices it, something in him changes. His shoulders square, his elbows bend at a ninety-degree angle and his body assumes the racing position again. He presses the toe of his boots hard into the pegs and in one swift motion, as if it comes as naturally as breathing, he flies past number 519 and takes second place.

  Marty shouts into the microphone, barely audible now. Above the roaring of the crowd I hear Shelby shriek something that sounds a lot like hell yes.

  My heart quivers with hope again as I watch, my excitement for him almost drowning out the pain I have knowing I had lost his trust forever. With one lap remaining, I can hardly contain myself as Ash’s front tire creeps closer to Ryan’s back one. My heart pounds so hard it hurts and my fingers are numb, but nothing distracts me from watching the battle that ensues. It’s happening – Ash is gaining on Ryan. He can win. He might win.

  Shelby trembles as the rush of excitement and anticipation overtakes her. Her hands press to her face, covering her nose and mouth, while her fingers are spread open so she can see. Ryan comes into her berm at full speed and takes the high route around at the same time Ash makes the split-second decision to cut to the inside, passing Ryan by a heartbeat.

  I don’t know how Shelby reacts in the moments that follow. Every fiber of my being draws my attention into a vortex around Ash and Ryan as they approach. Everything goes fuzzy except for the number plate that reads 336.

  Clunk, clunk, clunk, Ash throws the bike sideways and slides halfway around the top of the berm.

  Clunk, clunk, Ryan downshifts and takes the inside. I watch in slow motion as Ryan comes out of the turn perpendicular to Ash.

  Braaaaaaaaaap.

  Ryan’s arms tighten as he throws his full weight into the bike, forcing the back of it to collide with Ash’s front tire. Their helmets look at each other. A fountain spray of sand fills the air. As it settles, only one bike rides away. The other bike tumbles over the back of the berm and disappears in a cloud of dust.

  The fallen rider balls up and rolls out of the way to avoid being hit by the bikes that follow. Acting purely on instinct, I remember the reason I am here and unroll my flag. I run to the edge of the track and wave it as hard as I can.

  The balled up rider jumps to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, shivers as if shaking off the crash and spins around looking for his bike. My heart bursts when I see the dreadlocks.

  Seeing that no riders had crashed into his fallen bike, Ash realizes it must have fallen behind the berm. He shivers again, hopping from foot to foot as he waits impatiently for the riders to clear so he can run across the track and fetch his bike.

  I ache to help him, but all I can do was wave the flag and watch. There is less than half a lap left now; all hope is lost. Ash finds an opening and darts across the deep tire ruts in the track.

  “Ryan Russo is the winner!” Marty roars. I look over to see Ryan hurl his bike across the finish line, leaning in a horizontal whip through the air. Victory is his.

  Without warning, Ash reaches for his chest as he drops to his knees and collapses in pain.

  ONE MONTH LATER

  Chapter 23

  Houston Grand Plaza Hotel

  Dear Hana-banana,

  I know- that was weird. I’ve never called you Hana-banana before, so why do it now? I guess spending a week relaxing in a five-star hotel and allowing room service to cater to my every whim will cause one to make up random nicknames. So anyway, as you know by now, my crappy pre-paid cell phone doesn’t get signal three hours away from Mixon so I can’t call you. This pretty hotel stationery was just begging to be written on, so I’m kicking it old school and sending you a letter.

  I’m not good with c
onfrontations so I’d just like to let you know now that Ash told me everything about you and Ryan, and I don’t care one bit, okay? You are still my best friend (the only girl friend I’ve ever had really) and I hope that when supercross season is over and we return home I will still have a best friend.

  Speaking of supercross… I really don’t want to sound like I’m bragging here, because I’m not, but…it is AWESOME! Ash really lucked out by not winning the National race because Ryan’s factory deal isn’t nearly as sweet as Ash’s. Team Yamaha is taking way better care of him than that crappy energy company is doing with Ryan. So everything has actually worked out for the better this way, I hope you realize that.

  His shoulder is doing extremely well- the doctor said collarbones are one of the fastest bones to heal, and he should be completely well for the race this weekend. He’s spent every hour of daylight practicing at Team Yamaha’s private track in Houston, and I think he’s going to do really well in his first professional race.

  I really hope you change your mind and decide to come. I can sneak away from the VIP section and watch the races with you, if you still want to avoid Ash. I just want my best friend back, okay?

  -Shelby

  PS- Mom said Molly told her you decided to live in a dorm on campus next year? Please say this isn’t so…

  I let the letter fall to my bed and resume packing. I don’t know why I bothered to read it again; I know what it says by heart. Shelby smiles at me from under the glass in a photo frame on my dresser. I flash her a quick smile and then cover it with newspaper and shove it into the cardboard box.

  I guess the best part of the letter was that she still wanted to be friends. We haven’t spoken in person since the second day of Nationals, when Dad ran up to me fuming with rage and fired me in front of everyone. “How could you cheat like that, Hana?” His words sting me now just as badly as the day he first yelled them.

  I know I have lost Ash forever, but at least now I have the comfort of knowing that because of Shelby’s unfailing kindness to every living creature, she is going to give me another chance. But I don’t know how that will work since she looks exactly like Ash and the smallest thought of him makes my heart clench and writhe in pain.

  I wrap another picture frame and place it neatly in the box. As a general rule, students can’t bring more than a carload of personal belongings with them to the dorms. I survey my room and sigh. I will have to leave a ton of stuff behind. Dad told me my room would always be my room and I was welcome to leave stuff there. Even though I no longer work at the track, I would always be his daughter, he had said. If that were the case, then why didn’t he try harder to convince me not to move away?

  Mom’s personality did a complete turnaround that day of the race. She said she had seen Ash’s heart break as he watched me from the ambulance. She claimed she literally saw the moment when his heart snapped in two: when Ryan pulled me to him and threw an arm around me, holding his trophy in the other hand and smiling at the cameras that captured the moment he was offered a factory ride by FRZ Frame Energy.

  Now she is no longer bitter and spiteful. She calls me daily and urges me to move back in with her and attend community college. Though she claims to be sincere, I think she’s only acting this way because my heartbreak is the advantage she needs to get me back and hurt Dad.

  I wouldn’t move in with her anyway. I don’t belong there with her new husband. I don’t belong here with my Dad who still doesn’t look me in the eye and I fear I have lost his trust forever. The only thing I can do now is start over. And I will do that in a stuffy one-bedroom dorm room with Felicia.

  I continue packing, looking for only the essentials and tossing them in a box. Every time I walk past my window I look away; the last thing I want to see is a motocross track. My life will never be about motocross again.

  I pick up Shelby’s letter and refold it along the creases, only after reading it one more time. At least Ash got his happy ending. Not even my Dad knew that Team Yamaha was scouting along with FRZ Frame. Even though Ash broke his collarbone, they said it was obvious he could ride and offered him a full factory contract when he healed.

  He is a real professional motocross racer now. Good, I think. He deserves it. I haven’t ruined everything after all – just everything that involves me. I fall backwards on the bed and stare at the ceiling, her note still clenched in my hand.

  Will I ever find anyone like Ash again?

  A light tapping on my bedroom door startles me back to reality. I hear the click of the door handle turn and I shove the letter under my pillow so I won’t have to answer any curious questions. Molly enters my room wearing an apron spotted with steak sauce from tonight’s dinner. In her hand is an envelope, much like the one Shelby used to send me her letter.

  I mute the TV out of courtesy and hope whatever she has to say won’t take too long. Molly isn’t mad at me per se, but she is married to my dad who is still very upset with me, and things aren’t the same between us anymore.

  “You have another letter.” She hands it to me and takes a seat on the bed. I stifle a groan. Molly only lingers in my room when she wants to talk. So far I have been lucky enough to avoid parental room-lingering for a whole month; guess my luck just ran out.

  “I thought kids these days only communicated through emails and text messages,” she says, staring at the envelope as I turn it over in my hand. Great, here comes the parental talk sandwich. Start with general small talk – sandwich in the personal and embarrassingly awkward thing you have to say – then end with more pointless chitchat.

  “Back in my day, we wrote letters all the time,” she smiles.

  “Maybe that’s why you have such pretty handwriting,” I add my part of the general small talk and wait for the meat of the sandwich to be thrown in. Her eyes dart to the boxes in the corner of the room, then to the TV.

  “You made a mistake, Hana.” Wow, no wonder she can’t look me in the eyes. After an unnerving moment of silence, she sighs and grabs my hand. “People screw up. Everyone screws up in their lives…several times.” She gives my hand a squeeze that invites me to stop staring at the floor and look at her. “I want you to know I would never judge you because of it. You are a part of my family, and I love you. Girl, if you even knew the mistakes I’ve made in my life…” She shakes her head and trailed off, letting the memories of her past fill her eyes with nostalgia.

  I change the subject, “What’s for dinner?”

  “That sandwich your dad likes,” she says, and I snort at the mention of an actual edible sandwich. “The one with sliced-up steak, cheese and Worcestershire sauce.”

  “You should really think of a name for that concoction. ‘The Molly’ or something.” We laugh, completing the parental talk sandwich.

  Molly leaves, closing the door behind her. I wait to examine the envelope until I hear the echo of her footsteps descending the stairs. The scrawly letters are no match for the bubbly strokes of Shelby’s handwriting. There is no return address and it isn’t even addressed to the house, but to Mixon Motocross Park, care of Hana Fisher.

  I slide my finger under the seal. Inside is a folded note written on the Grand Plaza hotel stationery and two colorful papers. I examine the first one: it is a ticket for the supercross race in Houston. SKYBOX SEATING. The other paper is an official pit pass like the one Teig has been begging my dad to buy him for weeks.

  My hands tremble as I unfold the remaining paper – the note. It is only one sentence, scrawled in the center of the paper, followed by an elaborate celebrity-style signature and the number 336.

  My first win won’t be any fun unless you’re there to come home with me.

  Chapter 24

  “I’ll give you fifty dollars for it,” Teig says, reaching for his wallet. “And I’ll still wash your truck.”

  “Sorry, but no.” His offer grows exponentially each time he asks. If I hold out long enough he’ll probably offer me his soul.

  “Yeah, I get it. You wanna see
Ash.” He kicks a bottle cap across the parking lot as we walk. I do feel guilty for turning him down, but Ash mailed me the pit pass, and I intend to use it. It isn’t my fault Dad forgot to buy pit passes before they sold out.

  “Okay guys,” Molly says, turning to look behind us at a row of signs. “We’re in parking lot B, section 14. Let’s try to remember that for when we leave tonight.”

  After spending an hour in traffic, we had finally made it to Reliant Stadium – home of the Houston Supercross. We arrive in Houston three hours before the supercross races start, but hundreds of people are already here. Many of them come early to hang out in the pits and get the professionals’ autographs, but others come to watch the practice and qualifying races that take place before the main race. That’s what my family is here for. I am here for Ash …I think.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is. You got all these famous guys’ autographs when they came to Dad’s track last month,” I say. Teig rolls his eyes to the sky and groans, which is his way of letting me know I just didn’t get it. I want to ruffle his hair to put him in his place, since he is my little brother and all, but it doesn’t feel right to be condescending to someone who is already my height. He must have had a growth spurt over the summer. Soon he will tower over me just like every other guy in my life.

  A rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, threatening rain. “Looks like it’s gonna rain on you anyhow,” Teig says and I give him a playful shove into a parked car.

  The stadium in front of us is still several rows of cars away, and we have already been walking for a while. I thought the turnout at Mixon’s Nationals was the biggest amount of people I had ever seen, but this trumps it.

  Once our tickets are scanned and our purses searched for weapons or contraband or whatever they think I’d be hiding in there, we make our way into the stadium. I have never been in a stadium this size. The atmosphere is mesmerizing. There is a collective energy in the air. Everyone is high on anticipation (or exhaust fumes) as they meander through the large crowds.