Ali's Rocky Ride

by Molly Hurford

  “Want to get ice cream with us?” Jen asks. She knows that my brothers are way too old for her, but she seems to like using them for flirting practice.

  Steven blushes. “I can’t. I have to make a call and I’m already late,” he says. He turns away and starts to dial on his cell phone. I wonder who he’s been talking to so much lately. Before I can consider diving into that mystery, Lindsay is walking quickly toward the rental return, visions of ice cream clearly in her head, leaving Jen and me no choice but to follow.

  But before we get there, Phoebe intercepts us. “Good news, girls! I worked it out so we can keep these bikes through the competition. We’re taking them home with us.”

  We cheer and head to the SUV, only to realize that putting four big bikes in the back of it is a lot harder than just returning them to the rental place. We manage, but we’re all sweaty again and more ready than ever for ice cream by the time we’re done.

  CHAPTER 10

  Luckily, Phoebe decides that we deserve to spend some time shopping in the downtown. Normally I love doing that—but my shopping means “grab an ice cream and hit the skate shop.” Jen and Lindsay are into other kinds of stores.

  As we’re getting ice cream (at least I still get that much), I spot Steven texting furiously on his phone around the corner. I thought he was going home, but now here he is, ignoring us. I grab Lindsay, because she is our resident detective, so I assume she’ll know what to do. “Steven has been acting weirdly suspicious lately. I think if we follow him, we’ll see what he’s been hiding,” I say excitedly. Lindsay assesses the scene.

  “It looks like he’s hiding something. You’re right,” she says, nodding as Steven looks around like he’s trying to make sure no one can see him. “Let’s watch, but try to look subtle.”

  I give a big fake laugh, so if Steven notices us, we’ll look like we’re kidding around, but he doesn’t even glance over at us, he’s so engrossed in his phone.

  “I bet he has a girlfriend,” Jen says, joining the party. Steven slips his phone into his pocket and starts walking away.

  “Let’s follow him!” says Lindsay dramatically. We stealthily slip out of the ice cream shop and start following him. He rounds a corner, and we peek around it, trying to stay out of sight. He looks like he’s meeting someone, the way he’s standing in a doorway looking up and down the road.

  “Definitely waiting for a girl,” Lindsay says knowledgeably. She is a mystery expert, so I’m sure she’s right, though a girlfriend seems like a pretty boring thing to keep secret.

  Steven looks at his watch, like the person he’s waiting for is late. I’m about to try to slink a little bit closer, but Phoebe picks that exact second to call Lindsay, and her phone rings with her hilarious Batman ringtone. Before Steven can hear it and see that we’re spying on him, we’re running away, back to the ice cream place.

  “I don’t think he saw us,” says Jen.

  “He’s absolutely hiding something,” says Lindsay. “But I’m sure it’s for a good reason,” she adds, patting me on the arm. I don’t expect Steven to tell me much, so I’m not really offended that he has a secret, to be honest, but I do wonder if he’s told Leo that he has a girlfriend.

  “Okay. Enough Nancy Drew. Let’s go shopping,” says Jen, clearly over the mystery element of our day. We skip the skate shop in favor of window-shopping, which is Jen language for “drooling over clothing we can’t afford.”

  “This turquoise skirt would look so good on you!” she says, stopping in front of a mannequin who, if I’m being honest, looks a little tortured. She’s all bent out of shape, leaning backward like she’s in The Matrix or something. I wrinkle my nose, but Jen has seized my hand and is pulling me into the store, with Lindsay on my heels.

  When we go in, it feels like walking into a dollhouse (aka my personal nightmare), and I look longingly out the window. From here, I can see across the street to the skate shop where I would normally go to get new clothes and shoes. But Jen is rummaging through the racks and already grabbing pieces of clothing that she throws at Lindsay and me. I remember Lindsay telling me about how much fun she had when she and Phoebe went shopping for her new look, but this feels more like Jen is trying to make us both over into alternate-universe versions of her. At least, that’s what it seems like when the number of skirts I’m holding starts outweighing the pants.

  After a few minutes of frenzied shopping, with the salesperson fluttering around and looking perplexed by our motley crew, Jen asks for three fitting rooms, and stocks each with a pile. “Go on,” she says, shooing us each into a room. “And come out when you’re dressed.”

  “Resistance is futile,” Lindsay mutters under her breath in my direction. “Just try stuff on. You don’t have to actually buy anything.”

  So I do. I tug Jen’s first pick, a neon-blue skirt, on over my shorts. One glance in the mirror has me averting my eyes almost immediately, because this is definitely not the look I want to present to the world. And what the heck am I supposed to do with all my stuff? There aren’t any pockets on this skirt. Not only that, but the clean fabric makes my shirt look dirty in comparison, while before, it seemed okay with my shorts. (Maybe just a bit dusty.) I look exactly the way I’m terrified of looking: like I’m trying too hard, and still not pulling it off.

  “I hate it,” I say through the dressing room door.

  Jen is jiggling the handle, but thankfully I locked it. “You have to come out and show us,” she yells, and for a second, I actually worry that she might climb under the door if I don’t come out.

  “It won’t be that bad,” Lindsay says encouragingly.

  I heave a huge sigh and step out of the dressing room.

  “Okay, it is absolutely that bad,” Jen says.

  “You look fine,” Lindsay says loyally.

  “Of course she looks fine, but it’s all wrong,” Jen says, which sounds offensive, but it doesn’t really seem like she’s trying to be mean about it. She looks almost sympathetic, as if she feels sorry for me that I can’t rock a skirt.

  “Well, thanks,” I say, a little grumpy.

  “You’re gorgeous and tall and I kind of hate you for it,” Jen adds. “And also, I gave you the wrong skirt. That was supposed to be for me.”

  I look down at it, and yeah, it definitely looks more like Jen’s style—and fit—than mine. “I wish I was your height,” I say. “It’s impossible to look good. I’m so lanky, and nothing fits.”

  “That’s only because you’ve been wearing your brothers’ hand-me-downs for far too long and you don’t know how to pick something that fits right. Just trust me and try something else on,” she says. “I promise I won’t steer you wrong. If there’s one thing I know almost as well as I know bike racing, it’s clothes.”

  I hear a slight snicker from Lindsay’s dressing room, but I actually almost trust Jen right now, maybe because she’s currently rocking a pair of distressed jeans that look surprisingly comfortable, with a deep purple off-the-shoulder top that has buttons running all the way down one sleeve. She looks effortlessly stylish in a way I really do wish I could be—key word being “effortless.”

  I relock the dressing room door. “Toss me that skirt when you get it off!” Jen yells. I shed it and hurl it over the door as fast as I can—along with the other two skirts she threw into my pile. When she doesn’t complain, I feel like maybe she does want me to find stuff I like, not only stuff she approves of.

  The next thing I grab off the hanger is dark forest green, and at first I think it’s a T-shirt. It feels the same as my softest, oldest pajama shirt. But when I go to pull it over my head, I realize that it’s not a shirt. It’s a romper. So I tug it on over my hips and slide it over my shoulders. When I look in the mirror, I have to admit, Jen does know her style—and mine.

  It’s still a T-shirt on top, and not tight at all. It cinches in at the waist, but
again, not so tight that I feel constricted, and the shorts come to almost midthigh, so I don’t feel like my long legs are spilling out. In all, it feels as comfortable (if not more so!) than the T-shirts and shorts I always wear, but it looks a little bit nicer.

  This time, when I open the door, I’m smiling. Phoebe grins and gives me a thumbs-up from where she’s been sitting slouched in a chair and scrolling on her phone, and Jen’s eyes light up. “That looks awesome!” she says enthusiastically. “I mean, I wouldn’t wear it, but it looks great on you!”

  “This is definitely you,” Lindsay agrees. And I think she’s right. It’s not something I would have picked out for myself, but it still feels normal, and like I could hop onto a bike. Plus, the dark green means it won’t show grass stains, so I can still run around in it.

  “I like it a lot,” I admit, but I draw the line at doing a twirl for the crowd. “I guess I’d wear this. It feels kind of like pajamas.”

  “I thought you’d like that,” Jen says. “Most of the other stuff I grabbed is made of similar soft fabrics, and colors I think you might like.” She’s right. I spot almost the same exact romper hanging in the stack she gave me, but it’s a cobalt blue with tiny lightning bolts on it in white.

  The lightning bolt print feels a little over-the-top and standout-ish, but when I put the romper on, the blue seems to go well with my bright hair. And I still feel like me, not a fake version of me. I do a quick twirl for the group this time and get nods of approval all around. “You really look like you!” Lindsay declares.

  “I told you,” Jen says smugly, and I feel a serious glow of happiness. I don’t feel like I’m trying too hard, but I feel more stylish than I ever have.

  “All right. That’s probably enough shopping for the day,” Phoebe tell us. “Let’s get home and spend some time relaxing.”

  “Yes, please.” I nod in absolute relief. I like the clothes, but I need to be back outside—and now that Jen knows she can pick stuff that I like, I’m a little nervous that she’ll try for another outfit and I’ll be trapped in a fitting room all day. I quickly pay for the two rompers with my dad’s credit card, and we troop out into the sunlight. It feels like a breath of fresh air as I step out the door…literally.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” I admit. “Thanks, Jen. Those outfits are really nice.”

  “You can rock your personal style and still look fashionable,” she says knowledgeably. “It’s all about finding the right trends and making them work for you.”

  “Have you been stealing my magazines again?” Phoebe demands, and Jen blushes and becomes very interested in the next shop window.

  I thought our shopping spree would be the end of it, but unfortunately, for Jen the clothes are just the beginning of “style.” On the drive home, she talks about all the different ways to accessorize my new rompers. (Sandals that lace up like a gladiator’s, apparently.)

  Then she starts trying to do my hair and makeup when we get home. I lean away and get hit with only a tiny blast of glitter spray.

  Honestly, wasn’t it enough that I took her advice and admitted that I like the stuff she picked? Does she have to make everything so…extra? It’s like every time I come up to a new level with her, she wants to jump ten more above.

  Clothes shopping was bad enough, but the makeup lesson has me feeling stressed again—even though Steven tells me I look nice when I show up to dinner in one of my new rompers. Jen brags about her fashion prowess a bit too much, but after we’re done eating is when she really makes me furious. The three of us are finally lounging on the couch, and she tries again to get me to text Scott, that guy we met at the mountain.

  “But he likes you,” she whines for the millionth time, grabbing at my phone.

  “And again, I. Am. Not. Interested,” I say between gritted teeth.

  “But if a boy likes you…,” she starts.

  “What, Jen?” I finally snap. “Because one single boy likes me, I should be thrilled and immediately go for it? Maybe we can get married? Or maybe, just maybe, I DON’T LIKE HIM.”

  “I only thought you’d be happy to have a boyfriend,” she says defensively.

  “Not everyone WANTS a boyfriend,” I shout back.

  “Whatever, Ali.” Jen rolls her eyes and turns her back on me, and Phoebe glances up from where she’s sitting at the table, typing away on her laptop.

  “Take a break, girls,” she says warningly. “It’s late, it’s been a long day, and none of us want to hear it.”

  Her quiet scary voice works, and for the next hour before bed, we’re all basically silent.

  But when we do go to bed and shut off the lights, I hear Jen mutter, “I know I’m right.”

  Anger-sleeping is a thing, right? I must be emotionally drained, because I fall asleep despite my clenched jaw.

  TRAINING LOG

  TODAY’S WORKOUT: Pump track practice. I know you know how to roll around a pump track on BMX bikes, but downhill bikes are even more challenging (and fun!), so today is all about skill. We’re going to play on the backyard pump track for a while, and really focus on your ability to move with the bike and not let the bike’s suspension do all the work. “Efficiency” and “speed” are today’s buzzwords—and even though we’re just in the backyard, let’s make sure we’re eating a good breakfast so we’re prepared to work hard all morning! XO, Phoebe

  YOUR NOTES: I’m not going to let Jen ruin my workout today. I’m going to be calm, cool, and collected…and smash it on the pump track. I helped build it, so I know every single tiny bump and angle. It should be easy to show off my skills, and maybe show Jen and Leo that I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing. This morning, I woke up so tired of arguing with both of them, but still so angry. I don’t know what to do about them.

  CHAPTER 11

  I’m still mad when I wake up in the morning. So instead of waking Jen and Lindsay up, I sneak downstairs solo. I sit out on the back deck with my journal in hand, watching the sky change colors as the sun comes up, and planning to write a little more. I know it’s early, but I have a nice cup of hot tea steaming in my other hand, and my pajamas are perfectly cozy in the cool morning air. I thought it was only me who was up this early, but I hear some shuffling in the kitchen. I turn to see Phoebe puttering around in her oversized Phoebe and the Chainbreakers sweatshirt, with black (of course) leggings. Her hair is pulled into a tiny ponytail, and she has a beanie on.

  After she pours coffee to the very top of her mug, she opens the back door, which creaks and groans (sort of how I feel). She curls up in the porch swing next to me and lifts Penguin off the porch to sit next to her. The dachshund looks at me expectantly, so I give him a little scratch under the chin, which he seems to appreciate.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asks sympathetically.

  “About what?” I grumpily reply. I’m sort of hoping she’ll go inside and leave me out here in peace, realizing I’m way too testy to be spoken to right now.

  She just waits.

  “Okay, fine.” I sigh. “Jen is driving me crazy, trying to get me to text Scott and to be all stylish. She looks great when she does all the accessorizing stuff, and she loves talking to boys, but it’s not me.”

  “I see,” Phoebe says slowly. “But can I ask why you don’t want her help with anything? Not that you need it, but you just seem really upset that she’s pushing the advice.”

  “I’m happy the way I am. I like me….What’s wrong with that?” I ask defiantly.

  “Absolutely nothing,” says Phoebe. “I’ve noticed that sometimes—like when Lindsay and I were first getting to know each other—it’s easier to get angry and upset when you’re nervous that something won’t work. I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t the case with you.”

  “Well, it’s not,” I say. Then I pause. “At least, not all the way.”

  Phoebe waits again
, petting Penguin, who snuggles into her lap and looks satisfied, like he delivered that great pearl of wisdom himself.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t mind some of the shopping and the clothes and the makeup, but Jen overdoes everything. I like going shopping and doing all those things with you three. I’ve never done it before. Dad and my brothers aren’t exactly fashion-forward, and my mom didn’t have a lot of time for anything like that when I was visiting over the summer,” I say. “So maybe it is a little scary, but I did like what Jen picked for me. But why does she have to just keep pushing? I mean, glitter spray? Trying to text Scott for me? Not okay.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that,” Phoebe agrees. “But I think if you and Jen talked about what you like, and what you really, really don’t like, she’ll respect you and what you want, and stop bugging you so much. I think the problem is that she’s used to getting her way, so it’s hard when someone doesn’t fall in line. And you guys end up shouting at each other in the heat of the moment instead of talking about what’s going on.”

  “But shouting is so much easier,” I say.

  “Let me ask you this: Do you want to be friends with Jen?”

  I think about it before answering. When I first met Jen, I thought she was a mean cool girl, like the one girl at school who’s always making fun of my outfits. But the more I got to know Jen, the more I realized she’s not just a cool girl who cares about how she looks. She practically forced me and Lindsay to have our first sleepover, and she cheered for me when I won the competition at Joyride even when she wanted the victory more than anything else.

  “I do,” I say. “It’s not always easy.”

  “The best friendships very rarely are,” Phoebe says. “Trust me—remember, even Lindsay and I had a rocky road to being friends, and we’re related! But it’s worth the effort.”