track.
She shakes her head. “Nah, you totally can. The front desk is easy. You can come with me tomorrow and I’ll show you the ropes. Cool?”
“Well, I do need to work off my debts here so, I guess I should.”
She smacks me with an oven mitt. “You have no debts here! The money you earn at the track will be yours. You can spend it going out with friends or something.”
I snort. “I don’t have any friends.”
“Sure you do. Jett’s your friend.”
Pain settles into my stomach again. “Yeah,” I say, turning so she can’t see the anguish in my eyes. “Sure.”
Chapter 16
I’m off work on Saturday morning and Dad and Park have both taken the day off as well. This is some kind of summer miracle because now it means I get the track all to myself. No dodging around slow kids that my dad is trying to train, or getting into races with idiots who think they’re faster than me. No one is ever faster than me on my own track.
I head out to the track’s garage where I keep my bike, my heavy riding boots clunking along the concrete floor. The outdoors smells like warm air and wildflowers and since it’s seven in the morning, it’s just cool enough to feel the last few seconds of nighttime chill before the sun heats it all up.
I grab my helmet off the wall and pull it on, buckling the strap beneath my chin. My heart isn’t racing, not exactly, but it’s beating with an enthusiastic rhythm because finally, finally, I get to ride alone. Just me and the bike on the track I know by heart.
My bike cranks up with only one kick of the kick starter, which is nice because I haven’t been on it in a couple of days. I check to make sure it’s full of gas and then I ride out of the garage, feeling all of my stress and anxiety dissipate with each turn of the piston.
The track is supreme this morning. The dirt is wet and tilled up from the tractor, perfect for pinning it around the hairpin turn. A good rider never sits on their dirt bike; we have to be standing, knees and elbows bent, guiding the bike where we want to go. Sit down even for a second and your lap time just got slower.
My muscles throb as I ride. The familiarity of the movements come back to me, but my body has had a break for two days so it screams in protest. I grit my teeth and push harder, faster, letting the racing modified engine of the bike accelerate with all its got.
When I’m on the track, I’m not Jett Adams, the prick who hurt Keanna. I am a racer, an athlete. I am one with the bike. And I know that sounds lame, but it’s true. The only time I can forget about the stresses that plague me are when I’m on a bike.
So why can’t I stop thinking about her now?
It’s been a week. I’ve ignored every text from Emma, and even ignored the flirty Facebook chats with Ryann and Beth, two girls whose brothers race with me. I’ve had a flirty back and forth with both of them for weeks now and I’ve ignored it all. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to mindlessly hook up with someone.
I want to have a talk with a girl. Share secrets and feelings. Make her feel special and safe and protected, like I did that night I drove Keanna home from McDonald’s. I want to hold her hand and show her off to the world. All she wants is to forget I exist.
I pin the throttle as my bike jolts forward and then I slam on the brakes to take a sharp turn. All of the shitty, horrible things I’ve done come back to me. All of the hookups that I’ve never called back, the kisses I didn’t mean, the girlfriends I stole from their boyfriends. Those are the things that make me feel like shit.
Carrying Keanna’s bags shouldn’t be one of them. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was trying to make her think I’m strong and chivalrous and kind. Maybe make her think she’s not alone in this world even though her shitty mother has left her in that exact position. But all it got me was a cruel glare and a warning never to talk to her again.
I
She shakes her head. “Nah, you totally can. The front desk is easy. You can come with me tomorrow and I’ll show you the ropes. Cool?”
“Well, I do need to work off my debts here so, I guess I should.”
She smacks me with an oven mitt. “You have no debts here! The money you earn at the track will be yours. You can spend it going out with friends or something.”
I snort. “I don’t have any friends.”
“Sure you do. Jett’s your friend.”
Pain settles into my stomach again. “Yeah,” I say, turning so she can’t see the anguish in my eyes. “Sure.”
Chapter 16
I’m off work on Saturday morning and Dad and Park have both taken the day off as well. This is some kind of summer miracle because now it means I get the track all to myself. No dodging around slow kids that my dad is trying to train, or getting into races with idiots who think they’re faster than me. No one is ever faster than me on my own track.
I head out to the track’s garage where I keep my bike, my heavy riding boots clunking along the concrete floor. The outdoors smells like warm air and wildflowers and since it’s seven in the morning, it’s just cool enough to feel the last few seconds of nighttime chill before the sun heats it all up.
I grab my helmet off the wall and pull it on, buckling the strap beneath my chin. My heart isn’t racing, not exactly, but it’s beating with an enthusiastic rhythm because finally, finally, I get to ride alone. Just me and the bike on the track I know by heart.
My bike cranks up with only one kick of the kick starter, which is nice because I haven’t been on it in a couple of days. I check to make sure it’s full of gas and then I ride out of the garage, feeling all of my stress and anxiety dissipate with each turn of the piston.
The track is supreme this morning. The dirt is wet and tilled up from the tractor, perfect for pinning it around the hairpin turn. A good rider never sits on their dirt bike; we have to be standing, knees and elbows bent, guiding the bike where we want to go. Sit down even for a second and your lap time just got slower.
My muscles throb as I ride. The familiarity of the movements come back to me, but my body has had a break for two days so it screams in protest. I grit my teeth and push harder, faster, letting the racing modified engine of the bike accelerate with all its got.
When I’m on the track, I’m not Jett Adams, the prick who hurt Keanna. I am a racer, an athlete. I am one with the bike. And I know that sounds lame, but it’s true. The only time I can forget about the stresses that plague me are when I’m on a bike.
So why can’t I stop thinking about her now?
It’s been a week. I’ve ignored every text from Emma, and even ignored the flirty Facebook chats with Ryann and Beth, two girls whose brothers race with me. I’ve had a flirty back and forth with both of them for weeks now and I’ve ignored it all. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to mindlessly hook up with someone.
I want to have a talk with a girl. Share secrets and feelings. Make her feel special and safe and protected, like I did that night I drove Keanna home from McDonald’s. I want to hold her hand and show her off to the world. All she wants is to forget I exist.
I pin the throttle as my bike jolts forward and then I slam on the brakes to take a sharp turn. All of the shitty, horrible things I’ve done come back to me. All of the hookups that I’ve never called back, the kisses I didn’t mean, the girlfriends I stole from their boyfriends. Those are the things that make me feel like shit.
Carrying Keanna’s bags shouldn’t be one of them. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was trying to make her think I’m strong and chivalrous and kind. Maybe make her think she’s not alone in this world even though her shitty mother has left her in that exact position. But all it got me was a cruel glare and a warning never to talk to her again.
I
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