Motocross Me (Motocross Me 1)

Admittedly, the shirt isn’t the worst thing in the world, but I don’t want to wear it. I look cute in my lacy camisole and have no desire to look like Barney or a big purple billboard for Mixon Motocross Park. My dad has some nerve making us wear these shirts when he is already on thin ice with me. He reaches for a kolache but I take it before he grabs it and point it at him as I speak. “Dad, not telling me about the shirt was one thing, but did you have to leave me in the dark about Mom visiting?”

Out of spite, I took a bite of the warm kolache; it tastes even better because I stole it from him.

“I’m sorry doll,” he says, grabbing another kolache. “I didn’t know she was coming until yesterday afternoon and I couldn’t get a hold of your cell phone because you didn’t have signal.”

I didn’t have signal at the lake? Is that why Ryan never called? My mind races with thoughts of how Ryan probably panicked when he couldn’t find me and my cell phone was unreachable. I need to see him as soon as possible so I can explain.

“Plus you can thank your buddy Ash,” Dad adds, winking at me. “He’s the one who suggested I invite her.”

“What?” Shelby and I say in unison.

“Yep,” Dad answers. “He didn’t like that you skipped your mother’s wedding for Shawn’s race and he wanted you to be able to make up with her. Shelby, your brother’s a good kid.”

Shelby nods to my dad and then looks at me with empathetic eyes. Then Dad joins the other members of the staff, leaving us alone. Shelby apologizes on behalf of Ash. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s been so weird lately…depressed or something.”

I finish my breakfast and put on the purple prison shirt with my name on it. Although I have no intention of telling her, I know exactly why he is depressed.

Molly and the other track wives work inside the tower, handling the massive amount of registrations for the amateur races. This leaves Shelby and I to work the sign-ins at the gate in the sweltering heat. The two of us would have been enough on a normal race, but today’s turnout required four extra helpers.

Unfortunately, all four of them are the daughters of other local track owners and none of them had experience in the menial task of operating a clipboard and taking money. Shelby and I work twice as hard getting everyone signed in, but I enjoy staying busy. It gives my mind something else to focus on besides wondering when the black Dodge will arrive.

I know I shouldn’t still be wasting brain power thinking about Ryan because it is pretty much guaranteed he has no redemptive qualities in his entire being, but some small ray of hope wants to know if he had tried calling me last night but couldn’t get through. And if he did, then I won’t feel as hurt and forgotten.

I head to the driver’s side window of the next truck in line and prepare to hand over my clipboard when I recognize the passenger. Of course Jacob wouldn’t come to the races in his Mustang – yet he looked out of context in the truck with his family.

“Shelby will be right with you sir,” I say to his father, and call for her to join me. She looks confused for a moment until she notices her crush and then she blushes a deep shade of burgundy that even her tan can’t hide. Jake thanks me with a bashful grin and I give him an eye roll and a thumbs-up as I head to the truck behind them.

Although I try to use willpower and not look down the line of vehicles waiting to enter, I do anyway. It is the smallest of glances but it’s enough to let me know Ryan’s truck isn’t here yet and that my mom and Danny are three cars away. I don’t understand why they wasted time driving here when they could have walked through the backyard.

I have to find a way to get out of talking to them. I call for Shelby but she’s still talking to Jake’s family and doesn’t hear me. Two of our worthless helpers have drifted away from the line and are braiding each other’s hair with their clipboards tossed to the ground and forgotten. The other two girls work together taking money from the next car in line.

I have no choice but to take as long as possible with the next person and hope someone else would move on to the car behind them. I approach the minivan and if karma is be good to me today, it’ll be filled with a dozen people who will all have to sign in. If I am exceptionally lucky, they will pay me in dollar bills, or quarters, or maybe even Euros so I can calculate the exchange rate.

“Hello,” I say to the man in the minivan while handing him the clipboard. I peer behind him and notice that both rows of backseats are empty. Is he some kind of anti-social freak? Why did he come to the races by himself instead of bringing many friends who would take a long time to sign in? I kick the dirt with my toe and watch him sign every letter in his name, wishing the pen would slip out of his hand, stab me in the skull and put me out of my misery.

He hands back the clipboard and a fresh ten-dollar bill at record speed. How dare he be so quick and agile! I stifle the urge to punch him in the face and tell him to enjoy the races. Without looking in Mom’s direction, I call to Shelby again. She’s still chatting with Jake and doesn’t hear my desperate call for help. I rub the back of my neck, trying to calm myself. This is proof that no good deed goes unpunished.

I root my feet to the ground and watch the minivan drive forward. Soon Danny’s filthy car will roll up next to me and I’ll be forced to see my mother and her barely-out-of-diapers new husband. I’m running out of time to make a decision. I can walk away and hope another girl would sign them in or I can stay and be more of an adult than my own mother.

She probably expects me to run away and avoid her. She knows I hate confrontations and I know she loves confronting me. I don’t know if I’m being courageous or acting out of spite, but I choose to stay.

I pretend to read the disclaimer on the sign-in sheet and wait for them to make a complete stop.

“Hey kiddo,” Danny greets me.

“Excuse me?” I say, shoving the clipboard into his hand. That is hardly the way to say hello to someone you’ve only met once while nursing a hangover.

I hadn’t noticed it during my last day in Dallas, but Danny’s arms are lined with tattoos. I bet his bad-boy image was a contributing factor in what is sure to be a high-quality list of standards my mother consulted to pick out husbands. A roaring tiger with a rose in its mouth stares at me as I watch him sign his name and then my mother’s – it is foreign to me now that we don’t share the same last name.

He takes an extraordinarily long time to retrieve money from his wallet and I take this obvious hint to acknowledge Mom. “Hi Mom, it’s great to see you,” I say, bending at the waist to see her from inside the beat-up Honda. The ball is in her court now.

“Great to see me?” she scoffs, glancing at her acrylic nails. “Right.”

I smile behind clenched teeth. “You know what, Danny?” I wave away his hand, “No need to pay. You can have the special family discount.”

“Cool, thanks chick,” he shoots back and hastens to get the money back into his wallet before I change my mind. Mom’s watches me with a look of, well, either annoyance or respect. Both emotions are the same on my mother. He starts to pull forward. Right as I let out the breath I’d been holding, Mom?

??s hand flies out and makes him slam on the brakes.