This moment. It’s the moment that will forever define me—or haunt me. I will never get this moment back, no do overs. No repeats. If I let the fear take me down, I won’t just lose this race, I’ll lose myself.
I try to grasp that one true feeling of bliss I had with Dar back in high school. The one Boone—cheesily, but sweetly—made me recall, when I didn’t let the jones for a high suck me under, when I knew exactly who I was and what I loved. I latch on to it. Everything went wrong that day, and I should have been pissed. Angry that I got played and didn’t get Dar and me the buzz we wanted. But instead, all the wrong turned out to be so right. And she said, “We should always do this.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“This,” she repeated, wrapping a skinny arm around my neck. “Just be us.”
She was right. I was weak, she was strong. I thought I was the one looking out for her, but she had the answers. I wish she had been confident enough in herself to tell me that I was fucked up. That I didn’t need to get high, that she loved me more sober, that it wasn’t as much a part of me as I thought.
That I’m not my dad—I don’t have to live his life.
The risers and people and track all whoosh past. I’m no longer thinking of the race as my thumb bumps the gear, and I pick up speed. It’s such a short distance, this stretch of asphalt. But time is relative. Even though it’s only been seconds, I’ve been on this track for a lifetime.
My tire is neck-and-neck with the bike next to me. Inching up and back, taking the lead and losing it. When I cross that finish line, whether in first or last, there’s no going back. I cross it. Period. New chapter.
The roar of the engine engulfs my senses, and I lean forward, chin to handlebars. I’m racing against myself.
The white and black checkered flag waves as I fly past. I rise up and squeeze the brake. Dropping my foot to the ground, I grind to a stop, the smell of burning rubber hitting my nose. I’m thankful Boone rides a bobber. Jesse’s Forty-Eight probably would have sent me tumbling down the dragway. I’d been a skid mark on the pavement.
I’ve come to a full stop a few feet away from the finish line. I’m shaking. The rumble of the bike beneath me drowns out the commotion of the dragway, and I idle there, just taking in the moment before I turn and look back.
Jesse and Boone are running up the strip. The biker right behind me pulls his helmet off and bangs it against his thigh.
I won.
“Baby! You’re amazing!” Jesse shouts as he meets me on the track. His arms circle my waist and pull me from the seat. I’m laughing as he spins me around, giddy from the sheer surge of adrenaline, dizzy from the twirling and the win.
“And I won a hell-of-a-lot, too,” I say, even though I’m realizing how much the money was not the point of this race.
“Yeah, you did,” Jesse says, placing me back on my feet. “You going again?”
I nod. “Hell yeah.” Then I quickly look at Boone. “I mean, if that’s cool with the owner of the bike.”
He’s standing beside Tank, his hands in his pockets, a proud expression lighting his face. “Yeah, of course. You tore that track up. I didn’t know my bike was that bad ass until you.” He winks at me.
A stupid smile spreads across my face, and I swear I’m blushing. I could kick those dumb butterflies attacking my stomach, cheesy little sprites. But it’s the whole thing: the high from winning; the power I feel from defeating my panic; Boone looking at me like I’m the brightest star in his sky.
I feel Jesse’s arm slide across my neck, and I lean into him. We’re going to have to have that unpleasant, uncomfortable talk soon—the one where I clarify I’ll never be his ol’ lady. No matter what his mentor thinks. But for right now, I bask in this moment with my friend. Soon as Jesse’s used to Boone, maybe even thinking of him as a hangaround, he’ll ease up. But yeah, we’re long overdue for a talk. About everything.
Tank shrugs over and ruffles my hair. “That a girl. And look what I got here.” He flips open a wad of cash and starts thumbing through. “Couple more, and I think you’ll have enough for your bike, baby girl.”
I accept the cash, then head back to the pit with them. Boone walks his bike along beside me and Tank. There’s a crackle in the air, a tension. Beneath the celebratory atmosphere, a high pressure is building.
The calm settling over me, wrapping me, suddenly feels fragile, fleeting. Like the cliché eye of a storm. I shake the unease away, trying to stay in the now. In this rare, non-chemical high, where everything feels safe.
As I gear up to race again, watching the bikers ahead of me speed down the drag strip, I think of Dar, wishing she could give me a hint as to what I’m feeling. She always just knew. Sometimes before I did. I miss having that backup. My counterpart.
I reach up and slip her charm under the collar of my shirt before I slide on the helmet.
Safe is no more than a concept.
Two races later, I’ve lost more than my winning streak.
“Son of a bitch.” I slam my back against the chain fence and run a hand through my sweat-slicked hair. The humidity is suffocating, and the lights of the dragway glare down on me, exposing. Like spotlights.
“Those two were practically undefeated, Mel,” Jesse says. He picks up a couple stray tools from the pit ground and drops them into a toolbox. “Look, don’t sweat it. Don’t freak. You’ll get your stride back.”
I huff out a harsh laugh. “I’ll get,” I repeat, my tone bitter. Since when have I ever needed to try to get anywhere? Try so damn hard. I’m struggling to hang on to that initial feeling of perseverance I had after the first race. Right then, it felt like I could coast through all this. That I had more than a handle on my path. A plan.