Motocross Me (Motocross Me 1)
I throw an arm over my eyes to block the sunlight. “As opposed to..?”
She laughs. “I know right. We went to this kick-ass party on the island. It was in a beach house that had a Jacuzzi in the middle of the living room. But anyhow, that’s not why I’m calling.”
My mouth opens in what starts as a baby yawn, but morphs into a full grown yawn that makes a roaring sound as I slowly start to wake up. “It better be important since you’re calling so early.”
“Yeah okay. So when I got home last night I drove past your house and that bright red Chevy truck of yours was not in the driveway. At two-thirty in the morning.”
“And that’s why you’re calling me? To make sure I’m not dead?”
“Yes. Now dish. I want the details. Were you with a guy?”
When am I ever with a guy? “Sorry to break it to you, but I have no juicy gossip. I came to visit my Dad for a few days.”
“What? That’s boring.” Her disappointment seeps through the phone, and I picture her sitting on her bed pouting as she checks herself out in her full length mirror, eyeliner all smudged from last night’s partying. Not wanting to leave her grasping for gossip and drama, I tell her about my fight with Mom.
When we hang up, I double check for any sign that my mother tried contacting me last night, but my phone is as empty as the day I first got it. I try to fall back asleep but the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee drifts under my door and fills my lungs. It’s like the Folgers commercial where the smell of coffee wakes up people and they happily drift into the kitchen and kiss their spouse good morning. Only I friggen hate coffee. And the smell of it in my lungs now mixed with my empty stomach makes me nauseous.
My shorts from last night are on the floor. I put them on and go downstairs, taking my cell phone for when Mom calls me after she wakes up. Because she’s totally going to call.
In the kitchen, Molly leans over the counter reading the newspaper and singing a song to herself. She picks at a cinnamon roll, eating only the bits with the most icing. She’s wearing sweat pant capris and a black tank top and I wonder why my dad chose to marry her after being with my mom. Molly smiles a lot and doesn’t care about the few extra pounds around her midsection. My mom doesn’t eat breakfast ever, and spends an hour a day at the gym to keep up her skeletal figure. My mom has never, ever, worn sweat pants and she absolutely does not smile a lot. I clear my throat from a distance so I won’t startle my step-mom.
“Good morning,” Molly says to the tune of her song.
“Where’s Dad and Teig?” I ask, sitting on the barstool next to her.
“They’re at the track. You can walk over there and see them if you want. I think Teig is out there riding.”
Blegh. Dad’s dirt bike track is nothing but a barren, ridiculously hot wasteland of dry dirt jumps and loud annoying motorcycles. I hated spending time there as a kid. “I’d rather just stay here,” I say. She offers me some of her cinnamon roll and I do her a favor by taking a piece with no icing.
“Have you talked to your mom?” she asks.
“Nope,” I say quickly, drumming my fingers on the granite countertops to fill the silence that follows. I beg her with my eyes to not bring this up now. Why ruin a perfectly good morning?
Molly nods as if agreeing with my unasked question. “Want some coffee?”
I shake my head and suppress a curl from forming in my lip so I won’t hurt her feelings. Coffee is so gross – all the men my mother dates loves coffee. I had the impression that only hideous mid-life-crisis-men liked it, but maybe I’m wrong because Molly is drinking it now. And there isn’t anything the least bit gross about her.
My phone doesn’t ring for the rest of the day. And it rings even less the day after that. I spend all my time at Dad’s house sitting on the couch in the living room watching Netflix on their huge TV and checking my cell phone twenty-thousand times an hour. I don’t even bother driving around town because there’s nothing but boring country roads and the occasional gas station or farmer’s market. Sometimes I just wander around the house, sliding my hand over the long wooden banister that separates the second floor balcony from the living room below.
Molly is a stay at home mom, and unlike my mom, she is very organized. Everything is in its place in decorative baskets, floating shelves or clear bins that are marked with a blue and white label. Except for the occasional pair of shoes kicked off by the door, or open magazine on the coffee table, everything in this house looks like it was arranged for an HGTV photo shoot. Dream Homes in Texas, the article would say.
I can’t stop thinking about Dad’s old house, the one he used to live in with Mom and me. It was small and needed remodeling in just about every room, and Dad always had plans for fixing it up but Mom never wanted to. She longed for the bright lights of a big city, New York or Miami, and a big house to live in. But Dad wanted to stay here in Mixon and work at his motocross track. When they divorced, Mom pursued her dream and Dad pursued his. We moved to the biggest city Mom could afford: Dallas, Texas. Dad stayed here. It’s easy to see who was more successful.
I know nothing about real estate, bu
t this house couldn’t have come cheap. I smile as I think about my truck – a present from Dad on my sixteenth birthday last year – and remember how I figured he was making monthly payments on it. I worried that he might ask me to take over the payments when I got older. But looking around at this beautiful house with its nice furniture, I somehow don’t think that’s the case. He probably handed the guy at the truck dealership a wad of cash, tipped his hat and said, “Keep the change my good sir.”
On my third morning of waking up to the unfamiliar plaster blobs on the ceiling, I start to think that maybe my mother is dead. There is no other reason for her to ignore her daughter (who is still a minor, by the way) for three whole days.
After another slightly awkward morning conversation with Molly, homemade kolaches and the newspaper, I sneak into Dad’s office between Teig’s room and mine and log into his computer. I check Mom’s Facebook page and discover that she isn’t dead. Guilt consumes me when I get annoyed that she isn’t dead. I mean, come on. She’s ignoring me!
All of her recent status updates have nothing to do with her missing daughter and everything to do with her upcoming Vegas wedding. It takes a lot of effort to resist throwing Dad’s laptop out the window.
I’m helping Molly make dinner by overseeing the immensely important task of peeling and chopping potatoes when Dad comes home from work. Though working at the track all day makes him come home dirty and worn out, he looks a million times worse tonight.
“Jason went off to boot camp today,” he says, reaching over my shoulder and grabbing a piece of raw potato to eat. “I never realized how much work that boy did around the track until he wasn’t there anymore.”
“Maybe you should hire a replacement,” Molly says. He kisses her cheek and she crinkles up her nose and tells him he stinks. I should be used to their incessant displays of affection by now, but it still makes my stomach tense up every time they share an intimate moment around me. They are so cute together and for some reason, that makes it even more awkward to witness.