Motocross Me (Motocross Me 1)

“Oh yes, Ryan. I wonder how many laps it’ll take him to figure out my secret jump sequence.”

We get back on the four-wheeler and head home. “He’s a fast boy, but he likes to show off.” Dad motions to the shiny new set of bleachers that is strategically set up in front of the big triple. “I bet he will triple it every time just to take advantage of the fantastic photo opportunity.”

Thirty-seven minutes later, not that I am purposely procrastinating, I emerge from my room to find Ryan hanging out in the kitchen with my parents, laughing and eating cheese dip. He wears those ripped-up jeans again, flip-flops and a tight-fitting black polo shirt. His bleached hair is coated in a layer of manly hair-styling goo that makes his shaggy blond locks stay perfectly shagged.

“There she is!” Teig shouts from his place on the couch when he sees me walk down the stairs. I shoot him a look that says shut up, you little jerk and proceed into the kitchen as if I’m not nervous enough to chew off not only my nails, but my whole arm.

“You look pretty,” Ryan’s obligatory compliment when picking someone up for a date is met with a smile and an awww from Molly. Obviously I am the only one who can see right through him, but I blush anyway.

He wraps his arm around my lower back as we walk to the front door. I haven’t been this close to his chest in a while and now that I’m here I notice how muscular he is. Ash isn’t nearly as bulky as Ryan is, and I have always considered Ash to be chock full of muscles. Has Ryan always been so large or have I spent so much time with Ash lately that I’d forgotten how big his chest was? And why does it even matter, I chide myself.

Dad tells us to have a good time. He doesn’t give me a curfew or even hint at what time I should be home. I’m not sure if that’s on purpose or not.

Ryan’s truck smells like a mixture of new car smell, cologne, and sweat. It’s a deadly combination because I can feel my teensy crush on him grow exponentially as I climb into the passenger seat of his brand new, decked out truck. The infamous black Dodge, I think, and here I am sitting in it.

The party is in the next town over. I struggle to keep the conversation going during the drive. Ryan had just upgraded his sound system from two twelve inch to two fifteen inch speakers. With an arm around my shoulders as he drives, he tells me I’m lucky my voice is so cute because he will make an exception this time and keep the radio low so I can talk. I’m not sure it’s luck on my part, because I can’t think of much to say. Then I remember the things Ash and I have talked about.

“How long have you been into motocross?”

He shrugs. “Since I was a kid.” So much for that open-ended question. I try again, “How did you get into motocross?”

He adjusts the air conditioner and his eyes meet mine for a moment before returning to the road. “It’s kind of a weird story.” Excellent. This will get him talking and we can avoid the awkward silence that is sure to ensue since I’m running out of questions to ask.

“Why don’t you tell me then?” I prompt. He turns to me and smiles, lifting one corner of his mouth and relaxing a bit in the soft leather seats.

“My little brother always wanted to be a motocross racer, but I was never really into it,” he begins. I think back to the days I’ve seen Ryan’s parents at the track… I’ve never seen a brother around. All this time I thought Ryan was an only child. Am I really so obsessed with him that I’ve never seen the rest of his family members?

He continues, “I didn’t care about dirt bikes until my parents bought him one for his birthday. Then I cared. And I wanted one, too.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” I picture a younger version of the cute guy sitting next to me. “How come I never see him around?”

A pain glazes over Ryan’s eyes briefly as he squints into the horizon. His lip quivers before his jaw sets in a straight line. His knuckles grip tightly on the steering wheel.

“Connor’s been dead for a while now. He was only five when my mom got in that car wreck.”

Chapter 17

“I’m sorry,” I offer in sympathy, but Ryan nods away my condolences as if the death is too far gone to need sympathy now. We drive in silence listening to the low bass reverberating through the speakers in the seat behind me. Ash flashes into my mind as I think about Ryan’s story. Why do

es such a tragic personal story remind me of my dreadlocked crush?

I can’t remember the name of Ash’s childhood friend. Was it Connor? Could Ash’s best friend have been Ryan’s little brother? Is this the reason why the two fastest riders in the state hate each other?

I trace circles with my finger on the smooth leather seat. The sun slowly disappears under the row of trees to the west. Ryan’s truck windows are tinted to a near black so he is a hazy figure sitting next to me. In this darkness, I could ask him about Ash and not have to look him in the eyes. Of course, getting any information out of Ryan will require a talent in tip-toeing that I’m not sure I possess.

“So, ninety-six…” Ryan’s eyebrow rises at my mention of his bike number. “Does it have anything to do with your brother?” It’s an innocent enough question for my first attempt to make him talk. He nods. I wait for a verbal answer but trying to make this boy talk is like asking a two-year-old to take a nap during a marathon of their favorite TV show.

I choose to prod some more. “How is it related?”

“September sixth was his birthday, and he was supposed to get his dirt bike for his birthday,” he spoke quickly, no doubt annoyed with me. “So it just made sense for me to ride in his memory.”

The pain of rejection shoots through my chest as he turns up the volume on the radio, signaling the end of our conversation. I know I should drop the subject, but I want answers.

“So you picked ninety-six because it was his birthday.” I brace myself for the impending rage as I say the next thing on my mind, “And also because three-three-six was taken.”

I knew the moment I said that he would clench his hands around the steering wheel, grind his teeth together and say something ridiculously rude about Ash. But he doesn’t. I guess I don’t know Ryan as well as I thought.

He remains calm and stares at the road while he takes in the weight of my comment. One of two things will happen now: Ryan will admit I have discovered the reason he hates Ash, or he won’t have a clue what I am talking about and probably make fun of me for thinking everything revolves around Ash. I wait, hoping that summer in fourth grade spent reading Nancy Drew books won’t fail me now.