“Get off the track!” Dad yells. Overhead, I hear Marty announce the racer’s names again. All twenty dirt bikes roar as the racers ready themselves for the gate to drop.

“Ash, look at me,” I yell and this time he turns to me. His eyes are cold. In the back of my head I hear Dad screaming at me to get away but none of that matters right now. I have to tell Ash the secret.

“Don’t do the big jump,” I lean toward him and speak into the front of his helmet since it covers his ears. His eyebrows narrow – did he not hear me or did he not understand? “Just don’t do it, okay? Go around it!” Dad yells again. Reluctantly, I take a step away from Ash and mouth the words, “I’m sorry.” He nods once and returns his attention to the gate in front of his bike.

I back away from the starting line and reach the edge of the track at the same time as the girl holding the now sideways sign. She shoots me a look that I understand to mean, Are you crazy?

“No,” I say aloud, giving her the same cruel look she bestowed upon me. I slip under the row of flags and jog back to my flagging station. Marty’s voice beams through the PA system as the gate drops. I wish I could turn around and watch them take off but if I’m not at my section with the flag in my hand by the time the first bikes reach me, Dad would be furious. So I run with every ounce of strength I have and hope for Ash’s sake that he had understood my last words to him.

I don’t notice the crowd of spectators who had gathered for the race, filling the bleachers and every inch of ground along the side of the track. I don’t see Shelby standing with her hands on her hips desperately wanting an explanation for my unruly actions. When I reach my yellow flag, breathless, the only thing I am aware of was Marty’s voice through the speakers, “And the holeshot goes to Ash Carter!”

Chapter 22

Running faster than I had with Shelby, I reach my section and have just enough time to swoop up my yellow flag when the trail of bikes head straight for the new section of the track. Most of the bikes are close together and hard to distinguish since they just left the starting line, but Marty hasn’t said another word so I assume Ash is still in the lead.

The mound of dirt forming the berm I have to flag blocks my view of the special new fork in the track. I walk around the back of it, figuring it is still within my jurisdictional flagging area and watch as the bike in first place comes around a turn and aligns with the face of the new jump.

No! My fist clamps around the flag in my right hand. I specifically told him to go around it and he appeared to understand, yet now he’s doing the exact opposite. Shelby watches in awe, blissfully unaware of the mistake her brother is making as he speeds to the face of the jump and soars through the air with invisible wings.

All of the bikes behind him follow, each rocketing two stories high in what is sure to be a mesmerizing view from the bleachers below; all of them except for one. I hold my breath and feel as though I’ve been dropkicked in the stomach as I watch Ryan’s fire-red dirt bike veer to the left, tires streaming across the dirt like a jet ski on water, and bypass the enti

re jump before Ash even lands.

Ash’s helmet turns and I can almost feel the heartbreak reverberate through his soul as he watches himself slip into second place. Marty slurs something into the microphone about how this new section will either make or break a rider. I grit my teeth, furious at Ryan for cheating, at Ash for not listening to me and mostly at myself, for causing this entire mess.

The sea of bikes grow farther apart. The last few riders are either hitting the jump or going around it, while Ryan and Ash near the end of the first lap where Shelby and I are stationed. Numbers 519 and 223 are in third and fourth place, respectively, close on Ash’s heels as he takes a sharp left at Shelby’s turn and heads toward mine.

Ryan comes to my turn at full speed and waits until the last possible second to slam on the brakes. Clunk, clunk, clunk, he shifts gears and the motor wheezes softly, slowing down as he steers the bike around the top of the berm. Halfway through the turn, he pulls back on the throttle and the back tire spins out, pelting me with an onslaught of dirt. The clumps feel like chunks of earth being thrown at me from all directions, slamming into my chest and knocking the breath out of me. I drop the flag and fling my arms out to deflect the flying dirt-rocks away from my face.

Two seconds later, Ash flies around the berm and I am attacked by another roost of Mixon’s finest dirt. My face reddens, realizing that the hundreds of people watching this race just witnessed me flailing around. Not wanting to be roosted by the next eighteen racers, I grab my flag and hurry around the berm, back to the safety of my original spot.

Overwhelmed with anxiety, Shelby bounces on her heels, watching the race through narrowed eyes. Her flag looks like it is about to split in half from the death grip she holds on each end. I glance at the bleachers and see that every spectator has risen from their seats to watch the race. Even the smaller kids perch on their tiptoes, collectively holding a breath of anticipation for the outcome of the race.

Now on the second lap, Ash follows Ryan around the new jump and manages to gain a few seconds on him. Shelby jumps for joy and I think her excitement is premature. Anything can still happen. I haven’t given up hope that maybe the Wicked Witch of the West’s house would fall from the sky and land on Ryan.

“The battle for second place is heating up,” Marty bellows. “Rider number 519 is closing in on number 336. My records here show that 519 is Ethan Andrews out of Anaheim, California, and 336 is Mixon’s very own Ash Carter. Ash better pick up the pace if he wants to stay ahead because Ethan is coming on strong.”

I pace across a patch of ground so many times that grass may never grow back. It isn’t hard to see from here what Marty sees from the second floor of the score tower. The guy in third place, Ethan Whatshisface, is gaining on Ash. Ugh, here I am thinking Ryan is the only competition to worry about.

My eyes water from watching Ash so intently that I had forgotten to blink. Wiping my eyes, I look around me at the spectators that litter every inch around the sidelines of the track. None of the faces are familiar, but I know somewhere in there are Ash’s parents and the parents of every other rider on the track. And everyone wants the same outcome for the racer they love.

“Whoa folks! Ethan has taken second place!”

My heart fills my throat and I swallow hard, forcing it back in place. Shelby’s shoulders fall. I know she is crushed although I can only see the back of her head.

“Looks like Ryan’s going to have to stay strong if he wants to stay ahead of number 519!” Marty’s voice annoys me more than Mom’s three in the morning drunken rambling. He can shut up anytime now and I’m sure the spectators would survive. We don’t need constant reminders that Ash is fighting a losing battle, literally, as he is now in third place. The concept of third place seems so foreign to me. I had only considered first and second this whole time – it didn’t seem like there would ever be a need for anything beyond that with Ash. But Ash is only the Ash of Mixon, after all.

My nerves are strained so taut, that if I didn’t know how infinitesimally small they were, I would swear they are about to shatter right out of my skin. Would Ash ever be able to look at me the same knowing I had (albeit accidentally) ruined his chances of winning this race? I remember the pain in his face when he ripped the sticker from his bike and threw it to the ground. I’ll probably never be forgiven.

Over the next few laps, Ash’s confidence takes a nosedive and things go from bad to worse. His riding style goes from unrestrained, full-throttle racing to casual practice mode. His shoulders ease and although he never sits down while riding, his body seems to relax as he accepts his fate and settles for third place.

Number 223 is at least ten seconds behind him, followed by the rest of the racers. As long as he doesn’t crash, Ash will keep his position. But that isn’t anything for him to be proud of. Third place is still a podium finish, and an achievement to be proud of for the average rider. But for Ash, this behavior doesn’t add up. He worked too hard to settle for this. Did he really decide to give up on his dream halfway through the race? Shelby is too caught up in the race to notice me waving for her attention but even she doesn’t look as nervous as before, as if she has accepted his fate too.

What is wrong with them?

I kick at the ground, feeling useless here since I hadn’t needed my yellow flag all day. Motocross is everything to these people; it is their life. And if this is life, then I have no desire to keep living.

Every lap after that one blurs into one long train of bikes rumbling past me and then around and back again. Each one blends into the next. Marty’s words mix with the oohs and ahhs of the crowd and nothing matters to me anymore.

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