The bike hums under me, the wind buffets my helmet, and I am speed. I lean, feeling the motorcycle tilt right like it's an extension of my body. I twist the throttle at the apex of the curve. Newbies tend to brake at this point. Simple physics advises acceleration, momentum to continue through the turn. Last year one rookie panicked at a bend, slowed, and drove himself into the canyon wall.
I tense at the memory of the explosion. It was a fireball worthy of an old Jason Bourne movie. Smoke gushed from the shell of the Suzuki until the fire department came. The kid died on impact. I breathe, making my muscles honey. That's the other thing new riders struggle with, trusting the bike. Most non-riders laugh at that. It's true, though. Stiffening your body makes you feel nauseous and stiff on the turns. Relax, and curves become an addiction.
The last bend falls away. I see the straightaway through my helmet visor. Another bike whines behind me. Sounds like Shawn's rice rocket.
I open the throttle. Catch me if ya can, punk.
Twenty seconds later I scream across the finish line, heart racing. My ride may have started like Shawn's, but my brilliant mechanic of a step-brother bought the Honda as a project. I like the end results.
A whistle shrills through my helmet's radio. "Girl, you just kicked his butt."
I laugh, letting off the throttle. "Thanks, Paco, I know, just try not to bust my eardrums next time, 'kay?"
"Don't go calling me Paco then."
I lean left, pulling an effortless U-turn and puttering toward the finish. "Yeah, okay, Francisco Simón."
"Alright, Glorietta Esperanza Richardson."
I tell myself it's stupid to get irritated at that, since he calls me that at least three times a week, but then again, my mother didn't have to dub me Glorietta Hope. The name belongs to a child with huge black curls and sky-blue eyes, not to mention a halo. I've seen my baby pictures. I looked like an infant spiky-haired rocker, and my eyes are way darker than sky-blue.
Mom could have chosen Alexis. Or Kacie. Or Erin. Something short, and relatively hip. But Glorietta Hope? The woman has ingested the caffeine output of an entire third-world country. Maybe that had something to do with it, or that she was too far along in labor to get meds.
I brake and switch off my bike. A clump of people congregates around the white strip of paint laid in a foot-wide swath across the road. I find the kickstand with the heel of my boot and pull it down. Dismounting, I peel my gloves off. I hold them with my teeth and release my helmet straps. Cool air rushes through my hair as I draw my helmet off. I started riding with my stepfather at age ten; he still insists on a full-visor helmet.
Francisco Simón Villarreal (said Viyarreal, r's rolled), better known as Cisco, (or Paco, when I want to rub him the wrong way) saunters over, thumbs hooked on his pockets. "Nice ride, chica."
I smile and clip my helmet to the left handlebar. "Thank you, I know, Paco."
He narrows those chocolate-Lab eyes at me. "Glorietta."
Yeah, he's hot. Hot as in most popsicles and females melt in his presence. The things keeping us from living in sin are: mutual commitments to chastity and lack of interest in dating. Two strong arguments, actually. I'm just saying if circumstances were different we'd both be in a load of trouble.
"Lita?"
Talk about out of context. I frown and turn, staring at the little figure. "Kacie?"
My half-sister stands in the road, wearing bunny slippers, periwinkle pajamas with polar bears, and an ancient lime-green blanket draped over her left shoulder.
To my recollection, she's been here twice in her life. Definitely not alone, or dressed like that. "Kacie, what are you doing here?"
She blinks, brown lashes closing over chipmunk-huge blue eyes. "Mom says it's time to get up."
I swivel to share an odd look with Cisco, but he isn't there. The entire canyon, in fact, has morphed into a wall of dark blue. I turn to Kacie. "What are you talking about?"
Oomph!
Weight lands on my stomach, driving the breath out of me. I open my eyes to darkness broken by a ray of light from the bathroom door.
Kacie straddles me, blinking patiently. "You have to wake up."
Most kids are lucky enough to own alarm clocks. It appears I have a sister for that purpose. I groan and twist right, slapping the nightstand in an attempt to find my watch. My fingers connect with it only to feel it plummet from the edge – along with my hope. There are some dreams that feel so real. I'd give a lot to sink back into that one.
"It's 5:42," Kacie informs me.
I moan again. "Kacie, why are you up so early?"
She blinks again. "I just woke up."
I squint. "Why?"
"I just did."
Cute kid, but there's a reason her nickname is Spacey Kacie. I try to sit up. "I can't get up if you're sitting on me."
"Oopsie." She rolls off me, jumping to the floor and landing with a thump I'm positive will wake the Snitch.
Oh, yeah, that's my younger brother. Details on the nickname forthcoming.
I sit up just as she dances across the room, over my backpack, and punches the light dimmer switch. Ugh. "Thank you, I'm awake."
She beams at me. "Okay!" She skips through the door into the Hollywood bathroom we share, tra-la-la-ing some random tune.
I reach to my MP3 Player and scroll to the playlist labeled Racer. Selecting The Last Car from Gone in 60 Seconds (old movie, but the cars, oh the cars…), I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. It takes seven minutes to change into the running clothes thrown over the footboard. I snatch a neon orange jacket from the closet. The first two weeks of March were deceptively warm. I think we're shifting toward cool again.
Besides, it's north Texas. The wind is a given factor.
I step into the bathroom and splash my face. The cool slap wakes me most of the way. I pull a brush through my hair, grimacing. Until the end of last summer, I kept my hair cropped short. It's easier when dealing with motorcycle helmets. But then that all fell apart, and Mom is making me grow it out. I pull a lock of hair to its full length, roughly an inch past my shoulders.
It's an interesting color at least – brown with a ton of natural blond highlights. A month ago Mom accused me of coloring it behind her back. I kept us from a full-blown battle of Armageddon by politely insisting I hadn't.
I don't think she believes me. But then again, I have the credibility of a fraud artist with my mother.
I yawn, flip my hair into a ponytail, and look in the mirror. Thinking better of it, I turn and shut off the light. It's 5:53 in the morning, for crying out loud. Who looks made-up and composed this early? Plodding down two flights of stairs, Nike backpack over shoulder, I find my mother waiting in the kitchen.
Her Maybelline is applied to perfection. She sets her coffee mug on the aquamarine-shaded island, arching a penciled eyebrow. "Are you almost ready?"
I arrive in the kitchen at 5:55 four mornings every week. Why would today be different? "Yes." I walk past her to the refrigerator, opening it and finding a lemonade Gatorade and energy gel packet. Ripping the top from the packet, I squeeze it into my mouth and follow with a swig of Gatorade. So technically, Gatorade and energy gel is overkill. So say the running magazines. But I can claim ignorance. If I had my way, I'd be suiting up to play hoops, which practices at a sane hour after school.
But that's another ridiculous trust issue.
I trudge to the front door, accumulating another backpack and pair of shoes on the way to the Chevy Malibu. Mom opens the door. Cool air chases away the last yawn in my throat. I jam my shoes on and shuffle down all fifteen feet of the entry way. Shoving my baggage in the backseat, I clamber in the passenger seat and shut the door. This car, by all rights, should be under my name. I turned seventeen two months ago. Another thing denied.
Mom slides in and starts the car. I should bend to tie my shoes. Instead, I stare at our house/duplex/whatever it is. The only way to describe this entire living area – it's not big enough to qualify as a neighborhood – is four wavy streets of three-story rectangles smashed together. If I hold my breath, I can slide between our house/duplex/whatever and the neighbor's. From the outside they almost have the appearance of beach houses, tall and narrow. Just no pastel colors.
We turn onto a main road and leave the hood behind. I lace my shoes and stare at the dash until Mom pulls up at the school.
She shifts into park. I can almost feel the curve of the gear shifter under my hand. I don't look. Instead, I open the door, step out, slam that door, open the back door, and grab both backpacks. I close the door and start toward the entrance of the left wing.
Yeah, that's how much my mom and I talk. I hear the Chevy leave as I pull on one of the double doors. It doesn't open. I growl under my breath and pound the door with my fist.
Someone walks up behind me. "Are they both locked?"
I don't recognize the voice. I turn.
An Asian girl who might top out at 5'3" frowns at me behind blue-rimmed glasses. "It was like that yesterday too."
I blink. I mean, I understand her fine, but I'd have to call the accent thick. "I got here later yesterday and Coach had opened it."
She scrunches her nose. "Rats. When will she open it?"
A face appears in the miniature window, and an instant later, Samantha Lane shoves the door open. "Hey, Jennifer."
The girl smiles and darts through the door. "Hey Samantha. So did Coach say what we're doing today?"
I trail in after them. At one point Samantha would have at least talked to me. Now I'm just invisible, or a stranger. It's not like I did anything immoral or illegal…but does that make a difference to her?
A noise stops me. I pause and whirl to peer through the windows. Before I see the forest-green bike, I label it as a Honda Gold Wing. They have a distinct sound, high but muted. I love them over Harleys because they're quiet.
Samantha glances over her shoulder. "Coming?"
I jerk and hurry toward the door to the locker room. My mom is friends with Mrs. Lane, and Samantha is basically a human walkie-talkie, relaying my every suspicious move. These generally include longing looks toward my crowd across the cafeteria and taking different routes to my classes each day. I don't think she wants to be an informer, but her mom's kind of pushy. Like mine. She doesn't have much of a choice, and we were never great friends. Around her, I avoid mentioning or looking at anything with more horsepower than a bicycle.
I ditch my stuff in the locker, jam on a visor, and file out with the other twenty-six girls composing the track portion of the team. We walk out the front door, and half the girls shiver. I zip my windbreaker as Coach Belle Shay walks around to address us.
She flips up the hood of her black sweatshirt and cinches the tie in a bow. "Alright. Varsity distance girls, you're going six, the first three at recovery, but make sure you pick it up some the last three."
The clump of mostly stick-like girls detach from the main group, jogging through the parking lot to the road.
Coach eyes Samantha, who stands shivering in leggings and a neon pink windbreaker. "Sam, you head with them."
"Okay." She nods and trots after them, waving both arms. "Wait, you guys!"
Coach makes sure Samantha catches up before turning to us with a knowing look.
I grimace. It's the face that means 'I will soon be watching you poor girls sprint your legs off while I down coffee and wear a winter parka.' Coach Shay has the insulation of cardboard. She is also about that thin.
"It's Monday, and y'all know what that means."
I don't groan, but everyone else does. I make it a point not to follow the flow.
"Elise, Karen, Millie, Lita, Desiree and Jennifer – you're doing eight minutes warm up and then six by four hundred," she says. "Ninety seconds rest."
Oh boy. With that much rest, we're going to be smoking.
Coach glances at Elise and Karen. "You two need to be hitting yours around seventy seconds." She looks at Millie. "You're sixty-nine." She looks at me. "Sixty-six to sixty-seven."
I get leeway? An actual range of times? There is hope, provided I can get some circulation to my legs. It's colder than I thought it would be when I dressed.
"Jennifer, I want you running with Desiree. Sixty-three."
Whoo. That's fast. I mean, I can run under sixty seconds, but that's all-out for a single lap. They have to run six? I look at Jennifer with renewed respect.
Desiree slides her ebony fingers through tiny jet-black cornrows. She dyed the ends flame yellow a few days ago. "Okay." She slants a glance at Jennifer, as if to say, good luck.
As Coach rattles off times for some of the slower girls, Jennifer returns the look with a ridiculous smile. "Great! Let's go."
Naturally happy or obnoxiously perky? I can't decide. I do hope she can at least push Desiree. The girl might have Ethiopian heritage and be fast as blazes, but sometimes she's so lazy. If someone threatens to dethrone her though, she might get her butt in gear.
We jog around the tennis courts, down a slope, around the football fields and around the track. As one edge of the sun blazes over the horizon, we go through a stretching routine. After that, a bunch of arm-waving, knee-lifting drills that make us look like idiots.
Coach believes in a thorough warm-up.
Speaking of, she waltzes down the fifty-yard grass slope that separates the track from the school. She cradles a Starbucks cup in one hand. Did I peg that or what? "Alright, kids, let's get moving!"
Jennifer peels her windbreaker to reveal a black Under Armor shirt that hugs her washing-board frame. She tosses the jacket on the infield. Not speaking, she walks to the starting line, letting Desiree take the inside of lane one.
She's nice. If I could run with Desiree, I'd just take the inside. I sigh and step in line. Elise and Karen, still chattering, step behind me.
"I'll start us," says Desiree. Before we have time to agree, she says, "Set, go!"
I start my watch as I cross the line and begin churning my arms. I sink into depression as I watch Desiree's yellow cornrows bounce against her back, far ahead. By the time we reach the finish line, Jennifer is five steps behind Desiree. I cross the line and nail my watch, expecting bad news.
65?
Coach steps onto the track, arms stretched out. "Easy there, Desiree! Take it easy!"
Panting, I step toward Jennifer. "What'd – you – hit?"
She glances at her watch. "I ran a sixty-two."
Which means Desiree ran a fifty-something. What a psycho. I look at our Ethiopian fiend. "She's nuts."
Jennifer shrugs. Either the sun is in her face, or there's an evil gleam in her eyes. "It's okay. If I keep running my pace and she keeps going fast, she'll get tired quicker."
I ponder this as we line up a minute later. Maybe this new girl has a point.
She runs the third and fourth ones side-by-side with Desiree. The fifth one she finishes a half-step ahead, and the sixth one a full step. I hit the rest of mine in range except the fifth one, which is a second slow. Coach only gives a warning look, and I ace the last one.
I'm running the cooldown in front of the rest of the group, like usual, when I hear short strides catching up with me.
"Hello!" says Jennifer.
Naturally perky. "Oh, hey."
"You're Lita Richardson, right?"
"Yeah," I say. How does she know my last name?
"Is that short for something?"
I groan. "Yeah. I'll kill you if you repeat this. It's Glorietta."
She smiles. "Oh, that's a pretty name."
The wind blows in my ears. "It's a girly name."
"So?"
I slant a glance at her. "I'm not girly."
She wrinkles her nose. "Yeah, I could see that. Lita's a cool name though."
Am I actually having a conversation with someone? This hasn't happened in a while. "So where'd you move from?"
"Houston. My dad's job moved him up here. Have you always lived here?"
"Almost. Moved from College Station when I was eight."
She pushes up her glasses with one finger. "Cool. My cousin lives there."
We're silent as we run up the slope and walk across the road to the athletic building. I open the door and hold it for her.
"Thanks," she says, scampering in. "Ooh, it's so warm in here."
It feels like heaven. "What grade are you?"
"Eleventh."
She does not look that old. "Same here." I walk to my locker and open it, grabbing out a towel and a bag of shower stuff. "Well, I guess I'll see you around."
I think she says something as I rush into the bathroom, but I try not to hear. Me, myself, and I are my favorite companions this year.