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Chapter Ten

Devil's Paradise is my two-mile-long home track full of sharp turns and bermed corners, tabletops and whoops, doubles and triples, and that goddamn sand section that feels as familiar to me as the topography of my backyard, even after months away. It all comes back in an instant when I pull into one of the grass lots beside the track, smell the race gas, and hear the satisfying braaap of the revving bikes in their practice session—one of the best sounds in the world.

We roll by competitors parked along the perimeter fence, unloading bikes and equipment and coolers from their truck beds. As we climb out of the car, Jo nods at a young rider in a bright aqua jersey sandwiched between her parents and her 85cc two-stroke; the top of her head only comes up to their chests. "So that was you, huh?"

"I was maybe a foot shorter than that when I started on a 50cc. My first race, I'd only had my hand-me-down bike for a few months, but I wanted to be like my big sister. I remember being scared shitless at the gate. My kneepads were knocking against the bike, my legs were shaking so bad."

"Oh God, me too. I still get nervous before a race. I was nervous at Putt by the Pond, even."

"You were?" I'd never have guessed; Jo seems so effortlessly sure of herself, just like Max. Not that Max never got scared at the gate—she told me she'd just learned to love that part, like climbing the first hill of a roller coaster and enjoying the fear, and I would learn to love it too. I bet Jo does. But I don't know if I ever will. I got older, and my brain got better at cataloging everything that could go wrong, the mistakes I might make, and the ways I'd never live up to Max's reputation on the track, all while idling at the starting gate. I muscled through with hours and hours of practice, with manuals and motocross autobiographies and YouTube instructional videos. And I do love riding, I always have. I'm not afraid to crash. But if I'm honest, it's only gotten harder over the past year to shut out the part of me that decides a jump is too much for me before I've even tried it.

"Well, maybe I wanted to impress you." Jo winks.

I melt.

"How old were you, your first time?" I turn to grab the picnic backpack out of the trunk so she won't catch me blushing as I amend, "Your first race, I mean."

"Four and a half."

"You're kidding me!"

"Jeff Gordon started racing at five, and he was winning championships a few years later. Mom wanted me to get ahead of his record early."

"Did you win your first race?"

Jo shoots me a half smile. "Not even close. I could barely reach the pedals, but Mom still hung up my participation ribbon next to her giant trophies."

I laugh. "My parents were the same. I was one of the last to cross the finish line out of twenty-five kids, but we went to Putt by the Pond after to celebrate, and everyone acted like I'd won the Nationals. Best victory sno-cone ever." That was back when they were a little in love with motocross themselves and did what they could to support us on the track (and what they could afford; motocross isn't cheap by any means, and we might not be wealthy, but I know that unlike Jo's mom, we had plenty of privilege just to race at all). They sort of burned out on enthusiasm when Max burned out of the sport … but I don't need to be thinking about that today.

We make our way across the lot, and Jo slips her hand into mine like it's the most natural thing in the world. I take extra care not to trip over a wheel rut and bring her down with me.

Walking along the perimeter fence, we pass the rider registration table, and the pit where kids wait under shade tents with their parents and their bikes, stretching and hydrating and strapping on their gear. Helmets and goggles, gloves and jerseys, pants and knee braces and boots. On the one hand, it's strange not to be in the pit, but on the other, I feel as light as I ever have at the track in my cropped muscle tank and cutoffs. Plus it wouldn't hit the same, holding gloves with JoJo.

The bleachers by the starting line have filled up, but they don't have the best view anyway. Instead, I lead her to my favorite spot, a grassy hillock under the partial shade of a small white oak where we can sit between races, with a clear view of some of the most exciting parts of the track when we stand against the barrier.

I unzip the backpack to pull out our lunch: salami and cheese sandwiches, pickle chips, and blue Gatorade, my track day favorites, and something of a sequel to the homemade biscuit breakfast Jo shared with me on the way. Jo tears into her sandwich, peering down at the track.

"Tell me what we're watching?"

"Right now the kids are in a practice session, just learning the track, so they're not gonna ride too aggressively. If they do, they'll probably piss off the vets, who'll smoke them even harder. Everyone knows that jerks during practice get lapped in the race. Pro races last around thirty minutes, but everyone competing today is too young, and none of them are riding anything over an 85cc. So they'll go a few laps, more like ten or fifteen minutes."

"Did you ever want to go pro?" Jo asks, fiddling with her Gatorade cap.

"Hmm. I mean, probably as much as any little kid who rides twice and thinks she's Tarah Gieger. For a while, I was riding a couple times a week. I guess I stopped going as regularly when Max came home, though. She didn't seem into it anymore, and I'd gotten pretty busy. Anyway, I've never ridden above B Class—that's intermediate—and you need to be an A Class amateur to ride with the pros. That's what Max was. She could've done it. She already had her AMA license when she turned sixteen, and she could've had the points to apply for her pro license by the time she graduated—sooner, if Mom and Dad had let her homeschool, or get her GED. But they didn't want her to do that."

"Your parents and my dad would have a lot to talk about."

"Why, have you tried to get your dad to let you go pro?"

She's quiet for a moment, then snorts. "What do you think? He's got me riding a bicycle with a basket."

"Yeah, that's rough. But it's probably faster on hills than the Oatmobile."

We toast sports drinks in commiseration before I point to the track. "Okay, they just flagged them off their practice session. They'll ride back to their tents, refuel and lube, whatever they have to do. Then, they'll race."

Twenty or so minutes later, Jo and I stand at the barrier with the rest of the spectators who line the track, though not nearly as many for the youth races as there might be at an AMA event. We can just see the starting gate, where two dozen riders from the 85 junior class are lined up, revving their engines, billowing exhaust. The gate falls, and every kid drops their clutches, opens the throttle up, and takes off, spraying comet tails of clay and sand behind them.

"Who are we rooting for?" Jo shouts.

"Whoever we like!" I scan the field. A few of the kids are smooth and fast enough to avoid the traffic along the straight and ride to the front of the pack. A moment later, number 34 gets the holeshot; as the first racer through the first corner, they've already got a decent chance of winning, even though the race has just begun. Max was notorious for getting the holeshot. "If 34 doesn't mess up in a big way, they could probably hold the lead," I shout back as the pack rides over the whoops in front of us, then momentarily careens out of view around a tight corner.

Jo nods at number 19—the girl in the turquoise jersey—as she takes the corner in a battle for last place. "I'm rooting for 19."

"She's gonna be struggling to make up the time," I say doubtfully.

Jo rolls her eyes, because duh, she knows that better than most. "She got a bad start," Jo says, "but she's holding her line."

The kids come back into view as they ride over the dragon's back—like small whoops that move upward in elevation, ending with a jump—and I remember how hard I had to work as a kid to keep my speed up over those bumps, to commit and just go for it rather than crawling over them.

By the second lap, 34 is still in the lead, and 19 has fought her way up a bit.

By the fourth lap, 34's dropped to third, likely over some mistake we couldn't see, and 19 has made it to mid-pack. But then the white flag is waving at the starting line; they're on the final lap.

When the checkered flag signaling the end of the race goes up, 34 has wrestled back into second place, while 19 finishes just around the middle. Jo screams and cheers for her, and I join in. It was a decent comeback after a potentially disastrous start, and I hope she feels good about that.

If anything, it might feel worse to be 34 right now—so close to the top, and probably spiraling over the mistake they made and couldn't fix. I would be.

"So what do you think?" I ask Jo, settling back down onto the grassy hill to sit before the next race.

She drops down beside me. "Pretty badass! I'll have to find a proper track besides Putt by the Pond to take you to. You can come cheer for me when I finally get to drive again."

"Oh sure. I'll dress up like the flag girls, break out my sexiest coveralls just for you."

Though I mean it as a joke, Jo's gaze drops to my sneakers and drifts up the whole length of my body, leaving goosebumps in its wake despite the scorching heat. "Well, I sure wouldn't stop you," she says.

If we weren't surrounded by various parents, I'd go in for our second kiss. For now, I settle for resting my knee against hers, and finding her hand in the grass, my stomach swooping like I'm riding the dragon's back myself.

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