The deep growl of Jace's dirt bike fills the air. I had woken up to the sound, eaten breakfast and lunch to the sound and now as I stare at the ceiling, I fear I will be driven mad by the sound. He's really riding hard today, hell-bent on mastering a new jump he constructed with the bulldozer late last night. It is twice as long as the house and the pile of dirt that launched him in the air is at least twenty feet tall.
I roll over on my bed – Mom's bed – and trace the stitches on the antique quilt I'm lying on with my finger. Still humiliated and awkward from the talk with Grandpa last night, I had left my room as little as possible today. And there isn't a damn thing to do in this room besides break more snow globes, a last resort I am close to taking.
All I can think about is Jace. His toned chest covered in sweat, his chuckle at the funny parts in movies, everything. Even his longer than usual nerdy-shaped face and the hair that is constantly in his eyes. It is all cute to me and I miss it and want to be hanging out with him right now. I don't want to be thinking about the Ian rumors, or my friends, or wondering how many Facebook messages are unread on my computer back at home.
Jace's bike zooms over the jump again. Though I can't see it from my position on the bed, I've memorized the rhythm of motor sounds. This is so unhealthy. Teenagers are supposed to be active, not lazy. I'm more exhausted now than I've ever been at home and I haven't broken a sweat in days. I'm not much of a runner, but maybe I should go for a jog.
My Chuck Taylors substitute for running shoes and I haven't packed a sports bra so my jog will be a bit painful. But I don't care – I need to get out of the house and running is the only thing to do when you don't have a car or friends or a freaking life.
I sprint out of the house without saying bye to Grandma on the couch or Grandpa outside tending to his garden. It’s a little past noon so the hot summer sun threatens to drench me in sweat by the time I reach the end of the street. I jog slowly, wanting to get as far away from the house as possible but knowing from gym class last year that I only have a mile or so until my legs give out. I've never been one for staying in shape.
Jace's dirt bike is now a distant hum among the other sounds of summer in this sad town. Two dogs compete in a bark-off to my right and to my left an old lady on a tractor mows her yard. All of these people are so old. Jace and I are probably the only teenagers for miles and I'm not even allowed to hang out with him.
When I reach the stop sign, I stop. My chest is tight as I pant for air. My calves ache and my heels probably have blisters on them. Soaked in sweat, I curse myself for not bringing a bottle of water. There's two dollars in the pocket of my shorts and a gas station is down the road to my left. How far – I don't know. I hadn't paid attention when Grandpa drove past it but I am pretty sure it is closer than it would be to jog back to the house. Plus I don't really care because my plan is to stay away from my moth ball-scented room as long as possible.
Tired of running, I walk along the road for a while. It’s a main road, with asphalt and real painted stripes unlike the gravel one-car-width thing that is my grandparent's street. And although this is a four-lane road, not one car passes me the whole time. I would never walk the streets back at home – there are so many people passing through from the bad part of town to the big city that I would be mugged or ran over before I'd even walked twenty feet.
Though I had hoped a jog would help, walking on this desolate road makes me feel even more alone. I have never been somewhere for so long without at least my cell phone to keep me company. With it, I could text my friends, check my email, play games. Without it I am truly, completely alone. I miss home. I even miss my brother.
The gas station isn't exciting. Of course, there's not a single customer in the store. A haggard old stoner watches court shows on a thirteen-inch television behind the counter. He doesn't even look at me when I walk inside. It smells like a musty old attic and I end up coughing a few times before I get to the coolers. I grab a bottle of water from the far back of the rack so it's as cold as possible, and plunk it on the counter.
“Just a second, sweetheart,” he says, waiting to hear the judge's ruling. It’s a divorce case, and the wife was an unfaithful homemaker who wants to keep the Porsche.
There's a magazine rack to my left and I pick up a celebrity gossip magazine, wishing I had the money to buy it. I wonder if he would even notice if I stole it. I flip through the glossy pages and then put it back on the shelf. A dirt bike magazine next to it catches my eye. I flip through this one as well and get grossed out because almost every page has a hot chick in a bikini straddling a dirt bike. But now I see why Jace wears those funny pants when he rides – it's all part of the protective gear they wear.
I flip pages until I see one without a seductive blonde and when I do, it's a page way more interesting than a pair of boobs. Jace's mug shot stares at me among a collage of other photos of him racing and holding trophies. Mesmerized, I read the title: LESSON LEARNED – HAS JACE ADAM'S JAIL TIME FINALLY HIT HOME?
“It’s a dollar-fifty nine, unless you're buying the magazine too,” the cashier says, now magically awakened from his TV coma.
“No, sorry,” I say, closing the magazine and replacing it on the shelf. I fish out my dollar bills and lay them on the counter, then open the water bottle and gulp from it. He hands me my change and tells me to have a nice day. I have no choice but to leave the store, lost in curiosity over the article I didn't get to read.
I decide to walk the entire way home. My heels feel raw against the back of my shoes with each step I take and at one point, a bird actually craps on my toe. I guess I should be happy that the white poopy mess didn't land anywhere else on my body, but still – it's just another way Mother Nature is laughing in my face.
When I'm close enough to see my grandparent's house in the distance, I notice a red car driving eerily slow behind me. It's probably not a big deal, and the chances of someone jumping out of the car and kidnapping me are minimal, but my subconscious starts to get nervous. The car rolls to a stop. I dare to glance over at it. It’s a newer model red Chevy Malibu and I can't imagine any creepy psycho murderer driving a soccer mom car like that, so I stop walking and stare at the dark tinted windows for some sign of life.
The driver's side window rolls down, and it's Jace. My fear disappears instantly, only to be replaced by anxiety that Grandpa will somehow know I am talking to the enemy.
“Need a ride?” His hand reaches out the window and taps the side of the car door. My muscles tighten at the thought of riding with someone who was in jail, but the aching in my feet beg me to accept, so I sprint for the passenger door.
“Thanks,” I say, turning the air conditioning vent toward my face and leaning in so close that my nose touches it. He wasn't in jail for very long, so it couldn't have been for something bad. I'm immersed in the smell of new car and crinkly protective paper covers the floor boards. It really doesn't make sense that Jace would drive a car as nerdy as this one. “Nice car,” I say with a snort.
“It’s a rental.” He taps the dashboard like it's his pride and joy. “Yep, this baby was the cheapest model available, and she's mine for the whole summer.”
Laughing, I say, “You're not going to pick up any girls with a ride this lame.”
“I've already picked up one girl in it.” My head snaps away from the vent in just enough time to see him wink at me and I get dizzy – either from the head snapping or the wink, I'm not sure.
In only thirty seconds of conversation, we arrive at my driveway. The road is much shorter when being driven by a guy who races for a living than by Grandpa who always seems to drive below the speed limit. I tell Jace to keep going and drop me off in his driveway. He does what I ask, but not without giving me a confused look.
“Your grandpa doesn't like me, huh?” We pull into his driveway and come to a stop beside his shed. I nod, not knowing how else to answer his question. Sitting in a parked car always makes for awkward conversations.
“He's never said a word to me, but he's always glaring at me and shit,” he says.
“He doesn't really like anyone, actually,” I say. He raises an eyebrow like he doesn't believe me. “Fine, he doesn't like you because you're messing up the yard and he thinks it's disrespectful to your dead grandfather.”
“Ah.” He looks at Grandpa's yard for a moment and I fear he plans on marching over there and causing a riot. But instead, he sighs and says, “Fair enough.”