The Original Bad Boy

1 | Bad Boy & Dirt Bikes

The sorrowful secondary school life is only lasting for another eight months before we're officially free.

Maybe someone will spark my interest later in life.

Plenty of fish waiting in the sea.

A fish other than him.

"Thanks, guys. I knew I could count on you," Ben says gratefully. We advance up the line, sighing occasionally at the amount of time students spent grabbing their lunches and stepping out. "The race is tomorrow at one."

Danie always makes it clear how much adore dangerous boys with an edge or mystery to them. Not to criticize her thinking or anything, I found the innocent guys pretty interesting too.

Sometimes.

We finally reach the lunch lady and point to pizza.

The grumpy, woman throws us each a slice on three trays and roughly hands them to us. I understand she meets rude and irritating teenagers, but hunger equals irritation. Therefore, teenagers aren't completely at fault. First, teachers ate our brains and now these servers behaving so rudely?

Tough life.

"Nothing can go wrong," Ben assures. "I plan on using pillows as body armor. In case I do fall--"

"You'll fall asleep," I intervene.

He scratches his temple and we proceed to find seats in the crowded cafeteria.

"Now, that's gonna be an issue," he says miserably.

Isa and I laugh at his downcast expression before attacking our food. Ben resumes conversing about tomorrow's schedule and begs for us to bring Danie. After all, he fears risks he is pulling for her in a race he never participated in before and if she doesn't come, it'll all be in vain.

After lunch is over, we head to the last class period and survive through the long lecture on behavioral psychology.

As soon as I reach home, I text Danie to clear her schedule for tomorrow.

Ben's racing competition will certainly leave an impression.

~ ~ ~ ¤ ~ ~ ~

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Danie asks.

People surround us along the sidelines, watching the amateur bikers prepare for the race. The referees, coaches, and other event people attempt to make sure things are running smooth and no rider lacks the necessary equipment. Our boy Ben raises a hand and wiggles his fingers, ending the wave swiftly. He plops on his stunning, pitch black bike, showing off his sixteenth birthday's present. For encouragement, Isa and I give him thumbs up signs.

"He's so screwed," I say, already condemning Ben's decision to dirt bike.

"If he dies, dibs on his bike," says Isa. We begin betting on how far Ben will last before he flies off his bike. "Ten bucks he won't make it halfway."

"Twenty, he will," I bet.

"He can die!" Danie interrupts.

Her bleach blond with light blue highlights moves with the wind, slapping across her face as she frantically stares between us and Ben. She cares for her friends, obviously, and friends like us took advantage of that.

Isa and I disregard Danie's dilemma and finalize our bets.

Ben better make it past the halfway point or I'll kill him. That is, if he maintains control of bike. Compared to him, most other racers look at ease, as if dirt biking is their everyday thing. Maybe it is. Most of them already have their helmets covering their faces, restricting us from seeing their expressions.