Love, Emma

Chapter Thirty-Two:

Helen lets us take the van into town, as long as we're back by eleven, and we pile into the car, heavily dressed in layers to attempt to keep out the harsh cold.

"We should sing a song!" Peyton gasps in agreement with Matteo, leaning over the front console to turn on the radio.

We argue endlessly as Antonio switches channels, never really agreeing on any one song. We've only just reached the long road to get into town when Antonio switches genres, shifting through a bunch of scratchy jazz stations that no one recognizes.

By the time we arrive at the track, we've finally agreed on a good song, all belting out the last few lyrics to the famous eighties hit, earning ourselves some strange looks from the other people around us.

Enzo leads the way, guiding us to the makeshift hay bale bleachers that have been set up along the outskirts of the winding track.

We barely take up half a row we're so squished together, trying to share body heat as we wait for other viewers to be settled, and for the race to start.

Matteo and Antonio leave to buy hot chocolate off the vendor set up at the front, walking fast before the line grows too long, leaving us to watch the racers gathering on the track.

There aren't many opportunities for snowmobiling in the city, and I've never actually seen one in person. They're far larger than I thought they'd be, all sleek and narrow, with their stripes of color standing out against snow.

An AC/DC song starts blaring over the speakers, signifying the impending start of the race, and viewers rush to their seats, crowding the makeshift bleachers with blankets and laughter, talking excitedly in anticipation.

The boys return as the snowmobiles start up, the drivers moving into position along the starting line. They pass out the steaming Styrofoam cups, settling in at the end of our little huddled line.

The checkered flag drops, and they're off, gliding across the track, snow billowing up in clouds behind them. By the first turn, the racer in red is in the lead, soaring over the first mini hill, leading the pack into the next few.

Around us everyone is cheering for their favorites, nearly overpowering the songs they're playing over the speakers.

"How many laps is it?" I nearly have to shout in Nathan's ear so he can hear me, but he doesn't seem to mind, leaning closer to report his answer.

"I-I th-think E-e-en-enzo said th-three."

They zip past us, the roaring sound of engines egging on the fans with even louder cheers, and in seconds they're gone, already at the turn, too far away to hear us.

"Who do you think's going to win?" I smile at his expression, watching as he examines the race, finally deciding.

"The g-g-guy in r-re-re-red. Y-you?"

I shake my head, watching the blue snowmobile creep up on his right.

"No way, blue all the way, he's catching up. Loser has to buy the other a cookie?"

Nathan laughs, sticking out his hand so we can shake on it. "Y-you're o-o-on."

.   .   .   .   .

"I-I c-can't b-believe he ac-ac-actually w-won." Shaking his head at me, Nathan hands me my chocolate chip cookie, taking a bite out of his own as we turn away from the vendor.

"Told you, the red guy was getting sloppy on his turns." He mock scowls at me, trying not to smile as I wink at him, reaching for his hand so we can get back to the others.