"How was practice today, Clay?"
Both Clay and I glanced up quickly at Dad's question. For my dad to ask how riding was going was surprising. I was impressed he even remembered that racing season kicked off today.
My brother looked at me, eyebrows raised over his chicken salad, and I jerked my head insistently towards our dad.
"Uh, great! The bike's running smoothly—no bent handlebars or anything," Clay said. A boyish smile was on his face, and my own smile grew at that.
"Good, good," Dad replied absentmindedly. "Is there a race soon?"
"Yeah. Next week."
"Hm. I trust Cory is still focusing on her school and tutoring? Coming to your races won't bother that?"
Clay's face fell. I chewed my inner cheek. Of course that was what this was all about.
My brother took a deep breath, looking at me to answer. I shot him an apologetic look.
"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. I actually just found a kid to tutor, I contacted them and got accepted and I'll start soon."
"Really?" my dad asked, eyes brightening. "What will you be training them in?"
I ignored my brother pushing around his food with his fork, and my mom staying quiet throughout it all. "Apparently their kid—a little girl around five—had some trouble with math the past year. She has memory problems, too, so I'm really excited to work with her. She had been getting tutored over the summer, but their last tutor just moved so they needed a new one."
"That's a good foot in the door," he said, dipping his head appreciatively. "How often?"
"Once a week, probably. On Mondays."
"Do you need a ride?"
"I can drive, thanks," I answered, offering him a small smile, one he returned. I caught my brother's clenched jaw, and my dad turned to follow my gaze. At the kick on his leg from me, my brother straightened his composure, even giving my dad a small upper curve of his lips.
Our family lapsed into a tense silence. It was like this most evenings—I honestly didn't understand why our parents forced us to sit down for a meal each night together. It usually ended up in arguments or awkward silence.
"How's Reid doing?" Mom asked, her voice timid.
"Good," my brother answered shortly. So much for a conversation starter, Mom.
The rest of the meal carried on like this—silence until someone threw out a question, only to have it shoved back in their own face to force everybody back into quiet once more. I swear my brother and I shoveled our food in every night just to get the meal over with.
"I think you two should clean the dishes for your mother—she spent a lot of time on that meal."
"Cory helped me quite a bit, Carl," my mom said calmly. "Maybe she should take a break."
"Ah, yes. You can go get more work done on those scholarship applications. Clay, you're on dish duty today."
"I got a lot done this afternoon," I said hurriedly. "I can help with the dishes."
Clay sent me a look of gratitude as my dad slowly agreed. Soon enough, Dad got up and went to his study to finish some paperwork—he always had paperwork. My mom offered to help, but we shooed her away. She had done most of the preparing, and I knew she was anxious to curl up with the new book she got last week.
"Thanks, Cory," Clay told me genuinely as he grabbed a few plates and started towards the kitchen.
He started washing while I dried, the only sound between us being the clanking of utensils and dishes. But it wasn't a hard, suffocating silence like at the table. It was a comfortable one.
"You ready for the race next week?"
Clay nodded in response. "Definitely. Can't wait to get back on the track for a real race. Just think—if I win this competition, that's a straight shot to the semi-finals up north. Then after that, pro-racing." His eyes were gleaming, no doubt imagining the crowd cheering as he passed the finish line first.
My dad held his own feelings about the competition—mostly because if Clay won, he wouldn't be returning the college the next year but would need to take a year off. "A waste of time," I had heard my dad mutter under his breath over and over.
"You worried at all? About Greyson?"
I could see him start get all indignant, and I continued in a berating tone, "And no macho acts, Clay. You can be honest."
He exhaled, handing me a clean dish. "He's really good, and honestly, we know each other's racing styles pretty well. So we can counter each other."
"He did seem pretty good out there," I admitted. "He's a jerk, though."
Clay scoffed affirmatively, then glanced over at me. "Did he say anything to you that I should be worried about?"
"No, he wasn't very talkative," I answered with pursed lips. At Clay's narrowed eyes, I continued with, "And he said nothing that would warrant the 'big protective brother' mode to be activated, don't worry."
Clay still looked skeptical, but he went back to washing.
"But he did look really familiar. Are you sure I didn't come to a race a long time ago when he still raced here?"
"That would've been around seven or so years ago, Cory," he told me. "I don't think you'd remember him."
"Was it after the accident?"
He sighed. "Only a little bit after."
"So I wouldn't remember anything before that anyway," I said resignedly. I noticed his look, and reassured him with, "Why can't you just get over it? None of it was your fault, and accidents happen. It was so long ago." He exhaled tiredly again, continuing his work in silence.
The indigo towel in my hand swirled across the dishes, my hands grabbing the newly cleaned plates and pans and returning them to their shelf. My mind was split, wandering back to the past, and another part chained to the present.
"You know, Dad isn't totally against your racing," I said out of the blue. Clay's shoulders dropped slightly. "He just—he's just looking after you. He wants you to be happy later on in life, and he doesn't think racing could be life-long."
"So I need to keep taking these community college classes, then go to a nice university, get a good degree, and only then I'll be happy."
"He just wants what's best for you."
"You don't think riding is what's best for me?"
I sighed, finishing a dish in silence. "Clay, be honest. Do you think riding could be a lifetime thing?" I shook my head. "I mean, Dad's just... skeptical."
"Well, I've already accepted the fact that I'll never be good enough at racing for him to truly appreciate the sport," Clay spat out, the pulse at his neck jumping.
I kept my silence, drying beside him, letting him calm down. Maybe part of the gleaming in his eyes from earlier when he spoke of winning the competition was him imagining my dad in the stands with the crowd.
"Thank you, though," he said. "Because of you doing so well in school and living up to Dad's standards, he takes a lot of the bashing off of me. You're, like, his perfect kid because you do what he wants you to do."
"I do what I do because I love education, Clay," I reminded him. "It just happens to go along with something Dad appreciates. Now stop changing the subject. You didn't answer me before—do you think racing could be a lifetime thing?" I asked, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. "You'd need to get into pros, and that costs so much and takes so much time."
"That's why I need to win this competition!" he said urgently, turning to me with desperation lacing his eyes. "If I win, that's, like, a ticket into the pros."
"Not fully," I reminded him. "If you win, you go to one last competition and that will determine if you get to pros or not. That's another competition!"
"Yes, but there's less people!"
"Well, yes, but all the people there are people who have won the competitions in their states as well."
"Cory, you know the biggest obstacle is this competition this summer. And you know that if I win this, I'll have a pretty good chance at getting to pro."
I sighed. "I know. But I just don't want you to be crushed if something happens and you... don't win."
"If you are referencing Ryvers—"
An exasperated breath of air was let out of me. "Oh, my gosh, Clay. Take a chill pill about Greyson Ryvers. He's just another racer that happens to be pretty good. I'm talking about all things. Anything can happen."
"Yeah, well, Ryvers isn't going to happen."
I got a little worked up myself at Clay's attitude. "Maybe Ryvers will actually steal the win out from under you."
"He's not."
"He could."
"Ryvers would never be able to steal something so important from me. I won't let him."
"Things can happen, Clay." I turned back to the dishes, grabbing a stack of clean plates and walking over to the cherry cabinets. "I'm just looking out for you. You've done that for me plenty of times, now it's my turn. I don't want to see your dreams get crushed."
My older brother took a deep breath, inhaling confidence and exhaling doubt. "I'll be fine."
I shook my head. "You're so stubbornly cocky."
He threw the towel at me and said, "Thanks for the pep talk."
I peeled the towel from my face, sticking my tongue out at him. There was a second of silence, then I said, "Pep talk aside, I do feel conflicted, because I won't lie—I kind of need you to win. Who else will I live with up north?"
That was plan—I was going to college in northern California, and it was only thirty minutes from the track where the next competition is at. If Clay won this competition, that's where he'd need to be.
Clay sighed, pursing his lips. "Okay, you're turn for the pep talk. Cory, I've told you, you shouldn't rely on that. You go to college in just two months. You need to have some sort of idea of what you're doing for an apartment, you can't rely on me being there, because the only reason I would be is if I win this competition."
"Okay, so forget my pep talk. Put everything into this competition and win it."
"Maybe, if I don't win, I'll still just move up there with you and do my online classes there."
I scoffed. "And pay for it how? You'd have to get a job."
He shrugged. "I could maybe find random racing competitions out there, and win them like I've been doing for my 'job' the past five years."
"Or," I quipped, raising an eyebrow at him, "we stick with plan A, where you win this competition, get the pretty lump-sum they're giving out as a prize, and move up with me because you'll be in the competition by my college. That sounds like a solid plan."
Clay let out a laugh, his brown eyes that matched mine twinkling with mirth. "Solid plan, sis. Let's just stick with that."
I grinned at him. "Plus I don't know who else I could live with."
"Only been you and me," he said.
"Always will be."
— - —@— - —
When I came downstairs the next morning, I was met with a gloomy looking Clay.
I raised an eyebrow, walking to the cupboard for a mug. "Morning, sunshine."
He muttered something back, eyes fixed to his phone. His shaggy surfer-blonde hair was sticking up in all directions, and his sweatshirt was on backwards. His brown eyes were narrowed as he peered at his iPhone.
"What's got your panties in a twist?" I asked, pouring myself some coffee.
"Idiots at the track, that's who," he responded, annoyance lacing his tone.
"What happened?"
"The qualifying race that was supposed to be tomorrow has been pushed back a day." Before the competition actually began, there was a preliminary race where you had to place in the top half of the race to make it into the competition.
"Why?" I frowned, glancing outside. It wasn't raining. The sun was beating down, hot as ever, onto the perfectly trimmed lawn.
Clay sighed, clicking his phone off and grabbing the mug in my hand, taking a long drink of coffee.
I pursed my lips, sending him a glare. "Yeah, got that for you, hope you like it."
As I went to grab another mug, my brother said, "There was a party at the racing grounds last night."
"There's always parties, you racers are the rowdiest group of athletes." I sat on a barstool at the island, across from Clay. The speckled granite counter-top was cold on my tan arms, and I hugged my coffee cup closely.
"Yeah, a party like normal, but this one was actually at the track, and apparently there was alcohol. Three racers have already been disqualified."
I raised my eyebrows briefly. There were harsh sentences against alcohol during racing season—obviously the officials of the competition couldn't ban the racers from drinking alcohol (as if they could stop a bunch of motocross racers from that anyway), but they could ban it from the premises of the track.
"Security busted up the party," Clay explained, "but not before someone had gotten the excavator and drunkenly messed up the back half of the track. So now races are delayed so they can fix it."
My turn to let out a low whistle. "Must have been rip-roaring drunk to do something that stupid. Do you know who the three are who got disqualified?"
Clay shrugged. "Nah—two were transfers from Omayle, though. Nothing good comes from up north."
"Well, means less competition for you," I chirped.
He scoffed lightly, "Yeah, knocked three off of just under a hundred racers."
"Well, I believe in you," I told him. He gave me a smile, but it was tense.
I knew he was worried about Greyson. I also knew he would hardly voice these fears, if at all. My brother was cocky when it came to racing, it was his pride—he wouldn't admit Greyson Ryvers rattled him, but I knew my brother well enough to see it. I wondered how bad their rivalry got before Ryvers moved.
"Well, since practices at the track are canceled, I'm gonna head to the practice track at the Hadley's this morning," Clay said, mentioning our neighbors who let Reid and Clay use their dirt motocross track on their land.
"You gonna come?" he asked me.
"Of course," I chirped, chugging the last of my coffee.
Before I could respond, we were interrupted by our parents—they were rushing out of the house, bags in hand, looking like they were late.
"Oh, hello, good morning! Are you excited for your races to start soon, Clay?" my mother said. She was always better than my dad. The only reason she hated racing was because she thought it was dangerous, and that Clay would get hurt like I did.
"Yes," Clay said proudly under his mother's beaming face. His smile stayed as Mom gave him some encouraging words and rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
"We have to go," she said, turning around to plant a kiss on my cheek as well. "We're meeting with another couple, but we'll be back soon. Oh, and did you remember about the gala that's happening? Just a week or two after July Fourth? It's on a Monday."
Both Clay and I glanced at each other. "The gala?" I asked.
"Yes, the gala. The dance that donors of the children's hospital and their families are invited to? It's to thank us for our donations. I told you about it not long ago." Ever since my crash, my parents had been eager donors to the hospital I stayed at for a few months while recovering. The care I received was the reason I was still here today.
"You did?" Clay asked, his face slowly falling.
"Yes. You two are coming, correct?"
"Um, well—uh, actually," Clay stammered, exchanging another look with me, "There's night practices every Monday, and I really wanted to make it to as many as I could..." He trailed off, shrugging a shoulder hopefully.
"Oh, is it there one every Monday?" our mom said, pursing her lips. She looked over to my dad, and he got to make the decision as he opened the door for his wife.
"I want at least one of you to come to the gala, and it would be great if Cory could come as she will most likely be mentioned, " he said, straightening his deep blue tie.
I instantly felt Clay's eyes on me, wide and pleading. A sigh escaped through clenched teeth as I squeezed my eyes shut temporarily. Every inch of my being would rather be with my brother at the track then all glammed up at some dance with my parents.
"Okay," I groaned. "I'll go to the gala."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Cory," I heard Clay whisper to me.
Dad nodded his head briefly, then said his goodbyes before ducking into the car.
I waited until they had pulled out of the driveway to whip around and glare fiercely at my brother.
"You owe me. Big time. You could have at least come with me so I don't have to suffer alone. I hate dresses."
He grinned at me over his shoulder as he sauntered out the room. "You're the best." A cheeky grin full of affection curved his face, and I returned the smile reluctantly as he disappeared from view.