Girl on Track

1| Welcome to town

Roxy

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Parkwood's Annual Tournament, the flyer reads. Your time to shine. A rider stares back at me, his hazel eyes gleaming through the gap in his helmet, trying to lure me in. It's working–I figured moving to Parkwood meant my riding days were over, but this flyer feels like a sign.

Footsteps sound from somewhere behind me. I stuff the flyer in my pocket and turn, finding my mother in the archway. Her dark hair has been scooped into a careless, messy bun, and she's wearing stained washing-up gloves. 

"You look suspicious," she says, stepping closer. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." I mean to sound casual, but it comes out too quickly. "What are you doing?"

Amusement flashes in her eyes. "Unpacking and cleaning. Something you'd promised to help me with."

I sigh. "Get Dad to–" I stop when I realize my mistake. My cheeks start to burn. Even though it's been eight months since the accident, sometimes I forget Dad is wheelchair-bound. "Sorry. Hand me a pair of those hideous gloves."

I get to work helping to clean up storage boxes, all the while thinking about the flyer in my pocket. I should be terrified of racing after what happened to Dad–Mom certainly is–but riding is like an addiction in some ways: you know the risks, but you can't seem to quit.

Dad rolls into the kitchen just as Mom and I are finishing up. My stomach drops, the way it always does when I haven't seen him in a while. 

Partially paralyzed from the waist down. That's what the doctors at the hospital first told us, then again at the three-month checkup. No maybes or miracles or hoping for the best: he may never walk again.

I think that was the first and only time I have ever seen Mom cry. I didn't–I didn't see the point. Crying wasn't going to make Dad walk again; I was just happy he was alive.

Mom kneels to his height and kisses him. When she pulls back, Dad turns and gives me a lopsided smile, the kind that can usually draw one from me, but I keep looking at his chair and then thinking about the flyer. If I do this, that could be me.

"You okay, Roxy?" he asks.

I run my fingers along the flyer in my pocket. "I'm fine. Is it okay if I head out? I want to do a little bit of exploring before bed."

"Don't stray too far," Mom warns. "Be back before ten."

I head into the garage and switch on the light, waiting for it to flicker to life. In the corner is the outline of my Supermoto bike, hidden by a large white sheet. At least, it used to be white. It's been packed away for so long that a layer of dust has settled on the material, turning it a palish gray.

I take my time rolling it onto the driveway and halfway down the street. Mom thinks allowing me to ride once in a while is a good enough compromise, but she's wrong; a good enough compromise would be letting me race.

I turn the key slightly, and the thing purrs to life. This isn't one of those obnoxious bikes that sound like a steam train, it's a low, warm hum that sounds like a gentle, rhythmic beat. I type the address from the flyer into my phone and slip in my Airpods. 

By the time I get to the track, it is sunset. The sun hangs low against the hills, coating the place in a deep golden hue. In the distance, several bikes come flying over a hill, their beams like stars across the horizon.

I pause to take it all in. The Motocross track back home had been relatively simple: flat terrain, small jumps, easy corners, but this track–this track is the kind dreams are made of.