My Secret

My mom still didn’t know about the bike or my racing.

No one does. She’d have a heart attack.

That’s why I made it such a point that no one could know who I was.

From the dark side of the garage, I saw Eric emerge. “So, there you are.”

He walked over and gave me an appreciative study from beneath the lifted visor of his helmet. “Think you’ll beat me this year.”

I nodded slowly.

He laughed before giving my shoulder a rough slap. “That’s cute.”

Then he turned and strolled from the garage whistling while he buckled his chin strap.

I’m going to beat him this year. I couldn’t wait to put his ego in check.

The challengers this year had been way more formidable.

And I beat them all. I knew how much I’d improved.

He’s mine.

He’ll be fixing my car by nightfall tonight. I watched him go feeling immense satisfaction.

Let him think he’s all that and a bag of chips.

My friend Emilia wandered into the garage and shouldered me on the way by. Her way of wishing me good luck without letting everyone know it was me.

I smiled at her though she couldn’t see it behind my helmet and pulled out my bike. Guiding it out onto the track. I kick started it and gave it a couple revs to make sure she was ready to go.

She is. I’d checked twice yesterday in preparation for this race, but I always worried about worst case scenario.

I gave her a loud roar and turned and looked at Eric.

His dark helmet turned to meet my look and I could practically feel that cocky grin through the plastic and metal around his head.

I can’t wait to beat you. I was highly tempted to say it, but I’d always refrained from speaking once I put on the helmet. It was my one rule.

I half-expected Eric to make some crude gesture but he didn’t. He would’ve if he knew it was me.

I frowned.

***

The race started and I was gunned it too hard right at the line, making my back wheel spin sideways before catching.

The Animal made no such mistake.

He was off with a perfect start and earning that nickname.

He always drives too damn fast.

I was already one hill behind him. A rough start.

But I can catch him. I fired the ignition once I landed and caught dirt perfect, surging up the second hill.

But he was firing even faster than me.

The downside of that was that it sent him careening off the ground higher atop the hills, which gave me more time to gain ground.

And I did. I was half a hill behind him now and closing.

His helmet turned and I felt his smirk before he opened the throttle wide and took off. Shooting up the hill and landing halfway to the next. Hitting perfectly on the back tire and rolling toward the front.

How can he never miss one?

He was pulling away now.

Shit!

I gave mine more throttle trying to catch him. I knew his bike had more horsepower, but I and my bike weighed less making us travel a bit faster as long as I kept it smooth.

But he’s marketing on that horsepower now.

No! I wanted to scream in frustration. But I was staying right behind him. Telling myself that statistically he couldn’t land like that every time.

He has to misstep once…Finally. And I was hoping I’d be right there to take advantage of it.

But to my sinking dread he cleared the next six with the same flawless perfection.

Just as we reached the last hill he landed between and his bike swayed slightly as I caught air.

But he recovered as I landed. And he was feet ahead of me as we cleared the finish line. He dropped the kickstand down and swung off his bike the same time he pulled off his helmet. Giving me a triumphant grin while he pointed at me.

Gloating he’d won. I stopped. Straddling my back and watching him in disbelief.

How had that happened. For the third year in a row?

When had he gotten so good?

We’d rode together on kids when we both had tiny Yamaha dirt bikes.

But he wasn’t this good.

And that’d been before I broke my arm, falling off when I was ten. Making a bit of bone stick out of the skin of my forearm and sending my overprotective mother into conniptions. After that, mom had sold my bike and forbidden me to ride it again.

And to her knowledge, I never had.

But Eric had been nowhere near this skilled when we were younger.

All those years I was looking for a bike he was riding one.

And getting better. I was glaring at him so hard I thought he had to feel my scowl cutting him through my helmet visor.

He strutted over to me and held out his hand.

I tugged off my leather glove and shook it.

“Good ride.” He murmured before turning my hand and inspecting it.

For a moment I wondered if he was thinking about kissing it or some stupid dramatic effort to be charming.

Instead, he just looked back at my helmet and finished shaking it before walking away.

“Where’s the loser of the bet?” One of his friends was calling for me.

I scrambled to put my bike away and heard Eric telling them.

“Eh, who knows. She’ll be back soon enough and then Sweetheart has to pony up.” He boasted.

“What you going to make her do?” His buddy asked. “Have her clean out your locker or polish your car in a mini-skirt?”

Uck. That sounds disgusting. I envisioned Eric sitting in a lawn chair sipping Coke from a straw while he watched me leaning over in some tiny skirt.

It made me want to vomit.

“I just might.” He cracked. “And a bikini top.”

Jokes on you. I don’t own one. I was glaring at him as I pushed my bike behind them.