I resent being called wholesome. I’ve spent my entire life just keeping to myself, and that’s how I like it. Sure, I’m no criminal, but that doesn’t make me wholesome. The tats lining both of my arms can confirm that. You don’t see me smiling at people on the sidewalk or anything. I’m pretty sure my own landlord is terrified of me, and she’s been renting this place to me since I turned sixteen and got emancipated.
Over the next few minutes, I listen in horror as Marcus describes Team Loco’s new initiative to take advantage of all the good press we have and kind of brag about how we don’t have drug addicts, rapists, or other assholes on our team unlike the rest of the professional racing teams.
We are going on a three-week tour of the country, stopping at five small motocross tracks to meet the fans.
And that’s not the worst part.
Marcus wants us to host a one-day training camp at each track. He said the big bosses of Team Loco are coordinating it all now, signing up kids at each track, and all of the registration fees are going to charity.
We’re supposed to show up at random cities across the nation, shake hands and mingle with the fans, and then try to embark motocross knowledge onto little kids. Ugh.
“You can’t teach motocross in a day,” I say, gazing longingly at my empty box of cereal. I could use more sugar right about now.
“It’s just for fun,” Marcus says. “There will be four teams at each track—one for each of you. You guys will get about five kids each and you’ll train them and give them some riding tips, then we’ll hit the road and go to the next town. It’ll be fun.”
“In no way, shape, or form will this be fun.”
“Chill out, Clay.” That voice is unmistakably Jett—the youngest member of Team Loco who is somehow also our leader. “This will be good for you. You need to learn to be nice.”
“I am nice,” I say.
Everyone laughs.
“That reminds me,” Marcus says. “Team Loco is officially the wholesome racing team of the year. You need to live up to that image, Clay.”
My jaw tightens. I get this talk every few months. I should be nicer. I should smile more. I shouldn’t answer all my interview questions so seriously.
Why do I get so much shit for being myself? I’m not some bubbly friendly kid like Jett, and I’m no flirtatious womanizer like Zach. Aiden has pretty much always been the golden boy—always smiling and taking pictures and never refusing an autograph. They do a good job of all that wholesome bullshit that Marcus wants. Why can’t it just be enough that I’m a good racer?
“Yeah, okay,” I say because I know my boss wants an answer.
“This will be fun,” Aiden says. I don’t think he’s talking about the new kid-teaching tour we’re going on. I think he’s talking about me.
“Are we done?” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” Marcus says. “I’ll email you the itinerary and your flight confirmation. We’re all meeting in Dallas for the first training camp.”
I hang up without saying bye and then I sit up on the couch and run my fingers through my hair. It’s only been a few months since I let it grow back out, so it’s still pretty short. It’s also a lot darker than usual. My hair used to be blonde when I was a kid, and the older I get the darker it becomes. It might be because I’m rarely in the sun anymore. Any time I am outside, my helmet is covering up my head.
I stand up and pull open my front door, breathing in the scent of the west coast. I can only see a sliver of the beach from here, which is why my apartment is so cheap for being in Laguna Beach. But I don’t need a fancy view. All I have to do is walk across Coast Highway and around the stores that face my apartment and I’m at the beach. Next to motocross, surfing is my favorite thing. I picked it up on a whim after moving here once my grandfather passed and left me everything he owned. I wasn’t that good at surfing and it definitely didn’t come naturally to me like motocross did, but it’s fun. I can relax on a surfboard. I can’t relax on a dirt bike. I’m always focused on improving my form, shaving just a few seconds off my lap time. Motocross is my career.
Surfing is for fun.
After the news that my month off is totally screwed, I change into my wetsuit and grab my board.
The best part of living in California is that December is never that cold. Surfboard in hand, I jog across the highway and down the concrete steps to the beach. Not many people are out here today, and I’m grateful for the solitude. Unlike my teammates, I don’t need to be surrounded by friends. I prefer being alone. Maybe that’s why people think I’m an asshole.
I’m not. I just have no desire to be all friendly for no damn reason. Can’t a guy just be left alone?
I step out into the water, trying to clear my head. The sun makes the ocean sparkle. I take a deep breath and try to clear away all the annoying thoughts about the next three weeks. Kids? Parents? Teaching? I’m not a trained coach. I’m just a racer. I know what works for me. How the hell am I supposed to teach some random kids about riding?
Dropping down on my surfboard, I paddle out further, trying to leave my stresses behind. It’s not really working today. But I’m going to stay on this surfboard until I’m not as annoyed anymore.
Chapter 3
I can’t believe this is happening. I got the reply email two days after I submitted my internship application. And now, here I am, nervous as hell, about to head to my interview.
“You be careful,” Mom says. She’s shivering in her pajamas as she stands next to me in the driveway. It’s six in the morning, and she doesn’t have to get ready for work yet. Dallas is an hour drive from Green Leaf, and my interview is at eight sharp. Luckily Mom can get a ride to work with Dad since their schools are next door to each other.
