Byrdie
Makhi snaps his fingers in my face, scaring me half to death. “Enough of that shit. Let’s go.”
I’m sitting on my bed hours after we talked about the diary, staring into space. Nash and Vonn wanted to talk more about what to do with the diary, while Nance started cooking a meal no one was interested in eating after we picked at our breakfast.
I felt so bad for Nash. We had so much fun last night. This morning, he was laughing until I found the diary, which destroyed his mood. He looked so troubled that I wanted to give him a hug, but it felt like he was pulling away from all of us.
Nash snaps his fingers in my face again, so close to my nose I wrench my head back.
I’m torn between flinging a pillow or my lamp at his head for snapping his fingers at me like a dog.
“Stop doing that,” I mutter, deciding a pillow won’t hurt him enough, but a lamp might kill him.
“You heard me,” Makhi repeats and walks out to the open doorway. “If you promise not to kill us both, I’ll let you have a go at riding my bike.”
My anger evaporates, and curiosity takes its place. So does excitement.
I sit up. “But I don’t know how to ride a bike. Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Probably.” Sticking his hands in his pockets, he strolls away. “I guess I won’t let you ride after all.”
But he doesn’t say it as if he actually means it. Maybe I’m imagining things, but I swear he sounds amused.
Almost like he’s toying with me.
When the sound of his footsteps fade, I scramble off my bed, stuffing my feet in my sneakers and snagging my hoodie on my way as I run out of my room.
He’s in the garage, astride his bike with a helmet on his head and one helmet held out to the side for me to take.
Am I so easy to manipulate? He was so sure I would follow him that he was ready and waiting with a helmet.
I can’t believe how easily I let him play me.Again.
I scowl at his back, tempted to turn around and walk away from a ride I’m not ready to admit I was—and still am—excited to go on.
With one twist of his key, he has the bike’s engine purring.
Scared he’s going to leave me behind, I hurry toward him. “Wait!”
He doesn’t move as I stuff the helmet on my head and climb on the bike behind him.
“You said you were going to let me ride it.” I have to shout to be heard over the loud engine that makes my seat vibrate.
I can barely drive a car. Constantly changing schools and moving from town to town with my mom didn’t leave me much time to learn to drive at school. The little I learned was from Mom letting me practice on quiet roads and empty parking lots.
Why does the thought of being in control of a bike with an insanely powerful engine seem so exciting?
Am I stupid?
The helmet muffles most of his laughter, but not all of it. “Hold on.”
I hold on.
We speed out of the garage, out through the front yard, and the gates that slowly open for us.
And we fly.
My mind is clear when he pulls his bike to a slow stop on the side of the road, near where he took us before, just above town. There’s little else up here except a windy, dusty road, gravel on the sides that dip down onto clumps of itchy-looking dark green bushes and trees. It’s not truly a mountain. More of a staggered dip than a sharp incline. Steep but not so terrifying that I wouldn’t want to get too close to it in case I fell.
