Okay, he’salmostadorable. He’s no Adam, but Marlow is also watching us through the window. I can feel her eyes on me, plus half the eyes of Cape Georgeana. I have to be a good date.
I snatch the helmet, popping it over my red hair. “Let’s do this.”
Jake grins, helping me tighten the chin strap. “How’s your balance?”
Since the concussion? Abysmal. “It’s okay,” I lie. How hard can it be to stay upright on one of these things?
He winks. “Just hang on to me.”
I let out a fluttering laugh, and we climb aboard clumsily. I’m situated between Jake and the handlebar, our feet wedged together on the footboard. It’s awkward, but we make it work. After a short tutorial on how to turn and balance our weight, Jake starts it up. We peel off down the sidewalk, and I screech. I’m sure my hair is whapping him in the face.
But ten minutes later, I’m laughing and having fun with Jake—the same way I have fun with my brothers. We’re flying through town at half the speed limit, the salty night air whipping around us.
When we pull up to Cape Georgeana's lone stoplight, a golf cart rolls up beside us. Its high-pitched engine revs, taunting us. When I peek over, a boy from my freshman men's choir class is at the wheel. He’s disguised by sunglasses, but his blond cowlick and Cape Georgeana High School Choir T-shirt give him away.
“Hey, Beckett.” I offer a brave wave, quickly resuming my grip on the handlebar. “Having a good summer?”
He raises his sunglasses, jutting his chin in greeting, then lowers them. Twisting a knob on the dash, his mouth tightens into a firm line. The iconic opening riff of “Thunderstruck” byAC/DC fills the air around us. Beckett feathers his gas pedal, and the menacing one-cylinder engine of his golf cart sputters. Fixing Jake with a dead stare, he revs it a few more times while we wait for the light to turn green. His golf cart lurches ahead slightly. Those things aren't built to be revved, but Beckett makes it work.
“Are we doing this?” my date asks under his breath.
“I think we have to.” AC/DC's pounding bassline fills me with confidence I shouldn’t feel as someone riding tandem on a scooter built for one. I'll never hear the end of it if I lose a street race to Beckett on a golf cart, though. “Let's do it.”
Thun-der!
Beckett revs and lurches his golf cart again.
Thun-der!
Jake and I brace for maximum speed: twelve miles per hour.
Thun-der!
The light turns green.
With a screech from me and the distinct, loud sputter of golf cart exhaust, the race is on.
Unbelievably, it's neck and neck. We might have a shot at winning this thing. With a laugh I holler, “Punch it, Jake!” into the wind.
“Iampunching it!”
Then Beckett pulls ahead, and I whine. He leaves us in his dust, the thumping bass of AC/DC fading in the distance. I can’t help but laugh, even though the beginnings of stubborn braids want to sprout on my head. We need a rematch.
Jake laughs with me, easing off the speed. “Take the handlebars!” he calls over the wind.
I grab them cautiously. What is he doing?
Jake leans forward, pushing the X-Eighty back to top speed. Then he straightens his arms at our sides and hollers, “I’m king of the world!” into the wind.
A cackle shoots out of me. I can’t help it. “What are you doing?” I ask, breathless with laughter as Jake resumes steering.
“Oh, come on. You know. FromTitanic?”
Still unsure whether he was having a serious moment or making a joke, I say, “I haven’t seen that one.” That’s nice and neutral.
“Seriously?” There’s disappointment in his voice. “It’s my all-time favorite movie. Hands down.” We zoom around a corner, headed back toward the diner. “What’s your favorite movie?”
I have a new favorite every month, so I go with my current love. August got me into it, and it tends to filter my dates efficiently whenever I bring it up. “Somewhere in Time.”
