Motocross Me Read Online Free PDF

me on sign in duty. I stand at the entrance to the track and hand the clipboard to each car that enters, just like Molly did yesterday. I find it weird that no one bothers to read the waiver they sign. I read it, though. I lose count of how many times the word death is mentioned in the fine print.
    It isn’t long until the driveway and half a mile of the entrance road is lined with cars. I can’t believe this many people come to race at my dad’s track. When I was a kid, the track didn’t have races, only practice. Now as I stare at the line of at least fifty vehicles waiting to get in, my heart swells with pride for my dear old dad. He’s made a name for himself with what used to be a rinky-dink hang out for punk kids on dirt bikes.
    Everyone is friendly in the motocross world, but I get tired of explaining to them what happened to my face and confirming that yes, I’m Jim’s daughter. I abandon my ice pack when it melts into a bag of water. As long as I don’t squint my eyes or smile very wide, it doesn’t hurt. That’s easier said than done when the sun is shining and everyone keeps saying hello.
    An hour later my sign-in sheet has all fifty spaces filled, and I flip to a new page. According to the race schedule, there is still one more hour of this left. I count down the minutes until I’m free to roam around and scope out Ryan.
    The next truck pulls up and I ready my clipboard. It’s an older Mazda with faded red paint and a blue dirt bike in the back. Shiny decals on the bike’s number plate read 336. The guy driving is about my age. He would fit in perfectly with the hot motocross guys if his hair wasn’t a foot long and dread-locked. It makes him look wild, like someone who frequently breaks the rules and doesn’t care. A white grease-stained shirt and board shorts complete his look. It is the exact opposite of Ryan’s clean-cut, designer label, you-can-bring-me-home-to-mom style. He takes the clipboard and signs it in two places.
    “Good morning.” He hands it back along with money. “Hana Fisher, right?” His teeth are remarkably white when he smiles. Maybe it’s not a bleach thing. Maybe there’s something in the water that gives Mixon boys great smiles.
    “Yeah, something like that,” I say, bored with small talk. I’d spent the entire morning confirming my name to people and talking about my black eye and stupid things like the weather, or how exciting it is being at the races. All he needs to do is sign, pay and leave me alone so I can discuss the same thing all over again with the next person in line.
    “I’m paying for me and the girl in the car behind us,” he says.
    “That’s nice.” I glance toward the blonde he’s referring to. “Girlfriend?”
    “Sister actually, but she costs as much as one.” He laughs as he leans forward and shoves his wallet back in his pocket. “I’m Ash, by the way.”
    “Nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand and flashes me another smile so wholesome, it makes all my visions of him robbing a convenient store seem unrealistic. He drives forward and I wave the girl through, wondering why dreadlocks have such a stigma about them anyway.
    Eventually, the cars thin out, and only one or two trucks come in every few minutes. I lean against a tree and daydream about Ryan. Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. It must be Molly coming to relieve me of sign-in duty.
    “Thank God you’re here. I’m tired of standing.” I turn around to greet her, but face Ryan instead.
    He smirks. “Didn’t think you’d be so thrilled to see me.” He has no idea how right he is, but I can’t let him know that.
    “I thought you were Molly. I’m sick of standing here and wanted her to take over for me.” I yawn and plaster an apathetic-but-cute look on my face. I’m not blowing this again. I concentrate on tilting my head down and to the right so he can see more of the good side of my face and less of the blackened, swollen side. He wears what must be his