Taming Zach Page 2

  All of the good jobs require a bachelor’s degree.

  All of the not so good jobs also require a bachelor’s degree.

  I wish someone had told me that this two-year business degree is pretty much worthless. This isn’t how my life was supposed to go. I was supposed to get a degree, get a good job, and buy my parents a better house. Buy Mama a better car. Get that knee surgery my dad desperately needs.

  But it turns out I’m only halfway there, and the second half of the degree I need is so far away I don’t think it’ll ever happen.

  Bachelor degrees are expensive, and the closest state college is two hours away. Since I can’t drive that far every day, I’d have to live in a dorm and I don’t even want to think about what that costs.

  My parents are heavily against debt of all kinds, even student loans. Especially student loans, Mama always says. All of her friends are in their forties and still paying them off. It’s not worth it, she always tells me. You know what else isn’t worth it? Going into tons of debt and not living at home. My parents need me here. I help out around the house and I work at the track and I make sure Mama doesn’t spend more than eight hours a day cleaning houses because I help her get the jobs done quicker. I can’t just leave my parents and head off to college.

  I walk into the kitchen and throw away the packaging trash and stare at my diploma, wondering if I should just throw it away, too. It’s as good as garbage. No one wants to hire the girl with a two-year degree when there are loads of other girls with four-year degrees applying for the same job. I just spent the last two years of my life working toward something that’s pretty much worthless if I can’t afford the next two years of college.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I’d been so excited to get this stupid thing in the mail and now I wish I’d never even bothered.

  The front door closes and I turn around, but it’s too late. Mama’s eyes light up and she rushes toward me, bringing a cloud of bleach smell with her.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she says in heavily accented English. I’m holding the diploma behind my back and I shrug.

  She reaches behind me and snatches it from my hands. She marvels at the shiny black case it comes in, probably looking just like I did when I was standing at the mailbox seeing it for the first time. It is pretty nice looking. Black and crisp with golden lettering embossed on top. Classy and important.

  Mom opens it and her eyes tear up as she reads my name on the diploma.

  “I’m so very proud of you, hija,” she says softly. “Our first college graduate.”

  “Community college,” I say. “And it’s an associate’s.”

  Mom’s dark eyes stare into mine. We are exactly the same height. Dad always says I look just like she did when she was a teenager, but I don’t believe him. I’ve seen pictures of her and she was much more beautiful.

  “It is still a great achievement,” Mama says. “We’re going to celebrate!”

  While we wait for Dad to get home from work, I hang out in my room and look for jobs on my laptop. I’ve got all of the major job posting sites bookmarked and I visit them every day. I also have email alerts turned on for new jobs, but I don’t trust them. I have to check every day just in case. Maybe one of these days something good will come up, and they’ll like my resume, and they’ll take a chance on the girl with the two-year degree. I’m still job searching an hour later when Dad gets home and Mama tells him the good news about my diploma arriving. It’s kind of funny because I’ve technically been graduated two weeks now, and that piece of paper is just a formality. But Dad pops his head in my room and he’s wearing a big grin. “Proud of you kid.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s totally a big deal,” he says. My dad is a tall, friendly white guy who managed to win my mama’s heart over back when they were sophomores in high school. She was in ESL classes and he desperately needed a Spanish tutor. My dad is always happy and upbeat and sometimes he’s kind of goofy and embarrassing, but whatever he did back then really won over my mom and they’ve been together ever since.

  Dad’s smile never fades when he’s around her. He’s giving me the same smile now. “Get dressed. We’re going to out dinner to celebrate.”

  La Tapita is the best Mexican restaurant in the state, and it also happens to be in Hopewell. It opened up about six months ago, and the whole town is crazy about it. They have delicious food that’s fresh and handmade and so much better than anything from Skeeter’s diner, which up until now had been the best place to eat.

  It’s Thursday, which sucks because on Friday nights they have a live mariachi band, but with the way my parents are so freaking excited about my diploma, maybe I can talk them into coming here tomorrow to keep the celebration rolling.

  Mama looks beautiful in a dark blue sundress, and her hair falls down her back in soft waves. She looks so much younger when she’s not wearing the scrubs she wears to clean houses. Dad has also dressed up for the occasion, wearing a clean pair of Wrangler jeans that don’t have any holes or oil stains on them. It might not seem like much, but since he spends his whole day outside working at the track, this is actually dressed up for him.

  My parents gush about my degree and how all those long nights I spent working on essays or studying for exams have paid off. I don’t want to burst their bubble, so I just smile and nod along, but I wish I could tell them their pride is for nothing. I can’t get a job with this stupid degree.

  “I’ve been filling out applications all week,” I say when I finally can’t take their compliments anymore. “I still don’t have any interviews yet.”

  “Give it time,” Mama says.

  “I hear the job market sucks for everyone,” Dad says. “I was talking with Bryan Appleton the other day—you remember him?” he says to Mama, who nods. “He owns that pool supply store? He said he had one job opening for a cashier and it only pays minimum wage and yet three hundred people applied for it.”

  “Wow,” Mama says. She puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t get discouraged, Mi Amor. You’ll get a job, even if it takes a while.”

  I smile back at her, hoping it looks convincing. Mama doesn’t know what my true intentions are. That I’ve made it my life’s mission to be successful so that I can take care of them as they get older. As far as my parents are concerned, I can live with them forever if I want and their lives can stay exactly the same.

  But I don’t want that. I want them to have a real house with a real front yard that’s not a dirt bike track. I want them to have a deed with their name on it. And I want the same thing for me, someday.

  “You’ll never guess who’s back,” Dad says after the conversation has finally drifted away from me and my accomplishment.

  Mom listens intently but I eat a bite of my enchiladas and I’m not really paying attention.

  “Zach Pena. Remember him?”

  I look up, suddenly very interested. Mom nods slowly. “I think so. Didn’t his mom make the blueberry muffins that were so good?”

  Dad laughs. “Of course you would remember that part. Yeah, that’s him. He was fast as hell and went pro a couple years ago. He was out at the track today. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, but Big Tom told me he’s back in town. Everyone’s all excited.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yep,” Dad says.

  Zach Pena was my biggest crush in junior high.

  And high school.

  And, well, pretty much until the day he signed his Team Loco contract and moved away.

  But he never knew I existed, I don’t think. We never talked even though I spent my childhood at the track and so did he. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t watch his interviews on YouTube every now and then. He’s only gotten hotter as he got older. And he’s our little town’s claim to fame. The first and only racer from Hopewell who made it to the pros.

  I stare at my food and try to act casual. “I wonder why he’s here?”

  Dad shru
gs. “No clue. Probably just visiting his mom or something. But Big Tom said someone saw him moving boxes into her house. Maybe he’s back for good.”

  That doesn’t make any sense. Zach Pena was one of the lucky ones who found a way to make it out of this small pointless town.

  Why on earth would he ever come back?

  Chapter 3

  I thought about it all night.

  Going from traveling around the country with a race team and racing in the biggest stadiums, at the most popular tracks, to racing at my hometown track in the middle of nowhere? Lame.

  It’s more than lame. It’s pathetic.

  But Tommy seemed to think it was a good idea. I’m still just an amateur pro. I know those two words sound like they don’t fit together, but there are only about fifty actual professional racers out there. They’re all much older than we are on Team Loco and they’re legit celebrities. We’re amateur pros, which means we’re still too young to be official pros, and we’re still working toward becoming one of the best. There’s probably three hundred of us. We race the 250 class while the real pros race the 450 class. It’s a shame too, because I love a 450 dirt bike. They’re fast as hell and sound like a dream when you pin the throttle.

  So, it’s not like me coming home and racing at Hopewell MX Park is the same thing as say, George Clooney going to his hometown and auditioning for the school play. I’m not even really that famous in the motocross scene.

  I think about my teammate Jett Adams, and he totally goes home and races at his local track. The locals love him for it. So that strengthens my resolve. I’m going to race the Hopewell summer circuit.

  The cash class is the only one of it’s kind, and it pays out big. The rest of the races are divided up into several classes (or motos, as they’re often called) ranging from bike size to age. As a little kid, I started racing in the 50cc class, and then moved up as my bike got bigger and I got older. They have all kinds of motos, from a women’s class to an old people class. The Over 50 class is what it’s called, and that’s the most entertaining to watch. It’s a bunch of older dudes racing as fast as they can on their vintage bikes.

  All of these classes cost a fee to enter, but all you win is a trophy and bragging rights. The cash class, though, is different. There’s only one cash class each race day and the winner gets five hundred dollars. People always stay to watch the cash class because only the fastest racers around will sign up to race it. If you’re looking for a battle of speed and talent, that’s the race to watch.

  Five hundred bucks a week isn’t bad. It’s much less than I’d earn on Team Loco’s summer circuit, but it’s enough to keep my bills paid and allow me to keep my savings intact.

  Plus it’s perfectly aligned with my summer goal. I’m already planning on spending every day at the track working on my skills and strength conditioning. This will just be an added bonus, and it’ll keep me focused on the win. I can’t slack off this summer. I can’t lose focus, and I can’t do anything to jeopardize my spot on Team Loco.

  This whole summer is about one thing: motocross.

  Mom has already gone to work when I get out of bed. I check the time, and it’s only eight, but she has to leave sooner than that to get to the city for work. She’s an accountant for a small business and if you ask me, they don’t pay her nearly enough to drive an hour to work each day.

  I make some coffee and eat a bowl of oatmeal. I hate this boring shit, but it’s carbs and carbs give you a boost of energy before riding. I also scramble some eggs and down them quickly. Twenty minutes later, I’m itching to get on my bike.

  The garage door opener has been busted for years. First up on my list of helping Mom is to have it fixed. I lift the metal door manually and it slowly creaks its way up the railing, revealing our small one car garage. All the air whooshes out of my lungs when I see the state of my old bike.

  Today is Friday, and I’d planned on racing in tonight’s race which is the first of the summer circuit. But this old thing is filthy. I can’t even remember the last time I cranked it up.

  Once I joined Team Loco, I got a factory bike that had over twenty thousand dollars in upgrades on it. The best suspension, the leanest cylinders, and the fastest exhaust system they make. Everything on my Team Loco bike is finely tuned to my body. From the handlebars to the suspension, it’s all perfectly matched to my six foot one inch height and two hundred pounds. Every millimeter of a professional bike is designed to make the rider go as fast as possible. Only that bike belongs to Team Loco, not me.

  My old bike is about as basic as it gets. I remember when I bought this. It’s a 2014 Yamaha 250f, and it took me years to save up enough money to buy it brand new from the dealership. Up until then, my entire life had been spent riding used bikes. This one was shiny and new and it was my baby. I won a lot of races on it. I qualified for my spot on Team Loco with this bike.

  I look at it now, sitting on the aluminum stand, covered in a fine gritty dirt from being abandoned in the garage for so long. My bright orange handlebar grips have turned yellow and brown from age. The tires are a little flat. Compared to my gorgeous Team Loco bike with custom graphics and detailing, this thing looks like a hunk of garbage.

  I run my hand down the leather seat. “Sorry I let this happen to you,” I say. It feels stupid talking to an inanimate dirt bike, but my heart aches all the same. This thing is a reminder of where I came from. And what I’ve lost. And where I want to go back to.

  I turn on the dusty old stereo in the corner and crank up some music, then get to work.

  The tires are dry-rotted and useless, so I yank them off and toss them in the back of my truck. I clean the carburetor, replace the spark plug, drain the gas and toss the gas can in my truck too. I wipe down the whole bike to clean it, and then I head to the nearby tire shop. It’s right next to Hopewell MX Park, and although they service cars and all types of vehicles, they’re the unofficial mechanic for the motocross track.

  Tommy brightens when he sees me walk in. I’d forgotten he works here now, since all morning I’ve only been focused on my bike.

  “Dude, I’m psyched,” he says when he sees the old tires in my hand. “You getting the bike ready to race?”

  “I hope so,” I say. “The thing hasn’t been started in two years.”

  “We’ll get you fixed up,” Tommy says. He steps behind the service counter and types quickly on the computer in front of him. “What all do you need?”

  “Tires, oil, race fuel if you have any, maybe a new air filter.”

  “Gotcha,” Tommy says.

  He rings me up and gives me the friends and family discount. Even though we’re both twenty-one years old now, he still acts like the kid I grew up with. He gets way too excited over pointless things. But I guess I could use the motivation right now.

  I bring everything back home and finish giving my bike a much needed tune-up. Then I climb up on it and pull out the kick starter and hold my breath. This is it.

  I haven’t worked on my own bikes in two years. Team Loco has the best mechanics around to do everything for us. All we do is ride. I hope I remembered everything.

  I put my foot on the kick starter and give it a swift kick. The engine turns over immediately and roars to life. The sound is deafening in this tiny garage but I grin as I rev the throttle and listen to my baby purr.

  “Thank you,” I murmur under my breath. I don’t know if I’m talking to God or the bike or my own hard work, but I’m happy as hell that my bike is running. Now I just need to hit up the races and win my five hundred bucks.

  The smell of exhaust fills the air and it’s the greatest smell in the world, besides maybe the smell of a beautiful woman. But women are officially off the agenda this summer, no matter how much that hurts me. It might damn well kill me to keep my eyes on the track instead of on girls, but it’s something I have to do.

  I park my truck a little further away from the rest of the people here. The races start in three hours, so most of the early a
rrivals are also racers, here to get a few practice laps in before the races begin. In time, this place will fill up with cars and spectators. I remember it all so well, even though I haven’t been to a small town track in forever. I’m used to private entrances and seeing the spectators cheering from stadium seats.

  I let down my tailgate and slide out the ramp, then take my bike down. This whole thing is humbling because I haven’t done any of this stuff in so long. We used to arrive at the races and all of our stuff was already set out for us by the people Team Loco hires to take care of it all. Hell, sometimes they’d have women dab powder on our faces for photoshoots.

  Maybe I was acting like a famous prick—Marcus’s words, not mine. Maybe I need this trip back home to remind me of where I came from.

  Seeing Mom’s shitty furniture at home was enough to remind me of what I’m working towards. It’s not all about me. I’m working my ass off to give her a better life, too. One day I’ll be an official pro. I’ll make the big bucks and Mom can retire early.

  I unpack my riding gear and slip into my riding pants, but keep my Adidas shoes on for now. My riding boots are too damn heavy to walk around in. I also leave my shirt off because it’s hot as shit out here, even though it’s only the start of summer.

  Before I can ride, I have to go sign in and register for the races. I make my way toward the white two story building at the front of the park.

  “Well look who it is.”

  I turn and notice Mr. Grayson approaching me, wearing a big ass grin. I don’t think he’s much older than my mom, but damn he’s aged. Probably from spending all day every day out here in the sun. Mr. Grayson works the track grounds, and he’s been here as long as I can remember. When I was around eight years old, my handlebars broke when I was at the far end of the track. I was sweating my ass off and exhausted as I pushed the stupid bike back, until Mr. Grayson saw me. He rushed up and helped me roll that bike all the way back to my mom’s truck. He’s a good guy.

  “Hey, Mr. Grayson,” I say. “How have you been?”