Shifting Gears

15. Neon Roses

My angry footsteps kicked dust up off the dry ground as I stormed my way down the main path. People called out to me and I gave them stiff waves, but quickened my steps. When I reached the Shop, I climbed up onto a picnic table and hunched over my knees. Then more people kept calling out to me, and I saw some approach to talk.

I slinked off the table, pretending I didn't see them, and practically ran toward the Shop. When I stepped inside, the cool A/C greeted my face with a welcome. It was surprisingly pretty calm in here, just a few racers grabbing some food and sitting at the little tables in the corner. I saw Aunt Millie at the counter, taking someone's orders. Uncle Phil was rifling through papers in the back office, his door cracked slightly open, enough for me to see his reading glasses perched low on his nose.

I walked aimlessly around the shop, and ended up by the wall of pictures and plaques. A fluorescent shop light lit up the wall. Some of the pictures were old enough to be black and white, some torn, some from last year—I saw Clay, his blond hair shorter than it was now, a grin plastered to his face as he held up the trophy from last summer. Underneath the picture, gold-plated letters spelled, "Raven Heights Hare Scramble, Summer 2015."

I kept meandering down the wall, getting to the older pictures. I'd been over here before but never took so much time to look at them. So my eyes narrowed to slits when I saw a photo with a familiar face in it.

Two familiar faces.

Crouching, I leaned up close to the window shielding the pictures, squinting to look at the two young boys inside. Clay's hair was long—the Justin Bieber stage kind of long. It hit his shoulders almost, and was a much whiter-blond than it was today. His face still had some baby fat, and his cheeks puffed out as he smiled like a lunatic. He was in racing gear, and holding his helmet. He had to have been ten years old, at the most.

But what caught my eye was who stood next to him. Clay had his arm slung casually around the shoulders of a peer racer, like he would do with Reid, a close friend. But it wasn't Reid.

It was a boy with dark brown hair that was also long, but much curlier than Clay's. His green eyes were squinted as he grinned alongside my brother. He held his helmet against his waist, and he was dressed in racing gear that matched Clay's.

My eyes drifted down, seeing the title of the photo that confirmed my suspicion.

"Clay Lawson & Greyson Ryvers, Partners and Champions of the 2005 Raven Heights 8-hour Tag-Team Race."

Clay and Greyson, partners in a race? Clay and Greyson, arm slung over the other's shoulder and grinning like two best friends? Clay and Greyson, spending time with each other and not ending up in a hospital?

"Crazy, 'innit?" I whirled around at the sudden voice. Uncle Phil stood above me, looking down at the same picture. "Those two used to be inseparable when they were kids here. They'd spend every waking hour of every day together, pull pranks that drove us officials mad, and were the best racing duo this town had seen. And some of the best racers, period."

My mouth dropped as I listened to him. Clay and Greyson?

"There's no way," I scoffed, looking back at the picture but standing up next to Uncle Phil. His arms were crossed and his gaze distant as he recalled memories.

"You'd never believe it." He took a deep breath. "Now I can hardly keep them from throwing punches at each other and getting themselves disqualified."

"What happened?" I asked incredulously. I had no idea Clay and Greyson were even remotely friends before Greyson moved.

Uncle Phil was quiet, not meeting my eyes. Aunt Millie behind us called out an order that was done, and there was rustling as the few racers near us ran over to her.