The Boy With The Motorcycle

0.3

I throw open my suitcase, and dig through it for something to put over my suit. I find a tight black crop top. It's a thick tank top, with a rim of faux black gems sewn onto the bottom. I throw on a white pair of jean shorts, and look in the mirror. The shorts are a lot tinier than I remember when I bought them. But they look good in a way. Though I act all nerdy, I still know how to do my hair or makeup, I just choose not to most of the time. I do a crown braid around my head, and remove two pieces in the front to frame my face. Slowly, I slide into two bright white converse sneakers.

I haven't seen myself with heavy makeup on in a long time. I never realized how long my lashes could get. My inner corner of my eye is highlighted, and my eyelids a light black.

I walk out the door, grabbing my purse and stuffing my phone in it. Just as I walk outside, I hear that same zooming noise. Sure enough, up the street comes Patrick . The dust blurring the background behind him. He halts abruptly, and I approach the vehicle. I doubt mom or dad would like me riding on a motorcycle, and even though they aren't here, I still am not sure I want myself riding a motorcycle.

"Get on," he ushers me towards him. I hesitate, and get on the back, the motorcycle too thin for me to separate stomach from pressing against his back. I look at my arms, not knowing what to do with them. He must notice my confusion because he says, "You can either put your hands around my waste, or hold onto the sides for dear life. I suggest the first one, it seems safer." I consider my options, I would rather hang free, then hang onto his waist, but I wouldn't rather die, as much as I wish I felt that way. I slowly wrap my arms around him, feeling shivers the moment I touch him. His stomach is hard, almost like there was a smooth rock under his shirt. What am I talking about? Ugh.

As soon as my hands reach one another around his waist, he speeds off, obviously going way too fast. Then I close my eyes, the dust too much for me to handle. I guess he doesn't carry a spare helmet. We could have easily walked, but no, we need to suffer and create a dust storm just for my eyes to be poked.

I can feel the wind pulling me backwards. The air instantly dries my mouth of any liquids that remained, and suddenly I am very thirsty. I want water, I need it. My mouth burns, because I made the horrible mistake of opening it, and now the dust stings my tongue.

My body shakes from the vibration of the motorcycle. I bounce up and down like a bobblehead. The noise envelopes me. It sounds like thirty lawn mowers are all going off right next to me.

We begin to fall to the right. I am about to scream when I realize we are just turning. When we turn we fall? How does this guy do this everyday?

Then all of the wind and dust stops, and so does the blurry backdrop. Now when I open my eyes, I open them to a boardwalk, with wooden planks laid out carefully. Shouts of happy children come from the right, and splashes from the water from straight ahead. Music blasts loudly, and birds swoop over the planks, hoping to find a treat.

Patrick pulls me to the boardwalk, as if he is in a rush. We have all day, it doesn't seem like it would matter. I nev er understand anything that Patrick does.

The biggest section on the boardwalk has a small entrance, that spreads out once you enter. Pac-man, claw games, Galaga, and tons of other games lay in front of us. Ahead of all the games, is a ticketbooth. He pulls me to the ticket booth, happily, like old times. We buy a bucket worth of tickets, and walk towards the rides behind the arcade. The roof opens up as we enter the rides area. There are only small ones, no roller coasters, but it still looks fun.

The best looking one is to the right, it's the closest to the entrance. Four orange seats, float above the ground, connected to the pole in the middle. A silver lap bar collapses over each rider. The seats are made of a beat up looking, black leather. Lights along the middle pole flicker, turning on and off every other second. When the ride begins, I see each cart lifts into the air, and starts getting flipped around. Teenagers and tweens scream with joy as they are tossed around.

Patrick and I meet eyes, we both know each other too well. The two of us run over to the ride. We hand our tickets to the ride tender, and eagerly wait in line, not wanting to stand there another second. I have to yell over all the noise to be heard in the slightest by Patrick .

"This looks awesome!" I scream, jumping up and down a few times. I grin at him. Maybe letting Patrick go so easy was a bad idea.

He smiles back, "Don't you get sick on these things?" he asks, remembering my nausea. I don't blame him. What I did to let him know that I got carsick is unforgettable. When the two of us and our families were going on a trip for spring break to a waterpark, I threw up on him in the backseat. I felt awful, and he reassured me it was okay, even though he was clearly super uncomfortable.

"No, just car sick." I tell him.

"You're positive?" he gets a worried look, but I can tell he sees the humor in this as well.

"Anything can happen," I let out a laugh, and hold my hands on my stomach while I do.

His eyebrows furrow uncomfortably, so I can't help but smile and annoy him even more. Part of being friends with Patrick was being able to annoy each other. I'm still not sure if he wants to be my friend, but taking me to the boardwalk could be a step in the right direction.