Riding the Universe (3 page)

O
bviously, the misguided soul who left the tarp was unaware of basic motorcycle ethics, so I can't bring myself to actually be mad, but Seth would have been. I can't take the tarp with me, so I fold it up as best as I can and drop it off behind the first column in Building B's hallway.

Who would even care enough to cover Lolita like this? Rock would, but he knows better. Besides, I've never seen this tarp in his trunk before. Gordon did come in wet from outside, but we're not exactly friends, more like I'm a tick on his after-school butt.

Oh, well. Whoever did it was just trying to be nice.

I ride by Rock's, hoping to steal him away so he can help
me with Lolita's leak today. His garage door is open, the Mustang's hood is up, but another car sits in the driveway, and it's not Amber's Xterra.
See?
This is exactly why I haven't set foot in his house in years, why we usually see each other at my house instead. I don't want anything to do with his player activities. I rev up Lolita, positive he can hear me. I don't care who is screaming in his bed, my pipes are louder.

I spend the next two hours driving around aimlessly, reveling in Lolita's pipes just like Seth used to. He always said that something mystical happens when you start a Harley. When I was little I didn't understand what he meant, but as soon as we put on Lolita's slip-fit mufflers, performance and sound were never the same again. Lolita's deep grumble would send vibrations throughout my legs. “Do it, Sethie, gun it!” I'd yell, clinging to his back, my hair flying around like an auburn-haired Medusa.

At my request, Seth would make Lolita go faster. I didn't know it then, but she asks for speed. Demands it. Seth would grip her ape hangers and squeeze until we were soaring. I wish I could tell you that riding with my uncle was like flying, transcending onto another plane, or becoming one with the Earth, but that would only be scratching the surface. It was so much more than that.

Mystical.

Unfathomable.

Fathomystic,
maybe?

My mother would say “dangerous” and “reckless.”

For being Seth's sister and hailing from a family of Harley riders, that is some serious blasphemy. She insists I will understand the dichotomy when I have carried children in
my womb, given birth to them through tears of resignation and joy, and nourished them from my own body. Then, she says, I will start to see Lolita as death on wheels. Once, I told her that I
did
understand her “giving birth” scenario, because Seth and I ordered six-piston chrome bagger calipers for Lolita, then waited nine weeks for them to arrive, but she didn't think that was very funny.

The thing is—she should know better than anyone—once a biker, always a biker.

There comes a magical moment when you just
get
the connection that happens between human and machine, and that's when you become a biker for life. Lately, I've started to wonder if I got this affinity for motorcycles from just hanging out with Seth, or if my birth parents were the same way. I've always accepted that I'll never know, since my adoption case was closed, which means my birth parents and adoptive parents know nothing about one another. But I know there are ways to try and locate them. If I ever decide to, that is.

If only I could without hurting Mom and Papi.

Finally, the sun begins to descend behind the strawberry fields by my house. Lolita's tires cut through inches of this afternoon's rain, and the droplets fly up, striking my face like super-fine acupuncture. Gotta squeeze in at least one adrenaline rush before I get home. I up-shift to fifth and take the last stretch of straight road at sixty-five.

“Aaiieee!”
My scream blends with the screaming of the engine.

Somewhere in my head, I hear my uncle's tenor-smooth voice laugh.
Atta girl, Chlo.

 

Our driveway is full of stuff that Papi's trying to sell as part of his New Year's resolution. But after three nights now, it's still around. His quest to empty our garage of my mother's junk while she is distracted with postnatal life is failing miserably. Pre-babies, she never would have allowed such a thing, but at the moment, she is nursing two three-month-olds and is too hormonal to even care. Besides, who would want a velvet portrait of the twelve signs of the zodiac, especially one with a coffee stain in the bottom left-hand corner? Salvation Army, Father, Salvation Army.

I ease Lolita in between a shrunken head torchière and a six-level shoe rack holding a library of bills older than I am. On a folding chair next to it, Papi sulks over the enormous task of feeding old bills one by one into his new paper shredder.

“How was the dock,
linda
?”

I pull off my helmet and scratch my head. “I wasn't at the dock. I'll go after dinner.”

“You shouldn't be riding late every night.”

“It's not that late, and it's not every night. At least you know where I am.”

“Hmm,” he says over the shredding noise. He knows I'm not a difficult child and that all I ever ask for is to ride. Overall, I am one cooperative kid.
“Mira esto.”
He changes the subject. “It even shreds credit cards. Isn't that great?”

“Incredible.” I bend over to kiss his cheek. His white Hanes T-shirt smells like gasoline, fish, and the open sea. I could smell him all day.

“How's Lolita running today? Did you and Rock tune her up yet?”

“Not yet. Next time he comes over, we'll get started.”

“Tell him about the leak.”

“He knows, Papi.” The sad fact is I can't take care of her the way Seth did. Sure, I may have learned a thing or two from being around him all the time, but I need Rock supervising my tinkering to make sure I'm doing it right. I already tried fixing the leak twice, but it's still leaking. “Mom inside?”

He nods, but before I can take another step, he holds up his hand.
“¿Las llaves?”

I drop the key into his palm so he can take his usual ride while waiting for dinner. “All yours.”

I find my mother on the couch, babies sprawled asleep on her open-shirted chest. She and the twins have red hair, a trinity of flaming heads. I kiss all three of them. My mom opens her eyes and mumbles, “Chlo, honey, can you turn the rice off?”

“Can't you just put the twinsies down, Mom?” I can't bear to call them by their given names—Carl and Sagan. Ugh. Believe me, I can only feel grateful she didn't go with Castor and Pollux. “They're never going to learn to sleep in their perfectly tended, never-before-slept-in cribs.”

“Please, Chlo.”

I head into the kitchen and turn off the burner. “What's for dinner besides rice?”

“Fish, veggies…the usual.”

“You seriously need to start cooking again.”

My dad fishes for Eddy's, a local seafood market, so it's
snapper, kingfish, or dolphin almost every night (the fish, not Flipper). With so much omega-3 oil running through my veins, you'd think I'd be a Pisces, but alas, I'm a Sagittarius—ruled by Jupiter and Neptune. In other words, I have no ambition. I am a wanderer, an observer, not a scientist. At least that's what my astrology-obsessed mother has told me my whole life. The truth is, I am entirely more left-brained than she gives me credit for, and she might know this if she observed tangible evidence once in a while. Still, I'm not left-brained enough to understand chemistry.

My father, on the other hand, doesn't understand why I'm failing Rooney's class. He thinks I should have a passion for it, given my love of astronomy, as if all sciences were the same. At least he's on the right track, although he can be delusional too, at times. After all, he
is
outside waiting for strangers to buy Mom's junk.

“Is Rock coming for dinner?”

“Not sure, Mom. He might be busy tonight.” I don't mention what or who he seems to be busy with over at his house.

“Hmm. I keep saving food for him, but then your dad ends up eating it the next day.”

“Maybe it's better if you don't save him anything,” I suggest with a shrug. “I'm sure he'll find food somewhere. You know Rock.” If I were to tell her exactly what he's up to, she'd never believe me.
Sweet little Rock, a womanizer? Surely, you must be imagining things, Chloé
.

“How was tutoring?” Mom asks, trying to adjust the bandanna holding her hair back without waking the babies. The twinsy in blue stirs a bit.
Carl, green. Sagan, blue.

I take Baby Sagan from her so she can rest an arm. He settles against my chest without a hitch. I love his little red eyebrows. “Good. I think it's going to work,” I lie. “Hi, baby…”

“Did you get Sabine?”

I grab some silverware with my free hand and finish setting the table for her. “I did at first, but they switched me to this guy named Gordon. Isn't that an oldish name?”

“It's a perfectly nice name. And? How is he?”

“He explains better than Rooney does.” I grab some of the used plastic cups scattered about that my mother insists we use to save water and time and toss them in the trash when she's not looking, then I add, “But he's full of himself.”

“Aries?” my mother asks, like I should've gotten all his pertinent zodiac information in our first session.

“I don't know. I'm not going to ask him.”

“Or might be a Scorpio. Find out next time, would you, honey?”

“
Arrgh.
The insanity!” I head for the babies' room, which is decorated to look like a purple sky with twinkling stars.

“What are you
arrghing
about?” Her voice carries down the hall. I've almost got Baby Sagan nestled in his bed where he should be, between two rolled-up blankets, when he wiggles in protest, then finally lets out a piercing wail. I pick the little sucker back up and carry him all the way back to my mother's boobs.

“Colette's coming, so can you make sure we have some seltzer?” she says above the surround-sound crying. Marraine's name always sounds pretty when it rolls off my mother's tongue.

“Uh, I was supposed to tell you that, sorry.” I check the A/C closet, where we keep extra two-liter bottles of soda, hoping to get dinner over with as quickly as possible so I can once again hit the road.

 

Surprisingly, Rock does make it to our house in time for dinner, and my mom puts out an extra plate for him. “Thanks, Vero. You're the freakin' best,” he tells my mom. I know he appreciates my family, especially since his dad works late every night, then leaves early every morning, leaving Rock to his own defenses, but does he have to say “freakin'” to my mom?

“Not a problem,” she tells him with a smile. “Just get your disgusting shoes off my chair.” Which he does with a sheepish grin.

“Nerd,” I mumble. My dad grins at us from his seat, and we all settle down to eat.

Once we're done, Rock begins furiously texting Amber from his phone (at least I think it's Amber) while I listen to the adults in my life as they laugh and tell stories. Mom and Marraine's voices blend together to finish each other's sentences. Mom is six years older than Marraine, but they've been best friends since Marraine was fourteen. I always thought that was cool of my mom to be friends with a girl so much younger. It just goes to show that connections between people happen, regardless of age.

Papi and Mom were both twenty-one when they got married. They adopted me right away, agreeing to leave childbirth until later. But it happened much later than they expected—sixteen years to be exact. Now I have beautiful
little brothers, but is it wrong of me to feel a bit jealous that our mom is
their
flesh and blood but not mine? I try not to think about it that way, but the thought persists. Other thoughts insist on persisting too. In fact, ever since Seth died this summer…it's like a dust cloud of persistent thoughts has kicked up in my life.

Like, what if Papi is the next to go? Or my mom? What do I do in the unlikely event that they
all
die in the same plane crash while I stay behind in small-town Florida City with nobody but Rock and some alligators? Then what? Then I'll have no family left. And no family left not only means no one to love, but no one to ask questions to. Then I'd never know if my birth parents loved the stars like me, or made up weird words like me. Because Mom and Papi wouldn't be around to tell me the name of the adoption agency they used. So, it's stuff like this I would love to talk to Mom about, but I don't want her thinking I don't love her enough. So I'm really trying to ignore all this as best as I can. They are the most awesome parents anyone could ever hope for, and I should focus on that.

After dinner, Rock and I wash the dishes. Or rather, he leaves half the plates all sticky and I fix them when he's not looking. Then he kisses each of us on the cheek, shakes my dad's hand, and is off again. “Later, Chlo.”

“Don't you want to come to the dock with me?” I ask. We used to hang out there every day. Now he's always running off somewhere. “You wanted to talk to me, remember?”

“I know. But something came up. I'll call you later.”

“Fine,” I say, hearing him leave through the front door. “Someone lock up after me!” he calls.

I finish the dishes by myself and watch my parents shuffle around the kitchen putting things away. Papi's hand on Mom's lower back reminds me that they are lotto lucky. Still together, still making babies, still very much in love after seventeen years of marriage. I hope to find that kind of love one day. Until then, I do my best to help them, taking a baby into my arms to give my mother a break so she can make me an after-dinner espresso, for example. But as much as I love being with them—I really mean it, they are
ultra-fabacious
, a word that suits them
ultra-fabaciously
—I can't wait for dinner to be over.