Read Riding the Universe Online
Authors: Gaby Triana
Riding the Universe
Riding the Universe
For Chris
Her black body, blue airbrushed flames, and sloping ape hangersâ¦
The stars are out. All 100 billion of them inâ¦
I'm riding along Cancún's highway, headed to meet my birthâ¦
Gordon stares down at me with a look I canâ¦
Obviously, the misguided soul who left the tarp was unawareâ¦
The Murphys were a family I knew in elementary schoolâ¦
The next Monday a cool front moves in, making everyâ¦
It's Friday afternoon, and I've decided to try to fixâ¦
Over the weekend, it rains nonstop. Again. This would beâ¦
Rock finally comes out of hiding, gracing me with hisâ¦
Private sanctuaries are private for a reasonâso one can reflect,â¦
“You know what?” I slip my fingers out of his.
I wake up voracious after a wicked nap. So muchâ¦
“I have to tell you something, but you have toâ¦
The laundry situation at home has officially gotten out ofâ¦
The road through the Florida Keys is as treacherous asâ¦
Sunday morning, the sun filters in through the same yellowâ¦
I've waited and waited all day. Unless Gordon's phone died,â¦
Test Day.
Throughout February, it feels like someone has lit a bottleâ¦
Every so often my dad goes fishing, not for aâ¦
Rock sits on my bedroom floor, running his pocketknife underneathâ¦
You can depend on the night sky. You can countâ¦
Inside the Durango I call Gordon one more time. Ifâ¦
Try going an entire week pretending nothing's wrong. Try livingâ¦
The following Monday, I sit alone in the computer lab.
My chest pounds at the sight of his house, theâ¦
Saturday morning, I'm having café con leche alone at Ricardo's,â¦
For hours, I sit in the dark garage, surrounded byâ¦
Down US-1, through the Keys, against my parents' wishes. Iâ¦
The lost drunk guy doesn't return. But that doesn't makeâ¦
I pull on my shades, open the garage door, andâ¦
H
er black body, blue airbrushed flames, and sloping ape hangers reflect the dim light of our garage. A single drop of oil drips onto the concrete floor where she stands cooling off. My uncle's voice resonates in my mind.
We built her, Chlo. You and me. Now you know the hard work that goes into one of these babies
.
I look at my father, who sits on a stool, sorting stuff to keep from stuff to throw out. His brown eyes have a permanent squint from the ocean's glare. His skin is bronzed from long days in the sun, his shirt stained with fish guts. Normally, he would sympathize with my life's plight and purpose. He would go easy on me whenever I slip up. Not today. Today, his parent hat is on. Lucky me.
“Pull that grade up to at least a C,
o no mas
Lolita.” He leans forward on his stool, elbows on his knees. I can see how hard this is for him. He knows how much I love Lolita and the effect this is having on me. He may not be my real dad, but he knows me better than any biological father could. “Mom and I only let you ride her because of your promise, but you're not passing chemistry. And a deal is a deal. Are you listening,
linda
?”
My eyes shift back to my Harley-Davidson 1200 Sportster. I try to picture life without her, imagine her gone, like my uncle Seth, but I just can't. Because it's not going to happen. Because I must not, no matter what, lose her.
“Chloé?” he demands.
Lolita's engine ticks as she cools off. We have a lot in common, she and I.
“Yes, Papi.” I grit my teeth. “I know. I'll bring up my grade.”
T
he stars are out. All 100 billion of them in our galaxy alone. I can't see them this lovely January morning at 7:35
A.M
., but I know they're there. Same way they have been for 13 billion years.
The closest one to Earth is particularly bright today. I wish I could go to the dock and bask in the sun's glow this morning, but I can't. Because today is the day I deal with my knowledge deficiency head-on. If I don't, wellâ¦my father has made it clear what will happen.
So instead, I lock the front door, kick the porch swing to wake up Rock Nuñez, my loitering best friend who waits there for me in the mornings, and head to the open garage. “Ready to lose?” I ask.
“Okay, doll. Whatever you say,” he grunts, rolling over to stretch. He picks up the lemon-poppy muffin my mom has left for him on the bench and eats half of it in one bite. Then he stands, ruffles his hair, and heads to his carâa '68 suped-up black Ford Mustang parked on the curb. If I ever wanted to drive a car instead of a motorcycle, that'd be the one.
I pull on my helmet, close the garage door, then start Lolita. Her loud engine and pipes replace the morning silence. The Mustang roars to life, and minutes later, we're off and racingâthe perfect start to our day.
We fly past palmettos and new home developments, wind charging at us at seventy miles an hour. He passes me. I pass him. The cars on the road keep to the right. They know better than to get in our way. My braid bangs against my back, my arms vibrate with glee. I grip Lolita's accelerator and punch it as far as it'll go, and she presses on with happy speed. I blow past Rock, singing into the wind. “Woooo!”
This is life. This is how I want to die.
But not today. Obviously.
It's our first day back from winter break, and I have made Papi a promise to be more academically responsible. So, as much as I want to race around town with Rock all morning, I slow down and cruise to the next exit. He swings into line behind me. Our morning chase has come to a close, and once again I am victorious. All hail Chloé, Queen of Harleys!
As much as I love riding Lolita, it has one huge downside. She's only mine because Seth's not here anymore. My uncle left this planet five months and nineteen days ago, so now the bike belongs to me. Considering I helped give her new
life seven years ago through blood, sweat, and motor oilâour little summer project when I was tenâmy parents figure that's how he would've wanted it.
But I'd give her back in a heartbeat to have him here again.
On the last overpass, I see my destination in the distance. Everglades High,
HOME OF THE CROCS
(croc of crap, croc of shit)
! When the light turns green, I lunge out of first. Lolita protests with a cough.
I know, chica, tune-up coming soon
.
Sigh.
My first class of the day is the one I'm failingâBasic Chemistry. It's bad enough my brain has a hard time understanding mols, elements, and ions, but the school board made things infinitely worse by having Mr. Rooney, a living mummy and the Eighth Wonder of the Ancient World, teach it with his outdated methods and complete lack of connection with modern-day students. Mr. Rooney, by the way, will be closing his classroom in exactly three minutes, regardless of who is making out in the doorway.
I hurry to 147th Avenue, Rock following close behind me like my dance partner in a highly choreographed ballet. We enter the student parking lot. My assigned space awaits. A student here at 'Glades High whose name I won't mention (Philip Best) complained that my motorcycle needn't take up one entire “car” space best reserved for higher-order motor vehicles, so the office gave me a “special” parking space for my “special” vehicle. It may be an entire astronomical unit (93 million miles) from the entrance to the school, but I smile and do as I'm asked.
Today is a new day!
I remind myself.
I park, cut the engine, and lock up. I hate not being able to monitor Lolita from Rooney's window, but Principal Dunnar doesn't care. He doesn't understand that a motorcycle is not a car or a truck. It's more delicate. People like to touch it. But it's still a non-issue for him. As he puts it, “A seventeen-year-old young lady should not be tinkering with dangerous road toys best left for middle-aged men named Hellcat anyway.”
Rock jumps out of his car and locks up. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, but I know there's nothing in there except for a few condoms and his phone. “Later, doll.” He waves. “I let you win!”
“You wish!” I have one minute and forty-eight seconds until Mr. Rooney slams his door, sits at his desk, and starts talking to his grade book. “Later, Lola,” I address her the way Seth used to. Cradling my helmet, I break into a fast walk. I'm releasing my hair from its braid and taking off my shades when I hear itâthe electronic whine of the first-period bell.
Damn it.
I try to hurry without running. Running would attract more attention. Oh, look, it's Philip Best in the hall. I do everything in my power not to hiss at him. What did he care if I was taking up a Whole Entire Parking Spot? Am I not a Whole Entire Student?
Ha, ha, your car is blocked by Rock's.
I smile at him. He returns it with a wary glare.
“Chloé Rodriguez!” A beautiful, accented voice echoes behind me in the first hallway. My
marraine
(godmother), Colette Jordan, peers out of her French classroom as if the wall has grown a head. “I do not mark you present every morning for you to walk all over my generosity with your tardiness,
comprennez
?”
“
Oui
, Madame Jordan.” I was lucky enough to land Marraine for homeroom this year. Her act of kindness each morning affords me an extra eight minutes of sleep. “It won't happen again.”
“No. It won't. And tell your mother I'll be there tonight.”
“I will.
Merci,
Madame.
Tu es un ange!
”
She
humphs
and disappears into her classroom.
Whew.
It is with mixed emotions that I attend the very school where my mother's best friend (aka reconnaissance spy) also happens to teach. Of all the high schools in Florida City. Okay it's the only high school in Florida City.
“Hey, Chloé.” A blur resembling Vincent Maroone whooshes past me.
“'Sup, Vince.”
“I'm working at Gears Auto now, did you hear?” He turns around and walks backward. I know he's trying his best to act bad-ass, but all I see is the doofy twelve-year-old who crushed on me for three years in middle school.
“Awesome. Free oil for me.”
“You know it.” The cigarette he has tucked behind his ear falls, and he has to stop and get it, breaking his ultracool momentum.
“Smoking is bad for you, Vincent.”
“Yeah, it makes you late.” He does a weird two-finger salute, then takes off running again. Our security guard appears from around a corner and tells him to slow down.
I hurry for the stairs. When I round the corner, I run smack into Gordon Spooâ¦Spoo
something
. I can never remember. Spoonbill? Tall guy, a little chunky, but cute.
Sort of full of himself, which I have always found strangely attractive. He used to go out with co-Mensa genius, Sabine Jimenez, at the beginning of the school year.
“Sorry about that,” I say, looking for a way around him.
He blocks me like the Wall of China that he is. “Late again?”
Quoi?
Who is he, my parole officer? “I was justâ¦it's that I was in⦔
Find yourself, Chloé.
“Move,” I tell him.
He steps aside to let me pass, then smirks. “Hurry up, or you'll be late to Rooney's,” he says like he's my
mom
, then adds, “Motor Girl.”
Nice. I see he has employed the nickname other students have adopted for me because they think they are witty and referential. For all I know, he may be really nice once I get to know him, but right now, I don't plan on it. I push past him, then realize he has uttered something more important than my pet name. I stop and turn around. “How do you know what classâ¦?”
But Gordon is gone. And oddly, so is my breath.
No time to think about this now.
Ancient Rooney's class awaits, right across from the stairwell. Looks like I'm the only one arriving late this morning. Fabulous. As punishment, I'll have to recite the periodic chart in ascending order by group, starting with the noble gasesâa skill I'm unlikely to use ever again.
When I open the door quietly, Mr. Rooney has his nose inside his grade book like he expects it to speak.
Shh, listen
. It tells Mr. Rooney something of the utmost importance. Ah, yes, he has entered an
A
in it and must quickly revoke it before anyone actually passes his class. I sneak in as
quietly as humanly possible while my classmates look on in amusement. I nod at my friends Pedro and Alejandra (or PedAndra, as I like to call them) and tiptoe to a window seat in the third row.
“Chloé!” Mr. Rooney croaks suddenly. I am not kidding. Picture a frog, and the frog says “Chloé.”
“Yes?” I smile, thinking up a quick excuse.
You see, there was an accident on the Turnpike, Mr. Rooney, and it was quite the doozie.
Mr. Rooney would understand a word like
doozie
. But then I notice Pedro shaking his head at me, because what idiot would say “yes?” during roll call?
“I mean, here.” I bite my lip.
Please, don't make me stand up. Oh, Godâ¦argon, helium, xenonâ¦
Mr. Rooney tries focusing on me, but I'm too far away for his olden little eyes, so he goes back to calling roll, one name per minute.
Yes!
I slip my chem book out of my backpack and let out a huge, slow breath. I will not be reciting the noble gases after all.
Around me, other students finish winter-break homework, checking the back of the book for answers. Which reminds me. I take out my notebook and get started. I know nothing about chemistry, other than what happens when baking soda reacts with vinegar. I am so toast.
Today, Mr. Rooney wears his lime green lab coat, because he is a
hip
old mummy. I'd rather watch my mother hang underwear on a clothesline and hear her explain how it'll acquire a fresh-baked scent only the sun's life energy can provide, even though we are the proud owners of a fully functioning clothes dryer, than suffer the next fifty minutes. But then I remember I am a prisoner here.
I do my best to focus on the equations in the book, settling my head against my fistsâa position that I hope fools Mr. Rooney into thinking I am submerged in the wonders of science. But within minutes, I drift into my first nap of the morning.