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With that, Fernando turns to me and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Now, beautiful, go get ’em!”
As soon as we’re alone, Eric just looks at me, irritated.
“What is he getting at with that ‘our girl’ and ‘I don’t like to share’ BS?”
“I don’t know,” I respond.
But Eric is no fool. He snorts, curses, and looks away. “You’re going to hurt yourself, Jude. I don’t see how your father can let you do this.”
This makes me laugh. I look over at my father and his friends, who are taking care of last-minute adjustments on my motorcycle.
“You really think my father’s worried?”
Eric studies him for a second or so and can’t deny the happiness in his face.
“Fine ... But the fact that he’s not worried doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be.”
Without caring whether Fernando sees us or not, I step up on a box so that I’m at Eric’s height and can bring my mouth close to his.
“You, relax ... little boy. I know what I’m doing.”
I almost get Eric to smile. I give him a kiss, and it tastes like glory.
“For your own good,” he says very seriously, “you’d better know what you’re doing, or I swear I’m going to make you pay for it later.”
“Mmm ... I’d love that!”
“Jude ... I’m serious,” he insists.
“Come on, this is a walk in the park.”
He doesn’t smile.
My father is calling. I have to go out on the track. I give Eric another quick kiss, step down from the box, and let go of his hand so I can get on my bike. My father revs the engine. I shout with joy while Eric’s face is increasingly lined with worry.
Ten minutes later, I’m out on the track with the other participants, adrenaline pumping. Motocross is a combination of speed and expertise. I like it when both those things come together.
I’ve always been a daredevil, the boy my father never had. I lean into the curves and scramble over potholes as my coveralls get splattered. I’m well aware that I’m in a very good position in this race. I finish among the top four and go on to the next round.
Eric is as white as a sheet. What the other racers and I have just done leaves him breathless. But we have no time to talk because I’m in the next leg of the race. It will be that way until there are only six participants left.
My father, along with Lucena and Bicharrón, screams and shouts while making adjustments to my bike. Fernando, a motocross expert, gives me tips about the other racers, and I listen. They know that I’m good at this and I could very easily win something today. But I can’t help but look for Eric. Where is he?
“Little girl,” says my father, “Eric has gone back to Jerez.”
“What?” I ask, stunned.
“What I just said. He said he’d rather wait for you at the villa.” And then, coming up close, he whispers, “That man was not having a very good time. Although, now that I think about it, I don’t know if it was because of the jumps you were doing out on the track or because of Fernando.”
We can’t keep talking. The next elimination round is starting, and I need to get into position. My concentration flags a bit, but my anger is on high. Eric left, and that pisses me off. When the race begins, I take off like a rocket. I jump once, twice, three times, scramble, accelerate, then run over several potholes before I scramble again. I come in second.
My father, Lucena, and Bicharrón run to hug me. I’m totally covered in mud, but I have managed to thrill them once again. When they let go, a too-effusive Fernando takes me in his arms.
“Congratulations, beautiful. You’re the best!”
“Thanks, but let go of me.”