Anna Schumacher - End Times

Doug puffed up at the compliment. “I guess I’m all right,” he said. It was clear that he thought he was more than all right.

They passed a hand-painted sign that read Carbon County Motocross Track: Ride at Your Own Risk! and the road dead-ended in a parking area bordered by pines. A narrow dirt road at one end bisected into two trails, one leading to a small stand of metal bleachers and the other down to the track itself, which was a long series of packed-dirt jumps and S-curves, all arranged in a shape like a sloppy figure eight.

Doug pulled into a prime parking spot right up by the track, tooting his horn. A half dozen guys paused from untying their own dirt bikes to greet them. Strutting around like the biggest turkey on the farm, Doug dispensed high fives while Janie gingerly let herself down from the passenger seat.

“Hey, everyone, I want you to meet my baby cousin Daphne, bringer of bizarro trumpet sounds from God!” Janie crowed to the crowd. Conversations hushed, and a couple dozen heads swiveled toward them as Daphne stood awkwardly by the truck, her hands shoved deep in the pockets of her worn black hoodie.

“You really responsible for this?” a guy with a crew cut asked, just as a brassy A-minor scale thundered from the sky.

“Uh, no.” Daphne felt her cheeks grow hot from the attention. She wished she could melt back into the shadows. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“You sure?” a girl with brown corkscrew curls and an acne scar on her cheek asked. “’Cause, dollars to donuts, nobody from around here’s special enough to kick up this kind of fuss.”

The crowd laughed, and Daphne tried to laugh with them. But it came out sounding like she was being choked. She wasn’t used to being in the spotlight; back in Detroit she’d been a ghost, drifting silently from class to class, ducking her head whenever someone met her eyes. Once she was past the metal detectors, it was easy to blend into the riot of color and noise—much easier than trying to make friends in the chaos of clashing cliques and shifting alliances. She was more comfortable working long shifts at the 7-Eleven or roaming Detroit’s crumbling downtown on her own, hands in her pockets and the wind a bitter relief on her face.

“Where’d you come from?” someone else asked.

“Definitely heaven,” the girl with the corkscrew curls said authoritatively. “Y’know—where they keep the trumpets and stuff.” She broke into raucous laughter, and the rest of the crowd joined in.

“Actually, it’s kind of the opposite,” Daphne said. “I’m from Detroit.”

“Hah—nice one.” The girl extended her hand. “I’m Hilary. Welcome to Carbon County, where the most exciting thing ever to happen to us is you.”

“Thanks.” Daphne smiled.

“Who wants a refreshing beverage?” Doug butted between them, dispensing cans from a sweaty twelve-pack of Coors. It was becoming obvious that he was the leader of the pack—and equally obvious that he’d bought more than his fair share of beers to get there.

“Aren’t they going to be racing and stuff?” Daphne whispered to Hilary as the crowd popped their tabs and began guzzling.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Hilary took a deep swig. “When it comes to drinking, we’re all professionals. Have I mentioned this isn’t exactly a happening town?”

“Daphne?” Doug smirked as he held out a can. “Brewski for you-ski?”

“No thanks.” She pointed a thumb at Janie’s belly. “Solidarity.”

“Aw, you are too sweet!” Janie planted a pink-frosted kiss on Daphne’s cheek. “Isn’t she the best, everyone? Forgoing beer just to keep her preggo cousin company!”

“You want a soda?” The voice at her elbow was so quiet, it took Daphne a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She turned slowly and saw a guy with blond hair and a dimple in his right cheek. “I’ve got Coke and Sprite. And, uh, maybe a Dr Pepper. I’d have to check.”

“Coke sounds great,” she said.

“Oh, uh, awesome. I’ve got a cooler in my truck, if you want to, uh . . .” He gulped, sending his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Sure.” She followed him to an ancient Toyota rusting at the edge of the parking lot. Scanning her brain for his name, she found herself drawing a blank. He had one of those pleasant but easily forgettable faces, like the guy in an action movie whose car the hero steals to go save the day.

“So, uh, you just got into town?” He rummaged in a cooler that was held together with bungee cords and handed her a Coke.

“Yeah. Just this afternoon. With the trumpets.”

“That’s crazy. You’re, like, an angel or something.”

She was about to protest when one of the bungees sprung loose with a loud thwap.

“Ow!” He jumped back, grasping his hand.

“Are you okay?”

He rubbed the flesh next to his thumb, where a red welt had already begun to rise. “Oh yeah. I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just, uh, clumsy, I guess.” He grimaced.

“Let me get that.” Daphne leaned in to fix the cord, but he practically leapt in front of her.

“Hey, it’s cool! I got it. I know what I’m doing.” He fumbled for several agonizing moments, eventually snapping it back into place.

“So, uh, yeah. Detroit, huh?” He leaned back against his truck, one elbow on the cooler. “What was that like?”

“It was . . . okay,” she said cagily, not wanting to talk about it. Thinking about her past still filled her with anger and regret. “Shouldn’t we get back to your friends?” she asked instead.

“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Uh, sure. I guess. Yeah, let’s go.”

As they made their way back to the group, Doug upended the remains of his beer into his mouth, then crushed the can on his tailgate. “All right!” He straddled his bike, kicking it to life. “Trumpets or not, I’m ready to ride. Who’s in?”

The boys made their way to their bikes, and soon they were swarming the track, the roar of their motors drowning out the metallic ringing in the sky. Someone switched on the floodlights, bathing the trails and ridges in a glow like phosphorescent milk, and the tinny sounds of a driving hard-rock song blared through an old pair of mounted speakers, competing with the bikes’ coughs and belches.

“C’mon.” Janie was already waddling toward the bleachers. “Let’s go get a good seat.”

“Yeah—better beat this massive crowd,” Hilary added, gesturing at the handful of girls drifting idly away from the parking lot. “Don’t want to miss a second of nail-biting action, that’s for sure.”

“Darn it, Hil, if you don’t like it, why do you even come?” Janie asked.

“You think my man is any less into this crap than yours?” Hilary rolled her eyes. “If I want my stocking stuffed, I better show up.”

They settled into a small stand of metal bleachers overlooking the track, and Janie leaned forward eagerly. “Go, Doug!” she cried. “Show ’em what you got!”

“How do you even know which one is Doug?” Daphne asked. From up there they all looked like Lego people driving matchbox bikes, glossy round helmets completely obscuring their faces.

“Silver helmet, green bike.” Janie pointed as one of the figures gathered speed and flew over a jump, his bike flashing in the glow of the floodlights.

“And rims,” Hilary interjected. “Don’t forget his precious rims.”

“Oh yeah.” Janie giggled. “He just had them special-ordered from Cheyenne. See how they spin even when his wheels aren’t moving? I think he may be even more in love with them than me.” She laughed like the thought of Doug loving something more than her was the most far-fetched idea in the world. Hilary snorted.

Daphne settled into a kind of cozy fog as the bikes zoomed up and down the track, occasionally disappearing behind a rise and returning moments later in a cloud of dust and bravado. It felt good to be far away from Detroit and her mother’s accusing eyes. For the first time in months, the angry pangs in her stomach were gone, and she no longer felt a clawing need to escape. Maybe it was the miles of dark, empty sky above her head or the comforting chatter of girls around her who had no idea what she’d done.