Джеймс Паттерсон - First Love

And then I rolled my eyes again: my so-called chariot, it turned out, was actually a motorcycle . A big black Harley-Davidson with whitewall tires and yards of shining chrome, and two black leather side bags decorated with silver grommets. There were tassels on the handlebars and two cushioned seats. The thing gleamed like it was straight off the showroom floor.

Robinson was beside me, whispering in some foreign language. “Twin Cam Ninety-Six V-Twin,” he said, then something about “electronic throttle control and six-speed transmission” and then a bunch of other things I didn’t understand.

It was an amazing bike, even I could see that, and I can hardly tell a dirt bike from a Ducati. “Awesome,” I said, checking my watch. “But we really should keep moving.”

That was when I realized Robinson was bending toward the thing with a screwdriver in his hand.

“Are you out of your mind? ” I hissed.

But Robinson didn’t answer me. Again.

He was going to hot-wire the thing. Holy s—

I ran to the other side of the street and ducked down between two cars. Adrenaline rushed through my veins and I pressed my eyes shut.

There was no way this was happening, I told myself. No way he was going to actually get the thing started, no way this was how our journey would begin.

I had it all planned out, and it looked nothing like this.

Then the roar of an engine split open the quiet morning. I opened my eyes and a second later Robinson’s feet appeared, one on either side of the Harley.

We’re breaking the law! I should have screamed. But my mind simply couldn’t process this change in plans. I couldn’t say anything at all. I just thought: He’s running away in cowboy boots! That is so not practical! And: Why didn’t I bring mine?

“Stand up, Axi,” Robinson yelled. “Get on.”

I was rooted to the spot, my chest tight with anxiety. I was going to have a heart attack right here on Cedar Street, in between a pickup and a Volvo with a MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM bumper sticker. So much for my great escape!

But then Robinson reached down and hauled me up, and the next thing I knew I was sitting behind him on the throbbing machine with the engine revving.

“Put your arms around me,” he yelled.

I was so heart-and-soul terrified that I did.

“Now hang on!”

He put the thing in gear and we took off, the engine thundering in my ears. My dad was probably going to wake up on the couch and wonder if he’d just heard the rumble of an early-summer storm.

We shot past the Safeway, past the high school football field, past the Reel M Inn Tavern, where every Friday night my dad hooked himself up to a Budweiser IV, and past the “Mexican” restaurant (where they put Parmesan cheese on top of their burritos).

Yeah, Klamath Falls. It was the kind of place that looked best in a rearview mirror.

Seeing it flash past me, feeling the rush of the wind in my face, I suddenly didn’t care if we woke up the entire stinking town.

Eat my dust! I wanted to shout.

Robinson let out a joyful whoop.

We’d done it. We were free.

5

THIS WASN’T ANYTHING LIKE THE MOPED I rode once. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. We weren’t even on the highway yet, but already it felt like we were flying.

Then above the roar of the engine I heard Robinson’s voice. “I don’t want a tickle / ’Cause I’d rather ride on my motorsickle!” It was an old Arlo Guthrie song. I knew the words because my dad used to sing them to me when I was a little girl.

“ And I don’t want to diiiiie/Just want to ride on my motorcy… cle ,” I joined in, even though I can’t carry a tune to save my life.

Robinson leisurely steered us past strip malls on the outskirts of town. He was whistling now (because if you ever want to blow out your vocal cords, try singing loudly enough to be heard over a Harley). He was acting like it was no big deal to be zipping away on a stolen motorcycle.

My God, what in the world did we think we were doing? We were supposed to be on a bus, and instead we were on a stolen motorcycle that cost more than my dad made in two years. Escape was one thing, but robbery took it to another level. Suddenly I couldn’t stop picturing the disappointment on my dad’s face when he posted my bail, or the headline in the Klamath Falls Herald and News —GOOD GIRL GONE BAD—next to an unflattering mug shot that washed out my blue eyes and pale skin.

I tried not to imagine a cop around every bend as we headed south of the Klamath Falls Country Club, where my mom used to go for sloe gin fizzes on Ladies’ Poker Night. And I kind of freaked out when were actually acknowledged by another motorcycle rider, heading into town. As he passed, the biker dropped his arm down, two fingers angling toward the road, and Robinson mirrored the gesture.

“Don’t take your hands off the handlebars!” I yelled. “Ever!”

“But it’s the Harley wave,” Robinson hollered.

“So?”

“So it’s rude not to do it back!”

Of course, manners are useless when you’re flat on your back in the bottom of a ditch.… I didn’t say that to Robinson, though, because I had to admit, Robinson was driving the motorcycle like he’d done it a thousand times before. Had he? Didn’t a person need a special license to drive a motorcycle? And what about the hot-wiring? It would’ve taken me that long to figure out how to start the motorcycle with a key. Yeah, we had a few things to talk about, Robinson and me.

Past the Home Depot and Eddie’s 90-Days-Same-as-Cash, Robinson yelled something, but the roar of the engine swallowed his voice. I think it was “Are you ready?” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but whatever it was, I was probably not ready. Then I noticed that the speed limit went up to fifty-five, and Robinson pulled back on the throttle.

This may be obvious, but the thing about being on a motorcycle is that there is nothing between you and the world. (Or between you and the hard pavement.) The wind roars in your face. The sun shines in your eyes like a klieg light. There is no windshield. There are no seat belts. We were going sixty-five now, and the little white needle was rising. I tightened my arms around Robinson’s waist.

“What are you doing?” I yelled.

Eighty, and the roar of the wind drowned out the sound of my screaming.

Ninety, and tears were streaming from my eyes. I clung to Robinson for dear life.

One hundred, and I might as well have been on a rocket ship blasting into the stratosphere.

Adrenaline coursed through us like liquid fire. We were charged. Dangerous. The motorcycle shuddered and gained even more speed, and the wind was like a giant’s merciless hand trying to push me off the back of the bike.

My life flashed before my eyes—my small, sad life.

Good riddance!

The fear was electrifying. It was terrifying and amazing, and if I’d thought I was having a heart attack before, I was definitely having one now.

And I was totally, dizzyingly, thrillingly loving every second of it.

In those brief moments, I shed my small-town good-girl reputation like an ugly sweater, and I burned it in the flames of the Harley insignia. We were runaways. Outlaws. Me and Robinson. Robinson and me.

And if we died in a fiery crash—well, we’d die happy, wouldn’t we?

6

BUT WHETHER IT WAS LUCK OR FATE OR Robinson’s driving skills, we didn’t die. We rode for hours along twisting back roads, until I felt like I’d molded myself to Robinson’s back. Like I’d become some kind of giant girl-barnacle he’d need to pry off with that screwdriver of his.