Page 26 of Revved up & Ready

“Okay.” Her giggles echo off the hall around her.

“I’m sorry I can’t drive you tomorrow.”

“No worries,” she says, the sound of hangers sliding in the background. “Allie and I have it all worked out. Besides, you have to focus tomorrow. Can’t have you worried about driving me.”

“Driving you wouldn’t be a worry.”

“You get what I mean,” she says, and I can picture her waving her pink-nailed hand dismissively. “Has207always been your number?”

“Since day one,” I say, settling back onto the bed and putting on my headphones.

“Was sixty-nine taken?” she jokes.

“It was,” I answer, relieved it was. That number, with theRace Nakedmantra, would’ve made it even harder to change my reputation. “February seventh was the date of my first race. When I had to pick a number at sign-in, it’s all I could think of. Not the most creative thing.”

“It’s a higher number than most of the racers I’ve seen on TV. Isn’t it?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, hopefully masking my surprise. I keep forgetting that even though she hates motorcycles for a mystery reason, she’s watched a lot of racing—mine included. “As you move up, they offer lower numbers—double digits, or if you’re really killing it—single digits. But207’s been good to me. I don’t want to give it up.”

“Well, I like it,” Sadie says.

“Yeah?” I ask, running my hand along the tattoo on my neck of a checkered flag with my number over the top. “Why’s that?”

“It’s my birthday,” she says, shyly.

Now I’mdefinitelynever changing it. “My first race was in 2007, so that would’ve been your—what—ninth birthday?”

“Eleventh, actually. Guess I’m older than you thought,” she says, closing my bedroom door.

Trying to guess what she picked from my closet, I answer, “Nah, I’m just bad at math. So, I was twelve, racing a barely-running dirt bike with Luke on February seventh, 2007. What did you do for your eleventh birthday? Do you remember?”

She hums quietly, bringing up the memory. “I think that was the year it snowed. It’s not rare to get snow in Boise in February, but that year itdumpedon my birthday. School was canceled, so I spent the day baking with my mom. I forgot a whole sheet of cookies in the oven, and the house had that acrid, burnt smell all day,” she laughs.

“Is your mom the one who taught you to bake?” I ask.

“Yeah, she’s an amazing baker. I wanted to be just as good as her when I was a kid. Still do.”

“Do you still bake together when you see her?” I ask, realizing I know so little about her family.

“I don’t see her that much anymore,” she says, rushing to change the subject. “Did you remember to pack sunscreen?”

“Sure did,” I say, confused by the shift in conversation. “I’m the whitest person you know, and I’m covered in tattoos. I don’t leave home without it.”

“Good,” she breathes, sounding genuinely relieved. “I’ve just been thinking about your safety tomorrow—from thesun.”

“From the sun?” I ask, sitting upright.

“Yes,” she drags the word into two slow syllables. “It’s very dangerous—thesunis.”

“Okay?” I answer, unsure where she’s going with this.

“Peoplego out in the sun, not thinking about the risks,” she says in a rush. “Just because they haven’t personally been hurt doing it—”

“Going outside?” I ask, trying to follow.

“Yeah, yeah, that,” she agrees, though it doesn’t feel like she should be. “Like maybe someone’s spent their whole life—” She takes a deep breath. “Going out in the sun, and they’ve never—” There’s a long pause I don’t know how to fill. “Personallygotten—” another pause. “Skin cancer.Yes, that’s it. Just because you’ve never gotten skin cancer doesn’t mean you won’t. Or maybe you got it once and survived. It doesn’t mean you’ll survive next time.”

“I guess that’s true,” I answer, wishing I could see her expression. “Maybe a little depressing and unnecessary to bring up right now, though. Don’t you think?”

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