Robin and Her Misfits by Kelly Ann Jacobson

Author:Kelly Ann Jacobson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Three Rooms Press

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE CROWD WAS SHOULDER TO SHOULDER; in the darkness, their cell phone lights were like those glowing sea creatures that Robin would have been able to name, had Little John voiced her thought. She couldn’t talk, though—or rather, couldn’t be heard—over the excited mob. The smell of beer mingled with fried dough, sizzling chicken, and car fumes. Outside the glow, the black and blue bruise of the fields and sky seemed detached from their revelry.

“You’re sure she’ll be here?” Little John asked loudly through her visor. They had kept their helmets on so that they wouldn’t be recognized, and her hair itched from the weight and heat. Her desperate fingers tried to run up the back of her head, got stuck, and retreated.

“I’m sure,” said Robin. She had changed clothes before the trip, and Little John wondered how she could wear a motorcycle jacket in the Georgia heat. “Are you ready?”

Little John nodded, the helmet rocking a little on her too-small head. She felt nervous. To try to relax, she counted the cars lined up behind the starting line. One, two. Three, four. There would be several matches, each one an opportunity for fans to bet big, lose, bet again. Little John wondered how her assistant manager was getting along back at The Nott, but then the revving of engines brought her back to the present.

A flag girl waved the first pair off, and they peeled away, their competing engines like bees buzzing around the same flower. In their place, two new vehicles moved forward, like soldiers soon to be sent into battle.

“That’s her,” said Robin.

Little John squinted at the purple truck with red flames. “How do you know?”

Robin didn’t answer. Little John tried to see the driver, but the cowboy hat obscured their face. In Nottingham the hat would have been a giveaway, but here, hats seemed as essential as underwear. Then Little John’s eyes shifted past the truck to the assistant, a familiar woman with a black t-shirt with zeroes and ones printed in the shape of a middle finger. From her mouth, a sour straw dangled like a frog tongue.

Robin got back on her bike, which she had explained was something called an “Aprilia,” and Little John did the same, struggling to reach the right height to get her leg over the back seat. Then she gripped Robin’s waist tightly.

White Rabbit climbed into the passenger’s side of the truck.

I hate motorcycles, Little John thought.

The flag girl moved her hands up and then back, like a bird about to take flight, and the motorcycle hummed to life. Robin threaded through the crowd as the trucks shot forward; as soon as they were clear of human life, she accelerated to match the trucks’ speed. The two vehicles were on both lanes of a bumpy backroad, which meant that to drive parallel to their progress, Robin’s motorcycle swerved into the grass. Please don’t have potholes, Little John prayed to the ground. Please don’t have any creepy creatures that decide to get in our way.

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