Miss Naughtie Two-Shoes and the Rebel

Chapter 4

Andy gives herself a literal pat on the head, the way Uncle Chris always does that she likes to pretend she's constantly irked by.

Good job, Andy girl. You just made yourself a friend. She feels like she just solved a differential calculus problem. Not that she hates numbers. She can do math blindfolded or asleep as long as they come with peso signs. It is when they were allowed to bring calculators to school that it all started going downhill. And when the teachers began throwing in letters with the numbers, utter chaos.

To her, making friends is just like math. It's an important life skill. Tough. But once she gets the hang of it, it's pretty manageable. She's still talking about math.

Making friends with Nikki in a breeze is a fluke. Still mystified, she's likely to tune in more to her dreams from now on.

Because maybe dreams are not just a hodgepodge of people and things and events to keep you amused in your waking hours. Or not just reflections of your innermost thoughts or manifestations of your hidden desires or internal struggles.

Maybe sometimes they are visions of the future. For how can she explain the dress, which she hasn't laid her eyes on before, actually exists.

Coincidence? She begs to disagree. Even if she's not the superstitious type, she is inclined to believe that it is not purely by chance that things happen. People are destined to cross each other's paths. To touch each other's lives. That a higher power governs all coexistence, leaving sprinkles of fairy dusts in dreams now and then. That all the moments that have happened since the day she was born lead to this exact moment. And to all the other meaningful moments that turn into memories not easily forgotten.

In her heart, she hopes that the dress is a symbol of something deeper. A metaphor for something beautiful. And if she would go by this theory, she is also bound to meet the stranger in her dream, one way or another. Although she has mixed feelings about it. Anticipation and dread. As she shivers at the thought, Brace yourself for some tragic comedy, Andy girl.

After suiting up, she maneuvers her bike in her tight parking slot completely shaded by a sprawling acacia tree. The car lot is filled to the brim with vehicles. She surveys her immediate surroundings while warming up her engine with a slight twist of the throttle.

With her feet planted on the pegs, she rolls forward and steers to her right when a red Audi RS5 comes out of nowhere and takes her by surprise. As soon as she sees the reverse lights flashing, danger comes ringing in her ears and panic-reacts by slamming the rear brake. Hard. Wrong move, because the wheel locks and the bike skids. As she loses control, inertia pushes her body forward into a head-on collision with the car's tail. A fraction of a second before impact, she extricates herself from the bike and throws her weight on the pavement, while instinctively bracing her head with her arms. She rolls a couple of yards away to safety. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, her Yamaha careens into the shiny sports car. A visceral pain grips her body as the crashing sounds rip the air. As she lays curled up in a ball on the ground, a million things are doing cartwheels in her mind. Then she hears hurried footfalls and angry cussing, getting louder and louder. She peeks through her lids to a pair of expensive-looking sneakers, just an inch short of a ruler.

As the cursing dies down, she feels a strong arm scoop up her back, and immediately she bolts upright in a sitting position, her legs spread about.

"Are you okay?" The disembodied voice asks with an obvious tremble. When Andy doesn't answer, he continues to probe in a gravelly tone. "Are you hurt? Where does it hurt?" As the man attempts to unstrap her helmet, she smacks his hands out of the way and pushes him, much to the man's shock, as he falls flat on his butt.

Andy removes her helmet, her lustrous hair unravelling in angry tangles of black. She feels like she's been pummeled in a boxing match, but other than that, she's miraculously okay. No broken or sticking bones. No peels of skin and open flesh. Just scuffs on her leather jacket. She grimaces but forces herself up. The man still lays sprawled on the ground with a frozen look on his face. She darts him a piercing gaze and screams, "Where the hell did you come from?"

It is only then that the man snaps from his stupefaction. When he regains his composure, he stands up, using his towering height to gain an advantage against the dark-haired lioness in front of him.

It is now Andy's turn to be stunned as she gets a perfect view of the breathtakingly handsome guy.

And he kind of looks familiar.

"You?" A look of recognition registers in her face. Chambray shirt. The man he bumped into in the hallway this morning. She knew he was good-looking from the sneaky sidelong glance. Just not this good-looking. And before her brain can process the sentence, the words spill from her mouth, "What's your name?"

To which the man answers promptly, "Trae." His curious eyes trained on her, he notes her expression change from anger to something-he- can't-put-a-finger-on, then to anger again.

This is the third time that they have stumbled across each other, if he'll take into account the first time he saw her. And she is, hands down, the sexiest woman he has ever set eyes on. Even fully clad in riding gear. Cover girls in his FHM magazine collection do not hold a candle to her. The way her back bent backwards, accentuating her tiny waist, wide hips and ample derriere. The way she dismounted effortlessly from the uncomfortable height of her bike. When she removed her helmet, tossing her radiant hair in the air. That was icing on the cake.

"No, no, no," Andy mutters in horror as she rushes toward her damaged bike. She drops to her knees beside it, like it's a wounded dog. Her heart sinks: the handle bar is bent, the front suspension is wonky and the front fender is split in two. There is no way she can ride it. She finds herself on the verge of crying, her rage kindled anew.

With deep breaths, she deems that the best way to deal with the situation is with a clear head. Even as the costs of repair begin adding up in her mind and the thoughts of Uncle Chris get muddled in with the numbers. How would Tio react? Will she be allowed to ride her motorbike again?

She is racked with worry and fear at the idea. Because aside from reading books, there is nothing in life that gives her more peace and happiness than zooming in the wind in her antiquated but reliable tiddler. (A tiddler is what riders call a beginner bike, with below 250cc engine.) There's just something spiritual about riding a bike. A certain bliss for being completely in tune with the universe. And all of that is at risk of being taken away. All because of a stupid driver who did not care to look over his shoulder, or his side mirrors, for that matter. She hovers over the mangled motorcycle, then hoists it up with every inch of strength left of her battered body. When she almost tips over, Trae rushes in to help, taking the handles from her and securing it on its kickstand.

"What are we going to do now? You don't look at your surroundings when you drive?" Her voice quavers as she barks at Trae and crosses her arms.

Ignoring her barbed tirade, he offers in a sympathetic voice, "Let's have you checked first in the hospital."

"I don't need a doctor, I'm fine," she says in an irritated tone. "How am I supposed to explain it to..." Her words catch in her throat; she fights off her tears. "Maybe we should call the police."

"Whoa, whoa." Trae thrusts both his hands in front of them. "Hold up, that's a bit of an overreaction right there. We can rectify this situation between us as adults, without involving the authority. If you could just calm down for a sec."

"I am calm!" Andy snarls, proving just the opposite.

"No, you're not. And first of all, I looked both in my mirrors before I backed up."

"Oh, sure you did," she says. Turning her back to him, she looks up at the downcast sky and blinks away her tears.

"You were in my blind spot." Exasperated, Trae paces around. "I never intended for this thing to happen as much as you did." He fishes out his phone from his pocket and scrolls on the screen. "I'm calling a friend. We're going to haul your motorbike. I know a car shop."

A flicker of hope. "Are you taking responsibility now?" Andy asks incredulously and turns to look at him. She catches him raking his hair with his fingers. Stupefied, she asks herself, Why is this scene so familiar? Have I seen this guy before? And then suddenly it crystallizes. Trae is the man in her dream! The bed-head hair. The silhouette. It's too hard to ignore. She starts to superimpose his beautiful features into the vague canvass of the stranger's face in her dream. Her heart is beating so fast now, and her throat turns to sandpaper. "Greasy Chris Garage," she says, her heart still hammering in her chest.

"What?"

"Bring it to Easy Chris Garage. It's on the outskirts of the city center. Through the old Camp Bridge, there's a street of small businesses there. It's hard to miss."

"Okay, good. If that's what you want. You have nothing to worry about, I'll shoulder the bill," he promises. And then adds as an afterthought, "Although, I suspect its road-worthiness in the first place. Are you sure you should be riding in that?" Before Andy can retaliate, he is already on his phone talking to someone.

The nerve of this guy. A total jerk and a complete snob! Silently simmering in resentment, she thinks of the mileage she had with her bike from navigating the maze-like streets of the city to the long strips of roads along the outskirts. Sometimes it acts up on her, but nothing she or Uncle Chris cannot easily fix. She would not exchange it for a person's company. Well, excluding Uncle Chris's. Or Nikki's. Nikki seems fun to be around.

"Okay, she'll be here in a minute," he says, and then pockets his phone.

She? Who is this she? His girlfriend? Asking the questions to herself, she thinks she hates him even more now.

As Trae goes to inspect the damage to his own car, Andy watches like she would a bacteria on a petri dish from a microscope. Her eyes squint, taking in all the details of this magnificent human form. Even if they're embroiled in an unpleasant situation, she is not impervious to his easy charm and boyish looks. But he's a snob. She reminds herself. Maybe he is. Aside from winning the jackpot in the gene lottery, everything about him screams Richie Rich, a spoiled brat who drives his own luxury car. The shadows of which she has never seen enter their lowly shop. They're servicing older and more common models with easily sourced out parts. But she would very much like to see the engine for herself. To hear her roar, so to speak.

"You asked my name. You didn't give me yours," says Trae as he tugs at his cracked rear bumper. It hangs loose as it was yanked out of place from the collision. He deposits it on the side of the curb.

"Andy." But just as she tells him her name, he's already on his phone again, this time talking with the dealership from what she gleans from their conversation. Trae is ordering a replacement for his busted bumper. Rich people. But she's not repeating her name for him, even if he's Prince William himself.

Just then, a full-size white Ford F-150 arrives. Dwarfed by the monster of a truck, a real-life Barbie in a frilly midriff top and scandalously short shorts emerges like a ray of sunshine. Her strawberry blonde hair bounces in a tumble of loose, shoulder-length waves as she approaches Trae. On tiptoes, she plants a kiss on his cheek, which makes Andy turn her gaze away in unease.

"Andy, this is Chloe. Chloe, Andy."

Andy's quite surprised that Trae got her name all along.

"Nice to meet you, Andy," Chloe says in a chirpy voice as she offers a hand, her doe eyes twinkling.

"Hi, Chloe." Andy stares at the extended hand a second too long, chewing her lip in contemplation. When Chloe takes the matter in her own hands (literally), Andy feels like her hand is being swathed in marshmallows.

Her palms-roughened from mechanic work-do not belong to a teenage girl. Rubbing them religiously with lotion makes them moisturized at best, but it doesn't completely get rid of the hard calluses and thickened skin. It has always been the bane of her existence. If Chloe noticed, she hides it pretty well behind her megawatt smile.

"Good for you, we actually use this monster to load my brother's Gixxer." (Gixxer is a popular slang for the high-performance Suzuki GSX-R, a favorite among club racers.) "We've got a ramp and a stool. Nifty, eh? Trae, do you know how to actually pull this off?"

"Watch and learn, baby girl." Trae pulls open the tailgate, grabs the steel grating and positions it against the edge of the tailgate. The girls stand aside, eyeing each other furtively.

Trae moves the bike at a distance enough to gain momentum. Firmly gripping the handlebars, he rolls it forward then upward the ramp, stepping on the stool he placed midway to propel him up the truck.

Clapping her hands, Chloe appears clearly impressed by the skillful maneuver. Andy, on the other hand, maintains the vacant look on her face.

After securing the bike in its place, Trae jumps off the truck bed and puts everything away. "All set," he says, then pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sheen of sweat on his temples.

"Can I ride with you, Chloe?"

"Hop in," Chloe says with a smile. It's hard not to like Chloe. She has a vibrant and confident personality. Obviously one of the rich kids, too. Probably not a snob. She didn't make any snide remarks about her bike, although it practically looks like a piece of garbage on her immaculate white pickup. To top it all, she has been a very supportive girlfriend to Trae. She didn't make a fuss about doing it for another girl. If Chloe's just pretending to be nice, surely she could tell. Which reminds Andy not to jump to any judgment or conclusions about people.

"After you," Trae shouts at them before they disappear into the truck.

Andy does not throw a second look behind her. Inside the spacious cabin of Chloe's Ford, Andy removes her jacket and places it on her lap together with her bag and helmet. The cool breeze from the A/C provides some respite, and she relaxes her tense muscles.

Chloe is very engaging-steering the conversation adeptly with cute stories about Trae and personal anecdotes about her experiences on the road. Every now and then, Andy sneaks glances at Trae in the rearview mirror.

Before they know it, they're already at Greasy Chris. Andy immediately spots Uncle Chris, who looks in their direction upon hearing the rumble of incoming vehicles. Their eyes met, a puzzled expression creasing his face.

"I'll just stay here," Chloe tells her as Andy alights from the truck.

Then Andy faces Trae. "That man right there is my Uncle Chris, my person. We, I mean, he owns this shop. Let's not raise hell, and just let me do the talking, okay?" As Andy is giving Trae the pep talk, his whole attention is on her mouth. Except Andy is too preoccupied to notice. "Am I clear?" Andy asks in an impatient tone, demanding Trae's attention.

"Yeah, sure."

"Stay here. I'll talk to him first."

Andy leads Uncle Chris to his small office. Through the large glass windows, Andy's back is turned to Trae as they talk. A horrified expression wrinkles the old man's face. He wheels Andy around, checking for injury. When the man lifts her left arm, Trae sees Andy wince in pain. But when the man looks up at her again, she pastes on a smile. Alarmed, Trae silently curses himself for not insisting on bringing her to a hospital first. When the two finish talking, they come out of the office.

"My name's Trae and I'm really, really sorry for what happened. It was an accident. I didn't see her come out. She was in my blind spot. That being said, I'm willing to shoulder all the damages. I'm taking full responsibility. Please don't kill me." Trae claps his hands together and looks earnestly into the older man's weary eyes.

Uncle Chris waves off his explanation. "The name's Chris. Let's just be thankful nothing bad happened to Andy."

"I'm really, really sorry, Sir," Trae says once again.

After Uncle Chris has discussed the bike's damages and repair, he shakes Trae's hands and excuses himself.

"Take the day off, Andy. I'll bring you home. Trae, you can unload the bike and leave it with my assistant here. Ben!"

"No, Tio. I can take a ride home. Please. There's so much work to do." She glances toward the occupied service bays. "I'm fine. I really am," Andy says, almost pleading. The last thing she wants is for him to worry. The shop is already a set of hands short. And they have deadlines to meet.

"I can bring her home myself," says Trae, still ridden with guilt. He can see Andy's concern and selfless attempt to unburden his old man. Uncle Chris throws him a suspecting look. "We're schoolmates, Sir. You've got nothing to worry about. Here's my ID."

Andy purses her lips, containing her surprised amusement.

"Andy, will you be okay with that?"

"I'll be fine, Tio. I still know my karate chops." Andy gives him a wink, and his lips curve into a smile.

"Ben, please help Trae unload Andy's bike," he instructs the shop helper, a scrawny lad with bleached hair and close-set eyes. He's surprisingly strong for his wiry build, dependable and proficient with cars, too.

As soon as the bike is offloaded, Chloe peeks out of her window. "Andy, I'll go ahead. Somewhere I need to be."

"Yeah, sorry for holding you up, Chloe. And thanks so much."

"Psh, that's nothing. Trae will take it from here." She backs up. "Trae, you owe me." Trae waves her goodbye.

So, Chloe is fine with Trae being alone with another girl? What a gal. It must have something to do with Chloe being so self-assured that it doesn't bother her at all. Or maybe she doesn't look much of a competition. She sighs.

"Andy, get in." Trae opens the passenger door to her. Left with no choice, she reluctantly heeds and settles herself inside Trae's car. She feels the plush leather seat warm up to her body instantly. Chloe should be the one sitting here. It smells expensive inside, not the usual headache-inducing pine or lemon scent from tiny color-matched pelt trees preferred by their customers.

Once they are on the road, Trae speaks with studied authority. "We should really get you to a hospital. I know you're hurt. You're just hiding it."

"Of course, I'm hurt. I feel like beaten up by Pacman." Andy's eyes glaze over. "But not that bad that I needed a trip to the ER. I just want to go home and rest. Just drive straight ahead and make a right turn at the next intersection. Then right again in front of Mini-stop. That's Ferry Road, and it ends in a cul-de-sac. Pale blue house with white trims, end of the road. That's where I live. I just need to close my eyes for a bit," she says in a tired voice, then suppresses a yawn. She's really sleepy.

Trae regards her with well-earned respect. Of course, she's drained from acting so brave and tough. That or she just wants to avoid having a conversation with him. He glances at her one more time and sees her slouched in the passenger seat, her head tilted to one side and her dark hair draping half of her face. The gentle rise and fall of her shoulders and her shallow breathing confirm that she's off to slumber-land. He follows her directions, and soon enough he spots the house. A small and charming cottage with the sentimentality of an old postcard. Nestled among tall, verdant trees with gnarly branches, the house's main attraction is the front porch. A bonny white door flanked by a pair of potted rubber figs lends a warm personality to the house. Mismatched throw pillows adorn the pair of white wicker chairs, perfect for morning coffee or afternoon lounging.

Trae pulls in front of the house, tires crunching the gravel underneath. He parks the car, but leaves the engine thrumming softly as Andy sleeps.