THE BIKER'S TEACHER

DAISY I dropped the phone on the desk right as the clock hit nine. Still no student. “Of course,” I muttered. “Late on day one.” I opened his file again. Name: Shane. No age listed. Before I could get too annoyed, the door slammed open. My head snapped up, a complaint already loaded, and then it died in my throat. Because my student was a man. My age. Big. Leather cut hanging off his shoulders, jeans stained with grease, heavy boots that thudded against the floor. Ink ran up his hands and neck and disappeared under his shirt. I stood up before I realized I was doing it. “You’re in the wrong class.” “Nah.” He tipped his chin at the room. “This the place.” “You’re Shane?” I asked. “Yeah.” Flat. Like he was bored already. “Right.” I motioned to the desk. “Sit.” He didn’t. He took his time looking around. Whiteboard. Posters. The windows. Then me. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Cute setup.” “Sit,” I said again. His eyes flicked to mine. He took his time pulling the chair out with one hand. Didn’t bother making it quiet. Then he dropped into it, leather creaking. “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said. “If you’re going to be here, you follow my rules.” “Or what?” My stomach did a weird dip, but I held his stare. “Or this doesn’t work.” He watched me for a second, then huffed. “Yeah. We’ll see.” I slid a paper and pen across the desk. “Write your full name.” Shane looked down at it. “Well?” I frowned. His jaw ticked. He leaned back and dragged a hand over his mouth. “Told ’em this was a waste of time.” “That’s not what I asked” “I don’t read,” he cut in. “Don’t write neither. So unless you got somethin’ else, we’re done here.” The room went quiet. “Okay,” I said. He blinked. “Okay?” “Then we start there.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not gonna give me a speech? Tell me how I screwed up my life?” I tilted my head. “If I did, would you listen?” “No.” “Then I won’t waste my breath.” “You always this calm or you just fakin’ it?” I let my mouth curve a little. “Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.” I leaned back and watched him. He stared at the pen, and he eventually it up anyway. Gripped it too hard, knuckles white. “I… don’t,” he muttered. I didn’t say anything. Just waited. He tried. The pen dragged across the paper, clumsy. The line shook. After three seconds, he growled and threw the pen down. “Fuck.” “Okay,” I said. “That’s okay.” His head came up fast. He was expecting me to yell. “Let’s try something else.” I pushed a blank sheet towards him. “Draw me something.” He stared at it. “Like what?” “Anything. A shape. A line. Doesn’t matter.” He gave me a look ,probably thought I was messing with him. Then he bent down, picked up the pen, and put it to the paper. His hand was still stiff, but he made a mark. Then another. A shaky circle with jagged edges. I leaned forward. “What is it?” He shrugged. “Dunno. Sun, maybe.” “Or a head,” I said, tapping the paper. “With bad hair.” That got me half a smile. Real, but gone fast. “Yeah. Head.” “Okay, Shane. Let’s try this.” I wrote five letters on a scrap and slid it over. S H A N E. “Can you copy these?” He eyed the paper. “You think I can do that?” “I think you can try.” He snorted but took the pen. Went slow. Tongue poked out a little when he concentrated. The letters were crooked and too big, but they were there. S-H-A-N-E. I smiled before I could stop myself. “That’s it. That’s your name.” For half a second he looked younger. Then it was gone and he shrugged, looking at the wall. “Not like it’s a big deal.” “Hey. It’s a huge deal. You wrote your name, Shane. That’s something.” “Yeah, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “What’s next?” “Next we figure out what works for you. You want to keep practicing writing or try something else?” “What else is there?” he murmured. I grinned. “I’ve got ideas. But first, tell me something. What do you like doing? What actually holds your attention?” He didn’t answer right away. Rubbed his thumb over a scar on his knuckle. Then, rough and low: “Bikes. Fixin’ ‘em. Ridin’ ‘em.” “Bikes,” I repeated, nodding. “We can work with that. You want to try reading something about bikes?” “Like what?” I turned and grabbed a manual off the shelf behind me. Dog-eared, greasy at the corners - Harley-Davidson Service Manual. “Like this. Think you can handle it?” He didn’t touch it for a second. Then he flipped it open. Pages weren’t threatening when they were about engines, apparently. We went slow. He’d point. “What’s this say?” I’d lean in. “Transmission. It’s part of the engine. Changes the gears.” It wasn’t fast. He got frustrated twice and almost walked out once. But he didn’t. We kept at it until the clock said the hour was up. “Guess I’m done for today.” “Yeah,” I said. “That’s it for today. Same time next week?” He stood, chair scraping loud against the floor. Didn’t look at me right away. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Same time.” He was at the door when he stopped. Didn’t turn around. “Daisy.” “Yeah?” “Don’t… don’t make it a big deal next time. The name thing.” Then he was gone, door shutting softer than it had opened. I sat there for a minute, looking at the crooked S-H-A-N-E on the paper. Big deal or not, he wrote his name, and that's all that mattered.