Chapter Twelve: Carlotta's POV
1233 Words
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my grimy hand, leaving another streak of oil and dust across my skin. My father's old Yamaha R6 sat in front of me, no longer hidden under years of neglect but humming with life after three hours of desperate mechanical work.
Thank God for all those afternoons I spent hiding behind the tool bench, I thought as I tightened the last bolt on the exhaust system.
"Carlotta, come here and hold this wrench," Papa's voice echoed in my memory as I adjusted the bike's mirrors.
I could still see myself at twelve years old, crouched behind stacks of tires, watching Papa and his friends work on their bikes. They never knew I was there, absorbing every word, every technique, every secret they shared about engines and racing.
"The clutch is the most important part," Papa's friend Roberto had said during one of those hidden lessons. "Master the clutch, and you master the bike."
"But don't forget the throttle control," Papa had added, his hands moving expertly over the engine. "Too much too fast, and you'll kiss the ground."
Those stolen moments of education had led to secret practice sessions when Papa was at work. I'd found ways to earn small fees fixing neighbors' scooters and bicycles, always hungry to learn more, always dreaming of the day I could prove I belonged in their world.
And now that day is here, I realized, staring at the bike that would either make my dreams come true or end them completely.
I checked my watch - 11:43 PM. The race started at midnight, and I still had to get to the industrial district. Panic started to creep up my throat as I realized how close I was cutting it.
"Okay, Carlotta," I said out loud, my voice echoing in the empty garage. "You can do this. You've fixed the bike, now you just have to ride it."
I looked around frantically for something to wear. My regular clothes wouldn't offer any protection if I crashed, and racing in jeans and a t-shirt would be suicide.
That's when I spotted it, hanging on a hook in the corner like a ghost from the past - Papa's old racing leathers. The black and blue suit was faded and worn, but it looked like it might still fit me.
"Perfect," I whispered, grabbing the suit along with Papa's helmet from the shelf above.
The leather was stiff and smelled like old memories, but it slipped on easier than I'd expected. Papa had been a small man, and I'd inherited his slight build. The helmet was a little loose, but it would have to do.
Papa, if you can see me now, please don't be too angry, I thought as I pulled on his racing gloves. I know you never wanted this for me, but I need to prove I'm more than what everyone thinks I am.
My watch beeped - 11:47 PM.
"s**t!" I cursed, throwing my leg over the bike and hitting the starter.
The engine roared to life with a sound that made my heart race. It was deeper and more aggressive than I'd remembered from my childhood, but it felt right. It felt powerful.
I didn't have time to appreciate the moment. I had thirteen minutes to get across town to the race location, and if I was late, they'd start without me.
The ride through the empty streets was a blur of streetlights and adrenaline. The bike responded to my every movement like it had been waiting years for this moment. Every turn, every shift, every acceleration felt natural and fluid.
Maybe Papa taught me more than I realized, I thought as I leaned into a curve, feeling the bike stick to the road like it was on rails.
The industrial district came into view just as my watch hit 11:58. I could see the glow of headlights and hear the rumble of engines from several blocks away. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure it would burst out of my chest.
I pulled into the makeshift racing area with thirty seconds to spare, the sound of my bike adding to the mechanical symphony that filled the night air. Spectators turned to look at the newcomer, their faces curious and skeptical.
"And there she is!" boomed a voice over the noise. "Bike number seven, our mystery rider! Anonymous registration, but she made it just in time!"
She? I thought with panic. How does he know I'm a girl?
Then I realized it didn't matter. I was here, I was registered, and I was about to race whether they liked it or not.
"Alright, riders!" the commentator continued. "Line up! We're starting in sixty seconds!"
I rode toward the starting line, my eyes scanning the other bikes and riders. The machines around me were incredible - sleek, powerful, and obviously expensive. My father's old Yamaha looked like a relic in comparison.
What am I doing here? The doubt hit me like a physical blow as I saw the competition I was up against.
There was a pristine Kawasaki Ninja that looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor, its metallic green paint gleaming under the harsh lights. Next to it sat a Ducati that probably cost more than my mother made in five years.
These people have money, experience, and bikes that make mine look like a toy, I thought, my confidence wavering for the first time all night.
I tried to identify Paxton and Gabriel among the helmeted riders, but it was impossible to tell who was who. They all looked like professionals, sitting confidently on their machines while I felt like a fraud in my father's old gear.
"Thirty seconds!" the commentator called out.
A rider on a black motorcycle with red racing stripes pulled up beside me. Through his helmet visor, I could see him looking at my bike with what seemed like amusement.
"Nice classic," he called out, though his tone suggested he didn't mean it as a compliment.
"Thanks," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
Another rider, this one on the pristine Kawasaki, revved his engine aggressively. The sound was intimidating, meant to psyche out the competition. I could feel the power radiating from his machine, and it made my stomach clench with nerves.
That has to be either Paxton or Gabriel, I thought. And whoever it is, he's trying to intimidate me.
"Ten seconds!"
I gripped my handlebars tighter, feeling the leather of Papa's gloves against my palms. My bike felt small and underpowered compared to the monsters around me, but it was all I had.
This is it, I told myself. Everything you've worked for, everything you've dreamed about, comes down to the next few minutes.
The commentator raised a checkered flag high above his head, and the crowd fell silent except for the rumble of eight powerful engines.
Papa, please let this bike be as good as you always said it was, I prayed silently. And please let me be good enough to ride it.
I couldn't identify Paxton or Gabriel yet, but I knew they were here somewhere among these faceless riders. Soon enough, I'd find out which ones they were when the real racing began.
The flag was still raised, frozen in the moment before everything would change forever.
- Writer
