Riding the Universe Read Online Free Page A

help. Sorry if we got off on the wrong foot.”
    He stares at my hand for a second, then takes it and shakes evenly, with no more or less pressure than my hand in his. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry too.” He smiles full out now, and—whoa—Gordon Spudinka has Spu-dimples!
    I play it cool, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the cuteness that has suddenly appeared out of granite and stone. “See you next Monday,” I say, holding my breath.
    â€œMonday,” he repeats and takes off toward the stage.
    I head out of the auditorium, letting the doors slam shut behind me. Wow. I don’t know if I want to slug him or hug him. I have never had such a hard time getting someone to loosen up. Gordon’s sense of humor seems to be made of Sheetrock, or maybe he was just having a bad day. But there’s definitely something about the dude. Or maybe I’m just a big idiot for dimples. Shake it off, Chloé.
    The deluge has stopped, but not without leaving behind lakes and rivers in the parking lot. As I walk toward Lolita, I notice something on her. One of those fabric-lined plastic tarps. I quicken my pace, examining the alien object that someone has had the nerve to lay on top of Lolita. Anybody who knows anybody who has a motorcycle knows they do not—and by not I mean NEVER—touch another person’s bike, much less put anything on top of it.
    I reach down to take off the rough cover. Up and over. Hundreds of water droplets converge and stream down, splattering my boots. I run my hands over Lolita’s flames, feeling her paint job, which cost more than one month of Seth’s rent and utilities put together. Still smooth. No nicks, no scratches. Nada . Not only is she fine, she’s perfectly, happily dry.

Four
    O bviously, the misguided soul who left the tarp was unaware of basic motorcycle ethics, so I can’t bring myself to actually be mad, but Seth would have been. I can’t take the tarp with me, so I fold it up as best as I can and drop it off behind the first column in Building B’s hallway.
    Who would even care enough to cover Lolita like this? Rock would, but he knows better. Besides, I’ve never seen this tarp in his trunk before. Gordon did come in wet from outside, but we’re not exactly friends, more like I’m a tick on his after-school butt.
    Oh, well. Whoever did it was just trying to be nice.
    I ride by Rock’s, hoping to steal him away so he can helpme with Lolita’s leak today. His garage door is open, the Mustang’s hood is up, but another car sits in the driveway, and it’s not Amber’s Xterra. See? This is exactly why I haven’t set foot in his house in years, why we usually see each other at my house instead. I don’t want anything to do with his player activities. I rev up Lolita, positive he can hear me. I don’t care who is screaming in his bed, my pipes are louder.
    I spend the next two hours driving around aimlessly, reveling in Lolita’s pipes just like Seth used to. He always said that something mystical happens when you start a Harley. When I was little I didn’t understand what he meant, but as soon as we put on Lolita’s slip-fit mufflers, performance and sound were never the same again. Lolita’s deep grumble would send vibrations throughout my legs. “Do it, Sethie, gun it!” I’d yell, clinging to his back, my hair flying around like an auburn-haired Medusa.
    At my request, Seth would make Lolita go faster. I didn’t know it then, but she asks for speed. Demands it. Seth would grip her ape hangers and squeeze until we were soaring. I wish I could tell you that riding with my uncle was like flying, transcending onto another plane, or becoming one with the Earth, but that would only be scratching the surface. It was so much more than that.
    Mystical.
    Unfathomable.
    Fathomystic, maybe?
    My mother would say “dangerous” and