I guess I don’t like seeing him alone in everything.

“I’m gonna go,” Noah says, coming under the tent and grabbing his helmet.

He wears racing gear, black and orange pants and long-sleeved shirt with the number seventy-eight on the front and back. Is he racing?

Seeing me, he pauses and grins. He sets the helmet back down and comes behind me, reaches around my waist, pulls up my shirt, and ties the two flaps high up. He knots it right under my breasts, my stomach bare, and then he winks at me with his cocky blue eyes. I scowl.

“If you bare it, they will come,” he chants. “And by come, I mean—”

I swat at him. Gross.

He just laughs, walking away to grab his helmet, and I touch the knot, trying to loosen it to pull my shirt back down.

But then a guy is suddenly in front of me.

“Hey,” he says, holding out his hand for a complimentary Van der Berg decal.

He smiles, and I twist my lips to the side as I hand him one.

Oooookay.

“Don’t talk to any sponsors,” I hear my uncle order.

I turn to see Noah stuff something into his mouth from the cooler and walk away.

“I might if I win,” he mumbles over his food.

“If the bike wins,” Jake retorts, “be sure everyone knows who made it.”

A few more people pass by me, pausing to take a decal.

Noah charges past, out of the tent, and I hear the announcer come over the loudspeaker, sounding like the microphone is stuffed halfway down his throat.

Engines rev, and the crowd rushes up the hill for a better view, I assume. I glance over my shoulder, my uncle seated on a chair with his face buried in the engine—or the carburetor or whatever it is—trying to act like that bolt actually needs to be tightened.

“You won’t watch?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, and I clench the decals in both my hands as I stare back out at the crowd. The dirt track runs past here, but the starting line is out of my view. Stars dot the midnight blue sky, and the glow from the stadium lights over the hill pulls at me.

Is Kaleb watching him? Seems like someone should be.

My legs itch with the need to set off with everyone else, but I stay planted.

The track clears, and the announcer starts shouting over the loudspeaker. I know races usually start with a gate drop, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hear a shot fired or something, too.

After a moment, though, the crowd up on the hill starts cheering and moving around, and I know it’s started. The direction of their gaze changes, and I steel my spine and bob a little, desperate to see what’s happening.

I throw a look at my uncle, searching for any reaction, but he’s deep in concentration as if that rear tire is the most important thing in the world.

Someone should be watching Noah.

Inching forward, I gauge the crowd on the hill, watching their bodies slowly moving to the left as their eyes follow the racers, and I shoot my gaze in that direction just in time to see a pack of dirt bikes racing around the bend. Dust kicks up on the track, their whirring getting louder the closer they get, and I step forward, watching them disappear behind a jump and quickly reappear, flying through the air before they disappear back down again.

The ground vibrates under my feet, the noise of the crowd and the machines pulsing against my body, and I smile, shooting up on my tiptoes to look for Noah.

Bikes zoom past, my stomach dropping to my feet as I tip my head back, seeing Noah catch air, his body in his orange and black pants and shirt leaning stick-rod straight over his handlebars before he comes down again. I laugh, my hand shooting to my head as I watch him race past in his helmet.

I have a sudden urge to cup my hands around my mouth and cheer him on.

But I stop midway and clap instead. He looks so good.

He looks incredible. And he’s in first place.

The same green bike I saw at the Van der Berg house a couple days ago trails, and I guess that’s Terrance Holcomb.

Jerking my smile around, I see my uncle still engrossed in his work. How can he not watch this?

Envy paralyzes me. Noah looks like he’s having so much fun.

But I can’t stop myself anymore. Quickly, before Jake has a chance to stop me, I scurry over the dirt track after the bikes have passed and run up the green hill.

I look around, seeing if Kaleb is anywhere close, but I don’t spot him.

Joining the crowd at the top, I squeeze between two people in time to look down and see Noah speeding for the finish line head to head with Holcomb.

He revs his engine, popping up on the rear wheel, and races over the finish line, just moments ahead of everyone else as he lands on both wheels again.

The announcer’s voice booms, cheers go off, and I see Noah shoot his fist in the air.

I clap softly, my heart racing too hard to do more. Good for him.

I’m kind of jealous he’s so good at something like this. I’ve never been good at anything.

Spinning around, I head back to the tent, the spectators dispersing and the music starting up again.

Jake still busies himself working on something I’m sure is fine already, and I head over to the food stand next to our tent, grabbing some nachos and cheese.

Taking a small bite, I approach my uncle. “Would you like some?”

He meets my eyes but doesn’t look to see what I have. “No, thank you.”

I watch him as I dip another chip in and out of the cheese. “He’s really good,” I tell him.

He simply nods, going back to his work.

I narrow my eyes. Jake isn’t like my father.

But he is.

Hannes wouldn’t have watched me, because he wouldn’t have cared. Jake refuses to support Noah in this. Why?

Walking over, I’m about to set my food down and go back to handing out decals, but a crowd heads our way, people swarming Noah. I watch as he pulls off his shirt and throws it on our table, tossing me a cocky smile as he grabs my nachos away from me. He swipes up some cheese, dabs it on my nose, and then dives in, sucking it off as I growl.

“Noah,” I chide, squirming away, but he just laughs.

I was going to congratulate you. Never mind. I wipe the cheese and his spit off my nose.

Stealing my chips, he walks over to his father. “You know, I can be a lot more use to Van der Berg Extreme if I’m on TV.”

“Yeah, and then what?” Jake looks up at his son. “What do you think you’re going to do after your fifteen minutes are up or an injury sends you home in a wheelchair?”

Noah scoffs, shaking his head. “Were you even watching?” he says. “I won! I beat them all. I’m good, and I love it.”

“Motocross racing—”

“Isn’t a career,” Noah finished snidely, sounding like he’d had this conversation a hundred times already. “And keeping us chained up on the peak isn’t a life. You should deal with that.”

He spins around, shoving my nachos back at me, and stalks off again, circling the waist of some young woman, both of them disappearing into the crowd.

I risk a glance at Jake, seeing his jaw flex as he yanks the socket wrench counter-clockwise like it’s his kid’s mouth he’s tightening shut instead of a bolt.

So that’s it.

It isn’t hard to see what Jake loves and values about living his life on his terms, away from the horror of our family.