“I’m okay,” she insists. “Just scraped up. Nothing broken.”
She’s okay! Oh, thank God. “Wait … You wrecked the Pink Panther?”
“No. Aunt Winona took it when we closed the shop. No idea where. She said she had to run some errand this afternoon. Can you try to call her? Maybe she’ll answer you. If not, can you call a car to take you here and pick me up? I’m at Memorial, the hospital north of town? I don’t want to be here anymore, cuz. Please. You know I hate hospitals, and the nurse keeps asking when my mom is coming to pick me up, and I already told them she’s in Nepal, and I just … I want to go home.” She sounds as if she’s on the verge of tears.
“Stay there. I’ll come get you one way or another, fast as I can,” I assure her, hanging up.
“What is it?” Lucky says.
“Evie’s been in a wreck,” I tell him, dialing my mom’s number. “I don’t know how. She doesn’t have a car. She said Mom took the Pink Panther on an errand—”
Is it wrong to want to strangle your own mother? I mean …
“—and she can’t get her to answer. Evie’s okay, I think?” I continue telling him. “She says she’s just scraped up. But her dad died in a hospital, you know? And she gets really freaked out about them, like super phobic, so I need to go get her, or at least calm her down—what the hell? Why isn’t my mom answering her phone? Now I’m going to have to call a taxi or a car or something?”
“Hey,” Lucky says in a calm, firm voice. “Evie’s okay?”
I nod. I’m out of breath. Gotta relax. Gotta slow down and breathe.
“All right. That’s the most important thing. My bike’s parked right there,” he says, pointing. He pulls out a ring of keys from his pocket. “I’ll take you.”
I blink at him, still holding my phone. “I don’t have a helmet.”
“You can wear mine. Don’t argue. This is a onetime emergency, and your head is more important than mine.”
I don’t see how that’s true. “How will we get her home?”
“She’s freaked out, yeah? Then she needs you there. Get there, calm her down, call a car or get in touch with your mom. But you’ll get to her faster this way. Come on.”
Sounds logical. And I’m too worried to question it. I grab my portfolio and follow Lucky across the deck of the creaking ship while he makes a phone call. I think it must be to his father, because while we’re heading down the plank back to shore, he briefly explains what’s transpiring in a hushed voice and says he’ll call back after we get there.
Once we cross the Harborwalk, I spot the red Superhawk a few yards away, parked on the street. He retrieves his helmet from a locked compartment behind the seat that has the same decal—LUCKY 13—and hands it to me, offering to stow my portfolio in its place. The helmet is ill-fitting, and I have trouble with the strap under my chin—my hands are shaking a little—until he helps me adjust it.
“All right?” he asks.
When I nod, he throws a leg over his bike and gestures for me to straddle behind him. The seat barely accommodates two, so I’m forced to fit my legs around his. I try to lightly hold on to his arms, but he moves my hands to his waist. “Keep your feet on the pegs—yep, that’s right. Steer clear of the wheel and exhaust. It gets hot. I’ll hold up a hand to signal when I’m stopping. Don’t fight curves. We won’t fall over. Lean on me if it makes it easier. Got it?”
“Have you carried, uh, passengers before?”
“Many,” he says, slipping on a pair of narrow sunglasses that fit like goggles around his eyes. “If you get freaked out, tell me. Try to relax.”
I’ve never ridden on the back of a motorcycle. I don’t even know how to ride a regular old bicycle, for the love of Pete! But it’s too late now. He twists the handle, and we lurch onto the street. I hold on like grim death, hugging him as we speed away from the Quarterdeck Coffeehouse.
The hospital isn’t all that far away. Lucky takes side roads out of the harbor area, avoiding the tourist traffic and picking his way over to the main highway out of town. It’s so unsettling and strange on a