Chapter 6: Little

The motorcycle lurches forward and my body goes backwards.

Before I can fall, I grab Motorcycle Girl's waist, gripping on tightly. We lurched for just a second.

My eyes widen.

I should get off.

I open my mouth to tell her I'm not going when she revs the engine and slams down on the gas. We go flying forward and I wrap my arms around her waist as we launch out of the parking lot. The cold air rips at my clothing and I can't help but be thankful that I have on the leather jacket. She stops at the stop sign and then goes speeding out of the parking lot and onto the busy road, flying down the street.

My hands grip her tightly, and I can't help but notice how she feels.

I can feel her ribs as she breathes in and out. She's just the perfect amount of skinny, where she's not so skinny that you can count her ribs or touch her hip bone, but I'm sure if she laid down, I could. She's perfect.

I bet she'd look amazing in a bikini.

My eyes widen when I realize I haven't thought about anyone in that way since I was nineteen. I feel her muscles tighten when we round corners or slow down and I feel her chest rise and fall. My heart is racing in my chest and it's not because I'm on a motorcycle. I feel so free, so exhilarated, the wind ripping at my clothes, trying to push me back. Everything is out in the open, and I love driving, but the Motorcycle is better than driving, because you're moving so fast and you can feel it all, it feels like you're flying. We go over a bridge, the mountains in the distance, and I look out there, watching as they pass us, the engine roaring loudly beneath us as she increases her speed, pulling onto the interstate.

Wait, the interstate!

She increases speed until I'm worried my backpack is going to rip off, and I tighten my grip around her waist, regretting not bringing gloves. My hands are numb. I turn them into fists, my body warmth and hers mixing, warming my hands.

I watch as people enclosed in cars pass, and I can't help but feel bad for them.

They don't know the freedom of a motorcycle.

Motorcycle Girl zips in and out of traffic before getting off a few miles down the road.

We reach the first red light and she pulls us to a stop, sitting back. I remove my hands from her waist.

Holding onto her when I don't have to will probably result in her making a comment about me in French, probably something insulting, and then she'd laugh because I wouldn't understand.

She sits up straight, resting her hands on her thighs, and I watch as she drums on her right thigh, seemingly the beat of a song.

I want to know what kind of music she listens to. I want to know why she moved to America, I want to know what her favorite color is, and why she's so bitter all the time.

I know why I am, but something tells me there's a lot more to this girl than meets the eye.

Perhaps it's because I'm a psychology major, or maybe it's because she's so grumpy all the time.

I have a feeling it's both.

The light turns green. When I see her hands raise from her thighs to the handles of the bike, I wrap my arms around her waist again, and we take off.

I wonder where she is taking me.

The helmet I have on has holes in it for breathing and it's letting cold air in, and the air is slipping up my jacket, up the legs of my pants, and I'm freezing.

How is she not shivering?

We go a couple miles down the road, and then she turns, leaning to the right. I lean with her, and she pulls into a parking spot.

The engine of the bike silences and I release my grip on her waist.

I get off and she does too, pulling the kickstand off.

I pull off my helmet and move to stand in front of her, on the other side of the bike.

I can't see her face, but when she pulls her helmet off, running her nimble fingers through her brown hair, I feel my chest tighten.

God, she's so fucking attractive.

She reaches in the front of the seat she was on and lifts it up.

There's a space for two helmets. She shoves hers in one and holds her hand out for mine. I hand it to her, and she shoves it in the other, putting the heat down. She locks it with the key, shoves the key in her pocket, and then opens the little pouch on the side, crouching down.

I try to avert my gaze from her as she digs her wallet out of her backpack.

"Do you want to put your uh..." she looks up at me, standing up, and a confused look covers her face. "Your sac à dos." She says, and then points to the pouch on the side.

I stare at her.

"What?" I ask.

"Sac à dos." She repeats. "Uh...I do not know American word."

She points to my backpack.

"My backpack?" I ask.

She snaps her fingers.

"Oui!" She says. "Yes." "Do you want to put you...black dack in there." She points to the bag again.

"Backpack." I correct. "Back-pack." I say it slower.

"Back-pack." She says slowly.

"Yes." I say.

"Backpack." She says it normally. "Your backpack." She points to the pouch. "Yes or no!"

I take it off and hand it to her

"Thank you." I say.

"You are welcome Natalie."

She clips the bag shut and stands up.

For the first time, I glance at the name of the place.

Cracker Barrel.

"You like breakfast food." I say.

"Oui."

She walks past me. "But we are not eating here."

I rush to catch up to her, and I find myself opening the door before she can, holding it open for her.

What the hell is happening to me?

I never hold the door for people, I just open it and push it a bit if they walk in behind me.

But here I am, holding the door.

"You don't shorten your words." I say.

"Oui." She says.

Oui means yes. I remember that from last time she wouldn't say the word.

"If we're not eating, why are we here?" I ask, looking around the the old store.

"Because I like the store." She says. "I do not shorten my words because it is hard to pronounce."

"Okay." I shrug. "I thought you were fluent in English?"

"I am, but I get confused sometimes with words."

She starts to walk around the store and I follow dumbly behind her.

I watch as she grabs random things, checking price tags.

When something is expensive, she wrinkles her nose.

I bite back a smile.

That's cute.

I shove my hands in my pockets.

I need to stop talking to her. She makes me feel weird, and she's always a bitch to me, so why do I find her wrinkling her nose cute? Brenda wrinkles her nose all the time and I don't find her cute. What the hell is the difference?

She picks out a couple of things and I bite back asking her to let me pay. I watch as she pays, the guy behind the counter checking her out. I watch the way he smiles at her, watching her.

"How old are you?" He asks. Her eyes narrow slightly.

And then she starts speaking French to him.

"Age." He says. "Old? Age?" He looks to me for help. "Does she know English?"

I open my mouth to tell him yes, but she looks at me, her brown eyes piercing into mine like knives.

I flinch, and then shake my head.

"No. She's French."

Motorcycle Girl takes her receipt and walks outside. I follow her, but she gets to the door first, letting it slam in my face.

I scowl. She walks over to the motorcycle, clipping her things into the pouch.

She starts up the bike.

"No helmet?" I ask as I get on behind her.

"Just across their street." She says.

I grip her waist as she backs out and drives across the street.

Applebees.

She gets off and saunters open the door, ripping it open with force. I catch it before the handle slams into the glass window, watching as she walks to the other door and rips that one opens with just as much force.

Any feelings I had about her are gone.

She's such an ass.

I narrow my eyes at her, following her into the restaurant.

"How many?" The lady chirps.

"Two." Motorcycle Girl says.

The lady grabs two menus and leads us to a booth for two.

She sits down in the seat I wanted and I sit across from her.

"This is not a date." She tells me immediately.

"I'm aware." I say dryly.

"And we are not friends. I still do not like you."

"Good, the feeling is mutual." I say coldly. "Why did you fuck me over with my test today?" I snap.

She scowls.

"You are not going to learn if I give you answers."

"I'll pass if you give me answers."

"If you were not so lazy laying around your home, I am sure you study and pass."

"I'm not lazy." I say.

"I do not believe you."

I narrow my eyes at her.

"Why are you even in French?" I ask, my voice hard. "You already know the language. It's a waste of your parents money."

Her face hardens, her eyes darken.

"Do not talk about my parents." She hisses. "Ever, you stupid fuck."

My jaw opens in shock but I quickly compose myself.

"Why are you in French?" I demand.

"I need language to graduate." She says. "I chose easy class."

"Yeah, clearly." I mutter. "You're a really rude person, in case you didn't know."

She smiles.

"I know, Natalie. Lazy, lazy Natalie. Do not ask me for answers again, I will ruin you."

"In case you forgot, I didn't ask you for answers. You offered answers. It's your fault I failed."

"I offered ten minutes before class. You failed because you didn't study."

"You shouldn't even be allowed in that class." I say. "You're Gaillard's favorite."

"Because I do not insult women."

"You insult me all the time."

"You just got free ride." She seethes. "Thank me."

"No." I scowl. "I won't thank you."

"You are asshole."

"Yeah, well you're a bitch!" I exclaim. Every head in the restaurant turns.

"You do not call your wifey a bitch." She snaps.

"You are not my wife." I whisper. "You're a girl in my class with a bad attitude."

"You need to thank me for saving your ass with Madison."

"Madison?" I repeat, and then I realize she must be talking about Mason. "Right." I nod, and then I sigh. "Thank you, brat."

She smirks, accomplished, and then she sits back when the waiter walks over.

"Will this be one check or two?" He asks.

"Two." Motorcycle Girl says, shedding her leather jacket as she glares at me. "He will take water." She says. "I will take coke."

I open my mouth to tell the guy I wasn't going to ask for water, but he walks away.

"I ordered you water because it is free, and you clearly need to save as many pennies as you can seeing how you can not drive yourself to and from school." She drops her coat on the bench next to her.

"I should change your nickname to bitch." I mutter.

"I should change your nickname to little, for the size of your genitalia."

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