Good Luck, Fatty

laugh as I pinch one of the things between my fingers. “That’s what we’re giving people?”
    Scott flips over a package of his own and eyeballs it. “And tweezers, apparently,” he says with a hearty chuckle.
    “And breath mints,” I add, shoving a combination of the three aforementioned items into a bag and then reaching for a spool of ribbon. “At least the cats around here will be pest-free, with fresh breath and perfectly arched eyebrows,” I say, knotting the ribbon and setting the bag aside.
    One down, hundreds more to go.
    Scott grins, shakes his head. “You’re quite the cutup, Bobbi,” he tells me. “No wonder Harv loves having you around.”
    Speaking of you-know-who…
    The front door bell rings, and I hear the distinctive whirring of Harvey’s Trek coasting in. A minute later, he’s peering down at Scott and me from the doorway, a warm, fatherly look blossoming across his face. “Ready?” he says, rubbing his hands together like a smarmy villain from one of those old-school TV cartoons (Snidely Whiplash?).
    “You bet,” says Scott, his voice already colored with triumph.
    Suddenly I feel ready too.

 
     
    chapter 17
     
    THANKS TO Lex Arlington’s input, the Yo-Yo remains an amateur affair, the rules of the race prohibiting anyone who has come within sniffing distance of winning any other bike-related event anywhere from entering (and also assuring Lex a prime finishing spot in his division, I suspect). The ban on professionals, though, all but guarantees a motley assortment of mismatched bicycles and riders, all clambering for the same brass ring (or, well, a tiny trophy and a decent chunk of cash, not to mention all the bragging rights one can possibly bash over the heads of his/her fellow competitors).
    “Oh my God,” I say to Denise, who’s manning (or wo manning) a watering station at the edge of one of the first-aid tents. “Look!” What I’m pointing at (aggressively so, I might add) is the coolest RV on earth, a luxury model the size of a school bus that’s custom-painted with a larger-than-life wraparound mural of bright-eyed and voracious-looking tigers, set against a jungle backdrop.
    Denise’s gaze follows my finger, her jaw literally dropping. “What in the world?”
    The RV pulls into the parking lot of the Baptist church, which is reserved by way of telephone pole signage for race-related activities. “It’s Lex,” I say, my voice taking on a eureka! quality. “I know it.” As these words escape my lips, I notice a news van jostling to a stop behind the RV. “And he brought his own press?”
    With wonder in her voice, Denise drawls, “I guess he did.”
    I slide a bottle of water off the table and crack its seal, my eyes still fixed on the RV. “What do you think it’s like to be famous?” I ask, taking a sip.
    “Wouldn’t know,” Denise says with a shrug. “It’s probably horrible, those paparazzi after you all the time.”
    “I dunno. It might be fun,” I say. “The money, anyways.” I could buy Orv, Denise, and me a pretty nice ride with the kind of dough Lex Arlington pulls down.
    Denise rubs absently at her belly (she’s been doing that a lot lately, as if she’s encouraging the baby to hang on). “You think he’ll talk to anyone?” she asks, nodding at Lex’s tiger-mobile. “That’d be a conversation starter at Welcome Home, huh? Can you imagine?”
    “He talked to me,” I remind her, “a little.” I mean, it was only a few words back in October (or was it November?), but still.
    “Oh, yeah.”
    A gaggle of kid competitors roars up behind me, hands grabbing every which way for Denise’s neatly rowed bottles. “One at a time,” Denise instructs pleasantly.
    “Yes, ma’am,” a chunky little redheaded girl (who resembles a younger version of me with triple the freckles) says.
      Denise is a ma’am, I think. Even at her age. In fact, I’d wager she was born that way—an old soul, as some folks like to say.
    The kids traipse off, water bottles strangled in their hands, and disappear into the throngs of spectators lining the street.
    “This is going to be epic,” I say out loud, the thought refusing to stay put in my mind as I survey the holding area for the Yo-Yo, which encompasses a block in either direction of The Pit, real estate that is currently abuzz with such anticipation and momentum that the air seems to be crackling.
    In this cacophony of activity, presumably, are a number of people I have yet to