First gear is my favorite, because it's how you start out. It has to be strong because it has to get everything moving even when everything wants to stay still. I practice riding my bike in first gear all the time; u-turns, tight circles, figure eights. It's like dancing super slow.

One time you came to watch me at motocross practice and I kicked the shifter down into first and got on the gas and dumped the clutch and stood up on the pegs as my bike reared up off the ground like a horse in a cowboy movie until Coach Shaw yelled, "Stop showing off, Pierce!" but I could see her smiling because my lap times were always two tenths faster whenever you were around.

The summer we both turned fifteen, you kissed me for the first time and I won so many races that I got bumped up to the Women's class.

Then again, I practiced a lot that summer, putting in extra laps, working on my bike, because you'd usually stay late with me. The way you'd stare at me as I worked, the way your eyes roved over my hands and forearms as I pulled the wrench to tighten a drain bolt or inspected the paper pleats of an oil filter, the way your lips would sometimes part and show the tip of your tongue without you even noticing sent a ball of heat straight into my belly.

Day after day, I simmered over the burner of your longing looks, until one day I couldn't take it anymore and I grabbed the closest thing in my toolbox and thrust it towards you. "Phillips screwdriver."

Your brows creased together as you regarded the tool. "What?"

"This." I waved the screwdriver back and forth. "See, it's pointy."

You looked at me skeptically, but I needed this distraction so I kept going, picked up a different tool and held it out like the first.

"That's easy, it's a wrench." You were sitting up now, interested.

"Combination wrench."

"Fine. Combination wrench," you huffed. Then your curiosity got the best of you and you asked, "Why?"

I tilted one end of the wrench toward you, then the other. "The ends are different. Like a two-for-one combo."

"Hmm."

"How about this one?" I held up another wrench, feeling tricky.

You shrugged.

"Box wrench."

That one prompted a saucy smile. "Wanky."

We continued on, but it didn't take long for your gigantic brain to learn them all so I could put you to work doing something other than stare at me. "Torque wrench."

I felt the smooth handle of the wrench settle into my outstretched palm.

"Does this make me your nurse?" you asked with a smirk and a raise of one of your perfect eyebrows.

"My assistant," I said, and then I couldn't stop myself and I bent forward and captured your lips with mine, felt your breath hitch and quicken as I deepened the kiss until I ran out of air and had to break it. "My sexy assistant," I gasped.

You looked away, lashes fluttering. Nervous. Adorable.

"I love kissing you," I said.

I knew it was a mistake the instant I said it.

"We're just playing." Your face was serious now, like a door slammed shut. It was always this way. It doesn't mean anything, Britt.

I nodded. All I wanted to do was kiss you again and stop you from talking, stop you from bruising me again with your words, but then you stepped close and pressed your palms against my cheeks and kissed me with teeth and force, a kiss from the middle of a war. I shoved aside my surprise and kissed back, fueled by hunger and frustration, surrounded by the smell of oil and metal.

First gear is my favorite, but now I was stuck with the clutch pulled in, constantly revving, going nowhere.

You didn't come to practice as often once freshman year started. I figured you got tired of the noise or the smell of gasoline and exhaust or the dust or the mud, and after a while I stopped looking for flashes of red and white in the grandstands. But one day there you were, and even though I knew better I looked at you a little too long, just enough to break my flow, and I saw the jump up ahead a little too late. I tried to save it by hitting the gas, but the rear suspension snapped up as my wheels left the ground and pitched the front end down into an endo that flung me straight over the handlebars.

Time really does move in slow motion when you ride long enough and crash often enough, and I've done plenty of both, plenty enough to twist in mid-air so that I'd land on my back instead of my face, to watch my bike fly over me like a plane coming in for landing. The back of my helmet slammed against the track and I saw clouds and unicorns. The clouds were pink and fluffy and the unicorns were singing—

"Brittany!" Your voice was frantic.

The unicorns were singing in tiny unicorn voices. "I'm a victim of gravity. Everything keeps fallin' down on me." My legs felt heavy.

Then I saw your face above me, fuzzy through the grime that covered my goggles. Somewhere someone said, "Help me lift the bike off her," and then you disappeared.

Maybe it was me that was singing. "It isn't love that makes the world go round, you see, it's the power of gravity." Then my legs felt light again and I wiggled my boots.

"Brittany?" You were back, your eyes dark and shiny-wet with tears. For someone who cares so much about appearances, you wear your emotions so plainly. You reached down into my helmet and brushed your fingers against my cheek.

That's when I knew it meant something to you, despite everything you'd said to deny it.

"Your uniform's all dirty. Coach Sylvester gon' be pissed," I deadpanned.

You punched me in the shoulder and yelped as your fist struck the armor I wore under my jersey. I giggled inside my helmet and you shook out your stinging knuckles and shot me a dark look, muttering, "Have fun with that concussion," because it just wouldn't do to show that you were scared.

The feeling of both wheels leaving the ground is like flying without wings. By itself, my bike looks impossibly heavy with two knobby tires and chunky front forks and a too-big engine stuck into its frame. But once we're out on the track there's no one else in the world but me and the engine beneath me and a leap of faith.

I've been making leaps of faith since I learned to ride when I was five. I've had a lot of practice. But you? It's gonna take you a little while to come around, I know. And I can wait. And I will.