TWO YEARS LATER …

            I was now a sophomore at Berkley, majoring in Literature and Education. I knew I wanted to be a teacher and since I loved to read and write poetry (inspired by Daddy's early works) I decided English would be the best subject for me.

            The dorms were small yet cozy. On my side of the room, I had pictures of my mother, Daddy, Aunt Cindy and Gina. Daddy's journal in which he wrote the beautiful poems about and for my mother, was never far from me. When the moment struck me, I would occasionally write my own verse. Nikka, the girl I worked alongside with at The Café, was on the same floor as I was and we went out together as often as possible.

            I missed Daddy terribly, but I never showed it. If Gina knew she'd be hysterical with giggles and I probably would be, too. I called Daddy every other night and every other weekend I drove up to Seattle to spend the weekend and without haste I spent the holidays with him too. Whenever I was there, I made sure he was eating right and healthy, did his exercises and cleaned the house.

            "Maxine, will you please stop?" Daddy would protest. "I'm a big kid. I can take care of myself."

            "Yeah, I know," I admitted. "But first the parents work all their lives taking care of the kids and then the kids take care of the parents in return."

            "You spoil me, Maxie," Daddy said, tugging a curl.

            My roommate was a demure Kansas girl with light brown hair, blue-green eyes and a small frame. Her name was Harmony Pfeiffer. She was shy and soft spoken but a hard worker, considering the fact her chosen major was nuclear physics. Unfortunately, she preferred usually to hide her pretty eyes behind thick, black-rimmed glasses and concealed herself in the dorm, either studying or reading or doing papers. Yet Harmony was a great conversationalist and we, surprisingly, got along great and had a lot in common.

            She, too, had no mother. Mrs. Pfeiffer had died of breast cancer when Harmony was five. She was jealous when I told her how devoted Daddy was to me.

            "My father thinks there are twenty-five hours in a day," she replied sourly. "He works all the time and the only one who even notices me is Aunt Leigha, my father's sister, who moved in to take care of me after my mom passed away."

            "My godmother moved in until I was six months old," I told her, pointing out another thing we shared, "because my father was too depressed to take care of me."

            I tried to get Harmony to go out with Nikka and I more often, but it was incredibly hard. Even when Nikka ambushed her and gave her a make-over and everyone complimented her, she stayed holed up in the dorm. After some time we figured it was no use, but I still tried to be close friends with her. Eventually I succeeded.

            Daddy had given me my mother's Ninja as a going-away present at the beginning of this year.

            "It's a great cycle," he admitted as he handed me the keys. "Plus you might want it on beautiful days when you don't want to be in your car. It's a shame it's going to waste in Original Cindy's storage locker."

            "Oh Daddy, I couldn't," I said shakily, remembering the time I'd destroyed it. Of course Daddy had fixed it up, but still… "I don't know how…"

            "If you can ride a bike, you can ride a motorcycle, I promise," Daddy smiled. I bet he was trying to forget that once upon a time I took a hammer to it.

            So I took it for its first spin in a long, long time and I did enjoy it. In my mother's leather jacket and on my mother's motorcycle, looking exactly like her, I bet it gave Daddy the chills. Either way, he was happy to give the cycle to me.

It was almost a ritual for me to take a ride around town around two PM, when most of my classes were over. I loved nighttime so much that I had chosen mostly daytime courses so I could be free during the evening.

Everyone who knew me and even some who didn't would see me saunter off to the parking lot in the leather jacket and go roaring off on the Ninja and say either to themselves or to someone else,

"There goes Maxine Cale, off for her daily ride."

But this afternoon as I got on the Ninja, after hung my canvas bag with Daddy's journal from the hook on the seat. I started it up and nothing happened. It sputtered and gave a loud POP and the muffler started smoking.

"Shit!" I coughed, waving the smoke away from me. I turned the cycle off and knelt on my hands and knees to see what was wrong. A shadow cast over me.

"Need help?"

I looked up and squinted. This guy was easily six foot five, with dark hair that spiked up a little and brilliant green eyes—so green they seemed surreal. He wore a pair of jeans, a dark green T-shirt and a black, white and dark green plaid button-down shirt flapping open over it.  On his feet were black combat boots and over his shoulder he had slung a red backpack. He was incredibly good-looking. I swallowed hard.

"I…I might," I said, standing. I only came to his shoulder. I brushed some gravel off my palms and looked over my shoulder at the poor bike. "This bike's older than me. Who knows what could be wrong."

He let his backpack fall to the ground and knelt at the muffler, peering into it. He then announced that it was clogged.

"Clogged? With what?" I panicked.

"Can't tell," he stood. "Most likely a senior prank if you ask me."

"How would you know? Are you a senior?"

"No. Sophomore. Actually, I'm Daley. Daley Westlight," he extended his hand and I shook it.

"Maxine Cale."

"Nice to meet you. Great name. I've never known a Maxine before."

"I've never known a Daley."

"Daley's not my real name."

"Oh?" I crouched again and picked up a nearby stick and began fiddling with the muffler.

"Dale is my middle name. My first name's Andrew but I prefer Daley," Daley explained, kneeling next to me and watched me poke at the muffler.

"Wish I could go by my middle name," I mumbled, loud enough for Daley to hear me.

"Which is?"

"Guevara," I said, using the sharper end of the stick to dig out whatever was in there. "My mother's maiden name. Can't do much with that."

"Your mom name you?" Daley asked casually and sat cross-legged. I felt a little uncomfortable yet at ease. I haven't really talked to guys as friends like this, not even in school.

"Nope, my dad did. My mom died having me."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Daley said sympathetically.

"It's okay," I assured him. I examined the stuff I dug out of the muffler and so far it looked like either dirt, coffee, or soil with bits of paper. "Shit. Whatever's in here is packed in tight." I let my knees hit the ground and swung my legs around so I could sit like Daley. "Well, since my afternoon plans are screwed and I practically told you my life story, how about you tell me about you."

"I'm horrifyingly normal."

"Do tell," I prodded, throwing away the stick. I blew a curl away from my face. "Ugh. I give up. Anyway about you family?"

"My mom's a housewife, my dad's a banker and my sister is a high-school junior, a typical teenager."

"That is scary."

Daley laughed. "Yeah, well…there are times I pray that I'm adopted but they're okay."

"Well, I can honestly say I'm my mother's daughter," I scoffed. "I look exactly like her." I took out my wallet and showed Daley the picture of Mom on the motorcycle. "That's my mother, Max Guevara Cale. The first."

"Hmm," Daley scrutinized the photo. "You do look mirror image."

"So," I said, snapping my wallet shut and putting it back in my coat. "What's your major, Daley?"

"History," Daley said, plucking a piece of grass from the side of the parking lot touching the lawn. "My minor's Art History." He used the blade of grass like a paint brush. "I like history."

"I noticed," I laughed.

"What's your major?" Daley plucked a thistle and tucked it behind my ear.

My heart fluttered in a good way. "Literature and Education. I want to be an English teacher." I pulled Daddy's journal out of my canvas bag. "I write some poetry, too."

"Can I see?" Daley asked.

"Sure. Just be careful, it's an old journal."

"Who's Logan Cale?" he asked when he flipped though the pages.

"My father," I replied, blushing. "It was his journal before he told me it would be of some use to me. The ones I wrote are near the back."

Daley flipped to near the end of the leather-bound book and read aloud in a deep voice,

"I used to think my life was cursed,

an empty abyss, a turn for the worse.

Living in the shadow of another

Unfortunately the shadow was that of my mother.

I had her face and her name, you see,

Making it hard for me to be me.

I used to think I was not original

just a copy, not individual at all.

The loss of my mother was bad enough

For me to be her clone was certainly rough.

I used to think my mother was cruel,

I thought it was against the rule

To have her leave before I got a chance

To hear her speak or have her see me dance.

So, my mother, to you I say,

Even though you're gone I think about you every day.

            "Wow," Daley closed the journal and handed it back to me. "That's…that's pretty good. Kind of…haunting."

            My face flushed again. "Well, I'm not as good as my father is. This is only chicken scratch compared to what Daddy wrote."

            "I can't say I'm an expert on poetry, but I think it's good." Then as if realizing what he said, Daley also went red, more his ears than his face. "Uh, you, ah wanna go for coffee? We can take my car."

            "Oh. Sure," I said. Daley stood and offered his hand to help me up.