Free Song of Summer by Laura Lee Anderson

swallow and let go of her hand, unhooking my leather jacket from the handgrips. I hold the jacket open for her and she gives me a look, so I pull out my notepad and write, “To protect your arms from all the bugs.” And road rash. But she doesn’t need to think about that.
    She laughs and shrugs into it, letting the cuffs hang over those white wrists. I love it.
    I look down at her feet and over at the foot pegs on the back of my bike. They’re right next to the tailpipe. Sandals, like the tank top, are another no-no. Maybe she’s just not meant to ride the bike. What was I thinking, that every girl would kill to be on this bike just because I like it? Too late now. I swallow and pick up the pen again.
    â€œYou have sneakers?” I write. “Or boots?”
    She makes a face but I keep writing, “Your feet are by the tailpipe. Don’t want you to get burned.”
    She goes back to her Subaru and digs the black Vans out of her backpack, lacing them up. As she ties her shoes, I write a few instructions:
    â€œI’ll let you know when to get on the bike. Hang on to me around my chest. You’ll be perched up pretty high and leaning forward in order to hang on. Lean with me on the turns, but not too much. Keep your feet on the pegs. I’ll let you know when I’m about to go and when I’m about to make turns or stop. Don’t worry, I’ve carried passengers before. I’m a really safe driver.”
    I look up and hand her the notepad, kind of digging the tank top/leather jacket/jeans/Vans look. It suits her. Her blue eyes grow steadily bigger as she reads the instructions. Finally, she looks up at me and gulps. I take the paper back from her limp hand.
    â€œYou don’t have to do this if you don’t want to!” I write hastily. “Your car will take us places just as well as my bike.”
    â€œNo!” she writes. “I want to do this!”
    â€œYou sure you’re okay?” I write. I sign it, too, when I show her the paper.
    She nods confidently, then her whole face lightens and she signs yes with her right hand. She points at it with her left hand and I golf clap, impressed. She takes a deep breath and smiles as she lets it out through pursed lips.
    I unhook her helmet from the back of the bike and give it to her. She slides it on, but I buckle it to make sure it’s snug. She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head at me, then holds her hand out for the pad of paper.
    â€œHot stuff?” she writes, then strikes a pose.
    I laugh and dig my phone out of my pocket to take a picture, flipping it around so she can see it—the full-coverage helmet (can’t mess up your face if something goes wrong) and the too-big jacket on her little body. As I’m holding my phone up, I notice two figures in the diner windows: the older waitress and the cook. I wave. They scurry away like they were never there.
    I turn back to Robin. She’s shooing them away. She shakes her helmeted head and shrugs at me, holding out her hand for the pen and paper. I pass it over and she writes, “Let’s do this!”
    I smile and pull on my own helmet and motorcycle gloves, then flip down the passenger foot pegs.
    Swinging my leg over the bike, I start the engine. A little motion catches my eye—she’s jumped back a bit. “You okay?” I sign.
    â€œYes,” she signs back.
    I do a half turn and pat the passenger’s seat behind me, if you can call it that. It’s perched way above the rear wheel. I point to my foot, then the foot peg. She shakes out her hands and puts them on the seat like she’s about to mount a horse. One, two, three bounces and she’s up in the seat, her feet firmly on the pegs. The bike settles a little under her weight. She leans forward in the seat and wraps her arms around me, loosely at first. I put my hand up and make a motion like I’m going to rev the bike. She tightens her grip