The next morning, I woke up to the sound of motorcycles.
Not one.
Not two.
Dozens.
The rumble was so powerful that the windows shook.
At first, I thought I was still dreaming.
Then the noise became louder.
And louder.
I sat upright in bed.
I turned toward the window and looked outside.
My stomach instantly dropped.
The street in front of our house was overflowing with bikers.
A huge crowd had gathered.
Las motocicletas alinearon el bloque en fila tras fila.
Algunos pilotos estaban de pie junto a sus bicicletas.
Otros simplemente se enfrentaron a nuestra casa.
I had no idea what I was looking at.
Had something happened?
Was someone in trouble?
A moment later, my mom rushed into my room.
Había una extraña mirada en su cara.
No miedo.
Not anger.
“Emily,” she said quietly. “You and your dad are being called outside. Right now.”
I slipped into my slippers and hurried downstairs.
The moment Dad opened the front door, the roar of the motorcycles suddenly died away.
Every rider turned to look at us.
The man standing at the front stepped forward.
Lo reconocí inmediatamente.
He was the same biker who had laughed when he heard Dad was planning to perform ballet with me.
For a few seconds, nobody said a word.
The entire street felt frozen in place.
Motorcycles stretched in every direction.
Men wearing leather jackets, sunglasses, tattoos, and beards stood silently waiting.
It looked like a scene from a movie.
Standing on the front porch, I suddenly felt very small.
Dad appeared every bit as confused as I was.
Rick scratched his beard and looked around at the gathered crowd.
Luego sonrió.
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