Mom stands close, her hand on my shoulder. Welcome to our home, Hawk says. He leads us inside. The clubhouse is one large room with smaller ones. Often a long table dominates the center covered with food.
Couches and chairs around the perimeter. A bar at one. People stop talking when we end. All eyes on us on me. Everyone.
Hawk calls out. This is Eli and his mom Sarah. They're our guests tonight. Nods of acknowledgement. Some smiles.
No one approaches yet. Come on. Hawk says let's get you some food. The table is loaded with dishes. Ribs, chicken, potato salad, beans, cornbread.
Who made all this? Mom asks. I did. A woman says behind us. She's tall, gray stre hair pulled back and lines around her eyes that deepen when she she wears jeans and a black t-shirt with the club logo.
Maddie Carter, she says, extending her hand to mom. But everyone calls me mama. Mom shakes her hand cautiously. Sarah Barnes and this must be Eli. Mama Carter says her voice is warm.
Hawk hasn't stopped talking about you, young man. I feel my cheeks heat up. He talks about me. Oh, yes. Says you've got more grit than men twice your size.
She winks at me. He's right. She loads a plate with food, hands it to me. Eat. You're too skinny. " "Yes, ma'am," I said.
She laughs. And polite, too. We could use more of that around here. Mama Carter leads us to a table near the window. People stop by to introduce themselves.
Doc, the club's vice president, Whiskey, the treasurer, Spider, the road captain. They're not what I expected. They treat mom with respect. They talk to me, not around me. They ask about school, about my interests.
You like bikes, Eli? Whiskey asks. I don't know much about them. I admit we'll teach you. He promises.
If your mom says it's okay. Mom doesn't say yes, but she doesn't say no either. Progress. After dinner, Pat shows me the garage. Six motorcycles in various stages of repair.
Tools organized on pegboards. The smell of oil and metal. This is where I fixed your chair, he says. It's nice, I say. Clean.
He laughs. Don't tell the others. They think mechanics should be dirty. He shows me engines, explains how they work. His voice changes when he talks about bikes.
Softer, passionate. You really love this stuff, I say. He nods. Bikes make sense. People are complicated.
Bikes just need the right parts, the right care. They never let you down. People let you down? I ask, his eyes cloud. Everyone except the club.
They're the only family I got. You don't have regular family? He shakes his head. Foster care, group homes. Not much better than what you're dealing with at school.