Latitude Zero by Diana Renn Read Free Book Online Page A

down! Riders down!” people shouted. More approaching cyclists swerved, way out to the opposite road shoulder. Some got off their bikes to help people; others kept going. I hoped Juan Carlos was one who kept going. I hoped he wouldn’t see me like this.
    Juan Carlos. The necklace. I reached up and felt the cross outline beneath my jersey, and the gold chain firmly clasped. Still there.
    I checked in with my arms and legs, my fingers and toes, and, lastly, my head. Everything moved. I crawled over to my bike, then dragged it to the road shoulder. My beautiful Bianchi. The pretty mint-green frame was scratched up. Two spokes were bent in the front wheel. How could I have been so stupid not to look behind me when I pulled out?
    I turned and took in the full horror of the scene. Another paceline had stopped short to avoid me. Some cyclists ahead of me had crashed, too, maybe startled by the noise. I counted ten riders down behind me, eight up ahead—including some from Team Maureen. Riders were groaning, holding knees and elbows, surveying damage to bike frames.
    I knew I should help people. Instead, I froze. What if someone recognized me as the girl who had
caused
this pileup? Sure, the road was wet. But that was all the more reason for me to have been more careful riding outside of my skill area.
    A huge gray shark, jaw flapping, made its way up the road, hovering above the crowds. Hallucination? Head injury? I blinked. No. It was an inflatable shark, like for a swimming pool, lashed to the top of a support van. All the support vans, sponsored by various bike shops, had animal or fish floaties for visibility. Jake had told me to watch out for them. Support vans carried mechanics but also ride officials.
    The van’s horn blared. Cyclists, still coming up to the crash scene, veered right to let it pass. COMPA SS BIKES, CAMBRIDGE, M A , I read on the side of the van. In smaller letters: TAKING YOU PLACES . The store logo was an old-fashioned compass rose on a bike wheel.
    The van stopped when it got to the pileup. A girl who looked to be around my age jumped out of the driver’s side. She wore a green Compass Bikes T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up. She scanned the downed riders and, spotting me, frowned and ran to my side.
    “Are you okay?” The girl dropped to her knees. Her short brown hair barely made it into a ponytail. She blew her long bangs out of her eyes in order to look at mine. “Did you hit your head?”
    “No. I landed on my side.”
    “Can you move your arms and legs?”
    I demonstrated.
    She held my right arm and inspected it. She looked tough, like she might lift serious weights. Her fingers were blackened with bike grease. Yet her face was pretty, her features soft. She had large brown eyes, full lips, olive skin, and a look of intense concern on her face. I hoped she’d sympathize with me and not ask too many questions.
    “You’re lucky. Your brain bucket worked.” She reached over and tapped my helmet. “Looks like you’re walking out of this with just a nasty case of road rash. That must kill.”
    It didn’t, until I followed her gaze. My right arm and leg looked like raw meat spiced with sand. Then the pain hit all at once. I sucked in my breath.
    “I’ll take you back to the medical tent.” She offered an arm.
    “N-no, thanks,” I stammered. “No medical tent. Really. I’m fine.”
    “They can give you something for the pain. And you’ll want to get those scrapes irrigated. Let’s get you up. Go easy.” She was shorter than me by several inches but pulled me to my feet with her strong arms. She looped one of my arms over her shoulder and helped me limp toward the van, pushing my bike along with her free hand. “I’m Mari, by the way. What’s your name?”
    Clearly she didn’t recognize me from TV. Still, a fake name—Teresa—flew out of my mouth. “I can’t get medical services,” I added, thinking fast. “My rider number flew off.”
    “No worries. We’ll look