The Daughter of a Man Ch1

I met Tristan on one of my visits to upstate New York. He was a volunteer at the recreational center where I spent most of my summer vacation. There were tons of kids my age at the center, but even more teenagers. I was lumped in with the "ten and under" crowd, so it was decided that I needed a "buddy."

I watched dejectedly as the big kids partnered up with their little brothers or sisters or cousins. They all lived there year-round and everybody knew everybody else. . . except me. I daydreamed about older siblings and having my own "buddy."

"Teagan!" From her tone, I could tell that is was not the first time that Mrs. Gram had said my name.

"Yes, ma'am?" I had learned very early on to respect my elders.

"Tristan here is going to be your buddy. Is that alright with you, young lady?"

Turning, I gazed curiously at the boy in question. He looked to be about sixteen or so with dark brown hair slightly longer than present fashion, hanging over his eyes.

In all of my memories of him, that's what I remember most about Tristan–his eyes. How they sparkled blue like Lake Erie when he laughed and stormed gray like a raging sea when he was angry.

As my seven-year-old self stood against a rough brick wall scrutinizing the teenager in front her, the teenager, in turn, squatted down so I could gaze directly into pools of blue.

"I'm Tristan." He held his hand out in front of him.

"I'm T-teagan." I blushed. I wasn't very good around boys at that age. Come to think of it, I'm still not very comfortable having conversations with them unless I'm related to them somehow.

After the initial awkwardness dissipated, Tristan became almost like a brother to me. He took me everywhere: to the library, the grocery store, and even the racetrack when both my father and uncle were racing.

I guess it's his fault that I became a tomboy in my preteen years. When my family was racing, I was perfectly content to stay home with my grandma and watch the Discovery channel under a cozy home-sewn quilt while eating cheddar cheese Goldfish. Tristan wouldn't stand for that, though, so more often than not, he dragged me to the speedway and made me watch as the Barker Brothers nearly killed themselves by going in oblong circles at breakneck speeds. I wasn't old enough to go in the "pits" with the racers, so Tristan and I would just sit in the stands and cheer.

He seemed to have a sixth sense with some things. When the noise of the track started to hurt my ears, he would pull a pair of earplugs out of his pocket without a word from me. He also knew when there was going to be a big crash and would cover my eyes until the wreck was cleaned away.

My father raced pickup trucks and my uncle raced cars. They were both crazy and reckless, but my father was even more so. Tristan told me not to worry, that he was a professional and knew what to do in an emergency, but I was still troubled. I sometimes wondered if maybe he was a little bit suicidal, my big imagination running away from me, I guess.

My biggest stand against racing was when my father's cousin crashed. He drove the 007 car, and it was a bright, flashy pink with lime green accents and white numbers. Tristan's sixth sense must not have been working that day, because he didn't cover my eyes or tell me to turn away. We both just sat there, shell-shocked, as a 27-year-old man with his whole life ahead of him was pulled from a twisted mass of metal and laid on the track to die in front of hundred of bystanders.

Grabbing my hand, Tristan flew down the bleachers, dragging me behind him. We ran all the way to the pits where my father and uncle stood arguing with someone. Pretty soon, I picked up the gist of the fight–the man wanted them to drop out of there races for that night and take their cousin's body home to his parents. Tristan and I joined in, too. I couldn't bear to see my father get hurt like that.

Of course, neither of them listened to us and raced anyways. Maybe, if they'd listened to us, things would have turned out better. Maybe, things would have been fine if we hadn't made them doubt themselves. But I have a feeling that things wouldn't have been different at all.