Andreo's Race by Pam Withers Page B

can.”
    â€œOf course I can,” he says, grinning, taking her hand and brushing his lips to her fingertips before leaping up to stand beside her. Maria backs away, startled and clearly distressed.
    Oops
. The bouncers may have had their view blocked, but Raul saw it.
    â€œHey!” He moves in and fists fly. My best friend and brother tumble to the ground, rolling this way and that.
    â€œAsshole!”
    â€œCreep!”
    â€œDouche bag!”
    They spin close to the bank. I hold my breath, then watch it happen as if in slow motion.
Splash!
Raul goes right into the water.
    â€œ
Ouch!
” David shouts, echoed by a clang as he lands half in and half out of our canoe.
    One of David’s knees goes into Dad’s gut.
    â€œ
Argh!
What the hell?” Dad mumbles as he wakes and flails about so much that the canoe begins to rock.
    Uh-oh. It’s going to tip
, I think as Raul swims to shore.
    More splashing as the canoe upsets, spilling both David and Dad—not to mention our loose gear—into the water.
    â€œ
Ha-ha-ha!
” A crowd has gathered, laughing, pointing, clapping. Mother springs up, rubbing her eyes as if hoping she’s dreaming. Then she and I are elbow-to-elbow, bent over to pull Dad and David out.
    Dad and Raul turn the canoe upright, fetch the paddles and gear and bail out the canoe. We regroup and endure Mother and Dad’s inevitable lecture: “…  making a spectacle of our team … if you want to be grounded … serious family discussion about fighting … most important aspect of team racing is maintaining harmony.”
    â€œThere go Maria and team,” I whisper to Raul as we look out past the little island. He nods slowly, face glum. They’re powering away, Maria huddled in the center, eyes cast our way like a subdued prisoner.
    â€œWe’ll pass them, ’cause we’re faster,” he whispers back.
    â€œAnd you know Mother and Dad will go way around them, even if it adds five minutes on to our race time,” I reply evenly.
    â€œRaul, you’re in my canoe,” Mother orders. “David, you’re in Dad and Andreo’s.”
    â€œNice eye, David.” Dad tries to lighten things up. “It’s going to turn some very interesting colors before wereach Torotoro. Andreo and I will paddle first while you rest up.”
    â€œCatch us if you can,” Raul says with a hint of satisfaction on his face.
    â€œ
Hmmph
,” David mutters, laying himself full-length between Dad and me and pulling a wet T-shirt over his face.
    As we work the paddles, I’m a little surprised at the effort it’s taking to stay close to Mother and Raul. It seems my friend is paddling at a pace sure to impress his canoe-mate, maybe even take her mind off what he has done to her favorite son.
    â€œThe bike vans,” I call out when the far end of the lake comes into sight.
    â€œYup, a quick transition, team. Ready?” Mother says.
    As our canoes nose into the bank, we jump out, backpacks already on. We sprint to our waiting bikes as volunteers take over the boats.
    I breathe in the smells of the verdant valley in which we’ve landed.
    â€œOnward, team!” Dad calls as we lift our sore bottoms into bike saddles and wheel at high speed along a cobbled road hemmed by vegetable and fruit patches. Later, when the vans seem to magically appear again, it’s time to dismount, hand our bikes over to the volunteers and continue on foot.
    â€œLunar landing,” Raul comments as we take in a moonscape of reddish sandstone.
    â€œYeah, reminds me of the Badlands of South Dakota,” Dad agrees.
    â€œThey could shoot Wild West movies here,” David ruminates.
    Indeed, I can easily imagine bandits on horses, waiting behind wind-sculpted rock formations.
    Raul points to a craggy tower. “That’s, like, a couple of stories high.”
    â€œIt’s cool,” I say, but