bushes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jason found his bike sprawled at the rear of the car lot. Both tires had been slashed, several spokes were bent, and the chain was tangled around the pedals. Fluid glimmered on the frame, and drops spattered the surrounding blacktop. Understanding—and the sour smell—smacked him in the face. They had pissed on his bike!
“Those assholes,” he said. Balling his hands into fists, he marched to the fence. He kicked the fence as hard as he could once, twice, three times, knowing he looked like an idiot but not caring. He was so sick of Blake and his stupid friends; he wished they never existed. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
The chain-link fence vibrated from the force of his kicks. He started to kick it one more time, then dropped his foot to the ground. What was the point? With the way his day had been going, he’d mess around and break his toe. He walked back to his bicycle.
He considered leaving it there to be either thrown away or picked up by a scavenger, but he had to take it with him, try to repair it. It was the only transportation he had.
With a sigh of resignation, he grasped the handgrips, which seemed to be untouched, and pulled up the bike. He rolled it to the nearby McDonald’s. Inside the restaurant, he got a cup of water and a handful of napkins. He cleaned up the bicycle.
When he finished, it was almost noon. He was supposed to meet his friends. He wasn’t in the mood to go to the water park, but maybe hanging out with the fellas for a while would draw him out of his funk. He started pushing his bike toward his friend’s place.
As he drew closer to the house, he saw Darren Taylor and Mike Johnson—or “Brains” and “Shorty” as they were known among friends—on the veranda, rocking on the bench swing. Jason had become acquainted with Shorty only three months ago, and soon after they met, Shorty introduced him to his cousin, Brains. They were the first real friends he had ever had. Before he had met them, he’d spent all of his time by himself, reading, listening to music, playing video games, and daydreaming. Daydreaming more than anything else. For as long as he could remember, he had been able to get completely immersed in his imaginative adventures, to such an extent that his fantasies sometimes seemed more concrete than the real world. His vivid imagination was perhaps the one thing that had made living at home bearable, because it provided an escape from the hell around him. But now that he hung out with Brains and Shorty, he no longer needed to seek refuge in a fun imaginary life. He finally had the real thing.
As he approached the porch steps, Shorty jumped off the swing.
“Hey, why’re you pushing your bike?” Shorty said. “Chain fall off or something?”
Shorty was fourteen years old, and he was dressed, as usual, as if he were the mascot for a Chicago sports team. That day, he was working for the Chicago Bulls. He wore a red Bulls jersey, matching red shorts, and a Bulls cap. On other days, he represented the White Sox, the Cubs, or the Bears. Jason sometimes wondered if he had any regular clothes.
“I ran into a little trouble,” Jason said.
Shorty laughed and came closer. “Man, if you ask me, it looks like you ran over a little trouble.” He poked his finger inside a gash in one of the bike’s mangled tires. “What the hell did you do, try to ride across a bed of nails?”
“It’s a long story,” Jason said.
Standing on the porch, Brains cleared his throat. He wore wire-rim glasses, pressed jeans, a blue polo shirt, and low-cut athletic shoes. Although Brains was only fourteen, the same age as the rest of them, Jason always thought of him as older, about eighteen or twenty. It wasn’t only his conservative clothing that gave Jason that impression: the way he carried himself made him seem much more mature than his age.
Brains pushed his glasses up his nose, viewing Jason’s bike with the intensity of a radiologist studying
CHAPTER FIVE
Jason found his bike sprawled at the rear of the car lot. Both tires had been slashed, several spokes were bent, and the chain was tangled around the pedals. Fluid glimmered on the frame, and drops spattered the surrounding blacktop. Understanding—and the sour smell—smacked him in the face. They had pissed on his bike!
“Those assholes,” he said. Balling his hands into fists, he marched to the fence. He kicked the fence as hard as he could once, twice, three times, knowing he looked like an idiot but not caring. He was so sick of Blake and his stupid friends; he wished they never existed. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
The chain-link fence vibrated from the force of his kicks. He started to kick it one more time, then dropped his foot to the ground. What was the point? With the way his day had been going, he’d mess around and break his toe. He walked back to his bicycle.
He considered leaving it there to be either thrown away or picked up by a scavenger, but he had to take it with him, try to repair it. It was the only transportation he had.
With a sigh of resignation, he grasped the handgrips, which seemed to be untouched, and pulled up the bike. He rolled it to the nearby McDonald’s. Inside the restaurant, he got a cup of water and a handful of napkins. He cleaned up the bicycle.
When he finished, it was almost noon. He was supposed to meet his friends. He wasn’t in the mood to go to the water park, but maybe hanging out with the fellas for a while would draw him out of his funk. He started pushing his bike toward his friend’s place.
As he drew closer to the house, he saw Darren Taylor and Mike Johnson—or “Brains” and “Shorty” as they were known among friends—on the veranda, rocking on the bench swing. Jason had become acquainted with Shorty only three months ago, and soon after they met, Shorty introduced him to his cousin, Brains. They were the first real friends he had ever had. Before he had met them, he’d spent all of his time by himself, reading, listening to music, playing video games, and daydreaming. Daydreaming more than anything else. For as long as he could remember, he had been able to get completely immersed in his imaginative adventures, to such an extent that his fantasies sometimes seemed more concrete than the real world. His vivid imagination was perhaps the one thing that had made living at home bearable, because it provided an escape from the hell around him. But now that he hung out with Brains and Shorty, he no longer needed to seek refuge in a fun imaginary life. He finally had the real thing.
As he approached the porch steps, Shorty jumped off the swing.
“Hey, why’re you pushing your bike?” Shorty said. “Chain fall off or something?”
Shorty was fourteen years old, and he was dressed, as usual, as if he were the mascot for a Chicago sports team. That day, he was working for the Chicago Bulls. He wore a red Bulls jersey, matching red shorts, and a Bulls cap. On other days, he represented the White Sox, the Cubs, or the Bears. Jason sometimes wondered if he had any regular clothes.
“I ran into a little trouble,” Jason said.
Shorty laughed and came closer. “Man, if you ask me, it looks like you ran over a little trouble.” He poked his finger inside a gash in one of the bike’s mangled tires. “What the hell did you do, try to ride across a bed of nails?”
“It’s a long story,” Jason said.
Standing on the porch, Brains cleared his throat. He wore wire-rim glasses, pressed jeans, a blue polo shirt, and low-cut athletic shoes. Although Brains was only fourteen, the same age as the rest of them, Jason always thought of him as older, about eighteen or twenty. It wasn’t only his conservative clothing that gave Jason that impression: the way he carried himself made him seem much more mature than his age.
Brains pushed his glasses up his nose, viewing Jason’s bike with the intensity of a radiologist studying
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