I was on my way to meet the gang for a ten o’clock. It wasn’t too hot for July, so I decided to go for a ride first. Try a few technicals and practice my skill. I was still trying to master Drop Dead Curve.
The drop into the valley was a long slope on a track of tar. I pumped the brakes only a little—the Path was dry and clean—and leaned back as the cool valley air rushed over me. Then I noticed it was more crowded today. Very crowded.
There were the usual people. Some retired wrinklebags out for their daily airing and a yummy mummy with long brown legs pushing her kid in a stroller. Of course, Bob was in his usual spot on the bench, shaking his arms and talking to himself. Bob wasn’t his real name; we just called him that. He was one of the homeless guys who built cardboard shacks up on the hillsides.
Yet something was different about the Path today. Droves of novices were everywhere, riding cheap bikes that they had probably bought the night before. Then a couple of hammerheads raced past me down the hill, one on either side.
“Get out of the way,” one of them shouted, an evil smirk on his face.
I could tell they were both corporates who worked in the big office towers downtown. Corps, we called them—dead to the real world. Full bike suits, stuffed panniers, cell phones, and top-of-the-line bikes without a scratch on them. I wouldn’t mind gear like that, but I wouldn’t become a corp for it.
I started to get smoked up inside, but I tried to let it go. I challenged myself. Speed up and show them how to do it.
I pushed into action, caught up, and even passed them, but I was grunting with the effort—couldn’t get my engine going. My first ride of the day and I had the lung capacity of a newborn squirrel. Pathetic. They blew by me as if I were parked.
“Told you to get out of the way,” smirking guy said with a laugh.
“Idiots,” I muttered, but I wondered what they were doing out so late in the morning.
I turned off onto a single-track. Actually, it was only a half-track. One of our private trails. I wouldn’t want to meet another biker because there was no room to pass. A vegetable tunnel—just tree trunks on either side and leaves that smacked against me as I passed. It was a shortcut through the trees that met up with Drop Dead Curve. I’d give the curve one try then head over to the Rock.
I burst out of the trees and onto the wider trail, but I didn’t expect to see the two corps that had passed me earlier, travelling with me toward the curve. What were they doing on our track?
I nearly got sideswiped by one of them. He yelled something at me that I didn’t hear, because my heart was in my ears pounding out a new drumbeat. I caught a movement of his foot out of the corner of my eye. Was he trying to kick me out of the way?
Then Drop Dead Curve was on all three of us, and I wasn’t ready. We were too close together, the smirking guy out front and me level with the kicking man. I was going too fast. I couldn’t take the run wide enough with the guy on the outside. I leaned into the corner but my bike started to skid. I dabbed at the ground to catch my balance, but it was no use because of the fist-sized rocks that multiplied daily on the curve.
Kicking man pushed ahead of me, which was good because I was about to part company with my bike. A warning thought flashed into my brain. Get off the bike in a hurry! My upper body twisted in a last-second attempt to save myself. I bailed off my bike and then I was falling, my hands out to meet the gravel like I could push the ground away from me. My arms buckled, and I did a graceless face plant into the trail.
I heard the prang of my bike as it crashed, smelled the dry dust in my nose, and tasted dirt. Stars of pain swarmed around my head but I lurched up in a hurry. Quick enough to watch the corps flying down the trail. A nearby chipmunk scolded me. A jay sang a victory song for the corps. They could make Drop Dead Curve.
I wished for a bike like theirs so much it hurt. Maybe then I could make the curve. Why did everyone else always have better gear?
I looked for my bike. We’d both managed to avoid the trees. I took off my helmet and shook my brains back into place, dusted the gravel off my hands and knees, examined the fresh rip in my T-shirt, and checked out the damage to my bike.
I had gotten my bike at a police auction for next to nothing. It had a few nicks and scratches on it to begin with, but I’d added plenty of my own. Each scratch told a story—when I’d flipped over the handlebars and smashed into a tree, or when I’d slipped on a pipe and bent the wheel like a taco. It wasn’t much of a bike compared to some, but I guess we were OK together.
Not much damage. A few new scratches, but I could still get around. I got back on and spun the pedals slowly over to the Rock.
* * *
THE ROCK WAS A FLAT GRAY BOULDER halfway up the east side where we hung sometimes. It was mostly hidden by trees and had a great view. There was a natural burrow under one side where you could cool off in the shade.
The whole gang was there, scarfing down some snacks that someone had brought. Probably Silver, whose real name was Juan. He had managed to get a part-time job at a bike store so he sometimes sprang for a bag of chips. I had gone for that job too, but they didn’t want me. Too young, they’d said.
Other than me, the valley gang was Silver, a tiny Mexican who was the fastest pedaller in the city; Three-speed, Silver’s tag-along little brother; Jumpster, the only girl and a quick learn for any new tricks; and Cyclops.
Cyclops was the only one who wouldn’t wear a helmet. He had a thick bony skull, considering the number of times that he’d landed on his head on solid rock and lived to torment us further. I was sure that his brain was full of tiny air bubbles, just like an Aero bar. It had to be, after all those smashes. He had earned his name from a huge purple wound he once got on his forehead. His eyes had been swollen shut, and the open wound looked like a huge, bloody eye.
Cyclops saw the scratches on my hands and face. “Dropped on the curve again, Newbie?” His lips were dusted orange from the chips.
On the Path we didn’t use our real names. They called me Newbie because I hadn’t earned my name yet. Only a great feat got you a great name.
I grabbed my water bottle for a drink, wishing that my helmet could hide my face. I hated being called Newbie, but if I told Cyclops, then he’d just say it even more.
“I could do Drop Dead Curve a year ago,” said Three-speed.
Why did Silver let him come along?
“Yeah, yeah.” I squirted water over my face. “What’s going on with the Path today?”
“Don’t you know?” Jumpster was pushing with her arms against a tree trunk, stretching out the back of her legs. I couldn’t help but notice her form, and my internal temperature rose 12 degrees. “Transit workers went on strike at midnight last night. The corps took over the Path this morning. It’s an invasion.”
“Whoa! I met two guys who tried to run me down, but I didn’t know anything about this.” I tried not to show that I was watching her. I was sure she’d never be interested in me.
“Madmen with helmets.” Silver shook his head. He believed in fair play, but the corps didn’t.
“Wait until this afternoon.” Jumpster shielded her eyes from the sun and scanned the valley paths that were spread out before us. No one said anything because we all knew that Jumpster was right. There was always too much traffic after any workday. This afternoon would be insane.
* * *
WE HUNG IN THE VALLEY for the rest of the day, but the morning migration and the strike were all we could talk about. No new tricks or trails that day.
By 4:30 the corporate take-over was in full swing. We retreated from the tar tracks and watched from a break in the trees on one of our private paths. One rookie, outfitted in the latest gear, was walking his bike down the hill. Probably afraid of wrecking it. Others were pushing by him, swerving and cutting each other off. We watched several near misses at the blind corner by the river. More than once there was almost a stack of mutilated bikers.
“The strike should give them an excuse to
stay home,” said Silver.
“No.” Cyclops made a stupid-looking face. “All they think is ‘Gotta get to work. Gotta get to work.’ ”
Yeah, I thought, as simple-minded as Cyclops. Yet I didn’t dare say it or he’d bop me one.
Then two bikers were screaming down the track toward us at top speed.
“It’s them!” I screeched and pointed at the bikers. “The guys who ran me down this morning!”
Kicking man and smirking guy were raiding our private paths again. I was furious and Cyclops was raging, too.
“We carved these tracks,” he yelled at them, as he straddled his bike in the middle of the trail.
They just raced through the trees around us. Cyclops spit and snarled after them, then he chased them. He was in such a bad headspace that we all followed, but it turned out that the corps were in a worse place. Because when they saw Cyclops tracking them and screaming threats, they got crazy, too. Just as Cyclops got up even with them, kicking man grabbed a dead tree branch while he was on the move and threw it at Cyclops’ wheels. I couldn’t believe it. Cyclops was down—an involuntary dismount into the dirt. The branch lay between his twisted spokes.
“Are you OK?” asked Silver as he helped Cyclops disentangle from the wreckage.
Cyclops was rubbing his head—he must have hit it bad. He was a little cross-eyed, and I bet the world was blurry to him.
“Urban survival, man,” he said. “We gotta do something.”
For once we all agreed with Cyclops, but no one knew what we could do about it.
“We can’t keep people out of the valley,” Jumpster said.
“We could sabotage the Path.” Cyclops’ mouth was twisted into an ugly grin and his eyes were burning. The fire spread through me too, like a disease.
“Naw, too dangerous,” said Silver. “We don’t want to get anyone killed.”
“Yeah.” I stifled a laugh. “But we could change the paths that we made, couldn’t we? Like Drop Dead Curve? Maybe it needs a jump.”
I was joking, but I wished we could do it. Then the sky started to darken with serious storm clouds. The tea party broke up, and we all headed for home.
* * *
I ONLY HAD TO TRAVEL ON A MAIN STREET for three blocks on the way home, but I could see the fallout from the strike. The streets were mashed full of cars—one person in each—as they fought their way home. One driver skimmed too close to me. I rode behind the tailpipe of an old Honda and choked in exhaust. By the time I got to my turn-off, I was glad to get away.
As I rode toward the Building, I got a knot in my stomach. The Monteray, visitors called it because of the cracked white letters on the sign out front. Must have been named after some stuffy rich duke or a greasy business tycoon. Wherever the name came from, the Building was a useless hole overlooking where the highway exit-ramps sliced the green of the valley into pieces. The hallways reeked like twenty different dinners stirred together in a pot and left to fester. When the elevator broke, which was at least once a week, I had to carry my bike up fifteen flights of stairs or leave it outside to get stolen.
Dad said we had to stay because the rent was low. I tried to shrug it off, and I avoided people from the Building when I could. Especially after that game of hide-and-seek last month when Petra disappeared. Not that I had anything to do with it, because I cut out early. Cori told me that Petra had been kidnapped. Someone else said her father was a beater. You never knew what would happen at the Building, but everyone was always ready to gossip about it.
Stopping near the back door, I planned to do a little maintenance before the storm hit. A quick trip up to the apartment for an old rag and I was giving my bike a scrub-down. My sister pulled in—just returning from her shift at the hospital cafeteria in Dad’s junker Mercedes, which was almost as old as I was. I squirted my bike chain with WD-40 to try to clear the sand and didn’t give Gina much of a look. She was circling the upper parking lot, searching for a spot. She hated the underground.
Gina turned the car left just as she passed me and yelled out, “Clean mine next, Bike Boy.”
Anger flared inside me. I had to buy my bike while she got to use Dad’s car. Just because she found a job and I didn’t. Not that I’d ever give up my bike—I couldn’t bear to. Yet I sure wouldn’t mind a little equal treatment. Gina was always talking about how unfairly women were treated, but I only saw how she got all the favors and I got nothing.
I scowled at my sister. She laughed. Her hair was pulled back under an ugly hairnet. I was going to throw my greasy rag through the window at her stupid face, but before I could, something on the car came loose. A flash of silver clattered down and bounced toward me. It stopped just a step away.
I reached over to pick the thing up. It was the hood ornament off the front of Dad’s car. Maybe it was a message. My sister hadn’t noticed, so my prize became a sneaky reward for something. Enduring Gina, I guessed.
It was light. I tossed and caught it with one hand. Wouldn’t add much weight. I would strap it onto the front of my bike. A Mercedes hood ornament. Maybe it would bring me victory over the curve.
A brutal thunderstorm raged all evening, but at least it was happening at night. I wanted to see the valley in storm, but I couldn’t from my bedroom window. So I went to the bathroom and stood on the edge of the tub. The window was high up on the wall and the bottom half was frosted. I could see the wind shaking the trees and lightning threatening to set the valley on fire. Thick, steamy mud would clog the trails tomorrow, but I didn’t care. Nothing would stop me from cruising the Path.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, YESTERDAY’S WOUNDS had turned into ribbons of cooked bacon on my hands and cheek. My skin felt tight and I was a little sore, but I had to try Drop Dead Curve one more time.
My sister was mad because Dad said she had to share the car with him for the rest of the strike. He’d walked to work the first day, but it had taken too long. I was glad that Gina had to get up early to drive Dad. The morning without her in the apartment was excellent. I blasted my radio station and walked around naked after my shower. Then I set out for the Path with my new good-luck charm taped to my handlebars.
By the time I got there, the valley was overrun more than yesterday. I noticed more garbage than usual, and I was ticked off that they were trashing the Path.
I headed across the vegetable tunnel to Drop Dead Curve for my usual practice crash. Before I hit the curve, I saw Cyclops and Jumpster roosting on the side of the trail. They signaled me over. I wanted to get to the curve, but I could stop for Jumpster.
“Got yourself a Mercedes.” Cyclops fingered my dad’s hood ornament.
I was about to tell him how I got it, but Jumpster waved toward the curve. “Cyclops did it. He built that jump you were talking about.”
“What jump?”
Just then Silver showed up with his little brother, and Jumpster gave us the scoop.
Cyclops had dragged several logs across the track, piled them just before the curve, rooted them into the earth on either side, and built a ramp up. Only Cyclops could have done it by himself—he had arms thick with muscle. He walked us all through it, and we talked about how to take the jump and the curve.
Cyclops looked at me and said, “Hit the brakes after the jump and you’ll be in pieces.”
“Treacherous,” said Silver.
“No problem,” squeaked Three-speed. His voice cracked sometimes.
I rubbed my hands together and was reminded of the sting of yesterday’s wounds. My whole body tensed up. More pain. I couldn’t even do the curve without the jump. How could I ever do it with the jump?
Jumpster didn’t say anything. I was sure she wasn’t worried about handling it. She was the best jumper of us all.
“Bet those corps can’t make it.” Cyclops said. “Too much lycra and titanium. Not enough skill.”
We waited around all morning for the corps. Parked our bikes in the woods and huddled close to the curve to watch, which was a drag
, because I wanted to be out riding. Because a pack of ants wouldn’t leave my ankles alone. Because kicking man and smirking guy were no-shows. So what was the point?
“They bagged out on us,” Cyclops said finally, his teeth pressed tight together and his neck muscles bulging.
“Maybe you scared them off.” I just wanted to get back to riding. I had some moves to practice.
Just as I was about to suggest we give up the watch, we heard someone coming down the trail.
“Get down,” Cyclops hissed. We all ducked behind the bushes.
Then kicking man and smirking guy appeared. Like some kind of cheap TV movie where the bad guys always show up on cue. And they were heading straight for Drop Dead Curve.
After hours of being forced to wait, I didn’t care much about the corps anymore. They were the lowest form of animal, but I wasn’t out for revenge like Cyclops. I didn’t care if they could do the curve or not. I just wanted to know if I could.
Without saying a word, I left the gang and scuttled in a low crouch back to my bike. They didn’t notice—all eyes were on the corps. As I yanked my bike vertical and made my way through the scrub, I could see the corps through the trees.
I witnessed it all, but I was distant, out of touch, disconnected. I could only feel my bike under me and my blood pumping with a wild energy. My brain was filtering out everything else. I watched half-blind as the corps swerved in crazy loops before the jump. They had seen it and were trying to avoid it. They both skidded sideways into the dirt. Gravity check. I heard Cyclops howl out a war cry as he charged out of the bushes at them.
I pushed my bike out of the forest and onto the trail. I rode back up the trail and did a 180. The corps were walking their bikes around the curve fast and hightailing it back down to the tar track. Cyclops was spewing and swearing after them, and Three-speed was hopping up and down beside him.
Take the Stairs Page 2
