by Rita Feutl
A bowl of Mom’s chili would be great right now. Funny, I can practically smell it drifting along on the night air. I look around in case a pot of chili just happens to be sitting on a back porch.
That’s when I see the Peugeot road bike inside a yard, leaning against a shed—unlocked.
I almost smile. My mother had an old white Peugeot that she loved. She was fifteen when she bought it new with babysitting money, and she had it until a few years ago when it was…stolen. I remember how upset she was.
But I’m not going to steal this bike. Just borrow it. So Danny and I can get home.
Chapter Nineteen
“Wait here,” I say. “I’ll get us a ride.”
I unlatch the gate, make my way up the path and pull the bike away from the shed. That’s when the motion-detector light switches on. Behind the shed, the sound of barking bursts into the night. The Peugeot isn’t the only thing that’s not chained down.
I drop the bike and run, but a dog grabs on to the leg of my jeans and won’t let go. I try to shake it off, but it growls and snaps and bites even higher. And then this guy bursts out the back door of the house. He’s big and meaty, and one huge hand clamps on to my bad shoulder while the other grabs the dog by the collar and shakes the animal.
“Grimm, that’s enough. Heel. Grimm. Grimm!” The guy’s voice matches his hand, which seems to be in contact with all the pain points in my shoulder. I want to sink into the ground, but the dog might chew my face off.
“Grimm! Enough! Kennel!” The dog lets go but keeps growling. The guy points behind the shed and the dog slinks away, still grumbling. Lights are coming on up and down the alley, and people are stepping outside to see what’s going on.
“So, you little weasel, what are you doing with my bike?” The guy gives my shoulder a shake, and I nearly pass out. I gasp, but before I can say anything, a voice from the neighbor’s yard cuts in.
“Nick? Nick! What are you doing here?” I look over. Mandy is running toward the fence. I groan. I want the ground to swallow me up, dog or no dog.
“You know this guy, Mandy? I’m pretty sure he was trying to steal my bike.”
“Sure, we know him. This is Nick,” says another voice. Now Ida’s here too. “What’s going on, Gordon?”
“I saw him grab my bike, but before I could do anything, Grimm caught him,” the guy—Gordon—says.
“It’s got to be a mistake,” says Mandy. She slips through the gate and comes toward us.
Gordon swings me around to face her. “So tell her,” he says. “Tell her what you were doing with my bike. Tell her why I shouldn’t call the cops.”
Mandy is looking at me, trying to read my face. Her hair is out of its ponytail, and it dances loose and soft across her shoulders. The floodlights make the dusting of freckles across her nose stand out. I want to touch them, connect them. I want to—
“Nick! Tell me. Tell Gordon. You didn’t—”
Usually, I’m not the talkative type. I like to keep my mouth shut. Somehow, tonight, nothing’s the same. I cut Mandy off. “I did. I did try to take this bike.” She looks stunned.
“But…and…” My mouth suddenly has a mind of its own. It’s not done. It’s as if the puking just won’t stop. “And I took yours too.”
Horror, then fury, skitters across Mandy’s face. She turns away from me.
“Auntie Ida, call the cops.”
Chapter Twenty
It’s bad enough that Mandy hates my guts now. But when the cops pull up in the alley to take me away, Danny’s gone. With my fixie.
After an hour at the police station, a cop plunks a cheese sandwich down in front of me and I nearly dive into it, I’m so hungry. For some reason, I can’t get my hands to stop shaking. I struggle to open the milk carton she puts next to the sandwich. I’m so busy trying to eat and drink that I don’t look up when someone new walks in.
“What were you thinking?”
I freeze. In my mouth, the cheese sandwich turns to glue. Prickles of fear race along the back of my neck and under my arms. Shades is standing in front of me, sunglasses on the top of his head, scar twitching. How did he get away during the police takedown? Does that mean Trevor and Dwayne got away too?
“What possessed you to go riding right into a drug bust? Are you really that stupid?”
I swallow the gunk in my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m an undercover police officer. I’m Constable David Jones.”
Before I can think things through, the door bursts open and Katie rushes in. She flings herself at me. “Nick! Where have you been? Why didn’t you come back? What are you doing here? I was so worried.” And then my little sister does something weird. The kid who can take a soccer ball in the face or watch her brother come back from the dead without crying—ever—bursts into tears.
“Here, let’s move to a bigger room,” Shades says. Only now do I notice that both Mr. and Mrs. Radler are here. So is Kris, my social worker. We shuffle into another room, Katie welded to my side. For the next two hours, we go through everything that’s happened.
It’s like pulling scabs from festering sores.
That TV in your living room? Rip. Actually, it broke, and the one that’s there belongs to someone else.
Those friends of yours at school? Rip. I was training them to be little criminals.
All that time when I was supposed to be at school? Rip. I was really stealing bikes—lots of bikes, not just the one from tonight.
Rip, yank, rip.
The only thing I don’t talk about is Mandy, because really, there’s nothing to talk about. At the end of it all, I feel as if I’ve been bled dry.
The room is silent while Shades—Constable Jones—steps outside with Kris. The Radlers look stunned. I can’t blame them. Who’d want someone like me under their roof? Katie is curled up at my side, asleep.
Constable Jones comes back in. “Trevor Glatzen and Dwayne Borowski have just been charged with a number of offenses, including assault, kidnapping, possession, trafficking and a whole raft of weapons charges. They’re being transferred to the remand center, where they’ll be held until their trial.”
“Will Nick have to testify?” Mrs. Radler asks.
“I’m not sure. It depends on how the case builds up,” he says. Then he looks at Katie and me. “I think it’s time you take them home,” he says to the Radlers.
I swallow. “You mean, I can leave?”
“I’ll be by tomorrow when you get home from school,” he says, emphasizing the last six words. “Do I make myself clear?”
I nod.
The Radlers are both on their feet before I get up. Mr. Radler comes close and puts a hand on my shoulder. Is he trying to keep me from going with them?
“Look at me, Nick,” he says. I look up. This is it, I figure. Katie and I are going to be split up. “The next time you’re in trouble over something like a stupid TV, you come to us. Got it?”
I nod. So does he. Then he scoops up Katie from beside me. But I can’t pry her fingers from my T-shirt. Even in her sleep, it seems like she can’t bear to let me go.
Chapter Twenty-One
Without my bike, I have to get up even earlier to make it to school on time. Only my math teacher says anything to me about being away for almost a week. “Test on Monday, Nick. See me at lunch.”
My body feels like that dog from last night chewed all of me up and spat me out. I limp from class to class, and when the last bell rings, I think seriously about sneaking onto a city bus to get home. But I’m in enough trouble as it is. Instead, I head past the bike racks, just in case my fixie’s there. It’s not.
All day, I’ve been thinking about life without my bike. No more flying through the city, no more burning off energy, no more freedom. And it burns me to think that Danny’s r
iding the bike I put together with my dad, and I won’t ever be able to put another one together with him. A wave of grief pounds into my chest, and I have to stop moving just so I can catch my breath. It’s not fair, I want to shout. It’s just not fair. I can feel my eyes prickle, but I will…not…cry.
“Hey, Dickhead.” Danny pulls up beside me. On my fixie. I stop and glare at him. He looks way better than he did last night. For one thing, he’s cleaned up. But there’s a cast on his arm and stitches above his lip.
“Hey, Fat Lip,” I say.
He starts to grin, then stops. I can tell it’s pulling on his stitches. His eyes are still dancing. “Yeah, but by next week my face will be back to normal, and you’ll still be a dickhead.”
“You know, it was that lip of yours that got you beat up last night,” I say. “I was there, at the door.”
The smile in his eyes switches off. “Yeah, well.” Both of us are remembering. Finally, Danny gets off my bike.
“So, you never, ever thought about putting a backup hand brake on this thing?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I like going full tilt.”
“I’d build mine with an aluminum frame and a shorter fork,” he says.
“Depends on what you want it for. I could show you…” And then I stop. I was going to say that I could show him a fork at the Den that would work perfectly for him. But I remember.
“What’s the matter? You don’t want to show me?” Danny’s voice has an edge to it.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that the Den’s closed now. That’s all over.”
Danny nods, hands me my bike and turns away.
But I’m thinking about all the bike parts at the Den. Some of them might go back to the original owners, but there’re lots there that won’t find a home. What a waste to throw it all out. What about…
“Hey, Fat Lip. Wait a second,” I say, and Danny turns around. “You need to be somewhere this afternoon?”
He shakes his head. An idea is forming in mine.
“There’s someone you need to meet,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Turns out Constable Jones and Danny already know each other. Of course, they met when Shades was undercover and I brought in the wrong Yeti. But the constable tracked Danny down early this morning and sat with him in the hospital waiting room while the doctors stitched him together again.
“Hey, Jonesy,” Danny says as we climb the porch steps at the Radler house. Constable Jones is parked in one of the plastic chairs, and Kris is in the other. A box of donuts sits open between them.
Jonesy hands us the box, and we grab two donuts each. My mouth is watering, but I don’t take a bite. “Look, before we get into everything, can you guys answer a question?”
“Fire away,” Kris says.
“What’s going to happen to the Den? I mean, the stuff that’s in the Den?”
“Well, we’ll see whether any of the property can be returned to its rightful owners. But some of it might be hard to identify,” says Jonesy, looking right at me. “In fact, you can work off the community-service hours you’re going to get by putting some of those bikes back together again.”
I flush and nod, then keep going. “Look. If there’s any stuff left over once we’re done, can I—no, can we have it? Danny doesn’t have a bike, and I thought I would show him how to build one. With the leftover parts. And can we still use the Den?”
Jonesy and Kris don’t say anything for a while, so I bite into my chocolate-covered donut, just so the icing doesn’t melt.
“Looks like we’re all chewing on something,” says Danny. He’s almost finished his second apple fritter.
“I think we can make that work,” Kris says finally. “I’m not so sure about the building—”
Jonesy cuts in. “We tracked down the owner early this morning. He had no idea Glatzen had set up a chop shop in there. If you set up a community group”—he looks at Kris—“I’ll bet he’d rent it out for next to nothing. Maybe that would bring in other businesses.”
Kris is nodding. “I know some people at a local bike society who would probably volunteer for this…”
“What are you guys talking about?” Katie pulls up on her bike and sets her backpack down. She has a new button on it—a grizzly with a feather pen, called Shakesbear. I wonder if it’s from Alex, and if she still talks to him.
“A place where Nick and Danny can build a bike,” says Kris.
“Just Nick and Danny? I know of at least two other people who want to learn,” Katie says as steps up to the donut box.
I frown. “There’s Alex,” I say, “but Stevie’s moved.”
“I want to learn too, you know.” She brushes past us to her bike, which is lying by the bottom step. She parks herself beside it and starts picking the blue sprinkles off her donut. This used to drive Mom nuts, I remember.
“So, a kind of a bike school,” says Jonesy.
Danny jumps in. “Yeah. A place where we could build, or fix, our own bikes.”
“I bet we could get people to give us their old bikes for this. And companies could donate stock that hasn’t sold by the end of the season.” Kris is sounding excited.
“But you guys need to clean the place up,” Jonesy says.
The three of us nod. “Wait till I tell Alex,” Katie says. She’s finished her donut. Now she’s holding her napkin over the spokes of her front tire and spinning the wheel wildly. It makes a great flut-flut-flut noise. “And I’ll finally get to see the Den,” she says.
“I’m not too keen…” Jonesy pauses. Katie lifts the napkin, now covered in bike dirt, from the wheel and looks up. “On the Den as a name,” he finishes. “It needs something fresh.”
Katie lets her finger run across the slender rods that hold her wheel together. “The Spoke,” she says.
“I like it,” says Jonesy. Kris nods.
“The girl has spoke-en,” Danny says. Katie throws the dirty napkin at him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Word spreads, and by Saturday morning there’s at least a dozen of us gathered when Kris unlocks the new front door of the Spoke. A guy from a glass company has just finished putting in new windows. It makes a huge difference. I can see the whole space, and in my mind’s eye, I can see what it will look like when we’re done.
We haul out garbage and sort through bike parts. Danny finds three road-bike frames stuffed behind one of the counters. Katie uncovers a box of pedals that has never been opened. And this other kid—Julie—finds a brand-new set of bike tires. When she shows them to us, a streak of joy flashes through me.
That’s when Alex catches my eye. He’s been avoiding me, working at the other end. But when Julie brings the tires to the front, Alex follows her. “Those are from the bike I stole from that high school. That big dude got you to take them off. I thought he was going to sell them.”
“Probably hadn’t found a buyer yet,” says Danny.
“Can I use them?” Alex asks.
I shake my head. “No. They’re going back on the original bike. It’s still here.”
“And then can I have it? I was the one who took it in the first place,” Alex says.
I shake my head again. “No. The bike is going back to its owner.”
Alex looks at me suspiciously. “Yeah, right. What are you going to do? Look for the first klutzy girl and say, ‘Here, I took this from you, but now you can have it back’?”
The wail of a police siren cuts off my answer. A cruiser pulls up outside, and the flashing lights strobe through the front windows. Three of the kids drop what they’re doing and melt out the back way.
A cop steps out of the vehicle, carrying four huge pizza boxes. He looks familiar, but it’s not until he walks in that I recognize him. It’s Jonesy, minus the long, greasy hair and dressed
in full cop uniform.
“I was worried you guys were running out of steam. This might keep you going,” he says.
But I have no time for pizza. I dig out Mandy’s bike frame, put the tires back on and pump them up. The brake pads on the back wheel are worn, so I look for a new set and install them. I replace all the cables and clean and lube the chain. I wipe the whole bike down and push it out the front door.
“Where are you going, Nick?” Katie calls out.
“I won’t be too long,” I say. “I just need to give something back.”
Acknowledgments
The Spoke really exists and was one of the inspirations for Bike Thief. Social worker Kris Andreychuk helped establish this Edmonton workspace, where kids can learn how to build and maintain their own bikes. I am grateful for his time and enthusiasm and for his putting me in touch with the real Constable David Jones. As a member of Edmonton Police Service’s Child at Risk Response Team, Constable Jones generously answered all my questions about policing and bike theft.
I would also like to thank avid cyclists Ben Appelt and Meika Ellis, who were wonderful sources of information about fixies, velodromes and bicycles in general. Any errors of fact are mine.
Finally, to Gordon, Emma and Sarah, for their support, readings and loud, sprawling reenactments of crucial scenes, my love and thanks always.
Rita Feutl has always loved bikes. At the age of seven, she wrecked an Easter dress by greasing her bicycle before church. When she was fifteen, Rita bought a white Peugeot, which she owned for decades. It died in a garage fire. Now she speeds along backcountry byways on a Giant road bike. When she’s not cycling all over Canada and Europe, Rita lives with her family in Edmonton, Alberta, where four of their bikes have been stolen (one of them twice!). Bike Thief is Rita’s third book. For more information, visit www.ritafeutl.com.
