by Diana Renn
5. Jake isn’t a strong enough lead (yet) to refer Darwin to. Much as I’d love to get revenge.
I sighed and set down my pen. I ate the Jungle Gem EcuaBar Jake had brought me, and concentrated on Bianca’s Qualities of Good Investigative Reporters #3: Being Flexible. If you hit a dead end, be prepared to take a turn with your research and your questioning.
Other people had been around the starting line that day. People who might have seen suspicious activity. People who might have been able to cover a lot of ground.
I knew just who I needed to talk to.
18
COMPASS BIKES, taking up most of a warehouse, was one of the biggest and busiest bike shops I’d been in. Gripping the handlebars of my scraped-up Bianchi, I breathed in the strange stew of smells: leather, rubber, metal, grease. Aisles of bike frames stood at attention. More hung from the walls. All around me, people were checking out equipment or browsing for clothes and accessories. Conversations and laughter echoed off walls, punctuated with the sounds of chains whirr-ing, tools grinding and clicking. It felt like standing inside a machine. Everyone had a place to be, a role to play.
Except me. I was an outsider to this world. Anytime I’d needed work done on my Bianchi, Jake had done it for me. The one time I’d needed something bigger fixed, Jake had asked his team mechanic for free help.
His team mechanic. Gage Weston. I remembered something Mari had said about him: he was now the manager of Compass Bikes, where I, a known bandit, probably wasn’t welcome.
I glanced out the window at my mom’s departing car. If I ran now, I could catch her, and she’d be all too happy. “I don’t love this neighborhood,” she’d said when we first arrived in the stark industrial area near MIT. “Why don’t I wait outside while you ask about bike repairs and volunteer opportunities? Better yet, I’ll go in with you.”
“Mom. I’m blocks away from the Kendall T station,” I’d argued. “There are MIT summer session students everywhere around here.”
“I don’t know, honey. . . .”
“Mom. This is a great chance for me to get some ideas for a vlog I want to start. About volunteer work. You know, like for college applications.” I told her about my brainstorm idea that morning: starting a vlog about teen volunteering. I didn’t need GBCN to keep doing what I was already good at: talking to people and listening. The vlog would help restore my public image and also get me closer to people who’d known Juan Carlos.
Volunteer work. College. Those two key words had instantly won me a day of freedom.
So there was no turning back now. I pushed my bike deeper into the store, desperate to find Mari without attracting the attention of Gage.
I remembered Mari’s strong reaction to the news that Juan Carlos had crashed. It made me think she knew him personally. So she might have some insight into who would want his bike. And Mari had swept the whole Chain Reaction route in a support van, passing the woods more than once. Maybe she’d seen something or someone odd.
I reached under my lightweight scarf and squeezed Juan Carlos’s necklace for luck, then arranged the fabric to conceal it. I didn’t want to answer questions about it.
I scanned the crowds. Most people were in the mechanics shop area, behind the counter. They were clustered around bike repair stands or putting together parts strewn out on the floor.
Where was Mari?
Backing up to get a better view, I knocked over a display of water bottles.
As I scrambled to reconstruct the Great Pyramid, I looked up and saw a girl glaring at me, hands on her hips. She had grease streaks on her face, and a blue bandanna holding her bangs off her forehead. But even without the name tag on her Compass Bikes T-shirt—MARISOL VARGAS, ASSISTANT MECHANIC—I knew who she was.
Mari smirked. “You. The bandit rider.”
“My name’s Tessa, actually. Tessa Taylor. I think I told you it was Teresa, but—”
“I know who you are now. My little sisters used to watch your show. They always liked your character. Said you were like Dora—older, of course. And better dressed.”
“Dora?”
“Dora the Explorer. The cartoon? They said you were like Dora for big kids. The way you always listed information in threes. And the map gimmick—locating the volunteers on that little map by spinning around—three times, right?—and throwing a dart in it? They thought that was cute.” She smirked. “Dora the Explorer, she has a map, too. And a backpack.”
“I’m not a character,” I informed her. “That was really me on the show.” The comparison to Dora—a character who amused preschoolers—that stung. I was Bianca Slade now, here to ask tough questions.
“Well, whatever. It doesn’t really matter now, right?” Mari shoved her hands in her jeans pockets and regarded me with a trace of amusement.
I could tell she’d heard the word on the street. She knew I was media roadkill.
“So. You hijacked the cancer ride, and now you’ve come to trash our store?” She raised an eyebrow as I placed the last water bottle back on the top of the wobbling pyramid. “How nice of you to include us on your wanton path of destruction.”
“Actually, I’m here to get my bike fixed.”
“Urgently? We’re finishing our bike drive today and have to process these donations.”
“I guess it’s not so urgent. Hey, why don’t I donate my bike instead? Can you use it?” I pushed it toward her. It’s not like I was ever going to ride it again. And the donation could win me points. I might get more information from Mari if I proved we were on the same side.
She walked around my bike, inspecting it. “The spokes are hopeless in front, but the wheel can be replaced. Nice steel frame—no obvious cracks or dents, but we’ll have to take a closer look before we can donate it whole. If there’s any doubt, for safety reasons, we’d strip it for parts. It’s a good bike. You’re not serious about giving it up.”
“It has bad memories.”
“Because of Chain Reaction?”
“Because of my boyfriend. I mean, my ex.”
“Ah. The ex-boyfriend and also the ex-racer, right?”
“Right.” I was about to ask her if she’d seen Jake before the race without me, but she kept on talking. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think? I mean, you can ditch a guy anytime. Another one comes along eventually. Right?”
“Sure,” I said, looking away. Would another come along?
“My advice?” she went on. “Lose the guy. Keep the sport.”
“Thanks. Duly noted.” My Jake wounds were still too raw, too exposed. I didn’t want to go there. I changed the subject. “Where are all these bikes going anyway?”
“Ecuador.”
“Why Ecuador?” I asked, trying not to betray my excitement. Mari must have known Juan Carlos personally! “Don’t they have bikes there?”
“They do, but they need more decent bikes, and parts,” said Mari. “Like in poor sections of Quito—that’s the capital city—and in villages. There are places in the rain forest where kids stop going to school because they can’t get to the middle schools or high schools that are ten miles or more away. But if they have bikes, they can get to school, finish their education, and avoid taking crappy jobs or getting married and pregnant at age fifteen. Bikes change lives.”
She spoke so passionately, I knew I’d found a safe topic, a way to get her to put her anger toward me to the side and to open up. At the same time, I felt something stirring inside me. I wished I could do something so helpful myself, instead of always interviewing everyone else about their visions, their causes. What would it be like to find a cause of my own?
“So we’ve got a forty-foot shipping container coming tomorrow afternoon, and we have to get the donated bikes prepped and loaded by Thursday afternoon,” Mari went on. “We’re hurrying to get this shipment down there.”
“Why the hurry?�
��
“It’s in honor of Juan Carlos. This was a project he started.” Mari blinked, her eyes glassy. “And of course we want to get them there in time for the Pan-American Cycling Tour.”
The PAC Tour. When we’d talked at Chain Reaction, Juan Carlos had mentioned leaving for Bogotá soon. “Isn’t it in Colombia?” I asked.
“It starts there, but it goes to three countries. Colombia, Venezuela, and Ecuador,” said Mari. “Plus, Ecuador’s capital city, Quito, is doing a big cycling exposition timed with the tour. We want this delivery to be a beautiful thing, the unloading timed with the bike tour finish and the expo. Good advertising for Vuelta, and a fitting tribute to Juan Carlos. That was Gage’s idea.”
Now I understood the fast-paced mechanical dance going on in the shop, the choreography among bikes and people, parts and tools. Time pressure.
“The bikes that are damaged or too old we’re stripping for usable parts,” Mari went on. “And the good bikes have to be partially disassembled for shipping. We have two days to prep and pack four hundred bikes into a box.”
“That’s a lot of work.” It looked like interesting work, actually, but I tore my eyes away from the busy mechanics and got back on track. “So, um, did you know Juan Carlos pretty well?”
Her face suddenly closed. “Why so many questions, Dora?”
“I’m starting a vlog about young adults who do volunteer work.” My mind whirled. “And I want to profile Juan Carlos on it. As a kind of memorial tribute thing.”
Mari tipped her head. “Huh. That’s nice,” she said cautiously. “Okay. He’d been volunteering with our Earn-a-Bike program. Don’t you want to take some notes?”
“No. I’ll remember. Go on. What’d he do with your program?”
“He dropped in, even after he went pro, whenever he had time. He loved teaching bike mechanics to kids and helping them build their own bikes.”
“He adored children,” I remembered out loud.
“Yeah. He really connected with the kids.”
I followed Mari’s gaze to a glossy photo of Juan Carlos, tacked to a wall near the door. It was an official team portrait, autographed. Beneath it, attached to a memorial poster that people were signing to send to his family in Ecuador, was a collage of snapshots taken in the store. I bent closer to see. Juan Carlos helping a little girl oil a bike chain, the girl looking up at him with adoration. Juan Carlos showing a teen guy how to true his wheel.
I felt a pang inside me. A sour plucked string from a broken part. Juan Carlos had been a force for good. The kind of person I was before Jake. The kind of person I wanted to be again.
One snapshot showed him standing with younger riders, against a background of rolling green hills and snowcapped mountains. “Wow, gorgeous,” I murmured.
“Wasn’t he?”
“I meant the place. Where was this picture taken?” I tried to ignore Mari’s slip, but I couldn’t. She’d liked the guy. A lot. That was clear.
Mari flushed. “Oh. Right. Quito. That’s his hometown.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Not yet. But I have cousins there—my dad was born there and moved here when he was a kid. I’m flying there this weekend, actually. As a Vuelta volunteer.”
“Vuelta! Juan Carlos was involved with that group, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah. And they’re a big deal. They’ve helped turn Quito into this huge biking city.”
“So you’re going there. That’s awesome. What are you going to do with Vuelta?”
“Teach bike mechanics to girls and women.” She couldn’t hold back her proud smile.
I marveled at her confidence. She was someone making her own way in the world, without pushy parents or coaches behind her. I wondered what that must feel like, to be so committed to something big, so sure of where you were going. To be able to say, “It’s my life” and know exactly what that meant. Nobody had scripted those words for her.
Mari reached behind the front counter and handed me a bilingual brochure. “You should mention Vuelta in your vlog.” She smiled briefly. “Put that in your backpack, Dora.”
My face burned at the Dora reference again. But I just said, “I’ll mention it,” and slid it into my tote bag.
“Hey, can I ask you something else?” I said. The store was getting even busier. I couldn’t lose my chance to ask the most important question of all. “You were driving that support van yesterday. At Chain Reaction. Did you notice anyone near the woods on Great Marsh Road, or anywhere near the woods, before the ride?”
She thought a moment. “No. Why do you ask that?”
I almost told her about the stolen bike in the woods, and about Darwin and his threatening texts. But Gage appeared behind the counter and was now looking our way. Because he was a ride official, probably involved in the investigation, I had to watch what I said. “Where were you from about eight in the morning till the start of the race?”
“Oh my God. Do you think I did something? What are you getting at?”
“No! I’m just curious. I heard there was a crash scene investigation.”
But her pause made me pause. Could Mari—not Jake—have been the bike thief working with Darwin? Maybe. I listed reasons in my mind. She had a van—the perfect place to hide a bike, and the perfect cover if anyone caught her. She needed money to finance her Ecuadorian adventure. If she’d stolen the bike for a fee, working for Darwin, that money could go a long way. Literally.
I thought of a test I could run. Darwin had said something on the phone in the woods when he made that second phone call. Something about fruit—mangoes. Yes. Maybe the mango thing was a way to identify his contact person.
“You know, mangoes are best at this time of year,” I ventured, watching her carefully.
“Good to know,” she said, staring at me like I’d lost my mind.
I realized my test was stupid. If Darwin’s statement was some kind of code, I didn’t know the desired response. “Sorry. Just stating, um, a random mango fact. I do that sometimes. It’s like a tic.”
Mari shrugged. “Whatever, random mango girl.” Her eyes flicked to the photos of Juan Carlos again, and I immediately erased my suspicion. Mari had strong feelings for Juan Carlos, that much was clear. Why would she have taken his bike?
Still, she might have seen something. I asked again where she was before the race.
“I was in my van that whole hour before,” she said. “Why are you asking all this?”
I glanced at Gage and lowered my voice to a near-whisper. “I heard a rumor he might have been missing his spare bike,” I explained. “And Preston Lane said in a TV interview that Juan Carlos was late for the ride. I’m trying to figure out why.”
“So you think he was looking for a missing bike?”
“Maybe.” If he’d gotten my half-finished text, which had just enough information to go on, he could have. Crap. Maybe he’d gone back for the bike himself. Maybe I’d made him late for the start, by texting him. Fresh pangs of guilt stabbed at me. If he’d started on time, with his team, and not back with the recreational riders, he’d never have been affected by my crash. He’d still be alive.
Mari frowned. “I didn’t hear anything about a stolen bike.”
“When did you start sweeping the route in your van?”
“About quarter past nine. After the professional race started and the rec riders took off.”
“And you saw no one going in or out of the woods?”
“No one,” she insisted. “Why?”
Gage strode over to us. “Is this girl bothering you, Mari?”
Mari started to explain. “She’s—”
“Donating a bike,” I interrupted. “And I want to help out. With the bike drive.” I could not get kicked out of this store.
Mari stared at me. “You want to what?”
“I’d
love to help out. It’d be good for my vlog if I had firsthand experience.”
Gage looked down his long nose at me. “Can you replace a chain? Tune a wheel?”
“No. But I can learn.”
Mari looked doubtful.
“Please, give me a chance. I really want to do this.”
Gage studied me a moment longer, then smiled. “Okay. If you’re looking to serve some time for last weekend, and honor a great cyclist, you’ve come to the right place. This bike drive’s gone gangbusters because of all the interest in el Cóndor. While Mari gets your bike donation processed, Tessa, let me show you how to break down a handlebar.” He handed me an Allen wrench.
I felt powerful, taking that tool, seizing a chance to finally do something good.
19
AFTER MY long day at Compass Bikes, I trudged toward the Kendall Square subway station, my right arm and leg throbbing and itching. I’d clearly pushed myself too far, working all afternoon. But it had felt good to be doing real work, supporting Juan Carlos’s cause.
I still had questions for Mari. But it had been impossible to talk one-on-one the rest of the afternoon. Bikes had steadily poured into the shop, dropped off by Boy and Girl Scout troops, by churches and temples and Rotary clubs.
Gage and three younger mechanics had kept me busy “flattening” bikes. That involved turning the handlebars and pedals inside out so they’d fit better into the shipping container. My hands felt clumsy at first. I kept dropping tools. But then I got the hang of it. Gage eventually stopped hovering over my shoulder.
Pizza appeared. I paused just long enough to inhale a slice. EcuaBars were passed around for dessert. I couldn’t eat more than one bite of one, though. It tasted more bitter than sweet.
I’d been disappointed when Mari grabbed her courier bag and left the shop promptly at five. Fortunately, I’d redeemed myself with Gage. He’d invited me to come back to help out with the container load in two days, and film the load-in for my vlog.
