Martin Bridge: In High Gear!

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  “Where on earth is Gibson?!” demanded Laila, looking at her watch with wild eyes.

  “I thought Mrs. Keenan had a word with him,” Alex snarled.

  Martin didn’t say anything. He was too busy worrying about having to do those hateful labels himself.

  As Martin’s mom came in with a tray of milk and his favorite cookies, the doorbell rang.

  It was Gibson. Everyone froze when he entered Martin’s room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “I was watching firefighters rescue Scoots from the top of a telephone pole.”

  There was no time for niceties.

  “Did you print the labels?” Alex demanded.

  “No,” said Gibson, snatching a cookie from the tray.

  Laila looked ready to scream.

  “I brought this instead,” said Gibson. He held up a label maker.

  “Is that a label maker?” asked Martin.

  “You said we needed labels, didn’t you?” said Gibson, turning the machine on with one easy press of a button. He proceeded to pump out label after label and stick them onto their display board. He was done in ten minutes flat, and he still managed to eat most of the cookies.

  “Got to go,” said Gibson as he packed up his label maker and brushed the crumbs from his face onto Martin’s carpet. Out the door he went.

  “The labels do look great,” said Martin, finally breaking the silence.

  “Yes, they do,” admitted Alex. “But once again it took him no time at all. Meanwhile, I’ve spent hours on this project.”

  “You’ve spent hours,” said Laila. “What about me?!”

  “Okay, okay,” said Martin, quick to intervene. “The project’s done. Let’s divvy up the tickets for hard work and team effort.”

  “There’s twenty altogether,” Alex reminded them while Laila pulled the blue cards out of her knapsack. “I say we give Laila seven. She did more work than anyone. And I say Martin and I should get six each.”

  “Sounds fair,” said Martin, knowing Laila would double-check Alex’s math.

  Laila counted out the tickets. “Wait a minute,” she said. She held up a ticket. “There’s one left.”

  “Really?” said Alex. He recounted on his fingers. “Well, you can’t give it to Martin or me because we did the same amount of work.”

  “What about giving one more ticket to Laila?” suggested Martin.

  “No,” said Laila generously. “I didn’t do that much more work than you two.”

  Silence.

  “I guess Gibson gets it, then,” said Martin at last.

  Alex and Laila looked at him as if he were a traitor.

  “Well, what else can we do with a single ticket? Besides, the labels do look great. And he also came through with the whale songs and protest signs and library books,” Martin reminded them.

  “I guess,” said Alex grudgingly.

  “It’s only one ticket,” admitted Laila with reluctance.

  They filled their names in on the tickets, and Martin completed Gibson’s for him.

  The next morning, they dropped their tickets into the basket and set up their science project in the gym.

  “Where’s Gibson?” asked Mrs. Keenan when she came around to check on their progress.

  “Who knows!” growled Alex. “We gave up on him.”

  Mrs. Keenan nodded sympathetically. She made a note on her clipboard before moving off.

  Laila proceeded to neatly arrange a stack of handouts she had prepared on interesting ocean facts, a task that wasn’t even on her list.

  “Great work, Laila,” said Martin sincerely, thinking she probably should have gotten that last ticket after all.

  Laila beamed.

  Gibson showed up moments later, once all the work was done.

  “Lucky timing,” said Martin testily.

  Alex and Laila ignored him altogether.

  “Attention, class,” announced Mrs. Keenan from the stage. “I’m now going to draw the name for the prize for hard work and team effort.”

  Martin’s heart did a little leap. He hoped his ticket would be picked. Sure, Laila had done more work, but because Martin was such a big Zip Rideout fan, he was certain the prize would mean more to him than to anyone else in the room.

  “The prize goes to —” Mrs. Keenan plunged her hand into the basket of tickets, swirled them around, and pulled one out. “— Gibson.”

  The crowd gasped.

  Mrs. Keenan double-checked the ticket and cleared her throat. “Gibson,” she repeated a little louder. “Come on up.”

  As Gibson wove his way through the crowd to claim his ill-gotten reward, there was a slight smattering of applause.

  Alex wheeled around. “How could this have happened?”

  Laila didn’t say anything at all. She just kept staring straight ahead, drop-jawed at the unbelievable turn of events.

  Martin’s ears burned as he watched Gibson accept the Zip Rideout comic book.

  “I thought you said Gibson hardly did any work,” said Mrs. Keenan when she visited their project later on. Gibson was busy wandering around the science fair, showing off his prize.

  “He didn’t,” said Alex with open hostility. “Gibson’s just plain lucky.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” agreed Mrs. Keenan. “And he was especially lucky to have been placed with such hard-working classmates. You three have done an excellent job.”

  The team mulled this over as Mrs. Keenan posted their mark on their display.

  An A++.

  “Two plusses! said Laila in awe.

  “Holy cow!” exclaimed Alex.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Keenan!” said Martin. He felt as if he would burst.

  Martin and Alex play-punched each other in the shoulder, and Laila gave them both little hugs.

  “Gibson will get his own mark,” said Mrs. Keenan, and she moved off to score the rest of the projects.

  The next time Martin spotted Gibson was on the school bus ride home.

  “Just look at Gibson,” said Martin dryly to Stuart, who sat beside him. “He’s still riffling through Zip’s fabulous space adventures.”

  “Gibson’s lucky, all right,” agreed Stuart. “But you got an A with double plusses! Congratulations on the top mark at the fair!”

  “Well, thanks!” said Martin. “We worked hard.” He was surprised to discover that receiving two plusses still made him smile.

  Beam, in fact.

  The bus pulled up to Gibson’s stop.

  Martin watched Gibson hastily jam his lucky prize into his knapsack and jump off. But as the bus pulled away from the curb, something fluttered by the window and caught Martin’s eye. He elbowed Stuart and turned around in his seat to peer out.

  There was Gibson chasing his wind-blown comic book down the sidewalk. It stopped only when it landed in a monster-sized puddle. He bent down to retrieve the sopping mess just as Scoots rocketed past, a rambunctious dog in hot pursuit.

  Gibson got soaked. Twice.

  It was hilarious!

  “That’s the thing about luck,” said Stuart with a shrug. “It comes and goes.”

  “But an A with double plusses stays put,” concluded Martin. He heaved a contented sigh and settled in for the rest of the ride.

  Bicycle

  Martin heard the dull thump of suitcases being set down on the driveway, so he knew he should finish up in the garage.

  Instead, he continued his attempts to un-jam the gears on his bicycle, while trying to ignore the disconcerting sounds.

  “Martin,” his mom sang out. “Aunt Laverne has arrived.”

  “Be right there,” Martin replied as politely as he could muster.

  At dinnertime only two days earl
ier, he had been told that Aunt Laverne would be coming for a three-week visit. Martin could barely finish his chocolate pudding when he heard that unhappy news.

  Aunt Laverne was really Martin’s great-aunt on his father’s side. But there was nothing great about her.

  Aunt Laverne was the kind of aunt who did things only when she wanted to. Her voice sounded all rusty. And she had blue hair the color of lawn-mower smoke. Even worse, Aunt Laverne always seemed to be wagging her knobby finger at Martin whenever she came for a visit.

  Aunt Laverne was not Martin’s favorite family member.

  Martin sighed, then trundled into the house.

  “Hello, Aunt Laverne,” he said, dutifully giving her a hug. Her thick lavender perfume almost made him choke.

  “Hello, Martin,” returned Aunt Laverne. “You’ve grown,” she added, like an accusation.

  It was true that Martin and Aunt Laverne were almost the same height. Either Martin had shot up, or Aunt Laverne had shrunk, the way old people do.

  “What’s that on your hands?” she demanded, interrogation-style.

  “Grease,” said Martin apologetically. “I was trying to fix my bike.”

  “Martin’s bike keeps breaking down,” explained his dad. “As soon as there’s a good sale, we’ve promised him a new one.”

  “Kids these days get way too much,” grumped Aunt Laverne, shaking her head in disgust. “They need to learn a thing or two.”

  “Come. Let’s sit down,” said Martin’s mom cheerily as Martin’s dad helped Aunt Laverne with her coat and hat and matching purse.

  Martin dawdled in the front hall, hoping he could slip back to the garage unnoticed.

  But no such luck.

  “Martin!” his mom called from the sofa.

  Cripes!

  Martin sighed audibly, then joined them, flopping down on the armchair nearest the escape route. He sat in agony while the grown-ups had a terrifically boring conversation that had nothing to do with him. It went on forever.

  “You should sit up properly, Martin,” barked Aunt Laverne at one point. “Posture is important for a growing boy.”

  Martin grudgingly sat up straight.

  “You’re slouching again,” Aunt Laverne nagged moments later, interrupting his misery once more.

  And that was exactly the kind of nit-picking that went on for the next few days.

  “Cut your meat into smaller pieces.”

  “Did you comb your hair? You missed the back.”

  “Is that your coat on the floor?”

  Martin tried to get away by playing outside. But as often as not, she would follow him. Then Martin’s ears would burn while she told the garbage collectors not to dent the trash cans, and the postal worker not to be late again with the mail, and the paper carrier not to fling the newspaper onto the porch.

  “These people need to learn a thing or two,” complained Aunt Laverne.

  Fortunately, Aunt Laverne could not climb ladders. So Martin found himself spending more and more time in his tree fort.

  Then one morning, Martin looked out of his bedroom window and spotted his dad wheeling Martin’s bike to the curb and leaving it there. What was he doing?!

  Martin flew down the stairs to find a shiny new bike in the front hall.

  “Surprise!” his mom called as she and Martin’s dad hurried in, all smiles.

  “For me?!” gasped Martin. He ran his hand over the cushiony seat and racy handlebars, then crouched down, eager to examine every detail.

  “You bet, Sport! The bike shop finally had their big sale,” Martin’s dad explained.

  Martin jumped up and hugged both his parents.

  “Thanks, Dad! Thanks, Mom!”

  He climbed on the bike to get a feel for the ride.

  “What’s that bike doing in the house?” demanded Aunt Laverne in her rusty voice as she flapped down the stairs in her gray felt slippers.

  “This is Martin’s new bike,” said Martin’s dad proudly. “The only thing that worked on his old one was the lock!” He pointed to Martin’s lock and chain wrapped around the new bike’s seat stem.

  “What does he need with a fancy bike like that?” she said, wagging her knobby finger. “You’re spoiling this child.”

  “Can I take it for a ride?” asked Martin, ignoring her dire warnings.

  “Of course,” said his mom. “In fact, why don’t you run an errand for me at the mini-mart and pick up a few items for breakfast.”

  “Sure thing,” said Martin, delighted to help out.

  “We need eggs, coffee cream, dish detergent and raspberry jam,” she said as she handed him some money. “Oh, and brown sugar.” She paused. “Do you want me to write this down?”

  “No, I’ve got it,” said Martin, feeling very grown-up. “Eggs, coffee cream, dish detergent and raspberry jam.”

  “And brown sugar,” reminded his mom.

  “Right,” said Martin. “Brown sugar,” he repeated.

  Martin grabbed his helmet and knapsack.

  “Onwards and upwards,” he said, giving them the official Zip Rideout salute.

  Martin wheeled his bike past Aunt Laverne, who stood clucking her tongue, and right on out the front door. After a few initial wobbles, he quickly settled into the steady rhythm of pedaling up the street.

  Then he tested everything. The brakes. The shocks. The gears.

  He even got to try the bell when Scoots, the neighbor’s cat, dashed in front of him. The bike worked perfectly!

  All too soon, Martin pulled up to the mini-mart. He carefully locked his bike to the rack so as not to scratch the pristine paint job.

  Once inside, Martin picked up a basket and tried to concentrate. What was on that list again?

  Eggs for sure. And then there was something for toast. Butter? Honey? Butter. He was quite certain. And something about coffee.

  Martin went to the coffee aisle and was overwhelmed. There were so many different types! Decaf sounded fancy, so he put that in his basket.

  He walked right by the dish detergents, instead adding a box of laundry soap to his purchases. And he completely forgot about sugar of any color.

  Martin marched confidently to the check-out counter. The clerk rang his items through, and Martin loaded the groceries into his knapsack. He couldn’t wait to jump back on his new bike for the glorious ride home.

  Martin charged out the door in high gear. But when he got to the bike rack, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  Where was his bike?

  Confused, Martin checked the entire rack. His new bike was definitely not there.

  Martin whirled around, heart pounding, and frantically scanned in every direction. All he saw were customers going in and out of the mini-mart, some pushing shopping carts, others loaded with heavy bags.

  But his bike was nowhere to be seen.

  Martin broke into a frenzied run, dodging back and forth across the parking lot, around the rear of the store, and up and down the street. His bike had to be somewhere!

  It had to be!!

  But it wasn’t.

  At last, Martin doubled over, gasping to catch his breath.

  When he recovered, he walked stiffly to the rack where he knew he had secured his bike. He bent down and scooped up the chain for his lock. It had been cut in half.

  With awful certainty, Martin came to the obvious, terrible conclusion. His bike had been stolen.

  The bike he had so carefully locked up. The bike he had gotten to ride only once. The bike his parents had taken so long to save up for.

  Anger flared. Who could have done this? Who would steal a kid’s brand-new bike? And why wasn’t anyone in the parking lot paying attention?

  But anger quickly gave way to crushing sadness.

  My poor bike, thought Martin, hanging his head. He would have taken such good care of it.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to the space where his beautiful bike had once be
en.

  Martin trudged home.

  “What’s wrong?” asked his mom when she came to the door. She was smiling at first, but then looked alarmed when she saw Martin’s expression.

  “My bike was stolen,” Martin croaked. His throat was so tight, he had trouble speaking.

  “What?! No!” exclaimed his mom, one hand on Martin’s shoulder, the other over her mouth.

  “What’s going on?” asked Martin’s dad, who had come to the door.

  Aunt Laverne was close behind.

  Now Martin’s throat was so clenched, he couldn’t say anything at all. Instead, he stared at the ground with watery eyes.

  “He says his bike was stolen,” said Martin’s mom in a hushed voice.

  Martin braved a glance at her. Her eyes were filling up, too.

  “What did I tell you!” Aunt Laverne barged in. “That bike was way too extravagant for a boy his age. You parents need to learn a thing or two!”

  “Not now, Aunt Laverne,” said Martin’s dad crossly.

  It was the first time Martin had ever heard his dad challenge her.

  “Well!” exclaimed Aunt Laverne, and she huffed back inside.

  “Did you forget to lock your bike, Sport?” asked Martin’s dad gently.

  “No, Dad. I didn’t.” Martin dug out the chain from his knapsack as proof.

  His dad inspected the evidence. “Bolt cutters,” he muttered.

  “Oh, Martin,” said Martin’s mom, giving him a hug.

  Martin gulped hard.

  “I better get breakfast started,” said Martin’s dad sadly, and he took Martin’s knapsack into the kitchen.

  Martin said nothing. He plunked down on the front steps, knowing that it was going to be a long time before his parents could save for a bike again. His mom sat down beside him.