by Bill Harley
Why can’t anyone else see how terrible he is? thought Darius.
“You are all so kind,” said Aunt Inga. “How can we thank you? Finally, finally, something is going right. It’s about time, after all I’ve been through.”
“It’s nothing,” said the colonel, “just doing my job … but, if you’d excuse us, I’d like young Darius to walk me to the car, so we might have a word in private—a little talk between men, you understand.”
“Of course, of course,” giggled Aunt Inga. “You go on ahead.”
Colonel Crimper grabbed Darius by the arm and led him down the porch stairs to the street. When they reached the car, he turned and bent over Darius, glowering.
“Listen, you little heathen,” he hissed, “I’ve seen your kind—I know what you’re like. And I know what to do with you. I know how to straighten you out.”
Darius’s mouth went dry and his legs wobbled.
“I’ll make you a new man, whether you want to be one or not. I can hardly wait.”
Darius thought he might faint.
“What do you have to say to that?” the colonel rumbled, leaning even closer.
“I … I …,” squeaked Darius.
“Speak up, boy, and call me ‘sir’!”
I know what you are thinking.
You are wishing that Darius would say, “No way, you big lunk!”
Or, “Not for a million dollars. Not for a trillion dollars!”
Or maybe you are wishing that Darius would just throw up on Colonel Crimper’s shoes. That would be very satisfying.
But you know that speaking up to loud, bossy adults is a very difficult thing to do. Even when they are mean and wrong.
Instead, Darius looked down at his own shoes and said, “Yes sir.”
But inside his head Darius was saying, No, no, no!
Back in Daedalus’s basement, Darius tried to concentrate. It bothered him that his friend had been so quiet since their argument about Miss Hastings. Daedalus answered his questions and gave a hand when he needed help, but most of the time he busied himself on other projects and left Darius to work alone.
Forcing all other thoughts out of his head, Darius buckled down to the job at hand. He was in a hurry—there is nothing like a deadline to make you finish something, and escaping Crapper Academy was about the best motivation he’d ever had. Over the next two days, he reassembled the bike.
He greased the cups that held the ball bearings, put the bearings back in each cup, and reassembled both wheels.
He put together the headset that held the handlebars.
He cleaned and greased the chain and checked each link to make sure it was strong.
Then, placing the bike frame upside down on the worktable, Darius attached the wheels and gave them a whirl.
They spun and spun and spun. There in Daedalus’s basement, it seemed they would spin on forever.
“Daedalus,” he called, “I think it’s finished.”
Together they stood back and looked at their handiwork. The chrome glistened, the black chain stood out against the silver wheels and sprocket, and the brilliant blue-green of the frame and fenders sparkled and shone.
“What do you think of it, Daedalus?”
“It’s beautiful,” said Daedalus. “You did a wonderful job.”
“With your help.”
“Not much of that,” said Daedalus. “Are you ready for the first ride?”
“I sure am,” Darius said.
They carried the bicycle up the stairs, out the back door, through the maze of bikes and bike parts, around the house, and into the street. Darius climbed on the bike.
“Wait! Wait!” Daedalus yelled. “No helmet! You have to have a helmet.” The old man disappeared into the house and returned with a scratched-up football helmet. He strapped it on Darius’s head.
“You have to promise me you’ll always wear a helmet,” Daedalus said.
“I promise,” said Darius.
“And you’ll be very careful.”
“Sure.”
“No riding at night.”
“Right.”
“No riding against the traffic.”
“Okay, okay, Daedalus. I know all that.”
“I mean it!” said Daedalus, sounding very upset.
“All right,” said Darius. “I promise I’ll be really, really careful.”
He looked up at the old man.
“Now,” said Daedalus, finally satisfied, “you must christen the bicycle. What do you want to name it?”
Darius thought hard. He wanted to find just the right name. A shaft of early morning sunlight struck the bike and seemed to set it aglow. The handlebars sparkled and the shiny blue-green frame gleamed. Darius remembered the story about the god who pulled the sun’s chariot across the sky. Apollo.
“Apollo,” said Darius. “The bike will be Apollo One.”
Daedalus’s face broke into a little smile. “Fine, Apollo it is then. Ready for liftoff. All systems go.” He stepped back.
When Darius stood up and pushed down on the pedal, the bike moved forward into the street, seemingly on its own. The sprockets whirred and clicked. Darius watched the front wheel spin over the pavement. He reached the end of the street in no time, wheeled around, and headed back. He zoomed by Daedalus, rang the bell once, and turned down the street again. The bike rode like a dream. He circled by Daedalus again, picking up speed.
“Yeeeeehaaaaah!” Darius whooped.
“Be careful!” yelled Daedalus.
Darius rode the bike round and round until it was time to leave. He said good-bye to Daedalus and pedaled toward Aunt Inga’s house. His plan was in action—he was going to escape!
Just as he rounded the last corner, he glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty, half an hour before Aunt Inga would get up. He took one more spin around the block, then pulled into the driveway and hopped off his bike. Humming quietly to himself, he wheeled the bike to the back door and reached for the doorknob.
“Good morning,” a grim voice spoke. Darius jumped. He looked up to see Aunt Inga standing on the other side of the screen door in her bathrobe.
Her mouth was locked in a gruesome smile.
Her hair, sticking out from her head like a nest of angry snakes, was a frightful mess.
She looked like Medusa in a very bad mood.
15
Remember, You Can Fly
Aunt Inga,” Darius said. He forced his lips up into a weak smile. His stomach flipped over and over like a ride at an amusement park. “What are you doing up so early?” he asked as innocently as he could.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
“Um, just out. Out for a ride,” Darius answered, immediately regretting his choice of words. Aunt Inga was upset, but she hadn’t noticed the bicycle yet.
Now she did.
“Where did you get that bicycle?” she asked.
“This one?” asked Darius.
“No, the bicycle in the tree. Yes, of course I mean that one!” Aunt Inga peered at the shiny frame and the new wheels. “Hmmm,” she said. “It looks familiar.”
“Um, yeah,” mumbled Darius.
“Where did you get it?”
Right now you are probably hoping that Darius will say, “I found it in the street!”
Or, “I bought it with my inheritance.”
Or, “TAKE A GUESS! THERE’S A PRIZE IF YOU GUESS RIGHT!”
But he didn’t. Darius was too flustered to tell a lie or make a joke.
“I … uh … it was … uh … in the basement,” he stammered.
Aunt Inga’s bottom lip began to quiver, and her top lip lifted so Darius could see her teeth.
Uh oh, he thought.
“That bicycle is mine!” she hissed.
“I wondered whose it was,” said Darius.
“What … are … you … doing … with … that … bicycle?” Aunt Inga spit out each word as if it were a pit from a rotten prune.
“Riding it,” said Dar
ius. He didn’t mean it to be a smart-aleck answer; he was saying as little as he possibly could, trying to stay out of trouble. But as soon as he said those words, he knew they would only make Aunt Inga madder.
“That’s my bicycle!” she screamed. “YOU’VE STOLEN MY BICYCLE!”
“Aunt Inga, I didn’t steal it. I was only borrowing it. I didn’t know it was yours. No one was using it. Look. I fixed it up and–”
“You stole it! You took it without asking. I just knew it. I just knew you would do something like this. Now leave it right there and go to your room!”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Inga. Please let me keep the bicycle.”
“Do as I say. Right now.”
Darius’s head drooped. Aunt Inga opened the door, and Darius walked down into the basement. He lay there on his cot for the longest time, thinking of all the hours he had wasted, all his plans that had come to nothing. He stared at the ceiling of the basement, looking at the cobwebs hanging from the floorboards.
Late that afternoon, Darius dared to creep upstairs. He looked out the door. The bike was not there. Heart beating wildly, he went into the living room. As usual, his aunt was watching television.
“Aunt Inga,” he said, “where’s the bicycle?”
“You can forget about the bicycle. It’s gone. I gave it to Anthony, since you ruined his.” Without taking her eyes off the television screen, she grabbed a handful of cookies from the bag on her lap and stuffed them into her mouth.
Too stunned to respond, Darius left the room and headed toward the basement. When he came to the steps, though, he stopped. As quietly as possible, he slid out the back door and closed it silently behind him. He paused to listen. All he could hear was the television blaring from the living room. No sounds of Anthony in the street, jumping the ramp and shouting. As Darius scurried down the driveway, he almost collided with the mailman.
“Hello, there, fella,” said the mailman. “You live here, right?”
“Yes sir,” said Darius.
“Why don’t you just take these letters up the walk for me, then?”
Before Darius had a chance to answer, the mail carrier handed the letters to him and hurried on down the street. Intending to slip the letters in the mailbox and get away before Aunt Inga heard anything, Darius tiptoed up the porch steps. Just as he was about to put the mail in the box by the door, he noticed the small envelope on top. It was addressed to him. He recognized the handwriting.
“Miss Hastings!” he whispered to himself.
Her address was on the envelope. Now he knew exactly where she lived. He put the letter in his pocket, slipped the other mail in the box, and closed the lid quietly. After looking both ways to make sure no one was in sight, Darius took off down the street. Several blocks away, he stopped and pulled out the envelope. Fingers trembling, he tore it open and read the letter:
Dear Darius,
I hope that you are well and feeling more comfortable in your new home. I am writing this to you, even though I am beginning to think you are not getting my letters. Or maybe you are just very busy in your new home.
I should not be so curious about how you are getting along, but I am. If I don’t hear from you soon, I will try to contact someone who I think lives near you. I have not spoken with the person for a long time, but I think if I asked, he might check up on you for me. I will try and find his address or phone number. His name is Daedalus Panforth, just so you know if he does show up.
I am getting along.
I think of you every day.
Your friend,
Grace Hastings
Darius stuffed the letter back in his pocket and began to run. Tears stung his eyes and his chest heaved as he ran, closer and closer to Daedalus’s house.
He did not see Anthony following behind him, pedaling slowly on a beautiful, bright blue-green bike.
Darius burst into Daedalus’s house without knocking. He knew that he shouldn’t disturb his friend while he was thinking, but this was an emergency.
“Daedalus!” Darius yelled. He stopped short. Taped on every wall of the living room were large sheets of paper covered with mathematical equations—numbers, symbols, lines, squiggles—like some alien language.
“Hmmmm?” said a voice from the corner. Darius whirled around. There was Daedalus stretched out on the couch, an open book lying over his face.
“Daedalus? Are you sleeping?”
The old man lifted the book and peeped out. “What? Who?”
“What are you doing?” asked Darius. “You told me you thought during the afternoon.”
“I do,” said Daedalus, struggling to sit up on the couch.
“It looked more like sleeping to me,” said Darius.
“Close, but not the same. When you sleep, your mind takes you where it wants to go. When you think, you take your mind where you want to go. But what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home, being eaten alive?”
“I have been eaten alive,” Darius wailed. “Aunt Inga got up early! She saw me with the bike and said I stole it from her.”
“You stole your Aunt Inga’s bike?” Daedalus seemed groggy, like he was still sleeping. Or thinking.
“No! My bike! The bike we fixed. She took it away from me and gave it to Anthony! Daedalus, what will I do now? Everything is hopeless. I’ll never get there now. I’ve got to have a new bike!” Darius rushed to the basement door and charged down the stairs.
Daedalus got up slowly and followed Darius down to the workshop. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself. I’ll build another bike.”
“And where were you going?”
“You know! To Miss Hastings—she’ll know what to do.”
Daedalus sat down on the bottom step. He leaned over, resting his arms on his knees.
“I can’t give up now, Daedalus,” moaned Darius. “They’re coming to get me tomorrow. They’ll take me away to that horrible school. No one will ever see me again!”
Daedalus was silent. Darius waited for him to say something. Why didn’t he speak? Why wouldn’t he help?
With no sign of help from the old man, Darius started gathering bicycle parts on his own. He quickly found a pair of handlebars and two rims that seemed to be in good shape and placed them on the workbench. The picture on the wall above the bench top caught his eye. It was the drawing of the boy on the bicycle, flying in the air.
“Boy,” he mumbled to himself, “I could use a bike like that now.”
“You’re a strong boy, Darius,” Daedalus said. “You can survive that silly school.”
“I don’t want to just survive! I want to live! I want to find Miss Hastings! If I only had one of your flying bicycles, I could get away.”
Daedalus still didn’t answer.
“What’s wrong, Daedalus? Why won’t you help me fly?” Darius sank down to the floor. The world seemed to be falling in on top of him, and there was no way he could escape. Even Daedalus, the person he trusted most, didn’t seem to care.
It was the last straw. Darius felt very alone.
Suddenly, he saw his father quite clearly in his mind. He missed him terribly. He always missed him, but now he needed him more than ever. In spite of himself, he began to cry. He couldn’t stop. He cried and cried.
While he sobbed, he felt Daedalus sit next to him on the floor. Finally, Darius’s tears were all cried out. “There’s no hope left,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath.
And then Daedalus spoke.
“Darius,” he said, “I have something to tell you.”
Darius wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked up. It seemed that the old man was trying to find the right words.
“When he was a boy, your father Rudy used to come into my shop and watch me work, just like you do. In fact, I was the one who taught him to ride his first two-wheeler.” Daedalus smiled briefly at the memory, then turned serious again. “In those days I had ideas about the way the universe worked. I used bicy
cles to test my theories. Someone else might have used rockets, or subatomic particles. But bicycles are cheaper and more available. I invented all sorts of devices to improve their performance. And one day, I hit on a discovery that surprised even me.”
“A bike that could fly?” asked Darius.
“Yes,” said Daedalus. “I added another gear, a sixth one, that changed its physics. And it worked. The bike didn’t respond to the law of gravity. It flew! Even though I had intended to keep it a secret, your father found out about it. He was about eleven.”
“I’m eleven,” said Darius.
“I know,” Daedalus said. “Your father was a little full of himself in those days. He had a tremendous amount of energy.”
“That’s my dad,” Darius agreed.
“Yes.” Daedalus nodded. “He begged and begged to try the bike out. For a long time, I refused. Finally, though, he pestered me until I gave in and designed a smaller version, one just his size.”
“The bike in the picture!”
“Yes. But when Gracie—Miss Hastings—found out, she was furious with me. I thought I could make it safe. She said that it didn’t matter, that I should destroy the plans and get rid of the bikes. I didn’t listen, though. I was too excited about my discovery. I kept working on them, trying to perfect them. My calculations were correct for a large bike, but there was something wrong with the smaller one—because of the difference in mass, in weight.”
Daedalus closed his eyes for a moment. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. “Now, after all these years, I think I finally understand the adjustments I should have made. But at the time I didn’t know. And one day …” Daedalus paused and blew air out through his mouth.
“Go ahead, Daedalus,” Darius said, touching the old man’s arm. “Please tell me.”
“One day, when I wasn’t there, Rudy took the bike from my shop. I had warned him not to ride without me, but I suppose you can’t blame him. He managed to get it into the air—but he was too young and too eager, and the bike wasn’t ready. The mechanics and the physics of the bike were wrong. He lost his balance, and he fell.”
“From up in the air?” Darius asked.
Daedalus nodded grimly.
“Wait,” said Darius, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. “That’s the red bike I found back in the corner! That’s why the wheel is bent. My dad wrecked the bike when he fell out of the sky!”
