Dirt Bike Runaway

by Matt Christopher

She had reached the bottom of the stairs and now stood there, one arm around the round nub of the post, the toe of her left foot still on the bottom step.

  Peter saw her look across the room to her mother, and could almost read the message that flashed in it. Well, Mother. What do you think of him? they were asking.

  Peter’s heart cooled. He couldn’t mistake that look. She had acted coldly toward him at the mall. She was acting just as coldly toward him now.

  “Darling, I think that you and I should have a little talk,” Mrs. MacKenzie said in a warm, subdued voice to her daughter. Her smile showed lovely white teeth and enhanced a dimple in her chin that was barely noticeable before. “After the boys leave. Okay?”

  D.C.’s face colored slightly. “If you think so, Mother.”

  Mrs. MacKenzie looked at Giff, then at Peter. The smile was still fresh on her face. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready,” she said and headed for the kitchen.

  “Come on, Pete,” said Giff, and followed his mother to the kitchen. Then he entered a side door into the garage, Peter behind him. A dirt-smeared, ivory-colored VW was parked on the left side of it. An array of tools lined a pegboard on the front wall, and in front of it was a workbench that was either fairly new or had not been used very much.

  Giff pressed a button near the kitchen door. The wide double doors in front opened, and he went out and wheeled in his bike, then D.C.’s.

  Peter found a sparkplug socket wrench and unscrewed the plug from the engine, figuring he’d look at that first. Judging by the rough sound that he had heard from the engine, he felt certain that the plug could stand a cleaning, or even a replacement.

  He looked closely at the points, saw that they were badly corroded, and decided that a new one was definitely needed. He suggested it to Giff, who agreed with him.

  He screwed the plug back in, then took off the carburetor. He saw that it needed an overhauling, and he promptly got the proper tools and started to work on it.

  After he had the carburetor finished and reinstalled, he recalled something else about the bike that he had noticed while he was riding pinion behind Giff over some of the rough spots in the streets.

  “During races, have you noticed the front end of the bike jumping a lot?” he asked Giff.

  Giff thought a moment, frowned, and nodded. “Why, yes, now that you mention it. It bounces a lot. But I hadn’t thought —”

  “I think your forks need air. Maybe oil, too,” said Peter.

  Without the proper amount of air and oil inside the forks, the tubes sliding up and down inside each other on both sides of the front wheel would not only take all the smoothness out of the ride, but wear out the tubes as well.

  Giff’s eyes brightened. “Okay. Come with me, guy. We’ll go to Max’s, pick up a plug, and check the forks.”

  Whistling cheerfully, Giff wheeled the bike out of the garage and started it, and Peter climbed on behind him. They rode to Max’s Motorbike and Parts Store on Ninth Street, and Giff purchased a sparkplug.

  Peter removed the old worn one and screwed the new one in. Then he checked the forks, and, sure enough, both needed about two pounds of air, and also oil. Peter promptly took care of both tasks.

  Meanwhile, he had been doing a lot of thinking again, mostly because of the not-too-pleasant atmosphere he had left back there at the MacKenzies’. Mrs. MacKenzie had said that she wanted to have a word with D.C. after the boys left. Peter knew it concerned D.C.’s cool reception toward him — Mrs. MacKenzie had probably talked to D.C. about it by now — but Peter felt there was no way he was going to feel relaxed if he went back there. In fact, he’d probably feel even more uncomfortable than before.

  Now, as both of the boys left the parts store and returned to the bike, Giff got on it, but Peter didn’t.

  “I’m not going back with you, Giff,” Peter said evenly. “I’m heading south.”

  Giff’s jaw sagged open. “I don’t believe you, Pete,” he said, shaking his blond head in wonder. “You know that? I really don’t believe you.”

  7

  Giff stared at Peter for several seconds. Before he could speak again, Peter turned and started to walk away. There was no use hanging around any longer.

  “So long, Giff. I’ve got to be going.”

  “Wait!” cried Giff, running after him. “Think of what you’re doing, Pete! Where are you going? You don’t know! And you don’t know a thing about Fort Myers! You’ll be all alone there with no job, no one you know! It just doesn’t make any sense, Pete! No sense at all!”

  Peter hesitated. Everything Giff said was true. But he couldn’t go back with Giff, not when D.C. felt the way she did toward him.

  “No, I better go, Giff,” he insisted. “I can’t go back with you.”

  “Why? Why can’t you?”

  “Because I can tell by the look on your sister’s face that she isn’t happy about me staying there tonight,” he said stiffly.

  “What?” Giff laughed. “What’s she got to do with it, anyway? I invited you, not D.C. And my mother likes you. She felt sorry for you the minute she got a look at your face and those dirty clothes.” Giff was grinning as he said it, and the lightness of the moment transmitted to Peter, bringing a smile to his lips.

  “You will come and stay, won’t you?” Giff said persuasively. “Never mind D.C. Ever since she was stood up by some clown a couple of weeks ago, she’s been dead on men. She’ll get over it.”

  Peter looked at him. You must be kidding, Giff, he thought. You know as well as I do that D.C. mistrusts me. She still thinks I’m a bum, a hoodlum, because I rode one of Dex Pasini’s bikes. This black eye won’t change her mind. Neither will your mother.

  Another thought entered his mind, too, and began to nag at him even worse than D.C.’s mistrust of him. Ever since he had run away from the Bentley’s he’d been scared. By now they must have notified the police, who’d be searching for him. He was sure of it.

  He gnawed worriedly on his lower lip, again torn between the decision whether to go with Giff or head south for Fort Myers.

  Giff’s eyes bored into his, scrutinizing him as if he were something under a microscope. “Why’d you run away, Pete?” he asked seriously.

  Peter weighed the question. “I had to, that’s why,” he answered soberly.

  Giff frowned. “How long were you at the foster home?”

  “Six months.”

  “Only six months? Where were you before that?”

  “At The Good Spirit Home. That was in Cross Point, too.”

  “Want to talk about it?” Giff asked.

  Peter thought about it a moment. Maybe it would be a good idea. If there were any doubts about him in Giff’s mind, what Peter had to say should clear them up.

  Giff relaxed on the saddle of the bike and folded his hands comfortably across his chest. “Have a seat,” he offered.

  Peter climbed onto the seat behind Giff, rested his feet on the foot pegs, and slowly began to unfold his experiences at The Good Spirit Home, beginning with the death of his parents when he was only about two years old. He told about Dr. Cunningham and the paddle that he had used to whip kids who dared to break the laws of the home.

  STEALING, LYING, OR DISOBEYING AUTHORITY SHALL NOT BE TOLERATED IN THE GOOD SPIRIT HOME read the motto engraved on the wood plaque fastened on the wall above the door inside his office. Most of the kids were scared stiff of the doctor. But some of them were bold enough to defy him, just to see what he would do if they got caught.

  Some of them had even dared others to pull dirty tricks, as Bugsy Stone had dared Peter a couple of times.

  Bugsy was a big kid, a natural leader, who had picked up a following of about five other kids and, subsequently, a name for the group: Bugsy’s Angels. And Peter, fearing the consequences if he didn’t take on the dare more than he feared the dare, had yielded to them most of the time.

  “Bugsy wanted me to steal some money for the Angels once,” Peter explained, remembering the incident as if
it were yesterday. “Most of us knew that one of the teachers kept a small box of change in the top drawer of her desk. One day, when I thought no one was looking, I opened the drawer and took the box. There was about eight dollars in it.”

  “Did you get caught?”

  “I did.”

  “What happened? Dr. Cunningham beat you up with that paddle?”

  “He sure did. Besides that, I had to go to my room after supper every night for a week and read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Then I had to write summaries on it — and I could hardly understand it!” Peter saw Giff smiling, amused. “Did you read the book?”

  Giff nodded. “I did, and I thought it was terrific.”

  Peter shrugged. “Well, I was only about twelve then, and I didn’t. Anyway, the Bentleys came one day, saw me, talked with me, and then with Dr. Cunningham about adopting me. So I went with them — Dr. and Mrs. Bentley and their eighteen-year-old son, Tommy Joe.”

  He went on to explain his unhappy life with the Bentleys, particularly about his troubles with Tommy Joe that had culminated in the liquor-drinking episode that had made Peter decide to run away from the place and never go back.

  “Oh, wow,” Giff said, staring at Peter, incredulous, after Peter was finished. “You sure had your share of troubles, Pete. What about bikes? How come you know so much about them? I know now it wasn’t your father who taught you.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Peter. “I realize that I’ve been doing a lot of lying. But what I’ve told you about The Good Spirit Home and the Bentleys weren’t lies,” he added hastily, running his hands through his thick, tousled hair.

  “I believe you,” Giff said, then took a comb out of his pocket and offered it to Peter. “Use it, and keep it,” he said. “I’ve got more.”

  Peter smiled as he accepted the comb. “Thanks,” he said and yanked it though his hair, clearing out the snarls.

  When he was done, Giff glanced at Peter’s hair with a look of approval. Now all I need is a shower, Peter thought.

  “Well,” he went on, “one of the maintenance men at the home, Jim Fairchild, had two bikes, a Kawasaki two-fifty and a Honda four hundred. Both of them big babies. He let me ride with him at first, then let me watch him repair them. He said he used to sell and repair them before he got his job at the home. I took an interest in bikes, and rode and worked on them whenever he’d let me. Finally I got my license, and raced in five or six motos.”

  “I see.” Giff remained quiet awhile, as if he were thinking of something. Finally he looked at Peter, a spark of interest kindled in his blue eyes. “Look, I’ve got an idea. There’s another motocross coming up next Saturday. Why don’t you stick around and maybe ride in it? Give yourself another chance against Dex.”

  Peter looked at him and frowned. What was Giff talking about, anyway? Where was Peter going to get a bike to ride in another moto?

  “You seem to forget one important item, Giff,” he said. “I don’t have a bike. The one I rode today belonged to Dex.”

  “I know. But if I can get you one, will you stay and ride it in the moto?”

  Giff’s offer sounded too good to be true. I must be dreaming, Peter thought.

  “You’re sure you can get me a bike to ride?” Peter asked.

  Giff lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “More sure than not sure,” he said, smiling.

  “How am I going to pay my entry fee if you get me a bike?” Peter inquired. “I’m flat broke. Almost, anyway.”

  Naturally the offer intrigued him. But there was another catch. A big, fat one. Giff said that the motocross was going to be run next Saturday. That meant that Peter would have to stick around for a whole week. Would Giff’s parents allow it? And what about D.C.? Could she tolerate him for a whole week?

  “I’ll pay for it,” Giff replied, cutting into his worried thoughts. “It’s only five bucks. I owe you at least that, anyway, for fixing my bike.”

  Sure, Peter thought. But what about the meals I’ll be sponging off your folks during the week? I’m a growing boy. I eat like a horse, not a bird.

  The thoughts tumbled through his mind like crazy, but he didn’t want to reveal them to Giff.

  “You’ve got to ask your folks,” he said finally. “Maybe they won’t want me to stay for a whole week.”

  Giff rolled his eyes up skyward, then settled them again on Peter. “You’re something, you know that?” he said. “Look. An exchange student from Argentina stayed with us for a month once. He couldn’t speak a word of English. But we got along fine. And by the time he left us to stay with another family, he could speak well enough to communicate with the least bit of trouble.”

  Peter’s eyebrows arched. “What’s that got to do with me?” he asked curiously. “You think I have trouble communicating?”

  “No. I’m just using him as an example of what kind of people my parents are,” Giff answered resolutely. “They like kids. They love ‘em. And … who knows?”

  He shrugged as he said it, and for a minute Peter wondered what he meant. Who knows? Maybe they might even consider adopting you. Is that what ran through his mind?

  It was crazy, Peter told himself. Heck, Giff’s mother had seen him for only a couple of minutes. She didn’t know a thing about him. She probably had not even realized that he walked with a limp.

  And Giff’s father hadn’t seen him at all.

  As for D.C., she’d probably veto the idea with one loud “No!” and not even blink an eye.

  “If you must really know, I do have another bike,” said Giff, as if it had been a secret he’d wanted to keep to himself until the last minute. “It just needs a lot of fixing.”

  Peter stared at him. How could two people be so different? he thought. How could Dexter be so cruel to him, and Giff be almost exactly the opposite? Dex would throw him to the dogs because Peter refused to join his gang of crooks, yet Giff was trying his best to help him.

  Undecided, he glanced up at the bright blue sky and saw a string of pink clouds in front of the slowly sinking sun. He blinked back tears as he turned and looked at a car moving into a parking space in the adjoining lane.

  What should he do? Should he accept Giff’s offer, or not? Cypress Corners wasn’t really a tremendous distance from Cross Point — only seventy-five miles. Maybe Mr. Fairchild, since he was a motocross enthusiast, would just happen to go to the motocross next Saturday and see Peter there … if he decided to stay with the MacKenzies and ride in it. What would Mr. Fairchild do? Would he have learned by now that Peter had run away from the Bentleys? Would he approach Peter and try to take him back to them? Peter shuddered at the thought.

  “Okay, Pete. You’ve had your chance,” Giff’s words cut into his thoughts. “I can’t hang around all day. I’ve got to be going.”

  Giff put on his helmet, stuck the key into the ignition, and started the engine. He let it idle for a while, and Pete thought it sounded like a purring kitten, pleased at its improvement.

  Suddenly he felt the machine move under him, and he quickly wrapped his arms around Giff’s waist and hung on tight.

  They were heading westward, facing the sun, and Peter had to squint slightly against it. Somehow he was glad he’d been on the bike when Giff had started off. He didn’t know what he’d have done if he hadn’t been. Probably heading south, he thought.

  He was pleased now to be going back with Giff, but a thought began to nag at him again. Try as he might to brush it aside, he couldn’t.

  Darn it, why should he let D.C. bother him, anyway?

  8

  They rode to church on Sunday, Mr. MacKenzie driving his blue, two-door Buick and Mrs. MacKenzie sitting beside him. Giff, D.C., and Peter sat in the back seat.

  None of the five said a word all the way to church, which was about a mile and a half from their home. Most of the talking had taken place earlier, while they were getting ready to go.

  Mrs. MacKenzie had asked Peter if he cared to attend Mass with them, and he’d said yes. He used t
o go to church every Sunday with the Bentleys. They were also Catholic. He was a Baptist, he said, but he didn’t mind going to church with them if they didn’t mind it, either. Giff had found an old suit he had outgrown, and it was no trouble for Peter to put on a size 15½ shirt, even though his regular size was 14½.

  Last night Mr. MacKenzie had said to Peter that he thought the Bentleys should be notified of Peter’s staying with the MacKenzies. It would relieve the Bentleys of worry and assure them that Peter was all right, but that, as of now, he preferred not to go back to them.

  “If you think it’s the right thing to do,” Peter had said.

  “It is, Peter,” Mrs. MacKenzie had cut in calmly. “Mr. MacKenzie and I talked quite a bit about you and your situation. We’re sure it’s best for everyone concerned.”

  So the phone call had been made, much to the Bentleys’ appreciation and relief. To Peter’s surprise, they didn’t mind it one bit that he wanted to stay with the MacKenzies a few days to give him time to think things over. Maybe the MacKenzies would help him come to a right decision on what to do with himself. He’d been afraid that the Bentleys would want him to go back.

  In the car he noticed that D.C. had edged up closer to her brother instead of sitting directly in the middle between them. He had moved as close as he could to the side of the seat, too, leaving a space of about two inches between himself and D.C.

  Despite her coolness toward him, he couldn’t help noticing how pretty she looked. She was wearing her brown hair back over her left ear and letting it dangle loosely over her right ear, which he thought was funny because it hid one of her white cameo earrings. Her dress was yellow and silky, with short, fluffy sleeves and a narrow white belt. She wore high-heeled shoes, but not the spiky type that made women’s ankles wobble when they walked. Hers seemed to be just right. And he liked her perfume.

  He wished she’d change her mind about him.

  They stopped at a restaurant after church, had breakfast, then returned home. The day was hot and sunny again, and it was about a hundred degrees inside the garage when he got to work on the bike that Giff had told him about.