On Thin Ice

by Michael Northrop

  The precise ratio of gas to oil is just one of the things I could have gotten disastrously wrong. (Serious question: Have I said “Don’t try this at home” yet?)

  Very carefully, I fill the tank. I recap the bottle and put it back in my pack. I check the switches and say a quick prayer. I haven’t been to church in a while, but I’m hoping I have some credit left in my account. Then I stand the bike up and grab the handle of the pull cord. It’s just like starting a lawn mower.

  I exhale, inhale—Here goes absolutely everything. With my knee on the seat and my left hand on the throttle, I tug hard on the cord handle with my right.

  The engine chokes to life like an old man with a cold: sputter, sputter, cough. But then, disaster: The old man dies.

  The engine is quiet. The cold wind whips over the tops of the cars. A hot panic kicks up inside me. But then I remember our old lawn mower, how sometimes it takes two or four or twelve good tugs to get it started.

  I lean down a little farther and adjust my grip on the handle. I try to clear my mind, like a Jedi. “Stretch out with your feelings,” I whisper. It’s another Star Wars line and obviously super corny, but it’s not like anyone can hear me.

  I tug back hard, practically punching myself in the stomach.

  Sputter, sputter, cough, sputter, sputter.

  Better! I catch a quick whiff of fuel.

  I pull again: Sputter, sputter, VROOOM! I rev the throttle: VROOM-VROOM!

  I just about faint with relief. And then I hear it. The sound is close and unmistakable, even over the raspy purr of the rebuilt engine.

  Applause.

  I turn and see Nephi and Esme, standing by the bumper of one of the cars and clapping for me.

  I smile, the kind of real, full smile that I wasn’t even sure my face remembered how to make. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Stretch out with your feelings,” says Nephi.

  I’m embarrassed that they heard that, but I’ve got bigger things to think about. I pull on my paint-speckled gloves and reach into my backpack for my old bike helmet.

  “You know, when I said ‘break a leg’ before, I was just joking,” says Esme. “It’s an expression.”

  “Yeah,” I say, adjusting my helmet and fastening the strap. The engine starting is a big relief, but there’s more to a minibike than that. There’s steering and stopping and not blowing up. “But I have to know if this thing works.”

  I grip the handlebars and sort of hunker down into the right position—at least what I thought was the right position.

  “Hold on,” says Esme. “You’re sitting too far back.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah, it’s a small bike. You’ll fall right off the back—or pop your last wheelie.”

  I kind of scoot forward a little. “Like this?”

  “Here,” she says, stepping forward. She puts one hand on the handlebars and the other on my lower back. I don’t like anyone touching my back, but … maybe I don’t mind this so much. She shoves me forward on the seat.

  “Oof!” I say. I’m sitting up a little straighter, which, now that I think about it, makes sense.

  “Stay there,” she says. “Or this is gonna be a real short trip.”

  It’s another line from Star Wars. Han Solo. I look up at her: brown eyes, purple hair, wise in the ways of The Force. I, uh, may be in love?

  “You going to the nature trail?” says Nephi, and I snap out of it.

  I nod. It’s a footpath through the woods behind the school, a big wandering loop through the trees. Every student here has made that walk a dozen times: looking where the teacher points, writing down the names of the birds or trees or whatever else they plan to test us on later. This feels like a test too. A big one.

  THEY SAY YOU NEVER forget how to ride a bike, but when you shrink that bike down to something that basically fits between your knees and slap a powerful engine on it, those old lessons definitely get a little fuzzy. I’m perched on top of the thing now, leaning forward over the handlebars and holding on like grim death. I wobble slowly across the parking lot, giving it the absolute minimum amount of gas to keep it upright. It feels like a piece of gravel would be enough to tip me over.

  I thought the rest of the late shift had gone inside already, but I catch a glimpse of them now. They’re peeking out of the half-open door to see if I totally eat it. I guess maybe I’m showing off a little, because I rev the engine, just a quick half turn on the throttle. The bike scoots forward under me. I have to squeeze hard to stay on, but a funny thing happens after that.

  It gets easier.

  It’s actually easier to balance going faster. It really is like those first wobbly moments without the training wheels. I keep light pressure on the throttle and bounce over the edge of the parking lot and onto the patchy grass and snow of the field that leads to the path. I’m moving now, steering. The little wheels are rolling like mighty donuts eating up the squishy ground. Even when I hit a patch of snow, they cut right through.

  I’m doing it! The bike works! I feel a rush of exhilaration as the bike bounces onto the start of the path. The trail is wide and bumpy. I hit a fat stick early on and almost crash. There are trees zooming by on both sides now. If I hit one of those, I’m not sure this old bicycle helmet is going to do much good.

  As I bounce and bumble over bumps and dips in the dirt, I am super aware of every nut and bolt and screw I just put back in the Road Rokkit. I seriously hope I tightened them enough.

  And then I see something up ahead. A flash of bright blue and red. Man-made colors—there’s someone else out here. I slow down for a better look as I pass. As bouncy and blurry as the whole world seems at the moment, I see one image clearly.

  It’s Landrover.

  He’s sitting on top of a small, shiny four-wheeler.

  As soon as I pass, I hear it roar to life as he revs the engine and peels out onto the path behind me. I let out a groan, but it’s swallowed by the wind and the sounds of our engines. Why couldn’t I just shut up when he cornered me in the hallway? Why’d I have to open my stupid mouth and tell him I was taking the bike for a test-drive?

  I grip the throttle and twist down hard. The little reconstructed engine roars to life. The bike scoots forward.

  The chase is on.

  It feels really scary to be going so fast so low to the ground, like I’m hanging out a car door or something. My elbows are out wide for balance, but it’s a twisty, bumpy path. A sharp turn comes up fast. I don’t think I’m going to make it, but I lean into the corner and carve my way through. The little wheels bite into the dirt and spit up pebbles and twigs behind me. It would be super cool if it weren’t so terrifying.

  The path straightens out, and I gun the throttle. I risk a quick look back. Landrover’s bright blue four-wheeler tears through the turn easily. His four wheels are giving him twice the stability.

  When I turn my head back around, I’m already zooming straight into the next turn. It’s too late to make it. A big, fat evergreen at the edge of the trail is looming up in front of me. This is gonna hurt.

  I can’t make the turn, but I throw my weight to the side and jerk the handlebars hard, hoping to at least miss the tree. My sleeve brushes the rough bark, and I just barely slip by, avoiding a head-on crash. I am flying off the trail and into the woods, already falling as I go. Falling and flying, flying and falling … I tilt toward the dirt. For a second, the wheels are off the ground, spinning uselessly in the air.

  Then, impact.

  OOOOOOOOOF!

  My left knee hits the ground first, and the pain shoots through me in a hot, electric burst. My body hits next, and the pain fills my upper back like water flowing into a hollow place.

  The left handlebar hits hard, digging in as it slides through the dirt. My body, the tires, the bike: We all slide along the dirt and mud and dead leaves. Another tree looms up in front of me. I close my eyes and brace myself, but by the time I hit it I’m almost stopped anyway. The front tire bounces off it and the
bike comes to a halt with a sad little poomp!

  I lie there, stunned. My side is all scraped up under my clothes. My knee is throbbing. My back is alive with a jangly, tingling pain. And the rear wheel of the bike is spinning and spinning. I’m just trying to breathe right, just waiting for the pain to fade, when I hear a motor rev somewhere behind me. That’s when I remember: Landrover.

  I whip my head around as much as I’m able to. It’s just enough to see him there, still sitting on his new blue four-wheeler. He’s on the path, peering through the trees at me. Is he going to come in here after me? He waits until he sees my eyes, then revs the throttle. Something inside the four-wheeler must catch wrong, because the rev is a strangled groan. A puff of dark smoke shoots out of the exhaust as Landrover tears off down the trail without even looking back.

  I’m left on my own, on my side, on the ground. And as nice as it would be to have some help right now, I’m glad I’m alone. I’m glad because that’s when I start to cry. It’s the kind of crying where the only way out is through, where I just have to let it run its course and get it out of my system.

  Afterward, I try to wipe my face with my sleeve, but my face is too salty and snotty for that. I dig out an old paper towel from a crumpled-up lunch bag at the bottom of my pack, and that works better. I slide out from under the bike and try to stand up. My knee is banged up, my jeans are torn even more, and my whole left side feels stiff and raw.

  I stand up slowly and look down at the bike. I am so full of fear as I reach down and lift it up onto its wheels. I check the key. I check the switches. I check the choke, which is covered in dirt and in the wrong position. I flip it.

  I put my knee on the seat and my hand on the throttle.

  I consider another quick prayer, but it’s not like the first one worked out so great. Instead, I just reach down, grab the starter handle, and give the cord as good a tug as my battered body can manage.

  The only sound is the roummp of the starter cord being pulled.

  I try a few more times.

  On the third or fourth, I get a sputter and a little puff of black smoke from the exhaust, but that’s it. I give it a few more hard tugs, but there are no more signs of life, just the roummp roummp of the starter.

  I brush myself off a little and begin walking the bike back to the school. I’m a total mess and just barely holding it together, so once I’m inside I do everything I can to get out of there fast. I tell Mr. Feig that I tripped and fell and watch him size up the mud and dirt along my left side and reconsider every nice thing he’s ever tried to do for a student. I gather up my stuff quick and head out. I tell Esme I’m fine, and I tell Nephi I appreciate it but I can get home on my own.

  They’re not idiots, though. They don’t buy it for a second.

  THE BIG DOUBLE DOORS are closing behind me and the cold air is hitting me in the face and I’m thinking: Okay, great, now I can at least start crying again if I have to. It just seems so hopeless, you now? I’m supposed to sell this thing tomorrow—I need to sell this thing tomorrow—and now I went and broke it. I don’t know if I have time to fix it—I don’t even know what’s wrong with it! And it was working too, and then Landrover. So it doesn’t just seem hopeless, it seems unfair too, and here come the tears.

  But no! Because the double doors punch back open—Ba-Doom!—and here come Nephi and Esme. I can’t believe they followed me again, and at first I don’t even appreciate it. “Leave me alone!” I say, my voice breaking halfway through.

  “Come on, man,” says Nephi. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  I stop pushing the bike. They’re faster than me anyway. I look back at them and I see Mr. Feig’s huge glasses peering out of one half-open door. Nephi waves him away: We’ve got this. Kids only. Mr. Feig gets the message and disappears.

  “I crashed,” I say. I wait a little, just to make sure Feig’s gone and add: “I had some help.”

  And now Esme is right next to me. She takes hold of the bike by the handlebars and holds it up so I don’t have to. My hands are free now. I run my jacket sleeve under my nose and suck in some snot.

  “Seriously, Ked, what happened?” says Nephi.

  I can see the concern on both of their faces. They are looking at me like friends do when you’re hurting, and I guess that’s why I tell them. I tell them about the test-drive and Landrover and the crash. “I told him I was doing it! I bragged to him!” I say at the end.

  “This is not your fault,” says Nephi. “This is all on him. He’s a scumbag.”

  “Big bag of scum,” agrees Esme. “Like a Hefty bag.”

  I laugh, just like one hiccup’s worth, but it makes me feel better.

  “It’s no big deal,” says Nephi. “We can help you fix it. Next week, after the contest, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

  I shake my head. “I need it by tomorrow.”

  They look at each other and ask at the same time: “Why?”

  And listen, I wasn’t going to tell them this. It wasn’t going to tell anyone this—except Dad, because he’d need to know where I got the money. But the truth is, when your eyes are red and puffy from crying and you’ve got crusty snot on your chin, there’s only so much lower you can go. “I was fixing it up to sell it,” I say. And then, because Nephi’s dad is in the same boat, and Esme is standing there in her hand-me-down coat holding up my bike, I add: “We’re behind on the rent.”

  Nephi blows out some air. Esme just nods. I don’t feel bad that I told them.

  “When are you supposed to sell it?” says Esme.

  “Tomorrow at five. Royston’s parking lot.”

  “Well, that’s no problem,” says Nephi. It’s the last thing I expected anyone to say in the face of this huge and obvious problem. But then Esme agrees.

  “Yeah,” she says. “We’ll help you tomorrow.”

  “But … what about your models? The contest?”

  “Dude,” says Nephi. “We’re both basically done. How close do you think we were going to cut it?”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Really,” says Esme. “I was cutting out a tiny weathervane when you came in. No one needs to see a tiny weathervane.”

  There’s a pause.

  “I, uh, I would kind of like to see that,” I say.

  “Me too,” says Nephi.

  Esme rolls her eyes. “The point is. We have time.”

  This time, I don’t argue.

  “Okay,” she says. “Let me see you start the bike.”

  “It won’t start,” I say.

  “Let me see you try.”

  So I do. Esme and Nephi are both watching closely, so I make sure my hands are in the right place and I give the starter cord some good hard tugs. A few pulls in, I get a single sputter and that same little puff of black smoke, but that’s it. There’s nothing after that.

  “Dead,” I say.

  Esme is nodding again. Does she knows something—or is she just agreeing that it’s dead?

  “Tomorrow,” she says, and honestly what do I have to lose—except everything. At least it will be nice to spend the last late shift before the contest with these two.

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” I take the bike from Esme and begin walking it toward the slope.

  “You’re limping,” she says.

  I guess I am, a little.

  “If you hold on like ten minutes, I’ll help you get that home,” says Nephi. “Just need to finish something up and grab my coat.”

  I appreciate it, but I really don’t feel like waiting ten minutes right now.

  “I’ll do it,” says Esme. “Already got my coat. Could you put my stuff away?”

  “Sure, no problem,” says Nephi.

  “You don’t need to—” I begin, but Esme isn’t having it.

  “Nope, you’re outvoted, two to one. Now, which way?”

  I point down the hill.

  “Good,” she says as she takes the bike again and starts pushing.

  I walk alongside, or
limp, I guess, but just a little.

  It’s not that long a walk, and neither of us says very much. It’s a little harder without Neff. He’s the one we both know. And anyway, I’ve got a lot to think about. What happened in that crash? What if I need more parts? Esme seems to be thinking about something too.

  “This is it,” I say, taking the handlebars back from her in front of the house.

  She looks at the place.

  “We’re on the second floor,” I say. “For now.”

  She looks up there. “Now we’re even,” she says.

  “What?” I say.

  “I’ve seen your home and you’ve seen mine.”

  I’m seriously confused. “I haven’t seen your home,” I say.

  “Sure you have,” she says, already walking away. “That used to be my bike.”

  All I can do is stand there holding the bike and watching her walk away. The pieces click into place one by one, like a combination lock.

  I wondered what the deal was with her and this bike, and now I guess I know.

  I remember the mountain man at the door of that old slanting house saying, “Who has time? Two kids in high school and one in eighth.”

  I remember the curtains moving in the window above me.

  That was her. That was her dad. Her house.

  And once upon a time, it was her bike.

  Now her dad sold it to me, and I’m thinking he didn’t ask.

  I know what that’s like, your past sold out from under you. My old house, her old bike: happy memories and better times, just gone. I want to tell her that, but she’s gone too.

  I WAKE UP SORE. My back aches. I take two ibuprofen from the jar by my bed. The side of my left leg is all scraped up and already starting to scab over. I wear my loosest cargo pants just because it hurts less to pull them on. I wear my green Yoda T-shirt under my baggy button-up. It’s St. Patrick’s Day after all, and for the record, it’s still cold out.

  I pass Landrover in the hall midmorning, and he’s smirking and trying to catch my eye. Normally that would scare me, but I’m too mad right now. “Jerk,” I say.