Rumours & Lies

by Timothy Quinlan

some kind, but the clerk at the store would probably let it slide—a sad look might be needed, but that wouldn’t be a problem.

  More figure eights and more contemplation. Sam knew his parents would likely make him put the money towards a book, or at best a toy that had some educational quality. This wasn’t acceptable to Sam. The licorice, gum, tattoos and baseball cards just seemed like such an efficient purchase—five bucks on the nose. He’d have enough gum for a week, licorice whips for maybe two weeks, the tattoos were cool and the cards, well, he could trade those for any assortment of things. Problem was, there was no way his parents would go for it. Zero chance of that happening. Of course, he could always go to the store by himself.

  This idea presented a bit of a dilemma; Sam wasn’t allowed to venture off his street Apple Creek Drive. His parents were very strict about this particular rule, and he had never broken it. Ever. At the end of his street though, down past the community centre was Booker street, and about a five minute bike ride down Booker street was a variety store, that Sam happen to know was fully stocked with licorice, gum, tattoos and baseball cards.

  Sam left his driveway and sped down Apple Creek Drive. Five minutes later he sped past the community centre; another five minutes and he was at Booker Street. He stopped at the corner and stared down the busy street. He could almost see the small plaza where the variety store was located. It really wasn’t that far. How mad could his parents get? He looked back up towards his house, and then took another long hard look down Booker Street towards the plaza. What to do? And then in an instant he made up his mind.

  The North Star was a fast bike and Sam’s legs were a whirlwind on the pedals. He gritted his teeth, pushed his legs faster, and the green North Star shot down the sidewalk in a blaze of glory. Fifty yards down Booker Street, and an elderly lady with a shopping cart presented the first obstacle; Sam expertly took the North Star off the sidewalk onto the grass, peddled that much harder through the thick turf, and darted back onto the sidewalk, startling the old lady for an instant.

  The next hundred and fifty yards was easy as pie. Sam pulled into the plaza, slowed only slightly as he made his way across the parking lot to Bill’s Variety, got off his bike, leaned it against the garbage can in front of Bill’s and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He took a deep breath, and his heart rate began to subside a bit. “This is easier than I thought,” he said to himself and entered the store.

  Inside, he saw a young boy from his grade one class. “Hi Sam,” the boy said, standing beside his mother.

  “Don’t bug me Kyle. I’m not here to screw around; I’ve got five bucks,” Sam said, not even looking at Kyle as he spoke. Sam was now a badass.

  He made his way over to the candy stand and stared at the bright glittery packages. He knew he should hurry, but God it felt good to actually have money to spend in a place like this. After a couple of moments, he resisted the urge to move off his original plan and grabbed the licorice whips, the gum, the tattoos and the baseball cards. He got in line behind another boy and waited. The boy was buying a chocolate bar or something, and spilled a collection of dimes and nickels onto the counter.

  “The guy doesn’t even have a bill,” Sam said under his breath, forgetting that the five in his pocket was his first bill.

  The kid finally finished and Sam stood up to the counter. A large man who Sam assumed was Bill, scanned his items; Sam kept an eye on the register and was a little surprised when it settled at five dollars and seventy five cents.

  “Sir, I only have five dollars,” Sam said in his most innocently sad voice.

  “Well, do you promise to bring the rest the next time you’re in here?” Bill said, as if it was something he said often.

  Sam nodded, trying extra hard to suppress a smile which was dying to explode across his face. He grabbed his bag of stuff, and headed for the door.

  Once outside, his breath left him. A dull nauseous feeling crept slowly through his body, and his heart began to race once again; the North Star was gone.

  The North Star had been given to Sam on his last birthday by his parents; he had hoped to get it, but realistically thought he’d have to wait another year. He remembered the day he got it like it was yesterday. It was the first time Sam’s eyes had watered with joy. And now it was gone.

  He looked left and right and saw no trace of it. There was another green bike leaning against the window of Bill’s, but it wasn’t the North Star; the differences were subtle, but there was no way it was the North Star. Sam contemplated his dilemma, and without thinking, uttered something only said in his parent’s absence. “Shit.”

  He began to run in the direction of his house, not thinking about anything, just running, fast and hard along Booker Street. He finally rounded the corner onto his own street, and slowed to a walk. He was on his own turf now. Fifteen minutes later, he got to the end of his driveway and stopped. He bent over at the waist and tried to catch his breath. Finally, he straightened, and it dawned on him that he needed to figure out something to tell his parents.

  Time ran out; his father opened the front door. “Sammy, how are you son?”

  “Good dad.”

  “What a beautiful day. Want to throw the baseball around in the backyard?”

  “Sure.” The word barely got out of Sam’s mouth and he broke into tears.

  “Sammy. What’s wrong?”

  Sam hesitated, wiped his eyes and then began. “Well, I was riding my bike just down the street and . . .”

  “What Sam?”

  The words started to come easy now. “And, this guy, an older boy, came up to me and pushed me off my bike and . . . he took my bike.” He burst into tears again.

  Sam’s father had a bewildered look on his face which quickly gave way to an angry one. “Where exactly did this happen?”

  “Down the street.”

  “Get in the car. Now.” Sam’s father took him by the hand and led him to the car. They got in and backed out of the driveway, and then slowly rolled down Apple Creek Drive towards Booker Street. “Tell me where Sam.”

  Sam waited until they were sufficiently close to Booker Street. “Right there is where he pushed me down,” Sam said pointing to the sidewalk.

  His father stopped the car, and seemed to contemplate his next move. Finally, he accelerated to the corner, and turned down Booker Street in the direction of Bill’s variety store. They were a little ways down Booker Street, about where Sam had passed the old lady only twenty minutes earlier when something caught Sam’s eye; there on a driveway on Booker Street was the little boy who had been in front of him in line at Bill’s. He was riding what looked like a green North Star.

  His father had also noticed. “Sam, is that your bike?”

  “Sort of looks like it,” Sam said.

  His father stopped the car, and reversed back to the driveway. He stopped on the street and got out. Sam quickly got out of the car and rushed to his father’s side. They walked up the driveway. A man and woman who were likely the boy’s parents were sitting on the porch. The boy stopped doing circles on the driveway.

  “Hi, good afternoon. My boy here was attacked about fifteen minutes ago around the corner, and his bike was stolen. It was a green North Star just like this one that your boy is riding. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, but are you sure this is your boy’s bike?”

  The boy’s mother got up quickly from her chair and approached them. “Robert, is that your bike?”

  Robert got off his bike, took a moment to look the bike over and scratched his head. “Nope.”

  “Well, where did you get this one from and where is yours?”

  Robert glanced at his mother, looked back at his father who hadn’t moved from the porch, and then gave a long hard stare at Sam. The two boys locked eyes for several seconds.

  “Well, I parked my bike at the community centre on Apple Creek Drive . . . because I’m allowed to go there . . . and when I came out I must have got on the wrong bike.”

  “But
Sam wasn’t at the community centre. Right Sam?” Sam’s father asked, looking at his son.

  Sam looked at his father and looked long and hard at Robert. He had seen Robert around, but didn’t know him. Sam was fairly certain that they didn’t go to the same school; Sam went to a private school, and was pretty sure that Robert went to Colton Elementary, a public school in the neighbourhood. He looked at Robert’s mother and then back at Robert. Sam knew Robert hadn’t been to the community centre. He thought about the other green bike that he had seen at Bill’s variety store, and then he looked back at Robert.

  “Sam,” his father said sternly.

  “No, I wasn’t but I think the guy who took my bike might have gone there,” Sam said, his placid facial expression giving no hint of the whirlwind of thoughts bouncing around in his head.

  “What makes you say that son?” Sam’s father asked, clearly a little embarrassed that he didn’t have all the facts.

  “The guy who did it. I’ve seen him at the community centre before. He hangs out there sometimes.” Sam said this, knowing it would result in countless trips to the community centre with his father.

  “You didn’t mention this before Sam,” his father said staring down at him.

  “Sorry dad, I just didn’t think to say anything because I was upset.”

  Robert’s mother had a concerned look on her face. “Well, it sounds like this turkey who attacked your son took his bike to the