“You can’t wear that when you ride,” I snap.
He looks at the ground. Then he climbs off, hands the bike to me, and heads for home.
I run after him, catch his coat, whip him around.
“What is the matter with you? I really need you to help me get my dog. Swanson locked him in her barn and I need you to help me pick the lock. You need to ride this bike.”
Philippe scowls. “I don’t like to ride bikes.”
“How can you not like to ride bikes? Everybody likes riding bikes.”
He shrugs, picks up another can, stuffs it into his pocket. “No one ever taught me how.”
I march back into the Church of Our Risen Lord thrift store, buy the bike, and fly it home.
Hornets whirl.
The sidewalk flinches as flames fall off Harry’s feet.
“I’m paying good money for this teacher and I told you three o’clock.”
“You don’t have to drag me.”
My toes wince from walking so fast. “What does it matter if I see this teacher when you’re going to make me go live with my mum anyway?” Sheet metal wraps around my heart and I clamp my teeth.
Harry grunts and lets the door of the donut shop slam in my face.
Mr. Peterson is already squeezed into the last booth. One of his little girls speeds a fire truck through a hill of sugar on the floor, a boy crawls over the teacher’s Santa belly and sticks a straw in his beard, and the twins are writing in notebooks that look just like the one he gave me.
Rainbow sprinkles and broken donut pieces and strawberry jelly are smeared onto the table, and the girl on the floor is pouring out more sugar.
Mr. Peterson ignores the noise as his hand flies across the page of a notebook in front of him.
Harry marches me toward the booth. “Clean it up,” he tells the little girl on the floor. She jumps up quickly because of the steel in his voice and drops the sugar pourer. It rolls until it hits one of the stools at the counter.
“Apologize!” he roars at me, then clomps into the back room so he won’t have to talk to anyone else.
Mr. Peterson clears a spot on the table and pushes a plate of gooey brownies toward me. “My wife made these for you.”
I like brownies very much, so I wipe a spot of donut jelly off the seat and sit. I push a brownie into my mouth and notice the children watching me. Mr. Peterson jiggles the table a little so there is more room for his son to crawl over his belly. The girl brings the sugar pourer back.
“I’m just finishing up my story for you.” He pats the notebook in front of him.
My teeth ring from all the sugar in the chocolate. I reach for another brownie. Mr. Peterson sips his tea.
“I’m very interested in how your story is coming along. Did you bring the notebook?”
I wince over how the chocolate makes my teeth ache and don’t answer him. I push my finger in figure eights through the jelly on the table.
“I see,” he says finally. He eats one of my brownies, and chocolate crumbs settle into his beard.
“I checked your test scores—before last year they were off the charts.” He pulls the little boy away from the plate of brownies. “Now, you and I both know that you should be in my class.” He watches me but I am careful to keep going with my figure eights.
“But in order to get into my class—where I’m sure you’ve heard we shoot for the moon—you’re going to have to prove you’ve got some life in that brain of yours. You’re going to have to write your story.”
I roll my eyes and eat another brownie. If my very bad dog Augustus was here, he would watch me with his gooseberry eyes, and just having him adoring all over me like that would quiet the leopards gnashing deep inside my ears. He always knew what I was feeling about everything.
I check to make sure Harry isn’t watching me make figure eights. “Can’t you give me worksheets or something?”
The teacher tents his fingers and looks at me through the space he’s made. “You know how to write boring stuff, I bet, like what’s the best trip you ever took or about your best friend, or any number of silly prompts I could give you, but do you know what it feels like to be writing from way down deep inside, where you’re writing so fast you feel like a train flying down the tracks and you don’t know where you’re going and you don’t care, all you want is to go on and on?”
I eat another brownie and make my belly as big as a barrel.
He rips a page from his notebook and pushes it across the table. “I’ve started writing my story. I want you to have it.”
I check to see if Harry is watching. Mr. Peterson’s handwriting is so messy it feels like I’m finding my way through the dark.
Rosie, when I was your age, I threw up every time I got nervous—and I was a very nervous kid.
I threw up at swimming lessons, in gym class, and on the playground. Soon I was nervous about getting nervous. And then I was nervous about getting nervous about being nervous. You get the idea.
I was nervous about riding the bus and throwing up on the bus, I was nervous about taking tests and throwing up on my desk, I was nervous about reading out loud, I was nervous about my classmates laughing at my mother’s egg salad sandwiches.
I was very skinny, a terrible runner, I couldn’t swim, I fell off my bike constantly, and I couldn’t catch a ball. I threw up on the sand at swimming lessons because I was afraid of the water, and I threw up on my sleeping bag at Cub Scout camp because I was afraid of the woods.
My mother said I had a nervous stomach and would outgrow it. Eventually she gave up and kept me home.
This is the truth, it is something that happened to me, and it shaped me. It gave me gifts that I have used throughout my life. What gifts, you might ask, would someone get from throwing up all the time? It made me strong. Heck, if I could get through that, I could get through anything.
It made me unsinkable. Absolutely unsinkable.
The little boy sticks a spoon in his father’s beard. Mr. Peterson grabs it and slides the boy out of the way. I push the page back. I stare at the teacher so long my eyes cramp.
“I’m never going to do this,” I whisper.
“Your choice. I won’t ask for the transfer and you can go to the other class.”
I crack my knuckles as Mr. Peterson piles up his things. “Let me know if you write anything.” He leads his children out of the donut shop and leaves the page on the table.
I eat the rest of the brownies and stare at the page until the letters swarm. Then I stuff it in my pocket, walk home, and go straight to my bed, where I practice being a whale.
When the phone rings, I let it go until it stops.
Word gets around that I am trying to teach Philippe to ride a bike and right away we get an audience.
Cynthia walks out first, a Barbie in each hand. “Wow, that’s a nice bike. Where’d you get that?”
“Go away,” I snap.
She tries to touch the handlebars. “I used to have a bike, but it was one with training wheels, and I’m really good at bike riding now, so can I have a turn?”
I get so distracted that I push Philippe right over my toe. “No, you cannot have a turn!” I roar. “You can just go home. We don’t need anyone watching—he’s terrible enough as it is.”
Well, this is the wrong thing to say because Cynthia wails and I can’t hear myself think and then Philippe climbs off, drops the bike on the ground, and storms off.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I cry, rushing after him, grabbing his coat. “I didn’t mean to say that. It’s just that I miss my dog so much and I need you to help me get him back and the only way you can help me is if you learn to ride a bike. It’s too far to walk and Harry would never bring me.”
Philippe scowls. Sweat drips down my neck. I push my springy curls behind my ears. “If you ever had a dog, you’d know how important this is.”
“Shut up, Rosie. You act like you’re the only one who ever lost a dog. But you’re not.”
/> His eyes spark and he unbuttons his top button.
“I know that. Did I ever say I am the only one who ever lost a dog?”
“You sure act like it.”
To tell you the truth, it does feel like I am the only one sometimes. I don’t tell him that. I take a loud wet breath. I watch Cynthia wipe her eyes on her sleeve. I turn back to the boy in the gigantic coat. “Are you going to help me or not?”
I hold out the bike.
—
“Where’s his helmet?” Mrs. Salvatore yells, flying out from our apartment building, her apron flapping, all the little foster children scurrying behind her. Of course, everyone wants a turn.
My God, this is going to take me forever. Pretty soon, Eddie the Barber walks out because it is lunch break, and the milkman (on his lunch break, too) comes over and says, “Well, he’s got to take that coat off. You can’t ride with your coat dragging like that.”
Philippe locks down, stiffens, and clenches his jaw. “Go away,” I tell everyone.
Believe me, I try all the tricks my papa taught me, including the one that worked for me: go up a very small grassy hill and, pedaling constantly, fly down. The hill will help you learn to balance; the grass will keep you from going too fast and it will cushion you if you fall.
But Philippe wobbles and bobs until his perfectly straight front wheel shakes and he topples over.
I am so thirsty I could drink a pond. I am irritated because everyone has advice. Plus, there’s a breeze blowing and grit is flying up my nose.
When Harry climbs the hill, he brings a wrench. The first thing he says is “Take that coat off.”
Philippe tightens his grip on the handlebars and watches his feet, but Harry has concrete running down his back.
Finally, after about ten thousand years, Philippe sighs and takes the coat off and drops it on the ground. I have never seen him without it and I am surprised how his neck looks a little chickenlike because it is so long and thin. Also, his chest is slender as a fish and the pointy bones in his shoulders pop up. He doesn’t have enough fat on him to float.
Philippe shivers without the coat, even as the sun blazes.
Harry clears his throat a few times, then turns to me and slaps the wrench in my hands. “Now take the pedals off.”
“What?” I am incredulous.
We’ll never get out to Swanson’s farm without pedals.
Harry whips the wrench out of my hands, kneels, and groans as his knees hit the grit. “Quickest way to learn to ride a bike. We used to do it to soldiers who couldn’t ride.”
Once both pedals are lying on the ground, Harry lowers the seat as far as it will go. He holds the bike up. “Try this,” he tells Philippe. “Keep pushing yourself along with your feet. And you should be on flat ground. Hills are for when you got some balance.”
He glares at me.
“Pedals worked just fine for me,” I snort, my voice blade-sharp.
Harry brushes his knees. “Well, thank God the world isn’t made up entirely of Rosie Gillespies.”
He turns to Philippe and says, “You do it my way and you’ll be riding in about ten minutes. And keep the coat off.”
—
Well, Harry is right and it doesn’t take long for Philippe to get the hang of it. He is zooming across the yard and down the hill behind the apartments, and he doesn’t wobble at all. It’s like he has natural balance, and his bike sparkles in the sun. I try and get rid of the bitter feeling in my heart.
Cynthia claps. I hold my breath. Mrs. Salvatore yells, “Careful, not too fast!” and other things like that.
By suppertime we put the pedals back on. Philippe rides down the hill and doesn’t fall off. I notice a sour taste in my belly.
“Tomorrow we go get my dog,” I snap as we drag the bike up to Philippe’s apartment.
“You’re going to just take him? Isn’t that stealing?”
I blow my breath out in a loud, furious whoosh.
“It’s not stealing when it’s your dog.”
On Tuesday afternoons Harry whistles.
This is because he closes the donut shop early so he can play blackjack at the American Legion. This makes him happy.
I don’t have to cook, because Harry brings pizza home. This makes me happy, even if I do have to pick all the anchovies off.
A fly buzzes against the window screen. I take the biggest bite of pizza I can and turn Jeopardy! on. Harry snaps it off and drops his book on vexillology beside the pizza box. The table slumps under the weight.
“If you just put a little effort in, you would enjoy this.” He pushes the book to me, takes a slice of pizza from the box, piles on all the anchovies I pulled off. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
The book is thick as a tomb. Even my chair rolls its eyes.
“Well?” Harry thumps the book.
I open the first page and try to focus because there will be a quiz later. “Vexillology is the study of flags, taken from the Latin word vexillum. The term was used in ancient times to describe cloth suspended from a pole.”
I am bored in three seconds. The cat clock above the sink sweeps its black tail back and forth, ticktock. A hot breeze snaps through the screens and I have to cover my slice of pizza from the grit.
Harry traveled the world when he was a marine and someday—“God only knows when that will be now”—he’s going to buy a camper and collect a flag from every state. I think he should spend some of that travel money on air-conditioning. I lift the springy curls off the back of my neck. My blood begins a slow boil.
I look at the clock, tap my feet. Finally, my plan is in place. My brain keeps zigzagging around the idea that Swanson has had my Augustus this whole time. My toes are impatient to get going: tap-tap-tap.
“Stop that.” Harry’s brow darkens.
I put one foot on top of the other to stop the tapping. Then my fingers take off across the tabletop: tap-tap-tap.
I go back to the book. “Long ago, knights carried flags into battle because it was hard to tell who the enemy was when everyone was suited up in armor.”
Hornets whirl. How many hours before it will be too dark to ride? Can Philippe even ride his bike in the dark?
“Well?” Harry watches my hands tap-tap-tap. He glances out the window. He looks down at my feet, thump-thump-thump. He narrows his eyes. “Don’t even think about going anywhere tonight. I want you here doing the work for that teacher.”
My throat knots. Harry still hasn’t figured out I rescued my bike from the dumpster. I pretend to be interested in the book and make my fingers behave. I glance at the clock, feel all shivery from the sweat dripping down my back. My toes tap again and I push them against the floor until they squeal.
Harry snorts, gets up, and comes back with two dozen little flags on wooden pedestals. He sets them on the table, counting under his breath, trying to get control of his temper. There’s starch in his voice when he says, “I’m bringing some up to your father.”
I scowl. My papa doesn’t need flags. He used to tell everybody at the donut shop that when he got sick with the flu, you could just forget about doctors because the only things that fixed him up were a cup of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup (made by me), a book (read out loud by me), and my dog (snuggled up beside us with that Gloaty Gus grin on him and his tail thumping a mile a minute).
I snort.
That’s enough for Harry. He picks up his little flags and shoves them into a paper bag. He throws the pizza box into the trash and checks if I put any more cans in there.
He sees my fingers tapping again. He raises an eyebrow, watches my thumb drum the table. He narrows his eyes. “You better be here all night writing in that notebook.”
I check the clock. Fire ants march behind my eyes.
When Harry finally grabs his fishing hat and walks up the road with the sack of flags, the phone rings again. I bet a billion dollars it is my mum, because who else ever calls?
I let it ring ten times before it s
tops.
Harry doesn’t believe in answering machines.
On this, we agree.
The Blackbird squeaks all the way up Swanson’s hill. I blow my breath out in a loud huff as Philippe pedals his shiny red bike up the steep slope. The belt buckle from his wool coat drags in the grit behind him.
“Oh, come on,” I howl, “you’d be faster if you got off and pushed.”
Already it is late afternoon. Harry has been playing cards for an hour. I had to promise Philippe that I would play a thousand games of Monopoly (a promise I don’t intend to keep) before he’d come.
Mrs. Salvatore is serving shepherd’s pie at the Church of Our Risen Lord supper, and she brought all the other kids with her. I told her I would help Philippe practice on his bike if he didn’t have to go and that we would be back before dark.
“You promise he will wear his helmet?”
“Yes,” I said as casually as I could, trying to keep the hurry out of my voice.
When Philippe finally reaches me, his chest heaves and underneath his helmet his pale curls stick to his face. He has raccoon eyes from the marks left by the new pair of swimming goggles Harry bought him at Walmart.
“Why do you wear that stupid coat? Anyone with any sense at all would know it’s too hot.” I push my water bottle in his hand or else we’ll never make it to Swanson’s.
Philippe flops in the gully, gulping. I scrape the heel of my sneaker so hard in the grit on the road that sparks fly.
A crow soars to the top of Swanson’s barn and swallows dive from the hayloft and plunge over the field toward the apple trees and the chicken coop beyond. A rusted tractor sits in the field, strung up with poison ivy. The driveway is empty—Swanson isn’t home.
Philippe gulps more water, tipping the bottle straight up so everything drains out, leaving nothing for the ride home.
“Well, that was stupid.” I count to a million, glaring at him. “Hurry up.”
He wheezes. “I don’t know about this, Rosie. Cynthia says Swanson shoots squirrels.”
Chasing Augustus Page 7