by Judy Blume
“Actually,” Aunt Diana said, “the baby is ready for his nap.” She scooped up Jackson and carried him away.
I could feel Mitchell looking at me. “I’ll just sit here and read,” I told him. “I brought a book.”
“You know, I’m a pretty good teacher,” Mitchell said. “I teach seventh- and eighth-grade math.”
“What does math have to do with riding a bike?” I asked.
“Well … some kids think they can’t learn math,” Mitchell said, “so they’re afraid to try.”
“I’m good at math,” I told him. I’m good at other things too, I thought. I can blade better than anyone I know. I can jump rope, turn an almost-perfect cartwheel, and make pancakes with hardly any help. The Pain is hopeless at those things. So how come he can ride a bike? It’s so unfair.
“All it takes to ride a bike is practice,” Mitchell said.
“Practice falling?” I said. “No, thank you.”
Mitchell opened a bag. He pulled out padded pants and a padded shirt. He pulled out knee pads, elbow pads, wrist guards, padded gloves, and a helmet with a face guard. He stuck the helmet on my head.
“Where’d you get all this stuff?” I asked.
“I collect it,” Mitchell said. “Just in case.”
“Just in case what?” But I was thinking, Hmm … maybe with all this padding I should try.… Then I thought, No, I have tried.… Then I thought, Yes, but if I don’t try one more time, I’ll never know. And this will positively, absolutely be my final try.…
So when Mitchell held out the shirt, I took it and pulled it on. It was way too big. So was everything else. But Mitchell didn’t care. Soon I was padded everywhere. I was so padded I waddled like a penguin.
Mitchell led me to the front door. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. No one would recognize me in all this stuff, I thought. No one would know it’s me, Abigail Carly Porter, from 10 Larken Road.
“Riding a bike is like learning to swim,” Mitchell told me. “Once you learn you’ll never forget.”
“I’m good at swimming,” I said. Then I added, “Not like my brother, who’s afraid to put his face in the water.”
“You’ll be good at bike riding too.” I shook my head. Mitchell patted my back. “You’ll see,” he said.
I reminded him to make sure the seat on my bike was very low. I reminded him that I needed to be able to put my feet on the ground whenever I wanted. Mitchell held the bike steady as I got on. My knees were shaking. My stomach felt funny.
“Now … close your eyes,” Mitchell said.
“Close my eyes!” I said. “Are you crazy?”
“Come on, Abigail. Just close your eyes and feel yourself balance on the bike.”
“I can’t!” I cried. “I can’t!”
“Yes, you can,” Mitchell said.
“Promise you won’t let go?”
“I promise.”
So I closed my eyes. Maybe I’ll never open them, I thought.
“Okay,” Mitchell said. “Very good. Now let’s give it a try.”
His voice was so soft I wasn’t sure what he said. So I didn’t move. I just sat on the bike with my eyes closed.
“Abigail,” Mitchell said. “Open your eyes and pedal.”
“Pedal?” I said, as if that was a crazy idea.
“Yes, pedal.”
So I started to pedal. I pedaled very, very slowly.
“Faster,” Mitchell called. “Pedal faster.”
So I did.
“That’s it.… Keep pedaling.”
Mitchell ran, holding on to the back of my bike. As long as he was running with me and holding on to the bike, I was okay. The second he let go, I fell. I was glad I was wearing padded everything. “You see!” I told Mitchell. “I knew I would fall.”
“You know why you fell?” Mitchell asked. “You fell because you stopped pedaling.”
“I always fall when I stop,” I told him.
“Aha!” Mitchell said.
“Aha, what?”
“Stop equals fall,” Mitchell said. “We’ve solved the problem.”
“What problem?”
“Your problem,” Mitchell said, as if he was talking about math. “If you want to stop pedaling, you have to brake and step to the ground. Pedal, brake, step to the ground. Got that?”
“Pedal, brake, step to the ground,” I repeated.
“That’s it,” Mitchell said. “Let’s try again.”
So I tried again. Mitch held my bike steady until I got going. Then he ran with the bike. I couldn’t tell when he let go. I just kept pedaling and pedaling—until I braked—and jumped off my bike. This time I didn’t fall. But my bike did. It fell over on its side. Too bad it wasn’t padded, like me.
“You know why your bike fell?” Mitch called, running to catch up with me.
I shook my head.
“Because you let go,” he said. “When you step off your bike you have to hold on to it.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” I said. “You said ‘Pedal, brake, step to the ground.’ ”
“Well, now you know,” Mitch said, very softly. “So, let’s give it another try.”
“Do I have to?”
“If you want to be able to ride, you do.”
I thought about Emily, Sasha, and Kaylee on their bikes. Then I thought about the Pain singing Abigail can’t ride a bike … and how good it would feel to prove he was wrong.
So I tried again.
And again.
And again.
Soon I was pedaling on my own. And instead of running after me, Mitch was pumping his arm. Yes! I reminded myself to hold on to my bike every time I came to a stop. Pedal, brake, step to the ground.… Pedal, brake, step to the ground. By the time Mom, Dad, and the Pain came back, I was riding up and down the road. I was even practicing wobbly turns. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends!
Then I heard the Pain call, “Who’s that weirdo on wheels?”
“That’s no weirdo,” Mitch called back. “That’s your sister.”
“My sister can’t ride a bike,” the Pain called.
I whizzed by the Pain, singing, “Oh yes, I can!” Then I tried a show-offy turn, lost my balance, and flew off my bike—right into a big pile of leaves. After a minute I picked myself up. “How about that trick?” I called. “I’ll bet you can’t do a flying leap like that!”
The Pain shook his head. “This proves it. You are a weirdo on wheels!”
“That’s why you’re glad I’m your sister,” I told him.
“Who says I’m glad?”
“Think about it,” I said. “You could have a boring, ordinary sister. Instead, you have me!”
Then I got back on my bike and rode away, with the Pain calling, “Abigail … wait! Abigail …” But I was already pedaling as fast as I could. And inside my helmet, I was smiling.
The Last Word from the Great One
The next Saturday it rained. When I went looking for my markers I couldn’t find them. “Did you take my best markers?” I asked the Pain.
He said, “Maybe.”
So I shouted. “You know you can’t take my markers without asking. That’s a rule. Give them back. Right now!”
So he threw them at me and laughed.
“Ha ha! Ha ha!”
That really made me mad. So I yelled, “Pick up my markers right now, you little pain. Pick them up and put them back in their box or you’ll be very, very sorry.”
The Last Word from the Pain
My sister thinks she’s so great but this time when she called me a pain I laughed. I laughed and then I said, “And you’re such a … such a …”
And she said, “Such a what?”
And I said, “Such a big bowl of soup!”
And she said, “Everybody likes soup.”
And I said, “Not spider soup. And that’s what you are. You’re a big bowl of spider soup!”
Then she said, “Mmm … sounds yummy!”
So I said, “Spid
er poop soup! That’s what you are.”
Then she got mad and yelled, “That’s it!” And she started chasing me.
I ran as fast as I could, calling, “Mom … help! Mommmm! She’s after me.”
The Last Word from Fluzzy
Oh, good—
They’re playing my favorite game.
Run, chase, shout.
You’ll be sorry!
I’m telling!
I’m going to get you!
Best is when they throw things.
His elephant.
Her markers.
I run around them so they know I want to play too.
The mom and dad don’t get it.
They call, That’s enough!
They call, No fighting, no biting!
But fighting and biting are the best parts.
Not scary bites. Just little nibbles.
Oh, listen—
Now they’re going to make spider soup.
Spider poop soup.
I’ve never tasted any kind of spider soup.
I wonder if I’ll like it?
I meow, telling them to wait for me.
Judy Blume spent her childhood in Elizabeth, New Jersey, making up stories inside her head. She has spent her adult years in many places, doing the same thing, only now she writes her stories down on paper. Her twenty-five books have won many awards, including the National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.
Judy lives in Key West, Florida, and New York City. You can visit her at www.judyblume.com.
James Stevenson has written and illustrated more than a hundred books for children. In forty years at the New Yorker, he has published more than two thousand cartoons and covers, as well as numerous written pieces. His illustrated column “Lost and Found New York” frequently appears on the op-ed page of the New York Times.