‘Nope,’ said Henry, his face dripping. ‘I’m ready for two pedals!’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure!’ Henry wanted to know now. He wanted more than a taste. He wanted to zoom across the world and to feel it rise up fast towards him at the same time.
‘Alrighty, then,’ said Patch. He spun the spanner up and caught it with one hand. ‘Let’s go.’
On Henry’s first go with two pedals, he rampaged down the path, wobbling from side to side, before crashing through the Rotary garden. He toppled over a bushel of lavender and landed – splat – into another big scratchy bush.
‘Geez,’ said Patch, running up panting. He peered down. ‘Are you okay?’
Henry felt the twinge. It was in his throat already. The howl. There was a scratch on his leg. Tiny beads of blood were beginning to bloom on his shin. He could give up and it would be okay. He had tried his best and there was always tomorrow.
‘Far out,’ said Patch. He took a step backwards and read the plaque at the front of the garden. ‘Geez Louise! You’ve just crashed into a scent garden, Heno! Flat bang into a rosemary bush! No wonder it smells like roast leg of lamb in there!’ He reached out his hand and pulled Henry up and dusted him down. ‘That’s a nasty scratch. Do you wanna take a break?’
Henry glanced over at the mountain at the back of the inlet. A fluff of cloud hung like a flung scarf. He gazed back at the dried-up scab in the middle of Patch’s nose. He hesitated. He tried to grab hold of what Patch had said, how even confident, strong, almost-moustache big boys sometimes get jelly legs.
‘It’s fine,’ said Patch. His face shone with sweat. ‘You’ve done good! Better than could be expected. There’s no shame in calling it a day! We can go back to camp and get a bandaid and come back again tomorrow, yeah?’
But there were not that many days left and Henry knew it. He wriggled his shoulders. He tipped his head from side to side. He was pretty sure there wasn’t anything broken.
He ducked down and picked up his bike. A solid, quiet certainty chinked in his chest. He was going to keep the end in mind. That’s what he was going to do. He was going to ride his bike down the bike path. He was going to sail on down, on his own, with no training wheels, that afternoon.
After all, he wanted a bright, loud life.
The GRAND, GENIUS SUMMER
A squadron of seagulls squawked above Henry’s head as he cycled down the bike path on his own. He was speeding along, his legs pumping hard. He felt the wind in his face, the sun on his skin and the shimmering cool breath of the water.
He wove his way around the sweaty joggers, the coconut girls, the greedy skateboarders and the big bikies on their rollerblades. He wobbled around the nuggety rugrats from next door, and the sunburnt power walkers with their frothing eager dogs. He pedalled harder and harder and snatched a glimpse of his shadow.
He belonged to the bike and the bike belonged to him.
He was sitting up high, like a king on a throne. He was fast, cutting through space and time. He was light and free as a leaf carried a long way on a warm breeze.
He sailed past his dad, who was blowing bubbles for Lulu and Kale to pop.
He glided past his mum, who was sitting in a camp chair admiring the view.
He coasted past Reed, who was trudging home from the estuary empty-handed and grumpy.
He curved past Cassie, drifting along on her crimson dragster.
He pedalled all the way to the end of the park, where he made a sweeping turn on the grass, right outside the last ritzy-ditzy cabin, and then cycled all the way back, dinging his bell like it was Christmas and he was Santa bringing home the presents on his sleigh.
Everyone lined the path.
Patch, who was grinning wide as a clown and Mr Barone who was whistling loudly with his fingers and Mrs Barone who was snapping photos with her camera. Mr and Mrs Carson, who were whooping away, and open-mouthed Reed, and messy-haired Carey clutching a tattered Calvin and Hobbes collection, and sleepy-eyed Jay and Dylan who swung Kale quickly onto his shoulders, and Lulu who was hollering at Henry and clapping him in, like he was a soldier returning from war.
Dad stood just behind the crowd, still as a statue, the bubble wand slack in his hand. Henry cycled slowly over to him and stopped the bike right in front. A single bubble floated up between them.
Henry cleared his throat. His heart was kerthudding like a drum. ‘I’d really like to ride around to Nugget Rock,’ he said, ‘with you.’ He gazed up at Dad, waiting for him to grin, waiting for him to laugh and whoo-hoo and clap his hands, waiting for his exuberance, the loudness of his rejoicing to come bubbling to the surface.
But Dad gazed back at him quietly. Then he pressed a hand hard to his chest, as if there was an ache in there that could barely be held. ‘Aw, Heno,’ he whispered, his eyes shiny. A crooked, wonky smile flitted across his mouth.
Henry wriggled his helmet and scratched his forehead. Had he done the right thing? Was his Dad happy or sad? Maybe he didn’t want to cycle round to Nugget Rock now? Maybe the invitation had expired like a crusty coupon in the letterbox? Maybe some chances in life only came once?
‘Aw, Hen-o,’ said Dad again, his voice cracking.
Henry heard it then, in that tiny crack. It filled him with a strange and terrible wonder. There it was, love so big, so wild, brimming away in his dad’s chest like a rising flood, close to bursting. ‘Son of my heart,’ whispered Dad. He dropped the bubble wand and stepped forward and hugged Henry. And the hug was so big and bear-like and fierce, Henry’s neck cricked and he laughed out loud, so glad to be wearing his bike helmet. But he felt his dad’s delight. He felt it soak all the way through, like butter into hot bread.
And he wanted to tell Cassie. He did. He wanted to tell her she was right and that sometimes the very best things happen on the way to somewhere else. But when he turned to find her, she was gone.
‘Here’s to the grand, genius summer of Henry Hoobler!’ cried Dad, lifting up Henry’s arm exuberantly and waggling it about like floppy spaghetti.
‘Whoo-hoooo!’ yelled Patch, loping over. ‘High five, you big numpty!’
Henry smacked his hand hard against Patch’s palm. ‘Thanks,’ he said, gazing up.
‘Ah, genius boy,’ said Patch, flicking his fringe. ‘I reckon you take after me in the scintillating intelligence, good looks and charm department, in my absolute and complete utter awesomeness.’
‘There’s no greater compliment!’ said Dad, with a grin.
Henry’s whole body tingled like he had jumped into a sea of bubbles.
‘Yay!’ said Lulu, galloping towards Henry across the grass. ‘Yay! Neigh!’
‘Oh, Henry Hoobler,’ said Mum, running over to hug him. ‘I’m so proud of you!’
And Henry grinned his head off as he accepted all the hugs and cheers and slaps of congratulations from everyone, even a feeble pat from smartypants Reed.
Oh, it was a grand, genius summer.
And Holy Zamoley, it sure tasted good!
STRAIGHT-UP and TRUE
Henry wobbled to a stop. He leant his bike against a telegraph pole near Cassie’s crimson dragster, down by the wharf. ‘Hello there,’ he said, unclicking his helmet.
‘Hello, yourself!’ said Cassie, peering up. She turned back quickly and swirled her bare feet in the water.
‘I’ve been looking for you.’
A silver tinny buzzed past, out towards the breakwater. A lacy wake of water danced towards them. ‘You disappeared so fast.’ Henry sat down beside her. The water sloshed giddily against the edges of the stone wall. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘I had some stuff to do,’ said Cassie, shrugging. ‘The laundry and some shopping. And so . . .’ She rubbed her knees. She lunged forward to fling a scrap of seaweed from her foot.
The water was green as glass.
Henry watched a large shadowy fish flit just above the reeds, a smaller school of fish drifting behind like a tiny speech bubble. He glanced ove
r his shoulder. A lady in grey overalls and black gumboots was hosing down the deck of a fishing boat, tied up tight to the wharf. Everything ponged of fish.
Cassie sank her chin onto her hand. She stared hard into the water as if she was thinking about something extra tricky. She sat silently, her shoulders slumped, like someone had given her bad news.
Henry checked the palms of his hands secretly, just in case they were beginning to sweat. He rubbed them stealthily on the back of his shirt. Holy Macaroley, he hoped he wasn’t about to suddenly turn into gibbering, nervous idiot like Patch! Maybe it was something a person could catch, like measles or chickenpox?
‘Your bike . . .’ said Cassie, in a small voice.
Henry froze. Dismay burst in the middle of his chest. It blazed out through his whole body like a fiery meteor shower. ‘Oh,’ he whispered.
‘Before on the bike path,’ said Cassie, ‘when everyone was clapping and cheering . . .’ She stopped.
Henry stared at his knees. It felt like the night roaring of the ocean was in his ears.
‘It looked like . . . I don’t know—’
Henry clenched his hands, till the tops of his knuckles shone.
‘That you’d only just . . . learnt how to ride or something.’
Henry wiped his lips. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. His mouth was so dry.
‘So. Then I got to . . . thinking about . . . your brakes.’ Cassie cleared her throat. ‘Were they ever—’
Henry shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Oh . . .’ said Cassie, glancing over.
‘They never were.’ Misery oozed in Henry’s stomach like a slick of oil.
Cassie turned and stared out towards the breakwater. ‘So . . . it was just a big . . . lie?’ She stared out towards the breakwater.
A swirl of fish scales glittered on the cement beside Henry’s leg. He brushed them into a small pearly pile. ‘I got the bike for Christmas. It’s brand—’
‘How come you didn’t just say—’
‘New.’ Henry tugged at the neckband of his T-shirt. ‘I don’t know.’ Something was panging away in his chest. ‘I didn’t want you to think I was—’
‘I wouldn’t have cared.’
‘Some kind of baby,’ finished Henry.
Two pelicans flew overhead, their wide wings whooping, their tummies sagging. Henry wondered how come they just didn’t drop out of the sky. He took a deep breath and gazed down at his shin, at the fresh graze from the morning.
‘I like it when things are true.’ Cassie snatched up a pebble and curled her fingers around it tightly. ‘I don’t like it when people pretend. When they say one thing and mean another. I don’t like it how my mum says she is only going to sing one more time on a cruise ship and then she’s going to come home forever. I don’t like it how she tells me my dad loves me, when I’ve never even met him and he never even sends me a birthday card. I don’t like it how she tells me we’ll have a tin-roofed house by the sea one day, all of our own, when I know I’m going to live in a meerkat caravan always. I hate it how people make up stupid, dumb old stories to make themselves feel better, instead of telling things straight-up and true.’
A gust of wind blew across the water, wrinkling it like a skin. Cassie flung her arm back and tossed the pebble out as far as she could. It made a satisfying plop right near an old catamaran.
Henry watched the little circles ripple out bigger and bigger. Where would they go, those ripples? All the way to the other side of the world? Till they touched the toes of another girl, dangling her feet in the water from a stone wharf, filling her up with a longing for something big and true?
Oh, blimey, he had let that dumb old story about his bike brakes slip out, almost by accident. But then he let it stay out. He pretended he could ride, even when he couldn’t. He didn’t realise how telling a tiny, stupid story to make himself feel better could possibly make someone feel worse. But now he knew. He could see it. Cassie cut off and adrift, sucked away by a fast current, more left out and lonely than before.
Oh, gosh, there was something weighty, sharp-cornered and icy-cold fierce smarting right in the middle of his chest. There was a word in his mouth, hot as a star.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered.
Cassie glanced at him. Their eyes met and held.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t . . . straight-up and true.’
Cassie’s mouth quivered and she turned away quickly towards the wharf, as if something very fascinating was happening there, like the world’s biggest fish had just been caught.
Henry ducked his head. He watched the breeze sweep this way and that way, until it winked out, just like that. A bunch of little kids squealed on the big nest swing across the water. His throat ached and he suddenly felt so tired, like he hadn’t slept in a hundred years.
‘It’s okay, you know,’ Cassie murmured. She brushed a hand across her cheek. ‘I mean . . . it’s just . . . I understand . . . and it’s a very big bike.’ She glanced over her shoulder and stared at it, glinting silver in the sun. ‘Probably, if you think about it . . . everyone in the whole world would be worried about riding that thing for the very first time.’
Henry felt a sharp twinge of relief. ‘Everyone in the whole world?’ he breathed.
‘Yes,’ said Cassie.
‘Even Donald Bradman?’ He could feel a kind of gladness humming right through him.
‘Especially the Don!’ said Cassie. ‘Imagine if he’d fallen off a bike like that and broken his arm. He might never have ever played for Australia!’
‘Ha!’ said Henry.
‘The whole history of cricket would never be the same!’ said Cassie. ‘So there!’
Henry bent the toe of his sneaker back. ‘That would have been one terrible Worst Case Scenario,’ he said, with a lopsided grin.
‘I know,’ said Cassie, smiling.
They watched a long line of cyclists, small as ants, meander up the hill to the lookout.
Cassie nodded. ‘Have you been for a ride out there yet?’
‘I just came back.’
‘Where’d you go?’
‘All the way to the lookout and then down to Nugget Rock.’
‘Did you see any seals?’
‘Nope! Not a single one.’
Cassie dipped her fingers into the water. She splashed her face gently. ‘Did you like it?’ she asked, rubbing the bottom of her T-shirt across her cheeks.
‘I raced my dad,’ said Henry, ‘down the tiniest hill and he gave the biggest, scariest screech I’ve ever heard, because I think he was worried about what my mum would do to him if I fell off and got maimed.’
‘Maimed,’ said Cassie. ‘Your dad. He’s so—’
Henry nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Funny.’ Cassie sighed. She stretched her T-shirt out.
A seagull bobbed on the water, floating up close to their feet, like it was eavesdropping. Henry itched his nose against his shoulder. It was true. His dad was funny. It was like he was always expecting some good thing to happen, just around the corner.
‘You know, when Patch was little he thought all seagulls were called sea girls!’ said Henry. ‘And every time we eat fish and chips now, Dad always says, Hey, Patch, here come all your sea girls!’
‘Sea girls,’ said Cassie, laughing.
Henry wanted to ask Cassie a question. It was roosting in his head like a bird. But he wasn’t sure. Maybe some questions weren’t right to ask, especially if they were snoopy and nosy and made someone’s heart sorer than before. But then again, what if he didn’t ask? What if no one asked anything important, just slunk back into their shells like shy snails? Would that leave people sometimes feeling lonelier than ever before?
‘Is it true?’ he asked slowly. ‘About your dad . . . that you’ve never ever . . . and the . . . birthday card and everything?’
Cassie rested her chin on her knee. ‘Well, you know, my dad . . . he left before I was born. He’s a musician. He used to play banjo in the city, beneath the statue of
Queen Victoria. That’s where my mum met him. She said it was love at first sight and he had a voice like an angel. I’d like to hear him sing. I would. But my Pop reckons he’s a no-hoper.’
‘A what?’ asked Henry.
‘A no-hoper.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Henry wrinkled his nose. ‘Is it a person without any hopes?’
‘Maybe,’ said Cassie. ‘But I think my Pop meant it in a different way. Like my dad is a not a person to hope in.’
The sun baked down and seared so loud, Henry’s eyes hurt. He thought about his exuberant, buoyant, happy Dad and his big, wild, brimming love and how good a butter-into-hot-bread hug felt and how strange and unthinkable it seemed that a person couldn’t hope in their own dad.
‘Where is he now?’ asked Henry.
‘No one knows.’ Cassie flicked a small stone into the water. ‘Maybe he’s singing in Rome, in front of a fountain, with all the pigeons pecking about his feet. Or maybe he’s singing love songs on a bridge in Paris, for all the couples about to propose. Or maybe he’s not singing at all anymore. Maybe’s he’s given up on all that and he’s married to someone new and he goes to work every day and does a yucky, boring job and the best part is when he comes home, all tired out from working with numbers, to a little girl and a little boy who run to the front door when they hear the garden gate open with a big squeak.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Oh, wow!’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Cassie, shrugging. ‘Because my Pop is very good to me, you know. Even if he’s a bit grumpy now. My Nan used to say my Pop likes to pretend he’s a peanut brittle chocolate, so no one will ever know he’s really a big old strawberry cream.’
A family rode by on their bikes, shouting and laughing and ringing their bells, racing each other down the path.
‘Do you reckon—’ Henry stopped.
‘What?’
‘I’m wondering,’ said Henry, glancing at the family, ‘if you’d want to—’
‘Go for a ride?’ Cassie scrambled to kneel up. ‘YES. Oh, yes. I would!’
‘Excellento,’ said Henry. ‘But where shall we go?’
The Grand, Genius Summer of Henry Hoobler Page 10