“It’s okay,” I say, throwing my leg over my bike. “Not my first rodeo with a drunken clown.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Are you really that poor, or is that bike some kind of statement?”
“Hey, look, the colossal dick is back.”
“Right,” he says, pushing off the rack and holding up both hands. “None of my business. So, am I forgiven?”
I shake my head at his audacity, but I really wasn’t mad at him to begin with. Yeah, he was being a belligerent asshat, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you hold a grudge over. Some people are mean when they’re drunk, like Zephyr’s dad. Some people are giggly and clumsy and horny, like my mom. And some people are just plain obnoxious.
“You’re off the hook,” I say when Duke stands there expectantly.
“Cool,” he says. “I’d offer to seal it with a fuck, but I don’t think Royal would like that.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why would Royal care? He doesn’t like high school girls, and he didn’t want me around in the first place.”
“Riiight,” Duke says, nodding. “Well, I hope that hunk of twisted metal gets you home before it disintegrates in moving traffic. I’ve got a game to play. See you around, Jailbird.”
“See ya, colossal dick,” I shoot back. “I hope you break all the other guys’ necks before they break yours.”
*
The weekend passes uneventfully. I win a couple fights and a couple hands of poker and bring home some money for my stash. I still haven’t paid Mr. D back, but he says not to worry about it. I give him every scant bit of info I have on the Dolces, including that Royal smokes pot, though I have to fabricate the circumstances in which I found that out, since I didn’t tell him after the spying incident. I also tell him about the incident leading to my arrest. Guilt nibbles inside me when I tell him anything. I hate feeling like a snitch. But I owe him way more than I’m giving.
When I step outside on Monday morning, my bike is gone. In its place is something that looks like it could roll into the Tour de France in style. It’s all sleek lines, with padded handlebars in the “hook ‘em horns” position, super skinny tires, and paint gleaming a dark, subtle teal sheen on top of gunmetal undertones. I glance around for the clothes that Colt promised, but there’s nothing else. I barely dare touch the bike. It’s so pretty I’m afraid to leave fingerprints on it. And then I wonder if the cops are going to show up and say I stole it, since it looks like the kind of bike that costs as much as a car.
There’s a little bow on the seat, though, and a bell on the handlebars that’s shaped like a red apple. I pluck the bow off and look under it. There’s a combination for the lock that holds it to the support beam on our porch and two words.Bye Week.
I don’t know what that means—should it saybuy week? And if so, I’m never going to be able to buy this—but I don’t have another way to school, so I unlock it and take off.
I’ve never thought much about biking. A bike is a mode of transportation, and though it’s nice to have brakes and full pedals, I can get around pretty well without.
But this bike…
It’s like flying. Like gliding through the air. I feel weightless as I speed along without having to pedal hardly at all. I’m at school so fast I’m a little disappointed. I want to keep riding, to fly through Faulkner like a kite, swooping around curves and diving over curbs. The heat of summer has finally broken, and the weather is that perfect, gorgeous temperature we get for a couple weeks between the sweltering sauna of summer and the grey rain of winter.
I could ride all day, through town from the giant oaks with their rust colored leaves blowing across the parking lot of Willow Heights, past the stores and restaurants, all the way to the north side where the Dolces live, where there’s actual scenery. I could ride my bike along the winding roads, pretending I was in some other place, some other town. I’m not even out of breath as I hop off and lock my bike up next to the other Canyons, Orbeas, and Diamondbacks.
I pass my seat in first period and head to the back table, where Duke Dolce sits with Cotton Montgomery, DeShaun Rose, and Everleigh Walton.
He lounges in his chair watching me approach, all haughty arrogance and expectation. I shove the sticker from under the bow at him, the only clue I have. “Was this you?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cherry Pie,” he says with a slow grin.
“I can’t buy this,” I say, glancing at his friends, my face heating. They know I’m poor, but that doesn’t mean I want to go around saying it in front of people who already look down their noses at me.
“What is it?” Everleigh asks, leaning over to see what’s written on the little sticky square.
“Bye Week, baby,” DeShaun says, stretching his long arms over his head before laying one along the back of Everleigh’s chair.
“What’s Bye Week?” I ask, looking back and forth between them.
They all stare at me like I asked if puppies were cute.
“Is she serious?” Everleigh asks.
Cotton shakes his head and gets out his laptop, like I’m too hopeless to even bother with.
“Baron?” I ask Duke, holding his gaze.