Wild Awake - By Hilary T. Smith Page 0,47
for good measure. Some of them are holding beers or flasks, and there’s a couple joints going around.
I’m so pumped from my bike ride I don’t feel shy at all. I ride my bike up to the edge of the crowd and nose in next to a girl in a cute leather jacket and sparkly tights.
“Hey. Whatcha guys doing?”
She adjusts the strap on her black helmet.
“Midnight Mass. We go for a ride twice a month.”
“Where you going?”
“I don’t know yet. We kind of make it up as we go along.”
I look around at the rest of the group. My eyes wander over girls in furry-eared hats and guys with pink and silver tassels hanging off their handlebars. Everyone’s talking, laughing, drinking, oddly glamorous on their tricked-out bikes. They remind me of the people at Sukey’s art opening. Alive. Happy. Free.
Then I spot him.
Skunk.
He’s standing at the other edge of the crowd almost exactly opposite to me, his huge body balanced over the slender angles of a black Schwinn bike.
I stand up on my tiptoes and wave.
“Skunk!”
He doesn’t hear me. He’s peering down at his handlebars while he feels the brake wire with his fingers, no doubt planning some completely unnecessary repair.
I back up my bike and ride around the edge of the crowd.
“Skunk! Hey.”
His face registers a brief moment of surprise and confusion.
I roll my bike right up alongside his.
“I can’t believe you’re here! Do you do this every month?”
There’s a joint coming our way. I can smell it, but can’t place it with my eyes.
Skunk fiddles with his brake wires. “Sometimes.”
“I’ve already been out riding for three hours. My bike’s riding totally straight now, thanks to you.”
His face brightens. “Good.”
“I’ve been thinking about fixing those brake pads. Pending you taking care of that Fender, of course.”
Skunk doesn’t answer. We stand there in silence, scuffing the grass with our feet. I wonder if Skunk wants me to leave. Maybe I’m ruining his quiet night out with my chatter. Maybe this is the kind of thing that drove Lukas away from me: Kiri Byrd, professional motormouth.
When the joint gets to us, Skunk passes. I waver, then pass too so he doesn’t think I’m a druggie. When a fifth of Captain Morgan comes around, Skunk passes again. I’m starting to worry that he’s a Mormon or a straight-edge punk like this kid Alex at my school, who wears a Mohawk and safety pins but won’t touch a beer. I lean over and catch his eye.
“Intoxicants not your thing?”
“I choose my poisons.”
“Does that mean we’re robo-tripping later?”
He smiles.
“Wait and see.”
I’m starting to realize that talking to Skunk is like digging for clams on the beach. You see bubbles in the sand and start digging, but he’s digging too, and nine times out of ten that sucker’s faster than you. I cock my head.
“You straight-edge or something?”
Skunk hesitates, and for a second I wonder if I’m digging too hard. He squeezes his brake levers.
“Not exactly.”
“You’re very evasive, you know.”
Skunk’s about to say something when a tall, skinny guy on a red BMX shouts, “Listen up!” and everyone shuffles into a bicycle huddle to decide on a route for the night. Somehow Skunk and I get shuffled apart. When I spot him again from across the circle, he’s lighting a cigarette. He sucks on it nervously and lets out a long, smoky exhale. There’s one of his poisons, anyway.
Red BMX lays out some route options. I vote for northward. So does Skunk. Stanley Park at night sounds like fun. I’ve only ever been there during the day, whenever Auntie Moana and Uncle Ed come to visit. The bike path is always so clogged with little kids on training wheels and their beaming parents that there’s no point in even trying to ride around them.
Red BMX pushes off and starts pedaling down Commercial Drive. For a moment all you can hear are gears cranking and tires bumping down over the curb. I can see Skunk up ahead of me, not too far behind Red BMX and his girlfriend, Purple Mongoose. For someone who loves fixing bikes, Skunk’s doesn’t look like much. The taping on the handles is scruffy, and orange foam peeks out from the cracks in the saddle. You’d think someone Skunk’s size would look funny on a spindly road bike, but Skunk and his bicycle fit together perfectly. When he pedals, I can see the flash of muscles in his calves.
We turn down East 7th Avenue, cutting through a warehouse district I’ve never been