my veins. There was no feeling like it—standing up on the pedals to pump up the speed, the glory of coasting, wind in my face, leaning into a sharp curve. It was pure freedom.
On my bike, none of my problems existed—not my mom’s bipolar disorder, not our stacks of bills, not my frustrations about being stuck in my hometown. It was just me, my bike, and the streets of Ever After.
My town, Ever After, is in New York. But it’s not the New York most people think about when they hear the words New York. We’re in the middle of the state, a few hours north of Manhattan by train. It’s a small town, quaint in spots but mostly ordinary. It’s Americana with a capital A.
Ever After is not a “haves versus have-nots” kind of place. Like, I wouldn’t say it’s an ideal location for a Purge movie or anything. Most families are just average, and most of town consists of ordinary, three-bedroom houses. Sure, some are a little newer and nicer, and some are a little older and in need of TLC, like ours.
The house where my mom and I live with Mr. Barks, our dog, was built around 1920. It has peeling white paint and leans a teensy bit to the right, like it has ambitions to be that tower in Pisa. But it’s comfortable, with a wide porch, a little picket fence out front, and a long, narrow yard in the back.
Still, there is a “bad” part of town, an area with dive bars where I wouldn’t want to ride my bike after dark. And then there’s the hill, where the rich people live. The further up the hill you go, the bigger the houses. Maybe there’s some symbolism about heaven or the corporate ladder in there, I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s the only significant elevation gain in town, and thus my bike-training mecca.
Funnily enough, the idea that I should train on the hill had been suggested to me by Mrs. Delphi, a strange old lady who’s a neighbor of mine.
I see you’ve been riding your bike again. Good for you, Billy. If you want to improve your fitness, you go on and ride up to the top of the hill. You ride up there every day, all the way up to the end of Hillcrest. That’s just what you should do.
Um, sure, Mrs. Delphi. Because you’re just the person I’d go to for fitness advice. But she was right.
The day grew hot as I worked my way up Hillcrest. The road snaked around, getting narrower and quieter as it ascended, the houses fancier. Besides being the most punishing terrain in town, it was also the most scenic. The landscaping was elaborate, with flower beds, big oak trees, and wide lawns. Between houses were glimpses of a killer view. I passed the bend that overlooked the quarry, with its limestone walls and turquoise water, then the large empty lot between two properties that looks down on the high school’s white-lined football field in emerald green. In another spot, the river twisted far below like a gray snake and Evergreen Park looked like a leafy salad. My mom had always warned me away from the park. She said its woods were so dense you could get lost for a week.
My speed slowed as my thighs started to burn. I gave in and shifted into the highest gear on my bike, my legs spinning and the bike crawling uphill. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck as the sun beat on my black helmet and shoulders. It wasn’t necessarily fun to ride up this hill, but the views were hard to beat, riding down was a blast, and I did take some satisfaction in the fact that I was getting better at it. For the first few weeks I’d done this, it had just about killed me. Now it only made me mildly nauseous.
By the time I reached the end of Hillcrest, I was completely alone. The road dead-ended, so there was no through traffic. The very top of the hill was dense woods and the road simply stopped, as if giving up on the idea of going any farther through all those trees. The last stretch of Hillcrest had a single residence—just one. It was behind a tall stone wall that seemed to stretch forever. The wall was made up of large rocks in beige and brown and gray, and it had