I wouldn’t do any of it, though, until I heard back from Dad. Brady had been acting so odd that for all I knew he was trying to set me up, like maybe that particular hedge was Liz’s favorite thing in the whole yard and he had lied just to make me do something stupid and look bad. I hated to be paranoid, but I’d hate even more to cause some sort of problem. I’d wait for an email from Dad before I would proceed.
I also knew that while all of this planning was well and good, I’d been at it for too long now. I shut down the computer, returned my mug to the kitchen, and headed upstairs to look for a pair of shorts among my father’s clothes with one specific challenge in mind.
It was time to get back on a bicycle.
Whoever invented the expression “It’s like riding a bike” to indicate something one never forgets how to do had clearly never gone without riding a bike for seventeen years. In the next fifteen minutes, I came to understand that this was, indeed, a skill that would need to be relearned.
I was pretty sure I was doing everything correctly—pedaling, sitting, steering—and I was going as slowly as I could, yet the bike kept falling over. I managed to thrust out a leg and catch myself each time, but after three such incidents, I was getting really frustrated, not to mention embarrassed. Finally, I decided that the next time it happened I would just keep pedaling regardless—which was how I ended up flat on the sidewalk a block from the house, in pain and feeling like an idiot.
“You’re going too slow.”
I sat up and twisted around to see who had spoken. A boy of about ten or eleven was sitting on the front stoop of the nearest house, tightening the wheels on a skateboard.
“Excuse me?” I said, trying to recover some dignity as I brushed myself off.
“You keep falling ’cause you’re not pedaling fast enough. Pick up the speed and you’ll be fine.”
I stared at him for a long moment, realizing he was right.
“Thanks,” I said, standing up and checking myself for damages. An elbow and knee were both throbbing, and I saw that they had been scraped up a bit. “What are you doing home at this hour anyway? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“In-service day,” he replied with a shrug, as if I would know what that meant.
“Oh, okay then. Thanks again.”
“You’re bleeding.”
I glanced his way and then back at my wounds. “I’ll be all right.” The scrapes weren’t that bad.
“I’d offer to get you a Band-Aid, but I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
I smiled, not stating the obvious. “I understand. No problem.”
Despite the increasing sting from my scrapes, I swung a leg over the bike, thanked him again, and took off. He was right. The key really was to pick up the speed. By the end of the next block, I was sailing along as if I’d been doing this every day for years.
I rode around for at least an hour, exploring the neighborhood in full and just allowing myself to have fun. It was a beautiful morning, the sun warm on my arms, the sky cloudless and blue. Even my knee and elbow stopped hurting after a while. I felt so free—and so carefree. The experience was glorious, and I knew I would be doing this again while I was here.
Eventually, I decided to head back, and I was glad to see that it was far easier to find my way home via bicycle than it had been by car. As I retraced my path, turn by turn, I realized why. It was because this was the pace I was used to, the pace of a horse and buggy.
I was getting close when I passed the big Spanish-looking house with the front courtyard. Then it was a simple right at the home with the rock garden instead of grass, left at the street light, and straight on from there, just two blocks more.
I slowed a bit as I neared the house where I’d fallen earlier, hoping the boy was still outside so I could thank him again for the tip. I could see movement on the stoop as I drew closer, but as I passed by, he didn’t even look up. He was muttering to himself, obviously frustrated with his skateboard, whacking at one of the wheels now with a wrench.
He seemed to be having trouble with some sort of repair. I would have loved to stop and help, but I had to remind myself that I wasn’t in Lancaster County anymore. What would be seen as neighborly there might come across as downright creepy around here.
Instead, I just called out a loud, “Thanks again! You were right!” as I rode past.
When he glanced up, it looked as though there were tears of frustration in his eyes. Embarrassed, he gave me a wave and then quickly returned to the task at hand. Poor kid. I said a quick prayer for him, that he would find a way to solve his problem or at least find someone to solve it for him.
When I got back to the house, I made myself a sandwich and polished it off with a glass of milk. For a moment, I felt a little homesick, thinking how much I already missed Mammi’s delicious noon meals.
As I washed my dish and neatened the kitchen, I calculated the time difference between California and Qatar then decided to check my email for a response from my dad. It had only been a few hours since I wrote, but the timing was good. If he’d gone online prior to turning in for the night over there, he would have seen it.