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!