Sam stomped back into his house and marched into the kitchen.
“So?” his mother asked. It was a simple word, but it was loaded.
“What?” Sam threw open a cupboard and rifled through it for a snack.
“Did you give the dish back?”
“Yeah.” He grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies and popped two into his mouth whole.
His mother paused. She eyed Sam in that unique way that always made him feel guilty even when he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“What?” he asked, sputtering crumbs.
“Dinner will be ready in five minutes.” She took the rest of the cookies from his hand and was about to turn when she added, “You know, you could give the poor guy a chance.”
Sam practically choked “Poor guy? Who? Walter? A chance to do what?”
Now more than ever, Sam disliked Walter. For one thing, Wally had scared the crap out of him. Then the kid had had the nerve to leave without even saying a word. This guy wasn’t only a loser; it was as if he didn’t even care that he was.
“To be friends,” Elizabeth said.
Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. “Friends? I already told you, Mom. I’m not going to be friends with him.” Sam felt he needed to spell things out for his mother once and for all, or she wouldn’t stop bugging him. “First of all, he’s a geek. A total geek. He dresses all geeky like he’s only got one set of clothes. And second, he creeps me out. He’s always staring at me funny and stuff.”
Elizabeth moved closer to her son, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can remember a time, not so long ago, that you didn’t have many friends.”
Sam quit chewing and shot her a venomous look. It was as if she’d drawn back a bow, waited for the right moment, and then let the arrow fly straight into his heart.
But Sam’s mother wasn’t done. She let loose with a second arrow. “Don’t you remember what that was like?”
Remember? No, he didn’t remember. He didn’t want to remember. He’d managed to cram all those memories into a huge metal box, bolt it shut, and shove it far into the recesses of his mind where even he couldn’t find it. He’d forgotten all about what it was like to be the kid no one wanted to play with. No one wanted to sit beside. No one wanted to talk to. Those days were gone for good.
Everything had changed the day Mike had come into his life. Mike had moved into the house next door when the two of them were in grade six and had befriended Sam. With Mike’s help, Sam had reinvented himself.
No, Sam wasn’t going to relive the awful days before Mike. Not for anything or anyone. Least of all for Walter.
“All I’m saying is,” his mother continued, “would it kill you to show a little kindness?”
Sam frowned, took a deep breath, and exhaled through flaring nostrils. “Kill me? No. Try obliterate me.”
Just then his father entered the kitchen, still wrapped in a wool blanket. “Don’t you have homework to do, Sam?”
This is great. Mom wants to make me a geek. Dad wants to mould me into his own perfect image. Can’t they both just leave me alone?
Sam awoke with a start. Sweat trickled down his forehead. His heart hammered against his rib cage.
He must have had a nightmare, but the moment he’d opened his eyes, it was snuffed out. He lay there catching his breath, trying to recall what it was that could have scared him half to death. All he could remember was the colour red. Somehow the dream had been red.
Outside, rain battered his window. The illuminated digits on his alarm clock read 1:09 a.m. Sam shut his eyes. Taking a few deep breaths, he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and ran his fingers through his scraggly hair. The fear that was now fading behind a curtain of fog in his brain was replaced with anger.
Sam had never been completely disobedient before, but this time his father was asking for it. He didn’t deserve to lose his computer privileges for calling his sister a few harmless names. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had it coming.
Walking over to his desk, Sam switched on his laptop. While he waited for it to boot up, he searched the piles of clothes on the floor for the jeans he’d worn the previous day. His pulse was steady now. The incessant drumming of the rain was soothing.
What had he been dreaming about? Why was his memory drenched in red?
He found his jeans and dug into the pocket, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper on which he’d scrawled the name of Cody’s blog: maniacstunts.badblog.com. Cody’s email address would be in the contact section of his profile. Perfect, thought Sam, but first things first.
Sam crept toward the door and opened it a crack. He could see down to the lower hallway. It was pitch-black. That was good. Sam slipped through the door and tiptoed across the upper landing. He stood for a moment and listened. Aside from the relentless hammering of rain on the windows and roof, all he could hear was his father’s raspy breathing.
Fast asleep. And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Sam snuck back to his room and sat at his desk. He launched his Internet provider and held his breath. It opened. He released a sigh of relief. I’m in!
His fingers sped across the keyboard, and in seconds Cody’s blog popped up on the screen. It was the coolest thing Sam had ever seen. The title, Maniac Stunts, had letters dripping with blood. They were emblazoned across a background of skulls and bones that seemed real, not animated. On the right-hand side was an “About Me” section, but instead of a picture of Cody, there was a photo of the head of a Doberman pinscher, its lips curled in a fierce snarl, its fangs fully exposed, foam drooling from the corners of its jaws. Beside the photo it said: “Name: Maniac. Location: Sticksville, Butt of the World.”
Sam grinned. Exactly. This guy gets it.
The last entry was dated two weeks ago. The title was “What a Ride!”
Check out this dope stunt. It was too hot. Last Sunday night I rode down Vinegar Hill on three boards. It was a huge rush! I must have been doing a hundred. I had no idea how I was going to stop, but hey, who cares about that stuff? Check it out!
Posted: August 21, 11:30 p.m.
The photo wasn’t clear. The background was dark and there was a blur in the centre. Sam squinted. He was pretty sure he could make out the body of Cody, lying stretched out, almost flat on the ground with three skateboards under him. His arms were spread like wings. He looked as if he were flying. Five comments were posted. Sam clicked on them. The first comment was from Homegirl:
Yo, Maniac, that was pretty M&M. But it’s been done to death … literally!
Posted: August 21, 11:49 p.m.
The next message was from J-Man:
M&M? Mediocre? Yo! Maniac, Homegirl don’t know nothing. That stunt was off the hook! Especially when that big body came right at you and you had to roll off into the ditch!
Posted: August 22, 12:03 p.m.
There were three more messages. Two approving of Cody, but one that said he was a total moron. The person went on to say they knew a kid who had sliced his leg open clear to the bone doing that exact stunt. Nearly bled to death.
Somehow, thought Sam, Cody doesn’t strike me as the type to worry about minor details like bleeding to death!
Sam scrolled down. There were several more entries with pictures of bizarre stunts. Cody tobogganing off the roof of a garage. Cody riding a shopping cart down the street. And one Sam couldn’t quite figure out: Cody trying to do what appeared to be a back flip in the middle of a parking lot. Sam shook his head. I’m not sure if this guy is really cool or really stupid. Either way, Sam was intrigued.
Below the photo of the Doberman was a section entitled “Links to Cool Dudes.” The long list included Homegirl, J-Man, and a bunch of other weird names. Sam thought he should check out some of them, but not tonight. This evening he was on a mission.
Thunk!
Sam snapped to attention. What was that noise? His father? If he was caught now, he’d lose his Internet privileges for an entire year. And that wouldn’t even be the worst of it.
He sat completely still. Should he shut off his laptop and dive for his bed? He strained his ears.
Thunk!
Sam relaxed. The sound was coming from outside. His desk was right by the window. He leaned over and lifted the heavy curtain. Sam had a clear view of the street. Someone was standing in the driveway beside a red car at number six. Through the darkness and rain Sam couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. He couldn’t see a face, or a head for that matter, since the person was under a large black umbrella. Whoever it was, he or she kept opening and closing the trunk of the car.
This is the creepiest neighbourhood, thought Sam, shaking his head and letting the curtain fall.
He had to be quick. His father just might wake up if the guy continued to make noise.
Sam minimized Cody’s blog and opened his email account. He clicked send/receive and waited as some thirty-five messages downloaded. Most were junk mail — advertisements for the latest medications, stock market picks, and people trying to sell him useless stuff. But three emails were as good as gold. They contained the pictures he’d sent himself of the riderless bike. Those photos were his in with Cody.
Minimizing his email account, he returned to Cody’s blog, clicked on contact, and watched an email box open with Cody’s address. Sam memorized it, went back to his email, and forwarded all three messages with attachments to Cody. He hadn’t even looked at the pictures yet, but he was sure they had turned out all right. In the body of the last email he wrote: “Cool stunt. Lucky my dad’s got solid reflexes.”
Sam stopped, thought for a moment, then signed the email “Maestro.” After that he clicked on send. Now all he had to do was wait and see what Cody had to say. The ball was in the daredevil’s court.
He glanced at his clock. It was now 1:30 a.m. The rain was letting up. He lifted the corner of the curtain, but the driveway at number six was empty again. The guy must have finished whatever the heck he was doing. Sam was about to shut down his computer when he decided to check out the pictures to see if they had gone through all right. He clicked on “Sent Items” and opened the first message he’d forwarded to Cody. As the pixels arranged themselves before his eyes, Sam’s mouth fell open.
He shut the first email and opened the second. Then the third.
All the pictures he’d taken had turned out perfectly — the one through the windshield of the Volvo with the bike coming at them and the two outside with the bike in the middle of the road.
Everything was exactly as Sam had remembered it. Every single last detail. The motion. The movement. The position. Everything except the actual bike. The bike in these photos wasn’t retro at all. Kronan wasn’t written on the crossbar, no mousetrap contraption on the back, no huge fenders, no funny handlebars.
These photos were all of a plain modern mountain bike.