I could see it coming. I could see his goo-goo eyes every time we saw the Bumpsters riding around. I figured sooner or later he would join them. Just thinking about it made me mad. Mad enough to decide that when it finally happened, I would just spit, burp, and call, “Good riddance! Who needs ya? Who cares?”
So when I saw that his bike was gone one day, I reminded myself, Who cares? I went out riding myself. Why not? I’m a big girl. I pedaled past Mom and Dad working on the handyman special. When I saw the Bumpsters riding up ahead of me I said to myself, Turn off. Go another way. But my bike didn’t listen. It just kept following them. And then they saw me, and that’s when they made their big mistake—they sped up. All my reminders went out the window. Were they serious? Did they really think they could outrace me? Me?
I took off after them. They zipped down street after street. Hills. Alleys. Parking lots. Leaning into turns like motorcycle riders. I would have caught them sooner but I couldn’t stop laughing at those four Bumpster hineys slamming from side to side. I caught them on the flat stretch of Beacon Street that runs along the tracks.
I don’t know what they expected me to do. Heck, I don’t even know what I expected. But as soon as I pulled up to their fenders I knew: I had already done it. Caught up. All I had to do now was beat them. I smoked past them like they were standing still. I was laughing and waving. Turns out I didn’t feel mad or bad at all. I felt great!
(And just to set the record straight—if a train left on the doormat came from BS, yeah, I would throw it in the trash.)