I hide my bike outside the driveway,
peer through the bushes;
no one’s outside.
I creep around the back of the house,
sweating from the bike ride.
Malia is there
in her window.
She sees me,
dramatically points down
to the front door,
which opens suddenly.
Lola is standing there.
Hello, Etan?
In my mind
I form the best lying sentence
about how school let out early,
but nothing comes out.
Malia blunders down the stairs.
Hi, Etan! Lola, we’re going for a bike ride,
then down to the creek
for the afternoon. Love you!
She kisses her on the cheek,
her overstuffed backpack
like a turtle shell, sunglasses on,
scarf around her whole head.
Before Lola says anything,
we are out the door,
Malia holding my arm.
Then we go to her garage,
where her purple Huffy
with ribbons on the handlebars
leans against the side.