TWO SIDES OF AN ARROWHEAD, two bikes, come to a point at Jack, slumpsitting on the rusty rail. LaJo, Dusty glance about.
“Where’s—” says Dusty.
“—Scramjet?” says LaJo.
“She stole it,” says Jack. He doesn’t have to say who she is.
“Glove too?” says LaJo.
Jack hasn’t even thought of his baseball glove, looped over the handlebar of the bike. Where he goes, the glove goes. He nods heavily.
They cannot speak. They do not know Jack without his bike. Things have shifted.
They dismount.
Jack pulls up his shirt and pretends to wipe sweat from his face, but really, even though he wants them here, he doesn’t want to be seen.
LaJo stares in shock, is about to say something, clears his throat, says something else: “You crying?”
Jack springs, shoves LaJo backward. LaJo’s bike clatters to the ground. “Do I look like I’m crying? Did you ever catch me crying?”
Jack kicks LaJo’s bike tire, glares, dares him to do something about it. He turns to Dusty. “Did you?”
Dusty flashes a V-finger peace sign. “Hey, not that I ever saw.”
Jack is in his face. “Not that you ever saw? What’s that mean? You never saw me but somebody else did?” Poking him in the chest. “Huh?”
“No, man.” Dusty puts up his hands as if sheriff-caught. “I ain’t sayin that. You never … you just ain’t a crier, Jackarooni—everybody knows that.”
Jack gives Dusty’s bike a kick and scuffs down the tracks, stops, sags, shows them his back.
Dusty calls: “Scramjet. He was a great one, Amigo. Right, LJ?”
Jack is silent, still. Then says something they cannot hear.
Both call, “What?”
Jack wheels. “What do you mean was?”
LaJo straddles his fallen bike. “Hey, man—”
Dusty rushes forward, laughing too loud. “Sí, sí, Amigo! What’s this was stuff? We just got to get it back, is all.” He punches Jack’s arm. He gives a sneery laugh. “Ain’t no was.” He spits in the dirt, gives Jack another punch.
Jack returns the punch. A grin peeks over the edge of his scowl. “I know where she’ll head,” he says.
Dusty yips like a puppy. “Yeah! Where?”
Jack pulls LaJo’s bike to its feet. He mounts the rear fender. He looks from one to the other. “Gorilla Hill,” he says. And in their eyes and growing grins he sees the truth of it.