REMEMBER WHEN we busted up our trikes?
The words poke and sniff around the hatches of her brain, looking for a way in. They make no sense. Why would he say that to her? Why would he say anything to her except call her a name? They’ve never uttered a civil sentence to each other in their whole lives. What’s he up to? Why is he acting so … so … un-Jack? Unboy?
Or is he?
Maybe she’s underestimated boys. Or at least this one. Maybe there’s actually a tiny speck of brain goop between the ears of this one. Maybe the whole thing is a trick. Maybe she’s been looking at this whole thing the wrong way. When she awoke this morning and unspooned herself from Albert, there was the bike, the famous Scramjet, standing over her. Many times she had told the Jack kid she would ride his precious steed, just to rile him up. But she never really believed it. Now disbelief was mocking her: Yo, Ace—who says you can’t? It’s easy. Mount up! So she did, and all questions blew away with the wind in her hair.
Stolen? That’s what they all thought: she stole it. But she didn’t steal it. It came to her.
Or did it?
Maybe the Jack kid is just acting like he doesn’t want his bike anymore. Maybe this whole thing from start to finish has been no accident. Maybe she’s being set up. Maybe he snuck the bike over to her in the night where she was sleeping with Albert. Left it there for her to see when she awoke. Maybe he’s smart enough to know she couldn’t resist taking it. Keeping it. Yeah, maybe it’s all just a big act. He’s letting her think it’s hers, letting her get attached to it, pretending he doesn’t care. And then—bam!—he and his stupid Amigos will sneak in tonight when she’s sleeping and snatch it right back. And wake up all of Hokey Pokey as they howl with laughter at their big joke.
She smiles to herself. Good luck trying to get it back, A-meee-gos.
He’s at a distance now, but not too far. His jeans are crumpled around his sneaker tops. She calls: “Forget the trick, wormbrain! It’s not gonna work!”
Strange, him not fighting back. In the old days he would turn and fire a word back at her, maybe even come stomping closer, the better to splash the word in her face. And the war would be on:
“Snotball!”
“Pimple!”
“Underwear breath!”
“Moron!”
Once, in a duel that became famous across the land, it went on all day long …
“Turdface!”
“Smello!”
“Baby!”
“Infant!”
… until night came and they both fell asleep, right there, half a spit from each other, firing away till the last drooping eyelid.
But no such thing now. He keeps on walking, giving no sign that he’s heard her, leaving her no choice but to retreat to the last thing he said: Remember when we busted up our trikes? Yeah, she remembers. She remembers the satisfying crunch of trike on trike. She thought at first he was going to run off bawling. She’s glad he didn’t. That would have ruined everything. But he hung in there, climbed back in the saddle, came charging at her. By the time they were done, the trikes were wrecks and so were they, both of them wild-eyed and drooling, and she knew she had an enemy for life. Oh yeah, those were the days!