She didn’t knock, just barged through the door like she owned the place. She did own it, but that was beside the point. I knew my rights, and privacy was at the top of the list. Planting herself in the middle of the room, she scowled as her eyes swept across the floor. Dirty cups and rogue pieces of laundry were noted and filed away on her mental list of grievances. With a hand clamped over her nose, she turned to me. “Howard, how many times do I have to ask you to clean your room?”
I told her to scram; a man’s room is his castle.
Some mornings I should just keep my mouth shut.
“Howard Jamieson Wallace.” The temperature in the room took a nosedive. “That’s the first and last time you ever speak to me like that. I want this place spotless when you get home. Hurry up and get dressed—you’re going to be late for school.” With one last grimace at the offending mess, she turned on her heel and left. Mothers. She had a point, though. It was about time for me to check in at the office.
I pawed through the pile of clothes on the floor until I found a semi-presentable shirt. A half-eaten peanut butter sandwich from my sock drawer took care of breakfast. I pulled on my lucky coat, snagged my backpack, and headed out the front door.
Around the corner, in the garage, my ride waited patiently. A cobalt Cruiser passed down to me from the old man, he called her “Big Blue,” and I saw no reason not to do the same. We’d patched her up more than a few times over the years, and she was now a two-wheeled Franken-bike held together by duct tape, twine, and baseball cards. Big Blue wouldn’t win any pageants, but she was mine. The fact that she broke down like clockwork merely helped me keep track of time.
I strapped on my helmet, and we did a couple of turns in the driveway to warm up. Blue was never at her best first thing in the morning. I’d learned the hard way it didn’t help to rush her. Lugging a forty-pound bike to school after she conked out with a cramp was a surefire way to end up late and stuck with detention. When her clanking settled down to a dull thump, we headed out. The direct route from my house to Grantleyville Middle School spanned eight blocks. It wasn’t without complications, but the problem-free scenic tour added fifteen minutes to my commute. I could deal with a few bumps in the road if it meant logging extra Zs.
At the corner of Maple and Front, Big Blue took a breather while I creatively rearranged the contents of my backpack. After six long weeks of getting put through the ringer, I’d learned a few tricks.
Once my preparations were complete, we began the grueling trek up the giant hill also known as Maple Street. I knew what was waiting for me at the top. Blue shuddered as a tremor ran through my legs. Knowing was not the same as experiencing, and every time seemed to be a little bit worse. Get it together, Howard.
I braced for impact.
“Howie! Pull over.”
Tim Grantley and Carl Dean leapt out of the bushes, blocking off the sidewalk. By far the largest, nastiest brutes in the eighth grade, both of them towered over me by at least a foot. Tim, the proud owner of more forehead than brains, had sprouted two individual facial hairs over the summer. He liked to stroke them while menacing his victims. I think he thought it was manly, but in reality, it was resulting in dry skin. Carl was the stoic flipside to Tim’s posturing; a hulking behemoth carved out of granite. His face never gave any warning before he lashed out, making him a more dangerous foe than Tim. It was just my luck these two bruisers were my new morning welcoming committee.
Tim inherited this prime spot over the summer from his cousins, Greg and Jimmy Grantley. The town’s founding family made it a point to look after their own—especially when it came to the low-hanging fruit of the family tree. Tim wasn’t the brightest bulb, but in a sprawling clan like the Grantleys, they couldn’t all be winners. Besides, smarts weren’t exactly required in his line of work.
With the help of his henchman, Carl, Tim ran an extortion racket, plain and simple. In exchange for the choicest items from your lunch bag, they’d let you pass without injury. I’d tried declining once, but that’d resulted in me attempting to ride my bike with my underwear pulled up around my ears. It hadn’t been much of a fight, as my only backup was a rusty pile of bolts on wheels. Now I was resigned to my daily shakedown.
Resting my feet on the sidewalk, I waited patiently as Tim swaggered up to me and Blue.
“Looked like you were planning to pass us by, Howie,” he said, one finger stroking his lip.
I shook my head. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Tim.”
He grinned at me as he rested an elbow on Carl’s plank-like shoulder. “That is good to hear, Howie, because I was concerned you were confused about your role in this little economic arrangement we have.”
I sighed and dug a rumpled brown bag out of my backpack. “Nope, I am crystal clear.”
Tim snatched it out of my hands and pulled out a chocolate chip cookie before tossing it back to Carl. “It’s like Dolphinism,” he said around a mouthful of delicious home-baked goods.
Carl looked up from nosing through the bag. “Darwinism,” he said.
“Exactly.” Tim nodded. “Survival of the fittest. We are of the fittest, ergo, we survive on your lunch.”
Suffering through the indignity of their petty robbery was one thing. Having to listen to Tim’s philosophizing kicked the experience up to a new level of torture. If he and Carl were the top of the food chain, the human race was doomed. I wondered briefly if the shaking under my feet was Blue’s nerves or Charles Darwin rolling in his grave.
I reached down to wipe some stray cookie crumbs off Blue’s fender. Life must be so simple for a goon. See cookies, steal cookies, eat cookies, repeat. If only I had the muscle mass to try it out.
“So, can I go?” I asked before looking up. Minimal eye contact was key in any Tim and Carl encounter.
Tim laughed out a loud, obnoxious honk. “He can’t wait to get rid of us, eh, Carl?”
Carl didn’t laugh. Carl never laughed.
“You’re all fired up to leave us and hang out with your friends?” Tim feinted a punch, crowing with glee when I jerked back. “Two for flinching!” The shots to my shoulder nearly took me out of my seat. My sidekick didn’t help matters by falling over in a dead faint. As I struggled to right Blue, Carl watched impassively and Tim shook his head.
“Howie, that is, unquestionably, the saddest bike I have ever seen.” He jerked his head in dismissal. “Go on, get going.”
Blue didn’t need any more encouragement. I set my feet on the pedals, and, with a surprising burst of speed, we were on our way down the road. Tim and Carl tromped back into the bushes to enjoy the remainder of their morning of criminal pursuits.
With every inch of sidewalk added between me and the dynamic duo, my pounding heart returned to its normal rhythm. Blue and I might know what to expect from those numbskulls, but that didn’t make it any easier to choke down. We took a sharp turn onto Hillside Street and wobbled.
“Easy, Blue,” I said, patting the handlebars of my skittish ride. She was getting too old for this kind of excitement. The stash of food weighing down my left pocket probably didn’t help. My temporary solution to being accosted on a regular basis was to separate out the boring items from my lunch. As long as cookies and a sandwich were present, Tim and Carl never questioned if the bag was a little light. Today, I’d been left with an apple, carrots and two granola bars. I would survive, but a permanent solution had to be found—ideally something that gave them a taste of their own medicine. A person could only handle so much character building via public humiliation.
Big Blue and I trundled toward school, dignity trailing in our wake. Tim and Carl were relegated to the back burner for now. I had a full caseload to look after, and revenge was an expensive enterprise.