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Bicycle Boy
- Short story by Adela Wu, Grade 9

It was utterly dismal, not attractive at all, but then again, it was his home. The rows of rectangular boxes for apartments sickened the mind; each looked exactly like those on either side. Occasionally, the old women below them would even enter the wrong building. (Tony had a few laughs at their expense.) And the dust. It coated the streets, leeched onto the walls, hovered in every inch of the summer air. 

What a coincidence that it was down in the filthy streets that Tony found his treasure.

The pile of rusted metal and twisted scrap lay next to an overflowing dumpster. However, Tony recognized the slim form of handlebars, pedals and the worn but unmistakable outline of two bicycle wheels.

“I’m going to fix a bike,” he announced proudly to his mother that night. The tired woman briefly looked up from the warm chicken noodle soup simmering on the stove.

“Tony, how many times have I told you not to go wandering around the streets?” she sighed exasperatedly. “It’s dangerous—”

“Stop treating me like a baby!” Tony shouted against his better judgment for he fully knew about his mother’s raging temper. To his astonishment she put down her soup ladle and sat next to him.

“All right, you win,” She grinned, opening the sewing basket. Quickly, her voice turned serious as she efficiently bit the string and grabbed Tony’s red jacket, “But with growing up, you’re going to get more responsibilities.” She waved a silver key before his eyes. “This is our house-key.” Tony blinked. “People without a home are lost people…if this key is gone, our home is gone. Then we are lost!” His mother rambled on as the sharp needle punctured the jacket and her dexterous fingers expertly folded the lining to create a pocket. She wound thread around the key and administered a final stern warning, “If you lose this key, you might as well throw our family and home away. Be careful, Tony…I trust you.” Tony smiled into his mother’s eyes as she embraced him.

Tony had big plans for Thursday. In order to avoid his sometimes annoyingly overbearing mother, he left early, falsely saying he was going to spend the entire day at a friend’s house.

In fact, Tony wanted to meet with someone who was the most fantastic handyman, mechanic, miracle-worker in the city. Conveniently, he lived just three blocks away and knew Tony well. Everyone called him Mr.Edward. Tony thought the old, wrinkly but genial man was more like a kindly Mr. Prune, but he would never say that to the mechanic’s face. Besides, only Mr. Edward was good enough for the job.

Under the shade of a turquoise umbrella in Mr.Edward’s backyard, Tony stared down apologetically at the wreck that used to be a bicycle. “I don’t know if it can be repaired.”

“Bah, nonsense!” Mr. Edward replied. “Nothing can’t be made better.”

Tony’s eyes lit up. “You’re going to do it, Mister? You’re going to make me a bike?”

The stooped man laughed, “Fixing bicycles, fixing dreams. All it’s going to take is hard work and time.”

There, in the old man’s yard with its patch of tomatoes that burst like sunshine in his mouth and the bobbing blue umbrella that reminded him of distant seashores, Tony spent many a happy, languorous summer day. And slowly, but surely, the bicycle of his dreams took shape.
***
Tony woke in anticipation, for Mr.Edward hinted at a grand surprise the day before. Routinely he checked his jacket for the comforting presence of his key. To his horror, the thin, but strong thread his mother painstakingly sewed had loosened and the key was gone. Tony arrived at Mr. Edward’s thoroughly distraught.

“Good mornin’, Bicycle Boy!” Mr. Edward hailed jovially at an unusually sullen and ashen-faced Tony standing at the edge of the yard.

Tony mumbled hollowly, “Sorry, Mr. Edward, but my key’s lost. And my mom—”

“Nothing to worry about. Your mother would understand…” Mr.Edward said kindly, and, with some difficulty rose out of his seat. “I’m sure this would cheer you up.” The elderly man guided Tony to a shabby shed.

With a great deal of gravity he swung open the door. Tony gasped in involuntary rapture.

The sun illuminated the finished bicycle, gleaming in its perfection.

Tony glided all the way home, perched atop his bicycle, which was painted bright red, just like Mr. Edward’s sunshine tomatoes.

In a lighted window above him, Tony could see the silhouettes of his parents. His heart leapt; finally his dad came home early instead of drinking the night away. About to run up the stairs, Tony paused for a moment, trying to discern the words pouring from the slightly open window.

A barrage of loud cruel words streamed forth. The dark figures moved like wild puppets framed by rustling curtains. His father yelled and his mother sobbed. In the background he thought he heard his little sister crying.

Outside, under the night sky, Tony closed his eyes, the words— alcohol, divorce, hate— pounding in his mind. Defiantly, he straddled the bike, dim streetlights swimming blearily in his vision. Somehow, there’s a way to fix everything…

Leaving the shadows behind, Tony sped off into the stars.