Thorns — Part 2

Previously …

Whitney’s mother opened the door. She gave him a warm smile and said “hello, Cammy.” He smiled politely and a faint “hi” was pulled out by his breath. Cammy took his shoes off and picked the remaining thorns out of his socks before stepping on the blue carpet in Whitney’s home. He loved the way the house smelled. It was always clean and warm. Cammy’s house smelled like a house. Whitney’s house smelled like a home.

(Continued) 

Shane Wellner | Rawr

Shane Wellner | Rawr

Whitney’s mother curled up in the couch again and pointed to the light in the foyer, to where Whitney was tinkering with the carburetor at the table. Cammy stepped quietly through the foyer and passed the stairs. Whitney didn’t acknowledge him so he tapped the wall slightly to get his attention. Whitney looked up. He had known Cammy was there. He had already guessed he wouldn’t make it home when they left the bridge at the canal that they had been jumping off all day.

“I told you to just ride back with us. We had room in the truck bed.”

“I know, but I didn’t…” Cammy’s voice dropped to a mumble as he looked at the metal parts on the table.

He wondered for a moment what they were and thought of asking. He smelled gasoline. His gaze fell to the lightly speckled tiled floor beneath the table and he didn’t finish his sentence. Whitney didn’t stop cleaning the carburetor, but he wondered what Cammy was thinking about. He wondered why he looked so concerned.

Whitney shouted to his parents asking if they could give Cammy a ride to his house. Whitney’s mother said it wouldn’t be a problem and nudged his father on the shoulder. Whitney’s father cleared his throat with a grunt and told the boys to give him a few minutes and Cammy didn’t speak up until Whitney’s father started for the stairs.

“No, it’s fine, I can walk my bike home. I just wanted to see if Whitney had any extra tubes so I could ride home.”

Cammy’s father was likely home by now. His father wouldn’t have liked that he bothered someone about his own troubles and let Whitney’s father give him a ride.

“How bad are your tires?” asked Whitney and told Cammy to meet him in the barn with his bike.

A single light bulb swung gently from a chain as the breeze snuck through the space between warped panels of wood in the barn. Whitney hung the front of the bike’s seat over a metal bar. The bike was suspended in air. He told Cammy to hold the bike in place. Whitney explained what he was doing as he worked on the bike. Cammy was distracted by the dust swirling in the wind in front of the shed and by the howling and the creaking the barn made when the wind accelerated. He nodded whenever Whitney looked at him. Whitney wasn’t sure if Cammy knew what he was talking about, or if he was even listening, but there was sincerity in Cammy’s eyes and in his voice and whether he was paying attention or not didn’t seem to matter.

Whitney tightened the tension of the bike chain. He adjusted the break and shifting cables. Then he replaced the tubes and told Cammy to stay out of thorns. Cammy smiled and took his bike off the stand.

The night’s summer breeze chilled the perspiration that formed on Cammy’s skin and he pedaled faster on Cemetery Road to his house. Maybe there was a chance his father wasn’t home yet. He heard the rush of an incoming car and got off his bike. He stood in the brush and kept his bike on the road to save his tires from thorns.

The red taillights disappeared as the car dropped below the hill in front of him. He pedaled hard up the hill. His house was on the other side. He hoped no cars would pass when started his descent. He stopped at the top of the hill and looked for any approaching cars.

He was clear. He pedaled as fast as his legs allowed him. He reached a point where his bike was going too fast for him to pedal. He cruised down the hill, shifting his weight side to side, carving, feeling the tires slip on the smooth pavement.

He slid his bike sideways in he dirt and the gravel. He knew there weren’t any thorns there. That was his area. He loved that moment. He didn’t have to use his breaks anymore he had practiced that skid so much since he’d been there. His balance was perfect. He kept his weight on the seat and leaned hard. He listened to the pebbles and dirt grind under his tires. He thought of a hockey player on a break away. Stopping abruptly in front of the goal tender and pirouetting around the puck with his stick to finish the goal. He felt his rear tire regain traction. He straightened his front tire and let the momentum straighten the rest of the bike and he rolled onto his driveway with only a slight sniffle and crickets chirping form the farm across from his house.

His eyes were wet and his black curly hair nearly stood straight up at the top. He wasn’t quite smiling, but his face relaxed and the rush left him tranquil.

Cammy’s focus on his skid made him forget to look for his father’s truck in the driveway. He saw the dent in the driver’s side door of the truck in the moonlight. He could see the chipped dark blue shade of the box shaped truck. Which looked speckled black in the dark. He didn’t like the dent. He remembered his parents fighting over it about money his father got that was supposed to be used to fix the door and the paint of the truck.

Cammy’s father was home. He hoped he was asleep and then Cammy could leave early in the morning without his father knowing. The garage was open so Cammy walked his bike in and set it in a corner out of the way. He didn’t close the garage. He turned the light off so no one could see inside. He opened the door quietly, hoping his father is in bed, or asleep on his recliner in front of the television. He closed the door without making any sound. The door clicks when he locks it. His dad’s voice roars from the living room.

Leave a Reply

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.