Dancing on the Edge by Han Nolan Page B

waiting. It wanted in. It wanted to take over my whole self. Every once in a while, I could feel the dark thing hovering, jabbing at me, looking for a way in, and my heart would begin to race and my palms to sweat. And then I’d think, it’s that scary fear thing trying to get me. It hid everywhere, waiting for me to let go of Dane, let go of wanting to bring my daddy back, so that it could get inside me, and then Dane would never be able to come back to me. That’s what I knew, and I searched everywhere for things to hold on to that would keep me safe, keep the fear away: simple, good things, like Grandaddy Opal’s job. He delivered newspapers to all the houses in the neighborhood, and in the early mornings I would watch him from my bedroom window as he pedaled down the driveway on his bicycle, his newspaper bag draped over his shoulder and his long white hair flying like a wing from the back of his head.
    I told Grandaddy Opal that delivering papers on a bicycle looked like the most fun thing to do—besides dancing, of course, but I didn’t mention the dancing.
    Grandaddy Opal said he would get me a bicycle and then I could join him on his route. It wouldn’t be a new bicycle, though. He said it would be an old beat-up one picked up at a yard sale. He was good at fixing bicycles. “You fix it up, paint it, and then it’s yours,” he said. “You take care of it, grease it up good every now and then, give it a name, and you ride it everywhere. You and that bicycle become best friends. It’s a real special relationship.”
    I couldn’t wait to get one, to own something special, but Grandaddy Opal said it had to be the right one. “Has to be cheap as dirt,” he said, “and it’s got to have personality. Don’t worry, I’ll know it when I see it. Meanwhile, I can teach you how to ride some on Old Sam.”
    We practiced in the late afternoons, after my dance lessons and before Gigi came home. Learning to ride was hard for me. Old Sam belonged to Grandaddy Opal, and he didn’t want anybody but Grandaddy riding him. Even with the seat lowered all the way, I had to pedal with the tips of my toes and Grandaddy Opal had to hold on to the back of the seat to keep me steady. I couldn’t wait to get my own bicycle.
    We had been living with Grandaddy Opal well over a year—I was almost twelve—when he came into our bedroom one morning and shook me awake. I saw his empty newspaper pouch hanging around his neck like a feed bag.
    He put his finger to his lips. “Shh.” Then he told me to hurry up and get dressed. He left and I put on clothes from the day before, not worrying about making too much noise and waking Gigi. Since we’d been living with Grandaddy Opal, nothing woke Gigi before nine or ten in the morning.
    I went out to the kitchen, but Grandaddy Opal wasn’t there. I went into the great room, and that was empty, too. Then I saw him through the window, wheeling his bicycle out of the garage. I ran outside and called to him.
    â€œWell, what took you so long?”
    â€œI wasn’t so long.”
    â€œSure you were. Now, go on into that garage and see what you see.”
    I knew right then what I’d find, and I was right—my bicycle. I could see its dark form leaning against the washing machine, waiting for me. It didn’t have the freshly painted shine of a just-fixed-up bicycle because Grandaddy Opal said I would have to do all the fixing and caring for it myself, that way it would become special, and really mine.
    â€œThat there is an old English racer,” Grandaddy Opal said, coming into the garage and switching on a light. “And look-a here”—he pointed to a decal on the bar just below the seat. “See what that says? Nottingham, England. And see the picture of Robin Hood? Robin Hood was from Nottingham. You ever read about Robin Hood stealing from the rich to give to the