Wild Fell by Michael Rowe Page B

They don’t look like nice big kids, either.”
    Three older boys, larger by far than Hank and me, were making their way across the field toward us. Rather than walk, they
lumbered.
They reminded me of a pack of cartoon jackals.
    “Hey kid, nice bike,” the largest one said. “It’s too big for you. I want it. Give it to me.”
    “You can’t have it, it’s mine. I got it for my birthday. My mom and dad bought it for me.” This was greeted with coarse guffaws from the three boys. Again I thought of cartoon predators.
    The one who addressed me first—the one I would later learn was Terry Dodds—mimicked me. “‘You can’t have it, I got it for my birthday!’ Waaah, waaah, waaah, baby. What are you going to do if I just . . . take it?” He reached down and picked up my Schwinn as though it were a plastic model. “Huh? How ya gonna stop me?”
    Hank shouted, “Leave him alone! It’s his bike! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you . . . you
asshole
?” There was a moment of stunned silence at the use of this word by an eight-year-old girl, but they laughed again.
    Terry jeered at Hank. “Are you a boy or a girl? You look like a boy. If you’re a boy, let’s fight. If you’re a girl, then your pal is even more of a sissy for letting a girl fight for him.” He turned back to me. “Huh, kid? Are you a sissy? You gonna let this little girl do all your fighting for you, or are you going to come and be a man and take this bike away from me? Because otherwise, I’m gonna take it. And if it’s too small for me, I’m gonna give it to my kid brother. He needs a bike. That okay with you, kid?” he taunted me. “Huh?” Terry grinned at his friends. “I guess it’s all right with him. He didn’t say I couldn’t, did he?”
    “Nope,” they chorused. “He didn’t say you couldn’t.”
    “Yes I did! I did say you couldn’t. It’s
my bike
!”
    “Too late,” Terry taunted. He climbed on the bike, which was ridiculously small for him—and which made him look even more like some sort of monster astride it—then did a quick, jerky circle on it. “Yep, this’ll be okay. See you later, kid. Come on guys, let’s get out of here.”
    Hank, who had been standing next to me, fists flexed at her side, abruptly jumped on Terry’s back and began to punch him. She even managed to land a few major blows, blows that made him cry out in pain. He shoved her to the ground. She jumped up and went for him again, shouting a strangled war cry that she had probably picked up from a Saturday afternoon adventure film on television. He shoved her down on the ground again, and this time he put his finger in Hank’s face and wagged it.
    “Stay down, you little bitch,” he said. “If you come at me again, I’m going to put you and your little buddy in the hospital. Got it?”
    “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” she said again, but both of us heard the note of defeat in her voice under the shrillness, as did Terry. “He’s just a little kid. Give him back his bike!”
    “He doesn’t have a bike,” Terry said. “
I
have a bike. It’s
my
bike now. Come on, guys, let’s get home and give this bike to my brother.” And with that, he pedalled off across the field toward the new subdivision, with his two friends half-walking, half-running to keep up with him.
    I burst into tears. I not only felt the loss of my bike, but I felt the guilt of disappointing my father after all those hours of practice and all his patience. The bike had been a gift of love, the consummation of those painful hours of skin scraped against asphalt, banged-up limbs, and blood, and my father’s loving attention to helping me learn.
    Hank hugged me. “Come on, get on the back. I’ll double-ride you home,” she said. “Let’s go tell your parents.”
    I tasted the snot running down my upper lip, mixing with the tears. “They’re going to be
so mad.
 . . . I’m not supposed to be this far from