A Few Bicycles More, page 15
Apple looked around at everyone, presumably reading minds. “We promise,” she said. “But don’t think about that now. Focus on apples and cinnamon and crust.”
“Apples and cinnamon and crust,” repeated Cookie. The mantra seemed to give her strength. She nodded at Bicycle, and they headed out.
Luckily, the route to the farmers’ market took the girls partially on a mountain bike trail, so they didn’t have much traffic to worry about. It took them longer than expected, though, because the trail was rocky and the 713-C jounced around a lot. Cookie kept wanting to stop and check whether her bike was okay. It was fine—Bicycle told Cookie it was built like a tank, and it’d take more than a rock to injure it—but Cookie wanted to make sure. By the time they got to the market, set up under an array of three-sided tents, they were late. The other eating contestants were already seated in one tent at a long table with a red-checked tablecloth, giant napkins tucked into their shirt collars.
A woman dressed in an apron stood behind a podium. She tapped on a microphone. “Is this working? Okay, we’ve got one seat left for the pie-eating contest. Anyone want to join in? We’re going to start in a couple of minutes. First prize is fifty dollars.”
“Us!” yelled Bicycle, waving. “Well, her!” She pointed at Cookie, who smiled and waved, too.
“Look at you. Come on over, honey!” the apron woman said, gesturing. “You can sit at spot number seven.” She pointed Cookie over to a folding chair in front of a place setting with a big napkin, several utensils, and a glass of water.
Cookie and Bicycle parked their bikes between the tent flap and a bench covered in pie boxes. Five boxes were stacked behind a placard bearing the number seven. Cookie sat at the table and started jiggling her legs up and down.
“Settled in, honey?” the apron woman asked her.
Cookie nodded.
“Boys, could you consider letting this sweet young lady win? She’s too adorable for words.”
“Not for a fifty-dollar prize, I won’t!” yelled out one of the “boys.”
Bicycle looked at the other contestants and realized every other one of them was an adult man, most of whom were tall, solid people whose stomachs appeared to have plenty of room for food. Cookie looked like a cub among bears in comparison.
“All right, all right, but she may beat you fair and square, Takeru. Everyone, open up one of the boxes next to your number and get your first pie ready.” All the contestants did so, lifting out aluminum tins filled with gorgeous full-size pies. Cookie put hers in front of her and took a big sniff. Her legs stopped jiggling.
“Let’s review the rules. You can eat that pie however you see fit—utensils, hands, face—everything’s fair game. You have to finish the pie down to the tin, no more than a teaspoon’s worth left over. I baked some of them, so you better not waste my good cooking. You call out ‘Next,’ and one of the volunteers will put a fresh pie in front of you. You there”—she was addressing Bicycle—“can you help fetch your twin sister her pies?”
Bicycle nodded.
“We’ve got twenty minutes, and whoever eats the most pies in that time wins the prize. If it’s close, we’ve got a scale to weigh the leftovers. Anthony was our pie champ last year”—a man who looked like a lumberjack acknowledged the crowd—“but Takeru here won this year’s kielbasa-eating, ice-cream-eating, and jalapeño-eating contests, so it should be an interesting competition. Eaters ready? Yell out a ‘yum’ if you are!”
“Yum!” yelled the men and Cookie, sounding like they meant it.
“On your marks . . . get set . . . eat!” The apron lady started the timer.
No one used the utensils. Cookie dug both hands into her pie. Bicycle remembered how her sister had said she didn’t want anyone judging her manners when she did this. Bicycle turned away to look at a display of butternut squash. The scoop-smack-munch sounds Cookie was making told her that her sister wasn’t holding back.
Bicycle heard some of the men calling out “Next!” and was impressed when Cookie said the same only a few moments later. Bicycle opened up a new box and used the fresh apple pie to push the empty tin out of the way.
“This is so good, you should try some of it,” Cookie told her. She then launched herself into the fresh one with undiminished gusto. Bicycle turned back to the butternut squash. Her sister’s enthusiasm reminded her of being around some friends she’d met during the summer who ran a fried pie shop. The owner had believed that eating nothing but pie would help you live longer.
“Look at that girl go!” someone in the front row said.
“Look at Takeru, though,” someone else replied.
Bicycle did. The man did not stop to chew. He gulped mouthfuls that she could almost see going down his throat in lumps. He was a human python. It was hard to watch, but hard to look away. He was well into his third pie before Cookie said, “Next!”
Bicycle tugged open the next box, but found an empty pie tin. Not totally empty—it had a few clumps of apple and flakes of crust, so it had contained a pie at some point. There was no time to wonder where it had gone, though, with Takeru pulling ahead. Bicycle put the tin on the table and opened the next box. Thankfully, this one had a full pie, which she got in front of Cookie’s hands and mouth.
Bicycle tried to get the apron lady’s attention about Cookie’s missing pie, but a piece of the tent flap had come loose and the lady was helping some other folks set it to rights. Bicycle decided to open the fifth pie box to check what was inside, and noticed as she picked it up that a slim gray hose was attached to a hole in the side. She followed the hose with her eyes to see where it was coming from. “Oh, no,” she said.
The hose was coming from the 713-C. Bicycle opened the box to see the last fragments of apple pie being vacuumed into the hose. The hose disengaged like an elephant’s trunk coming out of a bag of peanuts. The 713-C withdrew the hose into its frame with a gentle voop.
She stood there not knowing what to do—how did you get pie out of a bicycle?—until the apron lady rang a handheld bell and shouted, “Hands up, eaters, that’s time!”
Cookie sat back and put her goop-covered hands in the air. She stretched her chin to one side and then the other and said, “Ow. I kept telling my mouth to chew faster, but my jaw got worn out. I feel like I could have eaten more if I’d had more time.”
The apron lady called out, “Who’s got the most empty tins? Takeru’s got four, can anyone beat that?”
“The girl!” someone pointed out. “She’s got three and a half empties, and her sister’s holding a fourth!”
Cookie looked in confusion at Bicycle. “When I said you should try some, I didn’t mean right now,” she said. When the apron lady came over to check the empties, Cookie told her, “No, I ate only two and a half, so I didn’t win. It was delicious trying, though.” She licked some filling off her fingers. “Mmm.”
The audience gave Cookie a round of applause for being honest, and gave Takeru more applause when he collected his fifty-dollar prize. All the contestants were given extra napkins and wet wipes to clean themselves up.
“At least I get to bring this half home for later,” Cookie said, picking up the tin in front of her. Bicycle heard the voop noise again and stared as the hose snaked out of the 713-C. It dived into Cookie’s tin and vacuumed the pie away as the two sisters watched in disbelief.
“Why did my bike eat my leftovers?” Cookie asked. She asked the 713-C, “Did you take the other missing pies?”
The 713-C answered in a sweet, high-pitched voice, “Yeff”—how the word “yes” sounds when someone has their mouth full.
“Why?” Cookie repeated.
Bicycle could see that her easygoing sister was on the verge of losing her cool.
The gray hose extended out and touched Cookie ever so tenderly on the forearm. “Helping.”
“But when it comes to eating, I don’t need help,” Cookie told it.
Bicycle said to the Fortune, “You should have stopped it. Weren’t you keeping a lookout for anything unusual with the 713-C?”
The Fortune blinked, I apologize. Watching the humans eat mass quantities diverted my attention. Cookie performed admirably. Based on her pace, she could have finished five pies in thirty minutes. She should next enter an eating contest that gives her more time and more food. An hour and ten pies, perhaps.
Cookie read the Fortune’s screen. “Me and ten pies to myself. That will never happen.” It looked like the empty tin in her hands suddenly weighed more than she could carry. She dropped it to the table. “Let’s just go home.”
STAY CLOSE
Back at Twintopia, Banana saw Cookie and said, “I knew it! She hasn’t got any pie with her—she won the contest!”
“Your Quint Sense is on the fritz. I didn’t win, and I have no leftovers,” Cookie said. “It turns out my bike eats things.”
“No way,” said Daff, eyeing the 713-C. “You got Shark Bike?”
The 713-C piped, “Not eat. Save for later.” It vooped its hose into one of Cookie’s pockets.
“Hey!” Cookie said, reaching in after it and pulling out a Skittles packet and a raisin box, both empty.
Bicycle asked the Fortune, “Did Dr. Alvarado program it this way on purpose?”
Part of the 713-C’s programming is to give its rider nice surprises. It will not reveal more, but it believes with all of its circuits that it is doing a good job.
Mom and Dad came out of the apartment, Dad rubbing his hands. “Park those bikes and shake a leg, kiddos. The Gowumpkis are one of the families cooking tonight, and you know how good their kielbasa and pierogis are.”
The girls’ conversation was put on hold.
When Cookie didn’t finish even one serving of the Polish sausage and dumplings, Mom took her temperature and sent her to bed early. Dad began noodling softly on the piano. “Who wants to learn the left-hand part to ‘When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain’?”
Mom joined him on the piano bench. The other sisters pled tiredness and assembled in their room to whisper about what to do next.
“Now we give up and never tell like you promised,” said Cookie. “Aaargh, not telling means keeping secrets. I hate keeping secrets.”
Daff said, “Maybe we tell Mom and Dad now and emphasize what went right: how we went places and did stuff and came back safely.”
“No,” said Banana. “Let’s all try again to see if we can actually have the experiences we planned in the first place. After we succeed, then we can tell them.”
Apple said glumly, “I think we should give up. The only thing I’ve learned for sure is that when we start pedaling, there’s no telling what might happen to us, especially with bikes like ours.”
The discussion went on. Bicycle’s stomach hurt the way she imagined Takeru the eating contest winner’s did. She felt like she couldn’t trust her instincts on how to be a good member of the Kosroy family. She was responsible for bringing the Wheels of Fortune into their lives. Life had never been too predictable with her own Fortune, but she’d gone along with the idea of trying bicycle adventures even when she knew they’d be full of surprises. She imagined her parents’ faces when they found out that her return had stirred up this sneaky behavior. She should have talked her sisters out of pedaling into the unknown.
Apple asked, “What do you think, Bicycle?”
Bicycle faked a yawn and a too-sleepy-to-figure-it-out mumble. She could feel Apple gazing at her, but her sister just said, “Okay,” and didn’t press for more.
In the morning, Dad was up before Mom, brewing a batch of some new hyperstrong coffee he’d ordered through the mail. He poured two travel mugs full of the smoky-smelling liquid and told the girls he was bringing them over to the Lakshmis’ place. “Kulsoom and Rahi said they’re so tired, they need to drink coffee first to figure out how to make more coffee.”
The sisters shuffled around, getting dressed. The mood was low. Bicycle lectured herself that starting today, she’d be a better daughter who followed the rules, stayed close, and convinced her sisters to do the same. Her instincts would henceforth be ignored. Riding in the hallway would be enough.
There was a sound of voices and a bit of commotion in the hallway. Dad came in, frowning deeply. When Bicycle saw that he was holding four one-hundred-thousand-dollar bills, she froze.
“Wow, Dad, is that real money? Are we rich now?” Banana asked. She didn’t wait for an answer and came to pluck one of the bills from his hand.
“Someone just told me that you gave it to them,” he said, befuddled. “Well, he said Belladonna Kosroy gave it to him, which I assume is you, even though that makes no sense.”
“No sense,” Banana agreed. “Like I’d give these away. If I had some hundred-thousand-dollar bills, I’d use them to buy an airplane. No, a private island. No, a talking walrus. Can I choose all of the above?”
Apple asked, “Hundred-thousand-dollar bills?” She took another one from Dad and examined it. “These can’t be real. I think the government only printed them after the Great Depression for banks to transfer money to other banks.”
Dad said, “They’re not real. That’s what this guy in the hallway just told me. He said someone named Belladonna Kosroy used this money to buy those bikes we found in the property room, but when he tried to use the four hundred thousand dollars to purchase a building, the real estate agent told him it was counterfeit.”
“Counterfeit?” said Apple, turning to Bicycle.
“Our bikes?” said Cookie, turning to Bicycle.
“Four hundred thousand dollars?” said Daff, turning to Bicycle.
“Oh, Belladonna Kosroy, right!” said Banana. “Oh. Oh! Ohhhh.” She turned to Bicycle. “I mean, we have no idea what that guy was talking about.” She gave her sisters a volcanically intense glare, so the other three turned away from Bicycle and looked anywhere but at her. Bicycle stayed still, hoping the floor would swallow her up.
The Fortune blinked, Next time I will print four hundred $1,000 bills instead, or four thousand $100 bills, which would weigh 8 pounds and 13 ounces and require a sturdy bag in which to carry them.
“He had a receipt,” Dad went on, holding up a flimsy yellow piece of paper. “This says Chuck Wolff sold four bikes to Belladonna Kosroy and delivered them to this address a week and a half ago. But since payment was invalid, he came to repossess the bikes.”
“What does that mean, ‘repossess’?” asked Cookie.
“He took the bikes away,” Dad answered.
Apple, Banana, Cookie, and Daff started talking at once. “What?” “You let him take them? Dad, no!” “They’re gone?” “We have to get them back!” “I need to teach my bike not to eat stuff!” “Who will play a soundtrack to my life now?” “I can’t grow up to a be a famous racer without that bike!” “Mine is teaching me Latin and Greek!”
Bicycle’s heart dropped to her knees. The one thing she’d done right—saving the Fortunes—had come undone.
Mom, hunched over and droopy-eyed, emerged from the bedroom. “Loud for morning,” she grumbled. She came to give Dad a good-morning kiss and noticed the money in his hands. “Did we get paid for something?” She squinted hard. “How many zeroes are on those?”
“We might be able to catch him before he leaves,” Apple said. “Come on, everybody.”
The girls scrambled to put on shoes. Cookie yanked open the door, and Bicycle felt her heart rise a few inches to see her sisters’ innate reaction to losing their bikes was determination to get them back. Maybe the Fortunes hadn’t ruined as much as she’d thought they had.
“Whoa, whoa,” said Mom. “Someone needs to tell me what is happening.”
Cookie shouted over her shoulder, “There’s no time!” She ran out with Daff, who said, “We’re going out front.” Apple followed hot on their heels and added, “We’ll explain after.”
Bicycle put her hands on the Fortune’s handlebars. Her instincts were demanding that she launch herself out the door with the Fortune and offer Chuck eight pounds and thirteen ounces of hundred-dollar bills, but that wasn’t something a decent member of society raised by Sister Wanda would do. A good, stay-close daughter definitely wouldn’t do it, either. She wavered uncertainly until Banana grabbed her arm.
“No time to think, it’s time to go,” Banana said, her forward momentum propelling both them and the Fortune after their sisters.
The girls tore through Twintopia, but they weren’t fast enough. By the time they got outside, Chuck’s pickup was already pulling out of the driveway. It looked like he’d thrown the bikes willy-nilly into the bed of the truck. One sideways tire bounced up and down on top, woefully waving good-bye.
“Come back here and let’s settle this like geese!” yelled Banana, shaking her fist as the truck accelerated away.
Cookie said in a hushed voice, “He’s going to melt them, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Bicycle, digging her fingernails into the Fortune’s handlebar tape. “So he can sell their metal for four hundred thousand real dollars, instead of the money the Fortune printed for me.”
“You can print money?” Apple asked the Fortune.
It printed her a two-dollar bill.
Twintopia’s double doors opened behind them. Mom and Dad stood in the doorway. They’d thrown coats over top of their pajamas. “What are you doing out there?” Dad demanded.
Banana replied, “In a nutshell, this dude took our bikes, which Bicycle bought for us with fake money because they’re intelligent and almost alive, and he’s going to melt them at a scrapyard.”
Mom announced, “You girls have been acting strangely all week, but this takes the cake. Get back inside right now.”
The Fortune blasted a piece of music that made them all jump, an aching sob begging not to be forgotten.
Daff turned to the Fortune and said, “That’s the 713-D transmitting to you, isn’t it?”
The bike responded, It is. The bikes do not understand what is happening to them. We cannot wait. An industrial crucible’s furnace can reach 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit in less than half an hour.
