A Few Bicycles More, page 8
Dad looked willing to give it a shot. Mom looked flummoxed. Bicycle got the sense her daughters didn’t often push back when she told them not to do something. But this was something worth pushing about.
“Do you girls want to do this?” Mom asked the sisters.
“Yes, please,” Cookie said. “If it’s okay with you.”
Apple gave Bicycle her penetrating gaze, and seemed to come to some conclusion. She echoed Cookie: “If it’s okay with you.” She prodded Daff with her elbow.
“You can watch us the whole time,” Daff said.
Daff elbow-prodded Banana, who added, “What they said. As long as you agree to call me Brouhaha today.”
Mom fluttered her hands. “Well.” She took a deep breath and closed her crossword puzzle notebook. “I guess Dad and I can take the afternoon off from work so you can try this. We need to go back to the property room to look for some elbow pads and shin guards.”
Bicycle smiled. There was hope.
Cookie went first. Bicycle demonstrated how the pedals and brakes worked, and then stood back to let her get a feel for balancing on two wheels.
Mom stepped in and grabbed the back of the bike seat. “I’ll hold on to you and run alongside, how about that, sweetie?”
Cookie shrugged agreeably. However, it quickly became clear that Mom’s hunched-over running was too awkward. Bicycle suggested that Mom let go for a minute so Cookie could try “scooting”—pushing the bike along with her feet—to get up enough speed to use the pedals.
Cookie scooted a few feet down the hallway, shouting, “Whee! I just rode across Montana!”
Mom chased her, yelling, “Slow down, for heaven’s sake!”
Cookie obediently put on the brakes and the two of them nearly had a collision. Bicycle explained to everyone that in order to learn to ride, you couldn’t go too slowly, or you’d never get enough momentum to stay upright.
“I can only bear my girls going fast if I can be right next to them to catch them,” Mom protested. “It’s a mother’s instinct.”
“It’s a father’s instinct, too,” said Dad. “I understand. Come on, we can do this together.”
She and Dad tried running on either side of Cookie, but Mom couldn’t seem to stop yelling, “Slow down!” then yelling, “I’m sorry!” then yelling, “But slow down!”
Cookie was doing her best to accommodate their mother, and Bicycle could see this was a losing proposition.
Cookie relinquished the bike to Brouhaha-Banana. Mom and Dad started fussing over Brouhaha-Banana’s shin guards, which she’d put on backward. A few kids emerged from their apartments across the hall to see what the hubbub was all about. One commented, “Bicycling lessons, cool!”
Cookie came over to the other sisters and said quietly, “I thought this would be more fun.”
“Once you get the hang of it, it’s the most fun,” Bicycle said.
Apple joined the conversation. “Mom even yells ‘Be careful’ at our old home movies, like she can stop us from getting too close to a squirrel eight years ago. We knew this would be tough, but I could tell how much it means to you, so we’re going to give it our best try.”
“Thanks.” Bicycle appreciated knowing her sisters would try to fit in with her at the same time she was trying to fit in with them. She crossed her fingers for Brouhaha-Banana’s ride.
Unfortunately, things weren’t any easier for the second cycling sister. The girls watched Dad trip over his shoelace and fall to his knees. Then their mother’s glasses slid off her nose as she galloped along. She flailed her hands to catch them before they hit the ground and then bumped Brouhaha-Banana’s handlebar with her hip, sending the girl careening into the wall.
“My baby!” Mom cried.
“I’m okay!” Brouhaha-Banana called back.
Daff was making a video of the historic moment, but her face said she wasn’t sure any of them would want to remember it. “If only there were a way for Mom and Dad to be part of this without . . . being a part of this,” she murmured to Bicycle.
Apple went next but quit pretty quickly.
“Oh, man, it looks like I’m up.” Daff squared her shoulders like she was going into battle and handed Bicycle her camera. “Can you film this? I can’t do both.”
Bicycle did her best to focus the shot and thought of a friend she’d made on her cross-country trip: Zbig, the best bike racer in the world. He’d recently opened a bike-racing school, and he’d probably be covering his eyes and exclaiming distressed things in Polish in front of this scene.
After each of the four girls had had a turn, Dad said, “That wasn’t like I remember it.”
“That wasn’t how it was supposed to be,” Bicycle told him. “Let me show you.” She threw her leg over the Fortune and pumped across Missouri, Nebraska, and Nevada.
“Wait!” Mom yelled. “There’s no way I can keep up with you.”
Bicycle reluctantly stopped and turned around, ready to say You don’t need to! But she bit back the words. Disappointment was radiating off her mom in waves.
Daff must have sensed Bicycle’s mood because she waved her camera and said, “Hold on. I saw this technique in a movie filmed by rock climbers once. Cookie—got any duct tape?”
Cookie pulled a small roll out of a pocket.
Daff clicked some settings on the camera, then duct-taped it to the front of Bicycle’s helmet. “All set to livestream to our computer. The duct tape is covering the microphone, but picking up sound shouldn’t be important. Bicycle can ride and we can watch the whole thing inside without having to keep up. If this works, we can take turns using it.”
Apple patted Daff’s shoulder. “Slick idea, sis.”
It took more convincing, but eventually Mom and Dad agreed to try the suggestion and let Bicycle ride the whole fifty-state loop on camera. Their willingness may have had something to do with the fact that they were both sweating heavily.
The kids who’d been watching in the hallway asked, “Is anyone going to fall down anymore?”
“Not anymore,” Bicycle told them.
“Oh. The falling down was the best part,” one said, and they left.
Once her sisters and parents were set up in front of the computer, Bicycle rolled past Nevada and across New Hampshire, relishing how, even indoors, cyclists make their own breeze.
The Fortune blinked up at her as they blew across New Jersey. Knock knock.
“Who’s there?”
A bike with a question.
“A bike with a question who?”
When can we go to the scrapyard to search for the source of the prison song?
“I don’t know. Dad said it’s not our turn to use the commune’s car. There is another problem, though. If we need to rescue some bikes, we may not be able to afford to buy them.”
I have all the money we need.
The Fortune made a humming noise as a slit opened in its left handlebar. A freshly printed dollar bill came out. Bicycle plucked it free and tucked it in her pocket, making sure her helmet cam was pointed away from all of this. She would have been amazed if she hadn’t seen the Fortune do this before. “You know using counterfeit money is illegal.”
It is identical to U.S. currency in every way. You used it to buy ice cream in Nevada.
This was true. No one had ever needed ice cream more than she had in the Great Basin Desert. “I was desperate. I sent the ice cream parlor real money in the mail as soon as we got home. Fake money is not the answer.”
Her time in the saddle was over too soon, even with taking a wrong turn after Wyoming and having to backtrack to find Alabama. She wheeled the Fortune into the apartment with fingers crossed to see if Daff’s proposal had worked.
Her parents were impressed. “It’s like we were right there with you,” Dad said. He’d mostly stopped sweating.
Brouhaha-Banana said, “Mom got to yell ‘Be careful’ at the screen all she wanted.”
“Could we each try using it?” asked Cookie. “Bicycle really seems to be good at cycling, and she can coach us. Then you can see we’re safe, but you don’t have to be right there. Although you can if you want to be.”
Dad thoughtfully poked the pile of math textbook pages awaiting editing on his desk. “This way, we could watch the girls and get some work done at the same time.”
Mom looked at her crossword puzzle notebook and then at the clock. “I think this may be okay,” she said. “We should get down to the cafeteria for dinner, but if you girls want to try practicing in the hallway again tomorrow, with your sister coaching you one-on-one, you can.” She held up one finger. “If you promise to wear all your safety gear, and go slowly, and know I’ll be out there like a flash if you need me.”
“We promise!” Cookie answered, and high-fived Bicycle.
NOT AN ADVENTURE
Dad grumbled the next morning about the return of more rain. “At this rate, our playing fields are never going to dry out before winter.”
Mom handed him the coffee creamer. “Cheer up. The radio said this should be the end of the wet weather. Plus, remember what’s for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner.”
“We get to have two adventures today,” Cookie told Bicycle. “Riding bikes with you and Waffle Day.”
Bicycle was intrigued. “What happens on Waffle Day?”
“The cafeteria kitchen is open for twenty-four hours, and the World’s Biggest Waffle Iron gets brought out of storage,” Apple explained.
Daff continued, “Everyone mixes up as much batter as they can, and then we go and take turns pouring waffles into the iron and cooking them up.”
“That sounds nice, but I wouldn’t call it an adventure,” Bicycle said.
“You don’t understand,” Banana said. “The World’s Biggest Waffle Iron makes thirty waffles at one time. And we can go in and make them anytime. Multiple times. Ten o’clock in the morning? Thirty waffles. Three in the afternoon? Thirty waffles. Ten o’clock at night? Thirty more waffles.”
Cookie pulled a little jar filled with multicolored particles out of a pocket. “We get to put sprinkles in the batter.”
Apple added, “There’s jugs of real maple syrup. There are cans of whipped cream.”
“This day is definitely a good thing,” Bicycle said. “But still not an adventure.”
“What makes something an adventure, then?” Banana asked.
Bicycle thought. “It has to have some element of the unknown. At least a little bit of risk and excitement. I’d say you have to travel somewhere different, meet unexpected people, or try a new experience.”
Cookie said, “It’s unknown if we’ll run out of syrup.”
Apple said, “My new experience will be making a waffle sandwich with whipped cream in the middle.”
Daff said, “It turns the commune into a different place—a waffle-filled place—so it’s like we’re traveling even though we’re not going anywhere.”
Bicycle felt her face doing something that felt like frowning and smiling at the same time. Friling? Smowning? She liked her sisters’ enthusiasm about this special day, but she didn’t like that their understanding of adventure was so limited. It wasn’t worth arguing about, though. “When do we start the cooking?”
When they reached the kitchen, another family was just beginning to tilt the massive waffle iron on its stand. The circular waffle iron was the size of a kiddie swimming pool, mounted on a stand that raised it off the floor. Under the stand, a waxed picnic tablecloth had been spread out. A father cranked a lever on the side of the stand so the iron moved from flat like a table to vertical like a window. “Ready?” he said to his crew, and they said back, “Ready!” He engaged a different lever and the waffle iron creaked open, dumping a mound of heavenly-smelling golden disks onto the tablecloth. Two older kids each grabbed a corner of the cloth and slid it away from the waffle iron. A third child blocked a younger sibling from climbing into the waffle pile headfirst, saying, “Stop! Wait until we get into the cafeteria!”
After the family dragged away their bounty, the Kosroys set to work, showing the same kind of natural coordination they’d had when taking care of the Lakshmis’ quadruplets. Apple measured flour; Banana melted butter; Cookie dosed out sugar, salt, and baking powder; Daff beat eggs and poured milk; Mom set up bowls to mix the dry and wet ingredients together; and Dad spread out their own waxed tablecloth and prepped the waffle iron. Bicycle hung back, feeling like a seventh wheel again, until Dad caught her eye and handed her a bottle. “Vanilla. The recipe says it’s optional, but it really isn’t. Make sure to get a few good glugs of this in the batter. And I do mean glugs—the pitter-patter of a few drops is not the right amount.”
Bicycle thought back to making a vat of vanilla pudding with Sister Wanda at the Mostly Silent Monastery. Bicycle had been in charge of the vanilla and had accidentally added twice as much as the recipe called for. She worried that she’d ruined it, but Sister Wanda told her to save the worrying. “With cooking,” she explained, “the proof is in the pudding. It often doesn’t matter whether you followed the recipe or not, as long as it tastes good.” Bicycle remembered that the pudding had proved super-delicious with way too much vanilla—the Top Monk had even pronounced it “sandwich.”
Bicycle poured some hearty gurgling glugs of vanilla into the egg-and-milk mixture. Mom got things mixed, and Cookie poured in sprinkles. Bicycle knew she’d done her part right when the waffles cascaded out of the giant waffle iron onto the tablecloth and the vanilla scent filled the air. The whole family took in a simultaneous breath and let it out with an “Ah!”
They dragged the tablecloth into the cafeteria. Mom doled out plates and utensils. Waffle devouring commenced. Bicycle watched her parents and sisters fill waffle squares with syrup to form designs, the way she’d always done. She tried a whipped-cream waffle, too, which was new to her, and agreed on its scrumptiousness.
Banana layered slices of banana on top of hers. “Not a word from any of you,” she said.
Bicycle decided that she needed to bring the Fortune to the next Waffle Day and describe the experience in detail for its database.
The conversation flowed as freely as the syrup. Bicycle felt like she was part of the rhythm this time, sharing stories of cooking with the monks. She even remembered to tell everyone when she left to use the restroom. She was beaming as she walked down the hallway, thinking, I am getting the hang of this.
On the way back to the cafeteria, Bicycle caught sight of blue sky out of a window. She gratefully pushed open a door and stepped out for some sunshine. She stood, listening to nothing but her own breath, soaking up the solitary silence. She didn’t notice the minutes passing until she heard panicked shouting from inside: Where could she be? She wasn’t in the bathroom! Yoof! Bicycle! Yoofcycle!
She groaned softly and went back inside to apologize for ruining Waffle Day. If only Mom and Dad could save the worrying until after they knew something had gone wrong, the way Sister Wanda had told her to put worrying on hold until tasting the pudding. The only way she could think of to keep them at ease was to force herself to remember to stay close at all times. She worried that the third Rule of Family Belonging was starting to look like Be Whoever They Need You to Be, Even If It’s Someone You’re Not.
When it was time for the afternoon bike training, the girls set Mom and Dad up in front of the computer and took the bikes out into the hallway. Bicycle offered again to let her sisters try riding the Fortune, which was the right-sized frame for them, but they all preferred the little bike. “It looks like it would be easier to control,” said Cookie.
“At least let me raise the seat,” Bicycle said. “Does anyone have an Allen wrench?”
Cookie pulled a folding multitool out of a pocket and watched over Bicycle’s shoulder as she loosened and pulled the seat post out to its maximum height. Bicycle showed her how to re-tighten the seat.
When they stepped back, Banana said, “Me first, okay?” She didn’t wait for an answer from anyone before climbing on the bike and fastening the helmet cam on her head.
“We’re going to do this right,” Bicycle told Banana, getting on the Fortune. “Mirror exactly what I do, at exactly the same speed.”
Banana watched Bicycle like a hawk and was pedaling and balancing upright in no time, able to stop and catch herself whenever she wobbled. “I’m queen of the world!” she yelled at the end of the hallway. “Are there any famous bike racers whose names begin with B?”
“There’s Beryl Burton. She shattered road riding records in the 1960s,” said Bicycle.
Banana crowed, “Call me Beryl today! Can we keep going?”
“Let’s do the whole loop,” Bicycle said. They went through all the N states, the O states, the one P state, Beryl-Banana mirroring Bicycle and gaining confidence with each rotation of the wheels.
“I’m kind of amazing at this, huh?” Beryl-Banana said. “I mean, I’m identical to you, so it’s no surprise.”
They made one full loop past the cafeteria and back to the apartment. Cookie waved them down, saying, “Me next.”
Beryl-Banana replied, “I forget how to stop!” and kept going. Bicycle followed her to explain the brakes again and Beryl-Banana told her, “I know, I know, I just wasn’t ready to stop yet.” They started the loop again. “You know where I’d ride this bike if I could?”
This seemed like a perfect ice-breaker question: Where would you ride a bike if you could? Bicycle wished she’d thought of it before. She then realized this was the first conversation she’d had with Beryl-Banana without the rest of their sisters around. She’d been getting to know her sisters in a clump—here was a chance to get to know them one-on-one. “Where would you go?” she asked.
“To a karate class. I think I’d be really, really good at attacking people in a controlled and graceful way. I saw it on television a few times and I’m pretty sure I can do it. Ki-yah!” she yelled and flung one arm through the air, losing control of the bike and careening into the wall. Her front tire bounced off it as she squeezed the brakes hard. She put her feet on the ground and bowed to the wall. “Karate Cyclist respects you as a worthy opponent.”
