Read Online A Nose for Adventure by Richard Scrimger - Free Book Online

Wrinkles all over her face, from the double chin all the way up to the hairnet. Her legs are bowed. She’s wearing a stained apron. For a moment I think she’s going to pinch my cheeks. Instead, she nudges my arm with her elbow. “She is laughing because she is with a young man like you. Heh-heh. Today she leaves her mother at home, and you make her laugh!”
    My turn to be embarrassed.
    Frieda isn’t laughing now. “I don’t come here with my mother,” she says.
    The waitress picks up our silver bowls and shuffles away.
    A couple of kids go skateboarding by. One of them runs right up the ramp and into the parked truck. The ramp is metal, and makes a clatter. The kid skates back down. The other kid laughs.
    They’re both wearing baggy jeans and floppy hats and sunglasses. Their shirts ride high. The logo of a famous running shoe company proclaims itself from the waistband of their underpants. The kids skate down the street, heels high as they kick off.
    I shrink inside my own clothes.
    “I want to do that,” says Frieda suddenly. She gets up from the table, swings herself into her chair, and rolls off the patio and down the sidewalk.
    “What? Where are you going?”
    Frieda finds the ramp at the street corner, and rolls herself along the side street towards the parked truck. She stops at the foot of the ramp, takes a deep breath, and beginsto push herself up. She gets only a few feet up when one of her hands slips, and the chair slides down to the foot of the ramp. She shakes her head, and tries again. She gets halfway up the ramp, this time, working harder and harder. She slows. Slows some more. Stops.
    “Let me help.” I run over and stand beside the ramp, ready to grab hold of the chair.
    “No,” she says, breathing hard. “Get away!”
    I take a step back. She lifts her hands and the wheelchair slides smoothly down the ramp and onto the street again. She rolls backwards a few seconds, then brakes. Her mouth is tight.
    “Come on, Frieda,” I say. “Let’s get going. We can be at your place in a few minutes.”
    “First this,” she says. She spits on her hands, takes a few deep breaths. Olympic weight lifters don’t wear sunglasses during competition, but she has the same look on her face. Concentration. Going for the record.
    The sun disappears behind a cloud.
    A car drives past us, honking. Something about it looks familiar. Frieda ignores the car, rolls herself forward bending at the waist, her arms flashing back and forth as she takes short sharp pulls. She gains speed quickly.
    The car reverses into a parking spot across the road.
    Frieda is almost all the way up the ramp now. Her mouth is open. She’s panting. Her arm muscles writhe like snakes. Can she do it?
    I’m afraid she’ll lose control at the top of the ramp. I remember riding my bike up a steep hill in Port Hope – that’snext door to Cobourg, where I live; there are no hills in Cobourg – getting tireder and tireder as I got closer to the top, my pedals moving more and more slowly, until finally they stopped altogether. And I didn’t have enough strength to get off the bike. I just fell over sideways, like a monkey falling out of a tree. Nearly got run over. I don’t want that to happen to Frieda, so I run up the ramp myself just as she makes it to the top.
    “Yes! Yes!” she cries, pumping her fist in the air.
    I don’t move as smoothly as Frieda or the skateboarders. My running jars the ramp loose, and it falls to the ground with a huge clatter just as I reach the top. I jump into the back of the truck.
    “Yes, yes, yes!” She’s still pumping her fist. Her face shines with joy and sweat. She’s not paying attention to where she’s going. Her chair rolls backwards. The road isn’t too far to jump, but Frieda’s not a jumper. I grab the back of her chair, and hang on like a bad cold. I don’t want her rolling over the edge.
    The truck engine starts, whirs a couple of times, and stops.
    Someone’s in the truck cab. I