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Authors: Brian Meehl
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device, and (2) When I was far enough away, start hitchhiking.
I felt bad about nabbing someoneâs steed. I told myself there were so many bikes, and the car was so big and chichi, buying another Diamondback wasnât going to kill them. But it didnât make me feel better, or make me forget that I was busting another commandment: Thou shall not steal.
The thing about trail rides, even a roadie-run on stolen treads, is that the track is always going to throw you a few death cookies you donât expect. The first one hit me as I climbed the overpass above the interstate and looked back at the truck stop. A man in a Hawaiian shirt was running across the parking lot. He wasnât jogging like heâd forgotten his wallet. He was running like heâd seen a punk steal a bike off his SUV. He jumped in the SUV; it jackrabbited forward.
I topped the overpass and bombed the hill on the other side. There was no way I was going to outrun an SUV. I had to disappear before he hit the top of the overpass andgot me in his sights. I screamed toward a big service center at the bottom of the hill. The huge neon sign on the roof flashed I-7-OASISâFEED UP FUEL UP.
I carved around the back, power-slid to a big Dumpster, and popped off. I lifted the bike and pushed it over the rim of the Dumpster. The bike disappeared and crashed on the bottom.
I looked around. No one had heard it. My first instinct was to climb up and jump in after the bike, but it seemed too obvious. Hawaiian-shirt might find his bike, but he couldnât find me.
I spotted metal rungs running up the back of the service center. They led to the flat roof. I ran over and climbed so fast my backpack trampolined on my back. Halfway up, I saw the SUV tear past the service center. The driver hadnât seen me turn off behind it.
I swung onto the roof and scooted through the poles under the I-7-Oasis sign. I hunkered down behind the low wall and looked across the highway. I could see the truck stop on the other side and the bus. Kids were gathered around it. Brother Jeremy was pacing; once in a while heâd throw an arm at Ben. Ben just stood there, his head hanging. He mightâve been crying, because he kept wiping his face.
I suddenly felt meaner than Case and the R-boys put together. Theyâd only tacoed my front rings and given me a crappy name. Poor Ben was thinking that because heâd let me out of his sight, Iâd been pervert-snatched and stuffed in a car and would soon be maggot meat.
A girl ran off the bus with a piece of paper. It was thenote Iâd tucked in my seatback for someone to find. It was to Mom, telling her Iâd run away to visit my fatherâs grave in New Orleans, and to find out what I could about his life. I picked New Orleans because it would steer them away from Kansas. New Orleans was also a sinful place, the kind of place a Mark Twain idol worshipper like my father mightâve lived. Mom would buy it.
When Brother Jeremy finished reading the note, he put a hand to his face. I imagined it was getting redder by the minute. Then he looked in my direction.
I was so jittery I ducked behind the wall, like he could actually spot my cranium poking over it. I kicked myself for being so paranoid and looked over the edge. He was holding a hand to his ear, like he was on a cell phone. I hoped he wasnât calling my mom so soon.
I hadnât thought that part through. Iâd been so mad at her I hadnât pictured her hearing that Iâd run away. It made me feel like the meanest kid in the world. A couple nights earlier sheâd told me I was the candle she wanted to shine on the world. And here I was, about to run away on a trip that might snuff her candle out. Even if I made it back to Independence, her worrying and fearing would carve her up big-time. With all that guilt carving
me
up part of me wanted to jump up, wave my arms, and scream,
Here I am! Ha-ha! Big joke! Fooled ya!
But I
I felt bad about nabbing someoneâs steed. I told myself there were so many bikes, and the car was so big and chichi, buying another Diamondback wasnât going to kill them. But it didnât make me feel better, or make me forget that I was busting another commandment: Thou shall not steal.
The thing about trail rides, even a roadie-run on stolen treads, is that the track is always going to throw you a few death cookies you donât expect. The first one hit me as I climbed the overpass above the interstate and looked back at the truck stop. A man in a Hawaiian shirt was running across the parking lot. He wasnât jogging like heâd forgotten his wallet. He was running like heâd seen a punk steal a bike off his SUV. He jumped in the SUV; it jackrabbited forward.
I topped the overpass and bombed the hill on the other side. There was no way I was going to outrun an SUV. I had to disappear before he hit the top of the overpass andgot me in his sights. I screamed toward a big service center at the bottom of the hill. The huge neon sign on the roof flashed I-7-OASISâFEED UP FUEL UP.
I carved around the back, power-slid to a big Dumpster, and popped off. I lifted the bike and pushed it over the rim of the Dumpster. The bike disappeared and crashed on the bottom.
I looked around. No one had heard it. My first instinct was to climb up and jump in after the bike, but it seemed too obvious. Hawaiian-shirt might find his bike, but he couldnât find me.
I spotted metal rungs running up the back of the service center. They led to the flat roof. I ran over and climbed so fast my backpack trampolined on my back. Halfway up, I saw the SUV tear past the service center. The driver hadnât seen me turn off behind it.
I swung onto the roof and scooted through the poles under the I-7-Oasis sign. I hunkered down behind the low wall and looked across the highway. I could see the truck stop on the other side and the bus. Kids were gathered around it. Brother Jeremy was pacing; once in a while heâd throw an arm at Ben. Ben just stood there, his head hanging. He mightâve been crying, because he kept wiping his face.
I suddenly felt meaner than Case and the R-boys put together. Theyâd only tacoed my front rings and given me a crappy name. Poor Ben was thinking that because heâd let me out of his sight, Iâd been pervert-snatched and stuffed in a car and would soon be maggot meat.
A girl ran off the bus with a piece of paper. It was thenote Iâd tucked in my seatback for someone to find. It was to Mom, telling her Iâd run away to visit my fatherâs grave in New Orleans, and to find out what I could about his life. I picked New Orleans because it would steer them away from Kansas. New Orleans was also a sinful place, the kind of place a Mark Twain idol worshipper like my father mightâve lived. Mom would buy it.
When Brother Jeremy finished reading the note, he put a hand to his face. I imagined it was getting redder by the minute. Then he looked in my direction.
I was so jittery I ducked behind the wall, like he could actually spot my cranium poking over it. I kicked myself for being so paranoid and looked over the edge. He was holding a hand to his ear, like he was on a cell phone. I hoped he wasnât calling my mom so soon.
I hadnât thought that part through. Iâd been so mad at her I hadnât pictured her hearing that Iâd run away. It made me feel like the meanest kid in the world. A couple nights earlier sheâd told me I was the candle she wanted to shine on the world. And here I was, about to run away on a trip that might snuff her candle out. Even if I made it back to Independence, her worrying and fearing would carve her up big-time. With all that guilt carving
me
up part of me wanted to jump up, wave my arms, and scream,
Here I am! Ha-ha! Big joke! Fooled ya!
But I
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