MIDSUMMER 1999

The sweltering summer air is thick with humidity, the pavement glimmering under the intense afternoon sun. My bike tires hum as I pedal faster. Beside me, Kayla glides on her rollerblades, her ponytail bouncing against her backpack. Her red bandana, tied in a neat bow, complements her light hair.

"Betcha I can jump that branch," I say, nodding toward the thick limb stretched across the white line at the road's edge.

Kayla squints at it. "You sure? It's kinda big."

I grip the handlebars tighter.

"Watch this!"

My legs pump hard. My heart pounds. The branch gets closer. I yank up on the front wheel.

Too late.

The tire slams into the wood with a thud, and my bike jerks sideways. Before I can react, the ground rushes up. I crash onto the pavement, the impact rattling my bones.

My elbow scrapes hard, a sharp sting spreading up to my shoulder. My knee slams down next, sending another shock of pain through me.

I gasp, trying to hold it in, but the burning ache throbs. Tears start rolling down my face.

"Jake! Are you okay?"

Kayla's voice is sharp with worry. Her skates crackle against the pavement as she rushes toward me.

"Oh my gosh! Jake! You're bleeding!"

I blink down at my arm. Blood drips from my elbow, sliding down to my wrist. My throat tightens as I continue sniffling.

Kayla crouches down, her hands hovering, unsure what to do. Then, in one quick motion, she unties her bandana, shakes it loose, and wraps it around my arm before sitting down to change from her rollerblades into shoes from her backpack.

She ducks under my good arm, looping it over her shoulders, then straightens.

She glances at me with a sympathetic smile. "C'mon. Let's go home."

I lean against her, my limp throwing off our steps.

"What about my bike?"

"We'll get it later."

She doesn't complain, doesn't let me go. She just keeps walking like a battlefield comrade, pulling me out of a warzone.

🍓 🍓 🍓

I sit stiff on the couch, my arm resting in my lap. Mom sets the first aid kit on the coffee table and starts pulling out supplies.

Kayla perches on the cushion beside me, her hands clutched tightly in her lap.

"All right, Kayla." Mom hands her a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cotton ball. "You did well getting him home. Think you can clean up those scratches?"

Kayla's eyes go wide, but she nods. She tips the bottle, soaking the cotton.

Mom leans in. "Jake, it's gonna sting a little."

Before I can brace myself, the alcohol hits my elbow. A sharp pain shoots up my arm. I wince hard and let out a sharp "Aagh!" as I suck in a breath, gritting my teeth with a hiss.

Kayla meets my eyes, her mouth pulling into a small, knowing smile. "She said it would hurt."

I chuckle, blinking back tears. "It's okay," I mumble.

She dabs carefully, her brows furrowed in concentration. I flinch and hiss each time.

Once she's done, Mom hands her a roll of gauze. Kayla wraps it snugly around my elbow and secures it with medical tape.

Mom leans back, watching her work with a smile. "Maybe you'll be a nurse like your grandma someday?"

Kayla brightens, her face lighting up. "Oh! I'd love that!"

Mom chuckles. "All patched up. I'll get some lemonade." She heads into the kitchen, leaving us alone for a few moments.

For a second, we sit in silence. Then Kayla looks over, like she's studying my face.

"You okay?" she asks in a whisper.

I nod. "Yeah."

Her eyes flick from mine to my mouth, then she leans in and gives me a quick, warm peck on the lips. I blink, stunned. My face is somehow even hotter than before.

I look at her, and she grins. "See? All better."

That was so worth it.

🍓 🍓 🍓

The dining room stays dim, lit only by the soft glow seeping in from the front of the house, as I finish my last pancake.

Kayla swings her feet under the chair, licking whipped cream from her fork.

She stayed over last night, which never happens. Maybe it was the elbow. Or the kiss. Either way, I didn't question it.

Kayla stretches, arms reaching high over her head. "So, we getting your bike today or what?"

I glance down at my bandaged elbow and knee. It still aches, but I nod. "Yeah."

Mom wipes her hands on a dish towel. "Be careful this time," she says, eyeing me up.

Kayla's already at the door, stuffing her feet into her shoes.

"We'll be fine," I call back.

Outside, the grass is wet from the morning dew, soaking the tops of my shoes as I step off the porch and hobble through the yard. The air smells fresh, like dirt and cow manure, but at least the sky is clear.

She waits at the end of the driveway, arms crossed. "You sure you can walk?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm not a baby."

She just smirks. "You cried like one," she says, wrinkling her nose with a weird smile.

My face burns. "Did not."

She shrugs. "Did too," she says as I join her by her side.

She slows her pace so I can keep up.

"Do you think your bike's still there?" Kayla asks.

"I dunno. Hope so."

The dirt crunches under my shoes as we walk down the side of the country road, my knee still a little stiff but not enough to stop me.

"Hey, there it is!" Kayla says, pointing.

Up ahead, my bike sits just where I left it, on its side, just over the white line, still caught in the branch.

Kayla starts humming something under her breath, soft and strange, like she's not even aware she's doing it. A loopy little tune that makes the hairs on my neck stand up.

I grin. "Told you it'd be fine."

Then, after a few minutes, a low rumble sounds from behind us, coming up the road.

I look back and see it is Old Man Reggie's tractor, or Mr. Lowe as we call him to his face, chugging along. Its size belies the speed, somewhere around 30 to 40 clicks, with dust curling up from the tires. He's hunched in the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other scratching his beard. His hat sits low over his eyes.

The tractor zips past us.

Kayla turns her head. "Oh no! He's over the white line!"

I look at the back of the tractor's right wheel, then at my bike. The white line on the road frames it all in my vision. The huge tire is lined up directly with my bike.

I start running as fast as I can.

"Wait! My bike! Mr. Lowe! My bike!" I scream in a desperate attempt to get his attention.

Kayla grabs my arm. "Jake!"

The tractor lumbers forward.

"Heeeey!" I scream, waving both arms. "Stoooop!"

Reggie doesn't hear me.

The front tire rolls forward, crushing the bike with a brutal crunch. Handlebars twist, the frame groans, and a pedal snaps off, flying into the bushes. Twisted steel catches in the tire treads, lifts briefly before falling free.

I freeze, my breath caught in my throat.

Reggie jams on the brakes. The tractor stops. The door creaks open, and he climbs down, boots thudding against the pebbles on the road. He approaches the wreck, his face tight with regret. He yanks off his hat, rubs his forehead, and lets out a long sigh as he stares at what's left.

"Hey, bud, you know who owns that bike?"

"It's mine!" I shout, stomping toward him. "And you just wrecked it!"

"Sorry, young fella, didn't see it there," he says, sounding tired. "I guess next time you won't leave it on the road, eh?"

"It wasn't on the road! It was beside it!"

My face burns with rage. My hands ball into fists. "I'm telling my dad! You better buy me a new one!"

I let out a furious roar, kicking the dirt so hard it flies everywhere. I grab a rock and hurl it into the woods, wishing it would hit that stupid tractor.

Kayla steps in front of me. "Jake," she says, like she's trying to tame a wild dog. But I don't want to calm down. I'm raging.

"That was my bike!" I shout again, my throat tightening. My chest heaves before a few tears form from anger.

Reggie sighs again, looking down at the bent and twisted metal. "Well, I reckon that's done for."

Kayla grabs my wrist. "Jake, c'mon," she whispers. "Let's go tell your mom right now."

I rip my arm away. "No! It's not fair!" My voice cracks. "I just got it!"

Kayla tugs at my sleeve. "C'mon, let's just go home."

"I don't wanna! I want to stay here and make Reggie fix it. I want him to uncrush my bike, like it never happened!"

We start walking away, and I glance back to see Old Man Reggie turn. He grabs the remains of my bike and tosses them farther from the road. Then he climbs into his tractor and starts the engine.

I wipe my eyes, sniff hard, and turn away. The road back to the house feels longer than before.

The sun blazes down as we set up the stand, strawberries stacked and lemonade sweating in its pitchers.

Kayla tapes a Bristol board sign to the edge of our small table: "Fresh Strawberries & Lemonade! Help Jake Get a New Bike!"

"You didn't have to write that part," I grumble.

"It's true, though." Kayla flashes a triumphant grin before chuckling.

I shoot her a scowl, but she's already basking in her victory. And yet, her laughter is contagious, despite my earlier temper tantrum.

As the morning gives way to afternoon, neighbors trickle in, dropping coins and crumpled bills into our glass jar in exchange for cold drinks and baskets of berries. The jar grows heavier, our supplies dwindle, and the stream of familiar faces continues.

Mrs. MacMillan, a friendly woman in her seventies who lives two houses down across the road, clicks her tongue at my bandaged knee and shakes her head. "Boys and their bikes." She smiles, her eyes crinkling with amusement.

Her husband, Mr. MacMillan, stands beside her, leaning on his cane. He moves slowly, but there's a warmth in his eyes as he watches the exchange.

"Heard about your bike, Jake," he says, his words slurring. "That's a tough break, my boy."

I nod, shifting on my feet. "Yeah..."

He reaches into his pocket, his free hand showing a slight tremor as he pulls out a folded bill. He presses it into my hand before I can protest.

I glance down. A hundred-dollar bill?

My head snaps up. "Mr. MacMillan, I can't take this!"

"Why not?" Mrs. MacMillan interrupts, nudging him with her elbow. "We don't need much these days, and you kids are out here doing something good. Besides, you had to deal with old Reggie Lowe. The man's a miserable old grump if I've ever met one!"

Kayla and I burst into laughter along with Mrs. MacMillan.

Mr. MacMillan's face breaks into a half-smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement despite the lasting effects of his stroke. He gives me a knowing look.

"Lost my first bike in a barn fire when I was about your age," he says. "Thought my world was ending." He nods toward the jar. "But you're doing something about it. And that's what matters. It's called taking responsibility."

I swallow hard, overwhelmed by their kindness and wisdom.

Kayla beams. "Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. MacMillan."

Mr. MacMillan pats my shoulder. His touch is light but reassuring. "You'll be back on two wheels in no time. Stay safe, young fellas."

They turn and walk back toward their house, with Mrs. MacMillan keeping close by his side. She gives a final wave.

A quiet couple of hours pass, with odd customers here and there. Kayla glances over at me as she grabs the jar and examines it.

"Do you think we have enough yet?"

"Lemme see," I say, holding out my hand.

She passes me the jar. I scan it, turning it around to see it from all angles. "Yeah, maybe we should go in?"

Just as we decide to pack it up, an old pickup chugs up the road. The trees block the sun glare on the windshield just long enough for me to see the driver. As he gets closer, I recognize his face.

Kayla stares in the same direction, then glances at me, then back at the truck as it approaches.

"Is that Old Man Reggie?"

"I think so." I furrow my brows, feeling my anger return, remembering what he did to my bike. He's the reason we've been sitting here all day.

I notice him starting to slow down by the driveway.

"Oh my goodness, he's stopping!" Kayla exclaims.

The truck rumbles into the driveway. Kayla and I stare in silence, expecting trouble.

Reggie cuts the engine and steps out, squinting at us. He eyes our stand, bending over to read our sign.

"Looks like you might've beat me to it," he says, breaking the silence with his deep, old-man voice.

He turns toward the tailgate, dropping it down. He glances our way with a guilty smirk before leaning into the truck bed to grab something. He pulls a brand-new mountain bike from the back. The new paint shines bright in the early evening sun. He sets it next to our table, popping the kickstand out with his boot.

He scratches his beard the way he always does.

"Figured I owed you one."

My mouth drops open.

"No way!" I shout. "Thank you so much, Mr. Lowe!"

I glance at Kayla.

She's smiling from ear to ear. "Wow, Jake!"

"Now listen, make sure you always wear a helmet. And always bring your bike home when you're done with it. I know why you left it there. Your friend Derrick's dad told me yesterday evening what happened. I hope you heal up quick, son. Enjoy your new bike now," Reggie says, ruffling my hair with a grin.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Lowe!" I shout again as he gets back into his truck.

He gives a wave before backing out.

"He's not as bad as I thought!" I exclaim.

🍓 🍓 🍓

From then on, Kayla and I are inseparable. We're always together after school, on weekends, and all summer long. As the seasons change, we help Mom in the garden, harvesting berries each summer for the farmers market.