Free The Magical Stranger by Stephen Rodrick Page B

can’t exist without training wheels. So I push-pedal up the street. I go by Mr. Lewis’s house—the nice man who took me to meet Gene Upshaw—I’ve got so much new information for him! It’s about Reggie Jackson and Fred Biletnikoff and that song “Seasons in the Sun.” But he drops the garage door just before I get there. A couple of neighbor kids surround me. One boy starts in.
    â€œYou can’t really ride that bike.”
    â€˜â€˜Yes, I can.”
    â€œNo, you’re a baby. You need training wheels.”
    â€œCan too.”
    â€œOkay, ride it down the hill.”
    By now there are four or five kids around me. I hope for rescue, maybe the ice-cream truck? No, too early. Dad? Nope. His head is buried in the MG. I look down the hill. It is steep but clear, just one car at the bottom. The kids keep talking, crowding in on me.
    And then I’m off. Did I jump or was I pushed? Doesn’t matter. I’m flying down the pavement, picking up speed. I’ve never gone this fast in my life. And I’m not tipping over!
    But then I start heading left. This isn’t surprising. I do everything to the left. I’m heading straight for the car, actually a yellow pickup truck. I try to steer to the right, but I can’t do anything to the right. I lean hard; maybe I’ll miss it.
    No.
    How long have I been lying here? Thirty seconds? A minute? Ten minutes? Where did the kids go? My bike’s front fender is twisted in. I see a small, sharp dent in the truck’s grill. Mom isn’t going to be happy. There are splashes of red on the handlebars. Where did that come from? I breathe in and hear a whistling noise. This is weird since I can’t whistle. I feel a breeze on my gums. That’s not supposed to happen. I put my hand to my mouth and touch teeth where there should be skin.
    Only then does it hit me. My face is ripped open below my lip. Still, I feel calm. I never feel calm. I know Dad will kill me if I just leave my bike here, so I slowly walk it back up the hill. The bent front wheel scrapes and wheezes every time it turns. My red shirt is a darker crimson by the time I get home. I walk into the garage and put my bike where it’s supposed to go. Dad is bent over with a wrench. I pull on his belt loop and he turns around.
    â€œDad? Don’t be mad.”
    â€œJesus Christ.”
    It’s the first and last time I hear Dad swear. He picks me up and carries me inside. He wraps ice in a towel and holds it to my chin. For a second, he panics. What does he do? I see an opening.
    â€œDad, I just want to stay here and watch Sesame Street. Just one show.”
    That snaps him out of it. We’re in his MG and the top is down. I don’t even ask why we pass two hospitals so we can drive thirty miles to NAS Alameda. My chin is crusty and shredded, but I’m happy. I’m with Dad. We pull up to the base hospital and he half carries, half walks me through the doors. A nurse looks at me strangely. I know her from somewhere. Then it hits me: I know her from here. I’ve been here so many times the doctor told Mom that I should wear a helmet.
    â€œNot you again. This is becoming once a month.”
    Dad blushes purple, just like me when I get angry! The nurse takes us into an examination room and peels off my blood-soaked shirt. I give up my towel and a compress is pressed against my chin. Someone comes in and gives me a shot. I look up at Dad. He gazes back, his face covered in a five o’clock shadow even though it is barely noon. He brushes the hair out of my eyes. I’m about to get nine stitches inside my mouth and nine more on the outside to close the wreck that is now my chin. And yet I’m smiling, so much that I can feel the crusted blood cracking on my face. I’m here with Dad and it’s just the two of us. So what if I had to lose a pint of blood for it to happen? Doesn’t matter. It happened. I drift away to