Free Hokey Pokey by Jerry Spinelli Page A

trailing in the wind. He is flat-out now,his stomach over the saddle, only his hands in touch with the bike. He is a superhero flying, swinging this way and that as the bike races past Stuff, nips the DON’T sign. Hippodrome, The Kid are blurs. Grass-sitters scatter at Cartoons. Destroyer sees Playground coming up, and now his stomach flops onto the saddle—Scramjet is slowing down. The indescribable noise becomes a whine, now a whispery whistle. The bike canters among the swings and comes to a stop. Destroyer is draped over the saddle, fingers frozen around the grips, too terrified to move. Suddenly the bike rears on its hind wheel and deposits him onto the ground as neatly as a truck-dumped load.

JACK
    H IS HEART LEAPS !
    Scramjet is coming toward them and it’s not the girl aboard. It’s a little kid, flying flat-out Superman-style from the handlegrips. Scramjet is making a noise that would split the moon, but it’s music to Jack’s ears.
    He stands stunned with his Amigos as Superkid and Scramjet go by in a flash of yellow, two legs and a string of pom-poms.
    “It’s that little runt creep,” Dusty shouts over the noise.
    They watch as Scramjet barrels, veers, tilts, gallopsthrough Hokey Pokey, sometimes losing sight except for the yellow cloud of dust. Jack wonders how in the world the kid got the bike from the girl, but he’s too happy to wonder for long. When they see the bike finally slowing down in Playground, they head over there. They laugh as the bike rears and dumps the runt.
    A crowd has already gathered. It parts as Jack and his boys come through to backslaps and hearty greetings: “Hey, Jack! … Hey, Jack!” Scramjet appears to be at rest, but Jack knows better. He feels the energy coming off the violated flanks. He knows if he touches the tires, they will be hot and hard as rock and pulsing. He knows you can take the bike out of the herd but you can’t take the herd out of the bike. He knows his high-strung steed, after a fast ride, needs no one and no thing, and that’s why it stands straight though the kickstand is up.
    Dusty bestrides the dumped kid. “Runt,” he sneers. “Wha’d you
think
would happen?”
    “Lay off,” says LaJo, a rare lilt in his voice. “He did us a favor. Give him a medal.”
    The runt, his terror thawing like a hokey pokey at high noon, begins to shake and sob and crawls away on hands and knees. A boyvoice calls: “It’s yours, Jack! Take it back!”
    Someone else picks up the call—“Take it back, Jack!”—and now there’s a chant of mobbed boyvoices:
    “TAKE IT BACK, JACK!”
    “TAKE IT BACK, JACK!”
    “TAKE IT BACK, JACK!”
    Jack trades a look with his Amigos, grins: as if he had anything else in mind. Dusty and LaJo back off, respecting Jack’s moment.
    Jack approaches his bike. He’s torn between laughing (for joy) and crying (at the paint job, which, he can see up close now, is sloppy, as if done by a Snotsipper). Joy wins, but he keeps the laugh inside.
    For starters, he rips off the pom-pom tail and pink ribbons. The mob cheers. The rest of the atrocities—the pink grips, the saddle fuzz, the paint job, the name—can wait. He leans into the bar, whispers “Scramjet,” and believes he hears it whisperwhinny back: “Jack.” He mounts. Feels all the tension of the morning drain out of him. Thinks:
I’m home
. His swallow double-clutches. Until today he had not known he could be so emotional. No pedal push is needed—Scramjet moves. The mob parts in reverent silence. There is only the soft crunch of tire rolling over ground and the distant tootle of Hippodrome.
    He guides Scramjet out of Playground. He is in nohurry. There will be time for fast. For now he is content to canter, to gratefully reclaim his bike, his world, himself. Jailhouse … Tattooer … Cartoons … on they roll. With every passing Hokey Pokey feature, he recovers another piece of his life. Trucks … Tantrums … Everywhere kids stop what they’re doing and