I hit a tree root, flew over my handlebars, and went face first onto the asphalt sidewalk. Smack! Brakes screeched. Then, a loud crunch. I rolled over and saw my new bike, twisted and mangled, wedged up into the wheel well of a pickup truck.
Stupid!
I sat up and felt dizzy. Then I tried to straighten my skirt, which had slipped up and was bunched around my waist. My knees were a raw, red mess. When I brushed the dirt and rocks from them, a burning pain shot through me.
“Aw! Shit!”
“Honey, are you okay?”
I looked up and saw a black guy in a gray sweatshirt and cargo pants standing over me. He knelt down. Behind him the door to his pickup truck hung open.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
I touched my face. When I pulled back my hand, it was covered in blood.
“That looks pretty bad,” he said. Then he fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a phone. “Do you know your number?”
“Of course I know my number. Where’s my bag?” I looked around and saw that my bag was lying next to a tree by the road. “Fuck! My phone better not be broken.” I tried to get up, but I felt everything spin. I dropped back down onto my butt. “Shit!”
“Stay there, I’ll get your bag.”
I tried not to cry. I tried so hard, I didn’t want to cry in front of some weird guy who had just crushed my bike. But the pain was getting more and more, in my knees and face. And my poor bike. I couldn’t even stand up.
“Here’s your bag honey. Is your phone in there? I can call for you, I don’t mind.”
I grabbed the bag from him, opened it, and pulled out my phone — and a mirror.
First, the mirror. I took a long look at the gash in my forehead. It lay open a half inch deep, above and then down around my eye.
“That’s gonna need stitches,” he said.
Strong girls don’t cry. I bit my lip.
From behind us, I heard a woman shout, “Oh my God! Is she okay?”
I turned and saw her rush toward us over her perfectly trimmed lawn. She wore a knee-length black skirt, tasteful pumps, and a tailored blouse. Behind her sat a wide, white-brick suburban mansion with a red Saab in the driveway. The front door of the house stood open.
“Did he hit you?” she asked when she reached the sidewalk.
“Lady, no!” the black guy said. He stepped back. “She fell herself. I just hit the bike.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. Then, she snapped a picture of me, my bike, his beat-up truck — it said “Mike’s Lawn Maintenance” in poorly stenciled letters on the side — and then him. “You stay there!” she said to him. “I’m calling the police!”
“Lady! Shit.” He walked back to his truck and pointed at my bike. “Like I could drive away with this!”
She knelt by me and touched my shoulder. “Oh sweetie, let’s look at you. Just turn — oh God! We need to get you to the hospital.” She cast the man a harsh glance and began to dial her phone.
“He didn’t hit me,” I said. She continued to dial. “Lady! He didn’t hit me.”
She stopped dialing. “What?”
“Don’t call the cops. He didn’t hit me. I wiped out and my bike went into the street.”
“Oh,” she said. Her mouth got wide. “Oh! No.”
“He was nice to me,” I said.
“That’s right,” the man said.
She stood and took a step back. “Oh dear! I’m so sorry. Please.”
“You better take my picture off that phone,” he said.
“Of course. Shit. I will right now.” She fumbled around with her phone. Then she looked back at him. “I really am very sorry. I mean — ”
“Don’t worry about it, Lady.”
“No, I feel just horrible.”
He crossed his arms. “Well, don’t worry about me. Take care of the girl.”
“Right. Of course.” She knelt by me again. “Okay, sweetie, let’s get you into the house. We’ll clean you up, then I’ll drive you to the hospital. Do you wanna call your mom?”
I looked at my phone. The face was cracked and it wasn’t turning on. “It’s broken,” I said.
“Oh. Okay, we’ll call inside.” She reached under my arms and helped me stand. “Can you walk?”
“I’ll be fine.” I took a few faltering steps. “Really, I’m fine.”
Behind us, Mike — I guessed that was his name — squatted by his truck and began to work my bike out from the wheel well. The lady and I walked slowly toward the house.
When we got halfway he said, “Lady! I’ll leave the bike by your tree.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
“And one other thing.”
She turned. “Yes?”
“Who does your lawn?”
“What?”
“Your lawn. It’s a nice big lawn. Who does it?”
She shrugged.
“Well, I’m gonna leave my card on your door.”
“Oh. Yes. Excellent, please do.”
He squatted back down and continued to pull out the bike. We went into the house.
A short time later I sat on a soft vinyl chair in her kitchen and pressed a white towel to my face, except that it wasn’t really white anymore. Across the table from me, she sat with her phone to her ear.
“Yes, yes, I’ve called three times… I need to speak to Ms. Suarez… I’m Mrs. Sandoval… Carmen Sandoval… No, I have her daughter, Amy, here… There’s been an accident… No, not bad, but she needs to go to the hospital…”
It went on like that. Soon she set her phone down again.
“They say your mother will call back soon.”
“Yeah,” I said, “it takes them a while there. Oh, and actually, she’s my foster mother.”
Her eyes got big. “Oh sweetie! You’re a foster child?”
“Yeah.”
“Well — uh — ” She squirmed in her chair and cast me an awkward smile. Then she looked down at her phone. “I can’t believe she hasn’t called back.”
“Maybe she’s in a deposition. They won’t interrupt those.”
“But still — ” She put her hands flat on the table. “You know what! We’re not waiting anymore. Let’s just go, she can meet us there.”
“That’s fine. Oh, but you gotta take me to Jackson Memorial.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, Mercy won’t take the state foster kid insurance.”
“Oh, well, okay. That’s a long drive, so let’s get going.”
Just as we stood we heard the front door open and then shut. Next a girl’s voice called out, “Mom! I’m home.”
“Oh good,” the lady — Mrs. Sandoval — said. She called into the other room. “Honey, come here.” She turned to me. “This is my daughter.”
I nodded. Soon a dark-haired girl dressed in a floral and lace skirt set met us at the kitchen door.
I knew her. Her name was Laura and she went to my school — or, more properly, I went to hers.
She walked in and said, “Hey Mom.” Then, when she saw me, a long, awkward look, she said, “Why is Amy Cunningham in our kitchen bleeding?”
“Laura!” her mom said. “Honey! Uh — she had a bike accident outside.”
“Hmm,” Laura said.
“Anyhow, we’re leaving now, so, uh, wait, how do you two know each other?”
“We go to school together,” I said.
“Oh? Really?” She blinked. “Your foster parents pay for you to go to Saint Andrews?”
Laura snorted. “No, Mom! She’s a charity case.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Oh.” Mrs. Sandoval stepped back and looked at the two of us, our stiff postures, our harsh stares. “I see,” she said. “Well, come along, Amy.” She put her hand on my shoulder and led me from the kitchen. “Oh, Laura” — she turned back — “I should be home in a few hours. You can cook up something frozen, or order.”
Laura shrugged and didn’t say anything. Her mom and I went outside to the car.
I got twenty-two stitches. It hurt like hell.
The day after next was Monday, and my foster mom insisted that I go to school. At first the other girls were curious at my bandages — and what must lay beneath. But the more they looked, the more squeamish they seemed to get. The bandages could only cover so much. My eye and the better part of my nose were a swollen, purple mess. And, to top it all off, the wound was, the doctor said, “weeping,” which made the bandages moist, red, and horrible looking. So I sat in back of the class where they wouldn’t have to look at me. It just seemed easier.
At lunchtime, Bethany, Luisa, and Marta sat opposite me with curious stares. Bethany asked, “How many stitches was it? Oh, and how long will you have them?”
“Twenty-two. And about a week, I guess. I have see the doctor next Monday. Maybe he’ll take them out then.”
“My sister had her stitches for three weeks,” Marta said, “when she fell off a horse.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. After that, she had all kinds of plastic surgery. Like, three times.”
I didn’t say anything to that.
“Who’s your surgeon gonna be?” Bethany asked. “ ‘Cause Luisa’s mom’s boyfriend’s sister does plastic surgery.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Luisa said.
“She’s expensive, I guess,” Bethany went on. “But my mom says she’s great. Have you decided?”
I reached down and pulled up my bag. From within, I took out a little sack and dumped its content, my sandwich and an apple juice, onto the table. I looked at the food. The girls looked at me, seeming to wait for an answer.
Stupid rich girls.
“I won’t get plastic surgery,” I said. I picked up my apple juice. “The foster kid insurance won’t pay for it.”
“Oh,” Bethany said.
They all were quiet. After a while Bethany asked, “How bad is it, really?”
“Do you wanna see?”
Their eyes got wide. “Yeah,” Bethany said.
Carefully, I picked at the corner of the tape above my eye. Then I peeled back the thick, gauzy bandage.
Marta “eeped.” Bethany said, “Oh fuck!” and looked away. Luisa, on the other hand, said nothing at all. She just looked. Even when I put the bandage back and pressed the tape down, she stared with big, sad eyes.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad, once it heals up,” Bethany said. “I mean — there’ll be a little scarring. You have to expect that, but only a little, I think.”
Yeah, just a teeny-tiny scar. Six inches long around my eye.
I peeled off the top of my apple juice and took a long drink. I didn’t feel like eating my sandwich.
The next day at lunch, I sat alone. Around back of the school next to the soccer field there was a collection of shoddy old picnic tables set under trees. Birds liked to shit on them, and half their wooden planks were missing anyhow. But they were usually empty at lunch.
Nobody made any effort to join me.
Wednesday and Thursday were the same. Thursday evening Father Martinez called my foster mom and told her — so I gathered from hearing her side of the conversation — that I had been, “quiet and withdrawn.”
She told him that it was to be expected.
Then, Friday at lunch, Laura came out and sat with me.
I watched her approach in dappled sunlight beneath a sprawling ficus tree. She reached the table, tossed down a big, brown lunch sack, and then sat opposite me.
“This is a pretty lousy table,” she said. “And it’s freaking hot out here. I mean, don’t you have the sense to eat inside?”
“Hi Laura.”
“Hi. So, I have an extra sandwich for you, if you want it.” She removed a sandwich from her bag and tossed it over to me. “It’s turkey with some kinda fancy foreign cheese that my mom gets. Anyhow, it’s good.”
“Uh — thanks.”
She took out another sandwich, unwrapped it, and began to eat. “You not hungry or something?” she asked.
“No, I’m hungry.” I unwrapped the sandwich and took a sniff — it smelled like turkey and strange cheese. I took a bite.
It was pretty good. There was mustard.
“Good, huh?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“So, Mom wants you to come by and get your bike tomorrow. Okay?”
I chewed and swallowed. “I guess. Can it even be ridden?”
She let out a little half laugh. “Just come get it.”
“Okay.”
We sat and ate. Above us two birds screeched at each other in shrill voices. We heard them flutter and crash among the branches. Then they flew out over the soccer field, one chasing the other.
She set down her half eaten sandwich and pulled out two bags of chips. She tossed one of them to me. Then she pulled hers open.
“Uh,” I said, “did you just wanna tell me about the bike?” She shrugged and ate a chip. “I mean — not that I don’t like your company, but I always thought you hated me.”
She put down the chips and picked up her sandwich again.
“Mom says I have to hang out with you at lunch.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I have to hang out with you now. See, I told her you were sitting alone, like, that nobody was talking to you and that you were horribly scarred for life or something — ” She stopped. “I’m sorry, that was shitty. But it’s what people are saying, anyhow. So, Mom said I have to sit with you at lunch.”
“Oh.”
“So look, I don’t hate you — I mean — I don’t really like you either, but if we have to do this, we might as well get along. Plus” — she held up her sandwich — “Mom makes good food.”
She smiled. And yes, the food was indeed good. I opened the chips and ate one.
“Couldn’t you just tell her you did, but — y’know — not.”
She motioned over to a little brick office building with dark windows that faced this way. “She called Father M. and asked him to check on me. He could be watching now.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck.” Then she pulled out two sodas in green cans. “Do you like this Brazilian stuff. Mom’s friend is this Brazilian lady, and she keeps bringing it over.”
I shrugged. “I’ll try it.”
It was sweet and delicious. Laura watched me drink it with her soft brown eyes.
Later that day I tossed my own lunch bag, with it’s soggy peanut butter thing and unopened apple juice, into the trash.
When I knocked on their door Saturday, Laura answered.
“Hey,” she said. “You came.”
“Yeah.”
From inside the house I heard her mother call out. “Is that Amy?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“Tell her to come in.”
Laura smiled at me. Then, with a wide sweep of her arm, she beckoned me into the house.
As I entered I heard her mother’s shoes clomp across the tile floor. I looked at Laura and whispered, “She bought me a new bike, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. She did.”
I bit my lip, slouched, and cast Laura a wry look. She said, “I think she has a crush on you or something.”
“Sorry about all of this.”
Laura shrugged. Carmen Sandoval swept into the room wearing a beautiful red dress.
“Oh Amy, let me see you.” She came over and inspected my face. After a long look, she frowned. “At least the bruises have lessened.” She ran her finger along the edge of the bandage. “Do you get the stitches out Monday?”
“Maybe. My foster mom’s gonna take me to the doctor in the morning.”
“Ah. Well, come along. I have something to show you.”
I followed her to the garage. Laura trailed along behind us.
“Tada!” she said when the bike came into view.
It was a very nice, expensive, red bike.
“Do you like it?” she asked. “It’s yours. Go ahead.”
“It’s very nice.”
I stepped over to it. Then I ran my hand along the sleek handlebars and traced my fingers down one of the shifting cables. It had one of those fancy shifting systems where you just clicked stuff and it worked.
I turned back to her. She was beaming.
“So?” she said.
“I really shouldn’t take it.”
“Oh, nonsense.”
Laura stood behind her mom and watched.
“I mean — I will take it. It’s just, I shouldn’t.”
“Take it, sweetie,” her mother said.
“Of course.” I turned back to the bike. “I mean — I really need a bike. My foster mom said she wouldn’t buy me another one.”
“Oh, sweetie.” I heard her shoes clomp behind me. Then I felt her touch my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” She slipped her arms around me and hugged me from behind. “It’s really my pleasure.”
I closed my eyes, reached up, and gripped her hand.
Then Laura said, “Mom, I don’t think her mom bought her a new phone either.”
She released the hug. “Oh?” she asked.
“Please don’t buy me a phone, Mrs. Sandoval. The bike is enough.”
She didn’t say anything. I turned and looked at her, into her caring face.
I hadn’t seen a truly caring face in many years. And nobody had properly hugged me since I could remember.
“Also, Mrs. Sandoval…”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t make Laura hang out with me — ”
Mrs. Sandoval gasped. “Laura!”
“I mean — she’s welcome to. I liked it. But I wanna make my own friends.”
“Okay, dear.” She gave her daughter a cross look. “Except she wasn’t supposed to tell you.” Laura held her hands behind her back and grinned.
“I would have figured it out. I’m not stupid.”
“Of course not.”
“But still, thanks for the bike. It’s really very nice. It’s better than any bike I’ve ever had.”
I smiled at her. She smiled back. “Good. Great. I’m very glad you like it.”
“Okay. Then, I’m gonna go.”
“Okay, sweetie.”
I walked over to the bike, held the grips, turned the front wheel, pushed it back and forth. It was so light and balanced, so compact and solid, so perfectly smooth.
Yeah, it was a great bike. But I would have traded anything in the world for her to hug me again.