before the bridge, lifts his leg over the bar, and slides to the ground. His face glistens with sweat. Today he wears a long-sleeved shirt, but with the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms.
âI fixed it up,â I say.
He strips off his gloves and runs his finger along the top bar, stopping at the bumps where I sanded and repainted the frame. âNice job. What did you use for paint?â
âNail polish. Looked it up on the Internet.â
âI guess you can get away with buying that stuff easier than I can,â he says.
I swallow the tightness in my throat. âWhere were you yesterday?â
âYou stopped by?â
âYeah.â I say nothing about Chad.
âI had a race down in Mystic.â
I examine Antonioâs bike up close. Its metallic red paint is nicked and dulled, but the bike is way fancier than Chadâs, with shock absorbers underneath the seat as well as on the front fork. The wheel rims are black rather than chrome. Itâs the kind of bike someone would use for racing. âHow did you do?â
âNot so good. Fourth. I was in the lead until my asthma kicked up.â He clears his throat. âIâm taking it easy today. Still hurtinâ.â
I wish I could touch him, help him feel better, but I keep my hands on my bike.
Iâm not Rogue,
I tell myself.
I wonât suck out his emotions if I touch him.
I step backward, stumble over a root, and plant my foot in the creek. Cold water rushes over the top of my canvas high-tops. Antonio grabs my upper arm to steady me. I stiffen.
âYou okay?â He lets go.
I pull my foot onto the bank. Water streams toward the creek, back where it belongs. I shift my weight, hear the squish, feel the icky cold dampness.
âIâm fine,â I mumble. âIt makes me nervous, people touching me.â
âThatâs like this kid in my calculus class. He sits in a corner because he doesnât want anyone near him, but heâs pure genius. He says he has some form of autism.â
I smile. Antonio understands. Like Mrs. Mac. âAspergerâs syndrome,â I tell him. âIt comes from a genetic mutation. My father had cancer before I was born, and I think . . .â
Antonio holds his hand out, palm up, as if telling me to stop.
âMax must have told you,â I say.
âNo. He never said anything.â Antonio bites his lower lip, and I wonder how good a friend Max was if Antonio didnât know a basic fact about our family. âMy father had cancer too,â he says softly. âBut he . . . didnât . . . make it.â
âHe died?â
Antonio nods.
âIs that why you have the Livestrong tattoo?â Today the shirt covers it up, but I know itâs there, and itâll be there forever.
âYeah.â
âEven though Lance Armstrong didnât die either?â
Antonio grimaces, and I realize I said the wrong thing. But he doesnât call me stupid or retard or freak, like most kids would. Instead, he reaches into a cargo pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slides a photo from behind what looks like his driverâs license. I notice UNDER 21 in big red letters on the license.
He hands me the photo. The way Mr. Elliott and Dad traded photos with each other this morning. âMy father.â
The man has deep-set eyes, a narrow face, and straight, dark hair. Antonioâs hair is lighter and wavy, and his face fuller. I think this man in the picture already looks sick, with sunken cheeks and thin lips.
âIâm sorry,â I mumble. I know itâs what Iâm supposed to say when I hear that someone has died, even though it isnât my fault that he died.
I give the photo back to Antonio. He slides it into his wallet.
Antonio and I never get to the BMX track that day. Instead, he shows me the entire route of trails, though many of them are too hard for me to ride and I have to walk
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