“Oh, Merritt.”
I immediately looked away.
“It was stupid.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
He didn’t try to hug me or tell me not to cry. He just stood beside me until I looked back at the bicycle.
“Mom knew?”
“She knew where I was. She didn’t know exactly what I was building.”
I walked closer and touched the handlebars.
“Why a bicycle?”
Hollis leaned against the shed door.
“Because you never learned.”
My face grew hot.
I had hidden that for years.
When friends asked me to ride somewhere, I made excuses. I said bikes were childish or boring. It was easier than admitting I was sixteen and couldn’t ride one.
“How did you know?”
“You watch people riding whenever they pass the house.”
I stared at him.
“And two years ago, when Mrs. Creel offered you her granddaughter’s old bike, you said you hated bicycles a little too fast.”
I laughed despite myself.
“You remembered that?”
“I remember a lot of things.”
He wheeled the bicycle onto the driveway.
Then he adjusted the seat.
“I took today off.”
“You never take days off.”
“My kid only turns sixteen once.”
He said it casually and moved on before he could see what those words did to me.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the bicycle while Hollis held the back of the seat.
“I’m going to fall.”
“Probably.”
“That’s helpful.”
“Look ahead.”
I pushed down on the pedal. The bicycle moved, and I immediately put both feet back on the ground.
“No.”
“Again.”
“Hollis.”
“Again.”
So we did.
At first, I barely made it past our driveway. Then I reached the neighbor’s mailbox. Once, I rode directly onto Mrs. Creel’s lawn and heard her laughing from her porch.
Every time the bicycle wobbled, I felt Hollis’s hand steadying the seat behind me.
“Stop looking down.”
“I need to see where I’m going.”
“You go where you look. Look ahead.”
So I did.
The next time, I made it past the mailbox, the maple tree, and nearly to the end of the block.
“I’m doing it!”
“You are.”
I pedaled faster.
Then I realized I couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore.
I looked back.
Hollis was standing halfway down the street with his hands on his hips.
I panicked and ended up in the grass.
“You let go!”
“You were riding.”
“You said you’d hold on.”
“I said I’d hold on until you were ready.”
“I wasn’t ready!”
He pointed down the street.
“You went half a block.”
I tried to stay angry, but I started laughing.
Hollis held out his hand.
“Again?”
I took it.
“Again.”
By lunchtime, I could ride around the block on my own.
That afternoon, I decided to take the bicycle to school. Hollis followed several yards behind me in his truck, mostly because he didn’t trust my braking skills yet.
When the school parking lot came into view, I slowed down.
Noelle’s white SUV was there. Parker’s BMW sat a few spaces away. Another new Jeep was surrounded by kids.
Suddenly my yellow bicycle seemed very small.
For a moment, I considered turning around.
Then I looked down at it.
The frame Hollis had spent weeks sanding and repainting.
The chrome he had polished after working a full shift.
The cream tires he had waited until payday to buy.
Near the pedals, I noticed a small metal plate I hadn’t seen that morning.
**Built for Merritt. Keep going. — H**
I pedaled into the parking lot.
Noelle noticed me first.
“Wait, is that yours?”
“Yeah.”
She walked around it.
“It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”
Before I could answer, Parker glanced over.
“That’s what you got for your birthday?”
His tone wasn’t especially mean. He was simply surprised.
I looked toward the road.
Hollis’s truck was still parked at the corner. The moment he saw me safely reach school, he pulled away.
“My dad made it,” I said.
The words came out naturally.
Noelle kept admiring the bicycle.
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