bicycle, bicycle, bicycle / all i wanna do is ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle
Queen, "Bicycle Race"


The make-shift ramp (a piece of thick wood) is a foot off the ground - twelve inches - held up by a cinderblock they found alongside the tiny house. As much as he wants to complain, Napoleon can't because Pedro has a freaking bike and it has shocks and pegs and a Mexican flag ("lucky!") and they've totally got each other's backs since P.E. this morning and it is like the sweetest idea ever because they are risking their lives (and necks) to jump off a make-shift ramp on a bicycle with pegs and shocks and a Mexican flag. Duh.


If flying is a feeling like this - this surreal weightlessness, where there is nothing but you and the air and your insides exploding into a million itty bitty pieces - then for exactly three-point-five seconds, Pedro is flying and Napoleon is watching, waiting for his turn to soar.

"You got, like, three feet of air that time."

Napoleon is speechless, appalled, lips open and eyes wide behind the thick plates of his glasses. The wheels of the bike hit the concrete - smack smack - and he has a sudden want (need) to try.

"Can I try it really quick?"


Pedro stands there, tan arms at his plaid-striped shirt sides, thick eyebrows pushed together as Napoleon begins to pedal forwards at an urgent speed. (He's leaning over the handlebars, a bad decision gone worse, his awkward tallness too large to fit on the bike. When he does jump off the make-shift ramp it's only for two-point-one seconds and then, suddenly, he's crashing down in a tumultuous frenzy of legs and arms.) Napoleon stumbles off the bike, groaning because the thing that wasn't supposed to happen did and Pedro bites on the inside of his cheek so he doesn't laugh.