23
I yank the jagged piece of brown glass from my tire and toss it on the grass. It’s kind of shaped like a shark’s tooth. The
air hisses, my bike sinking lower with every second. Silly beer bottle. If I hadn’t ridden over it, I’d be home by now—on
the couch with Mum and Dad, watching telly and eating tea. Dad even gave me a puncture-repair kit on the weekend and told
me to strap it to the bike, but I forgot. I glance at the road. What’s taking him so long?
“I’m sure your old man will be here in a jiffy, mate. Don’t worry about the bike—he said he’ll fix it, he didn’t sound cross
at all,” says Mr. Wilson. My coach leans against the clubhouse wall, jingling his keys like he’s got somewhere better to be.
I tap my cricket bat on the grass. The puddles in the car park look like melted butter under the yellow streetlights. My tummy
rumbles. I really, really want to jump in them, but Mr. Wilson said to stay put. So I wait. Like a statue. A very fidgety
statue who wants toast with butter asap.
The sun disappears behind the trees as the final car leaves. Only the coach’s pickup truck is here now. He looks at his watch
then at me. “I’ll just give him another call, okay?” He heads inside the clubhouse.
My stomach is doing something weird, like I ate too many grapes, but worse. It’s heavy and floaty at the same time. I shouldn’t
have raced Sam around the bins after practice. Shouldn’t have accepted his dare to ride over the beer bottle.
Mr. Wilson can’t get on to anyone, so he gives me a lift home. There’s a police car in the driveway. The policeman’s boots leave dirty marks on the carpet. Mum is crying; she can’t stand muddy footprints.
The officer’s voice is soft. “It was an accident.”
Oh drat, he’s going to tell Mum about riding over the bottle. I was hoping it could just be mine and Dad’s secret.
“I’m afraid a driver ran a red light. He was killed instantly.”
“Mummy?” My voice is no more than a squeak.
Mum spins around and sees me. She makes a noise, a kind of gasp, like she can’t breathe. “Griff? Go outside and play.” She’s
using her no-nonsense voice like when she tells me to go back to bed when I wake up and the small hand is at the five.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the officer says.
My ears ring.
“No, no!” Mum screams. “He was on his way to get our son from cricket practice. He’ll be home any moment.”
“I’m sorry, madam. There was nothing they could do.”
She wails and pummels the officer’s chest. “No, no, he can’t be dead.”
Suddenly everything turns quiet, like I’m underwater. My bike is still by the fence where Mr. Wilson put it. The tire is even
flatter.
Dead? Dad is dead? Dead means never coming back, like Grandma Ruth or Captain Splashy, my goldfish.
My heart is beating very fast.
Stupid bottle. I stare at my bike until my eyes blur. My hands curl into fists.
I shouldn’t have ridden over that bottle.
I should’ve brought the repair kit.
I shouldn’t have asked him to pick me up.