a dollar and three cents

ghost bike memorial

We believed that we would be best friends forever. In April, a moving truck was planted right in front of the house next door. You hovered over your pink bike because you were afraid that it would get damaged while you weren't looking. I immediately liked you, especially because of your sparkly bike. You still weren't taught that boys were not supposed to like pink. In kindergarten, you shared a chocolate chip cookie with me and that's when I knew we would be great friends. There was a small park a block from where we lived and pretty soon, we were riding our bikes every Saturday while our parents watched us warily. You and I raced each other and I felt triumphant when I won. Then, on that fateful day, our parents took off the training wheels. I kept leaning too far and collided into the benches. You lost your balance and kept scraping your knee. We both teased each other and this made the fall less painful. By third grade, we thought that we were the best bikers in the world, contrary to our parents' belief.

In fourth grade, we learned the unspoken rules about gender. Boys were not supposed to like pink and were supposed to be better at sports. Girls were supposed to hate exercise and only care about their looks. Most of all, you could only be best friends with people of the same gender. I was particularly nervous about our friendship in 5th grade, especially when people started teasing us. I heard stuff like, "They would make such a great couple," and "You totally like him, don't you." I grew frustrated, but you didn't care about these things, and so I tried not to care as well.

When we became 6th graders, our parents decided that we were responsible enough to bike to school every day. You always woke up at the last minute so I waited outside with my blue bike. You would eagerly join me when you were finished and we would race each other while being careful about stoplights. I would almost always come in 1st place; I was so reckless back then, but you had my back.

In 7th grade, you became really quiet and empty and I was afraid that something was wrong. I tried to fulfill my duty as a best friend and cheer you up. One day, tears were falling down your face and so I held you close. Both of us got weird looks, and rumors spread like wildfire. You were tumbling down a deep hole and it was terrible to watch you suffer. I was careful around you; even though you were slipping, I held on as tight as I could.

High school was the year it all changed. We filled out our applications and then we parted our ways. We made a promise to stay friends, and I'm sorry. We never biked together anymore. It was gradual at first, but then I had soccer practice and you, well I didn't know you anymore. I forgot how good it felt to be your friend.

Time went by and we became something like nostalgic strangers. You changed a lot. I probably did too.

We met for the last time in April. School let out a little bit earlier and so I biked home. I saw you at the intersection and after that, the gap disappeared. It seemed like that early bond stuck with us after all.

It was by fate that the car sped out from the small road. Everything was fast and blurry. I heard a loud crash, and I watched you fall. Images flashed everywhere:

The look on your face.

The bike's wheel still spinning on the ground.

The dent in the car.

The shouts of the driver.

The slow silence.

The soft drip of the rain.

The red and blue sirens.

The tears on your mom's face.

The slow day of black dresses and suits.

Everyone treated me like I was fragile. Maybe I was. People kept saying, "I'm sorry for your loss," as if that could wipe away all of those memories of our early years before we didn't care about anything. Someone put up a white bike on that street for you. People dropped flowers into the basket. Wilting flowers were replaced with vibrant colors. The pile of bouquets slowly took over the sidewalk.

It was overwhelming.

It was haunting.

It was beautiful.

a/n: 

i last worked on this on november 6th, 2018. i don't really like how it begins but i guess the part i like most is the ending. someone did say that they thought the last part was unnecessary though. i submitted this short story to my school's arts magazine and it got accepted, so that boosted my confidence a bit. the idea for this story  came from a bike memorial near where i live. i remember being very touched when i saw that people left bouquets in the basket of the bike. now, i think the bike has been removed after bike lanes were paved all around the city. there are still a bunch of memorials near multiple intersections, which i find very sad. 

in terms of the perspective in the story, this was my first time using 'you' pronouns. i wanted to try this kind of narration after reading someone else's short story. it was a very impressive story and i liked how it included the audience into the plot, so i wanted to try it too. i don't know if i used it well in this story, but it was fun writing this. i am worried though, that the plot is a bit... cheesy. i also want to work on the beginning, because like i said, i don't like it very much. if i were to revise it, i would probably try to find a better hook and do more "showing" rather than "telling".

what are your thoughts?

(sorry for the long a/n)

~awayxfromxhere