Nostalgia is much more than a mere reminiscing; it's a feeling. Thinking back to when I was a young boy, I don't have a lot of nostalgic memories. I see nostalgia as a warm and happy feeling. This memory is certainly nostalgic because even though in those times I was unhappy, I must seek the light in the dying flashlight of my youth. Flickering on and off—but most times off. Friday nights I would almost always spend out biking with my friends or people I saw as my friends anyways. Any reason to get away. I loved my bike, it was the coolest thing ever to me. It was black with green and made by Kranked. It was the first bike that I owned that had multiple gears. I was in the big leagues. It was always such a rush, speeding down those small-town roads. Faster than air, I used to say. Once I got going, it felt like the air was flying past. My hair There was not much else during that time I enjoyed more. In a world of wrong, I needed some right. One day after school, I walked to my bike alone. As I walked the parking lot, the bike rack seemed suspiciously vacant. Only two or three little kids' bikes remained. They were all baby blue or bright pink, and not really my style. Alarmed, I sprinted to the bike rack. I became overwhelmed with emotions; fear over my consequences, sadness over the loss, anger at the faceless culprit, and panic from a mixture of all of them. After sobbing in the dirt for several minutes, I smacked the tears away and began my trek. Three kilometers is not far at all, but to an eleven-year-old, that's like Frodo's journey to Mount Doom. A crack of thunder split the sky in half, making me jump. In less than a minute the wind rose to near thirty-five kilometer per hour speeds, and to frost the cake, it was raining so hard I gained an additional ten pounds to carry. Fortunately for me, there's no visible difference between raindrops and tears. So, oncoming by-passers knew no different. Two steep hills and a busy main street bridge later, I arrived at home. I burst through the door eagerly and flopped on the couch. I didn't know or care of the wrath of my parents later due to the wet couch. Something that most people would consider no big deal, to her, was offensive—any reason for her to let off steam, I suppose. Over a year had passed, and I was over the loss of my bike—the mystery still unsolved. When he found out, my father was exceptionally upset with me. He went on and on about how it was a two-hundred dollar bike and how he was very disappointed. He told me I would have to buy a new one myself, although I never did. Although I never bought a new bike, my father did found this grey piece of junk bike with a bent frame, missing handlebars, and a shredded seat labelled FREE on the side of the road. It was garbage—a perfect addition to the family. But unlike my *family*, the bike could be fixed. A short time later, I was biking with a new friend—Bryce. He seemed nice enough. We pedaled down the cracking road that housed the car wash, and the soap factory (later converted to a PolyCorp, at which my father would later work). At the end of the road was a towering cornfield; the unsuspected site of a serious injury later on. As we rode, we joked back and forth, laughing with that giddy excitement that you have in those rare (especially for me) and precious childhood years. Thing was, I didn't really know what kind of person Bryce was. Having known him, and a couple of other *Bryce's*, I can say the name definitely leaves a sour taste in the mouth—even after all these years. We kept on down the road, behind the warehouses, until we found ourselves crunching dirt and stone under our tires. The path resided within a *forest*. Trees only surrounding the path and nothing else. The path hesitated, with a relatively quiet road, only three or so houses. The path continued into the thicker shrubbery, but we never really went down there. We traveled South down the road reaching the fairly new subdivision—it was new enough that some houses were still being constructed. We reached his house. Nothing special at all, just a regular typical subdivision home. One, that, if I looked, I could find five like it on that side of the street alone. Bryce coasted into the driveway, hopped off and tossed his bag onto the grass beside the granite path that leads to the deck. He paused on the middle step and torqued his torso around. "Mom says I can't let anyone in while she's not home. I can get you some water, you just have to drink it out here," he said with his wide signature goofy grin he seemed to always have the damn thing slapped on. In hindsight, I find his utter obedience to his mother's rules quite ironic. He paused, then went over and punched the code and the garage opened. "I'll only be a minute," and with that, he disappeared into his house. During those couple minutes, I stood alone and learned a few things about my good pal Bryce. To name a few, there were at least thirteen bikes that I could see. There were three bolt cutters laying on top of a toolbox. I suppose some of that can easily be explained, but then I saw a bike leaning against the side of his house. A bike exactly identical to the one that had been stolen the previous year. I had no reason to believe he had stolen any of these things, but he did. Bryce came out, plastic bottle in each hand. He tossed one to me. "Nice and cold, eh?" I nodded. I mentioned how cool the bike on the side was. The way his shoulders tensed, and the way his eyes quickly darted away, gave him away instantly. I didn't say much after that—and the jokes and laughter became few and far between. I knew it. Knew. Didn't--*couldn't* believe, but knew. For the next two and a half weeks, Bryce and I talked less and less. Until one day, I decided to approach him about the bike—I don't think I approached him immediately because I was worried that he would be shipped off to some sort of juvenile Alcatraz. I've always exercised good virtue. I'm slightly embarrassed to admit being overly naive as a boy. "Tell me you didn't take it," I asked. Bryce looked around anxiously. "If you tell *anyone*, I'll beat you," he whispered. I smirked and ran down the hall, hitting his shoulder as I went. He yelled something at me before pursuing me. I was on my way to the junior pod; a circular room with computers lining the sides and a table in the centre. It acted as a sort-of crossroads to the junior classrooms. The pod lead to at least four classes grades four, five, and six. I turned a corner, and up a ramp. As I He seemed startled. I consider myself a very straight-to-the-point conversationalist. I won't *beat around the bush* as my father likes to say. "Did you take my bike??" The words were sharp and vicious as they floated in the air for what had to have been a whole minute. I don't think Bryce knew what to do, he'd never been caught before (at least not to my knowledge. My mother has this theory that there's no such thing as bullying—rather, you get your ass kicked, or you don't. Regardless, I still got a two day in school suspension. Bryce moved away a month later. I completely forgot the whole thing. I didn't see or even think of Bryce for three years after that. But then he just showed up. I was walking with my younger step-sister through the hilly grass marsh. We had been locked out of the house until dark. Something that seemed to have been happening more frequently. It was sometime during the summer after grade nine. I didn't have the most desirable first year of high school. On top of a shitty school life, I had to deal with even worse shit at home. And let me tell you, the worst kind of *bully* is the one that feeds you, houses you, and clothes you. We had reached the highest hill of this grassy marsh. What would be a thriving new subdivision, was nothing but a hilly field, due to its swampy nature. The field begins at the end of my road and finishes at the opposite end of Bryce's subdivision To the North of the tallest hill was a section of flat land that composed half of the swamp. This was the real swamp. It was muddy and wet. Some places you could sink up to your knees—it was like quicksand. You had to be careful not to get your sneaker sucked right off your foot. That day, it was completely dried, though. The mud hardened in irregular spiky formations. As we climbed down, we noticed someone sitting on the biggest formation of them all. His bike lay to the right of him. Once we reached him, I had this strange sense of familiarity. He was puffing away on a cigarette. As we talked, I slowly realized it was Bryce. He had grown his hair from the boyish blonde comb-over to a full-blown slicked back rebellious mullet. It reminds me of a movie I watched several years later called The Outsiders. He definitely reminds me of a Greaser. As for me, I don't see myself as a Greaser or a Soc. I've never really cared for the social rules and guidelines. For instance, if you read comic books, that means you're a nerd, and nerds can't play sports only because they're nerds. I have a very wide range of interests, but when you can fit into every clique, you're welcomed to none. It took me a long time to discover the realization that it doesn't matter how many friends you have, or how popular you are. His lips stretched into a wide smile causing the cigarette in his mouth to tilt upwards. "What the hell are you doing out here?" I asked. "No one ever comes out here." "Then why are you out here, huh?" "Got kicked out." "Lucky, I left." "Wait, like for good?" My father's forehead in mine creased and wrinkled contributing to my puzzled expression. "Yep. My fat ass stepdad was beating on my mom, so I decked him a few." He leaned forward, taking several puffs of the shrinking smoke in between his fingers. "Shit..." I breathed. Suddenly, this stranger evoked in me a deep sense of sympathy, almost affinitive. "...After that, my mom started screaming at me to get out of her house. So I did." He clearly understood how much he was sharing because he shrugged nonchalantly. "I understand, *trust me*," I said, briefly looking at the scars on my knuckles, caressing them with my thumb. He dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and stepped on it twirling his foot back and forth. He began to rub his bottom lip with his thumb. He appeared to be pondering something. "You remind me of someone... Have we met before?" Bryce asked. "Yeah, I think so. You seem familiar to me too."As Bryce began scratching the bridge of his nose, he said, "Well what's your name?" "Yeah, that might help. Nick—Nicholas." Bryce's eyes jolted open. He smirked and raised an eyebrow from a tilted head. He rubbed his nose and laughed. And I chuckled along with him. He was well on his way to becoming a jail-bound criminal, if not one already. I'm curious whether he still follows his mother's rules; *be home by dark, no one in the house when I'm gone, and especially don't take what isn't yours.*
