My entry for week 85 of the Trifecta Writing Challenge.
Hits the Sky
Somewhere around three a.m. Mobes decides that a bike ride is in order. Fizz is half asleep, his cigarette dripping sparky ash down the front of his Radiohead tee, but he raises an eyebrow at the word bike and mumbles, “Dude. Yeah.”
Apparently I’m the only one who thinks this is a shit idea. I start to say so, but it’s the first time Mobes has let me stay the night at his place since Mum and Dad kicked him out, and I don’t want him to think I’m still a baby, so I slap on my “hey, cool” face and grab my helmet. They both laugh at me, but I fasten the helmet strap anyway.
The roads are ours, all the sane people home in bed, sleeping, reading, screwing. Mobes and Fizz whoop and howl as they fly past me, circle back and pass me again. Streetlight, starlight, houses, trees, everything blurring into a smeary Van Gogh night, reforming into reality at the touch of the brakes.
We hit Oak Street, and Mobes and Fizz sail into the descent like downhill skiers. They smoke a joint at the bottom as I dismount and walk my bike down.
“Weiner,” says Mobes.
“Shithead.” Fizz punches Mobes in the arm and smiles at me. “Ignore him, kid. Your brother wussed out his first time, too. C’mon, Mobes. Let’s go again.”
I finish the the joint while they zig and zag back up the hill, disappearing into the darkness. All I can hear is the distant hum of traffic and some machinery down by the water, and I think maybe they’ve taken off until Mobes’s hyena shriek bursts out of the shadows and they’re rocketing down the street again.
I see the van before they do, but even as I open my mouth to shout, Mobes is in the air, impossibly high, arms flapping like he’s trying to swim to heaven, a wingless angel. Or a shooting star.
His bike hits the ground before he does.