Boys Life

was no puncher. If Gordo wanted to kick, that was fine with me. I stepped forward, my blood bubbling, and I gave him a kick in the shin that made him holler and dance a one-legged jig. Johnny and Gotha were grappling on the ground, the dust swirling around them. Fists rose and fell, and Davy Ray and Ben were ready to jump in if it looked as if Gotha was going to get on top of Johnny and start pummeling him. Johnny, though, was holding his own. He scrambled and twisted and fought, his sweating face paled with dust. Gotha’s hand gripped Johnny’s hair, but Johnny shook loose. A fist hit Johnny’s chin, but Johnny showed no pain. Then Johnny was flailing away at Gotha like a boy with nothing to lose but his dignity, and when those blows connected, they made Gotha grunt with pain and try to curl up like a writhing worm. “Fight! Fight!” the merry call went up, and a knot of onlookers closed around Johnny and Gotha as they battled on the ground.
    But Gordo was coming after me with a stick in his right hand.
    I didn’t care to get my brains knocked out, or have Rocket beaten into submission. I jumped on Rocket, knocked the kickstand up, and wheeled away, trying to put some distance between us. I thought Gordo would turn away from me and then I could try to dart in and knock that stick out of his hand. I was wrong. Gordo got on his black bike and started speeding after me, leaving Gotha to fight his own hateful little war.
    I had no time to shout for Ben and Davy Ray. I doubted if they could hear me anyway, over the hollering of the blood-mad crowd. I turned Rocket away from Gordo and pedaled frantically across the playground, going out through the gate in the fence and onto the sidewalk. When I looked back, Gordo was gaining, his head slung forward over the handlebars and his legs pumping. I started to swerve Rocket toward the playground again, to get support from my buddies.
    But Rocket wouldn’t let me.
    Rocket stiffened up. The handlebars wouldn’t turn. I had no choice but to keep going along the warped sidewalk, and here a strange thing happened.
    The pedals started turning faster, so fast I could hardly keep my feet on them. In fact, my sneakers slid off the grips more than once; the pedals, though, kept going. Rocket’s chain rattled through the gears and built up to a high, powerful singing sound.
    Rocket raced on, with me doing nothing more than clinging to its back as if on a wild horse. Our speed increased, the wind whipping through my hair. I looked over my shoulder; like doom and the end of time, Gordo was still at my heels.
    He wanted my skin, and he wasn’t going to stop until he had it.
    Back at the playground, Gotha struggled to his feet. Before he could aim a punch, Johnny tackled him at the kneecaps and they went down again as the onlookers shouted their delight. Davy Ray and Ben started looking for me, and they saw Rocket gone and Gordo and one of the black bikes missing.
    “Uh-oh!” Ben said.
    Gordo’s bike was fast. It might’ve beaten any other bike in Zephyr, but Rocket wasn’t like any other bike. Rocket was going like a hellhound, and I dreaded what might happen if that chain jumped its sprocket. We passed a man out raking leaves from his driveway. We passed two women talking in a front yard. I wanted to stop, but whenever I tried to put on the brake there was a high, angry hissing and Rocket would have none of it. I tried to turn right at the next intersection, to try to get home. Rocket wanted to go left, and I yelped as the bike’s handlebars took the corner and the rear wheel skidded on the edge of disaster. But Rocket held tight to the pavement, and we were off again with the wind in my teeth. “What’re you doin’?” I shouted. “Where’re you goin?” There was only one answer to these questions: Rocket had gone insane.
    Another backward glance showed me that Gordo was still right on my tail, though he was puffing and his face was mottled with crimson. “Better stop!” he hollered. “I’m gonna get you anyway!”
    Not if Rocket could help it. But every time I tried to urge Rocket toward my house, Rocket refused to be guided. The bike had its own destination, and I had no choice but to be swept along with it.
    Through the swirling dust, the battlers at the school yard fought to their feet. Gotha, not used to having anybody fight back, was showing his weakness; he was throwing wild punches, and he was so tired he was stumbling like a drunkard. Johnny danced in and