14

The sun was hot as we biked out of town. Not oppressively hot. A golden kind of hot. A kind of summer hot that makes you forget about seasons, and wonder why people ever built houses at all.

We biked through Kinnard until we reached the old train track. Built during Confederation, it was part of Canada's first transnational railway. It hadn't operated since World War II—for transporting goods, anyway. People still used it to walk along and eat near and bike beside without worrying much about cars. If you follow the tracks long enough, you cross right through Kinnard, through Camp Okanagan and, should you persevere, through the whole damn country. We only planned to follow the tracks until Camp. But I wondered whether, once we had that treasure, I would just follow the rail to its end.

I had biked along these tracks a million times. But never to Camp. Not even close. Our trip felt different as a result. Biking past couples picnicking and kids playing, I prepared myself for anything, like I was a pioneer leaving to explore lands distant and unmapped, ready to navigate dark forests, escape wild beasts and battle man-eating savages. It was an adventure, after all. I had to be ready.

'You guys pack anything special?' Shouted Chris, who was biking in front.

'I brought a book,' I said. 'So we can read at night.'

'I brought toilet paper.' Matty said. 'So we can wipe our asses.'

'Check what I brought,' Chris shouted. He took one hand off his bike handle and, while biking, pulled from his pack a small axe. Then he waived it above his head and made a cheap kind of Indian chant: 'Lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo lo'. We all laughed.

'So, did anyone bring food, then?' I asked.

We looked at each other in agreement. No one had.

'I'm not so hungry yet,' Matty said.

'Me neither,' I said.

'We can stock up on food in Boucherville. It shouldn't be long,' Chris said.

Though the trip was my idea, Chris was undoubtedly our leader. Not in an overt way. Me and Matty just sort of admired him more, listened to him more—it was simply who he was more. Chris was a larger than life kind of guy. The kind of guy who, when he faces the world, you'd think, the world really stands no chance.

On we biked, past town, through hill, over beach, and under bridge. I felt like saying goodbye to Kinnard. I felt I wasn't returning. My friends were leaving. My parents separating. My home sold. Even if I wanted to return, I couldn't.

'I think we've gone far enough, Matty.' Chris said. 'It's time to confess. Where have you been all summer instead of work?'

The leaves rustled in the wind.

Shyly, Matty said: 'uh remember Ema moved to my street?'

'Yeah,' I said.

'Who?' Chris shouted, biking in front.

'Ema, Ema McGregor. She moved to my street.' Matty said, louder this time.

Ema was two years younger than we were. Mostly she was nerdy. But this past year, she started going to parties.

'What about Ema? Speak up!' Chris shouted. Matty was sore on the subject; Chris sensed it, and was pressing the bruise.

'Her family moved to my street . . .' Matty yelled. Then, reverting to whisper: '. . . so we've been hanging out.'

'You've been with Ema this whole time?' Chris asked.

'She's actually pretty cool, once you get to know her.'

'Is she, like, your girlfriend?' Chris asked.

'Maybe—I like spending time with her.'

Matty was playing it down. It was pretty big though. None of us ever really had a girlfriend. I certainly hadn't. Chris had, I guess, but more to be cool, than, you know, to be in love. So in many ways Matty was the first.

'That's awesome, man,' Chris said.

'Thanks,' Matty said.

'Yeah,' I said frowning. 'Awesome.'

To tell you the truth, Ema was one of the best girls I knew. We played together a lot as kids, before she moved to Matty's street. At that time, she lived near me. North of the tracks.

The thing Ema and I did most was play Monopoly. Or maybe write stories. She wrote the funniest stories. There was this one about a girl who wanted to be an elephant, but only professionally. It killed me. You'd see if you read it. Her stories were always better, I admit.

When we got older, me and Ema sort of stopped hanging out. We'd say hi and stuff in the hallways. Talk about classes and parents and weekends. We just never played Monopoly or shared stories. Sometimes I wondered whether she still wrote at all.

To be honest, I liked Ema. For years, I think. Only around high school did we stop hanging out. That was when she moved South. That was also when she developed. I'm sorry, but it's true. As a result, more guys paid attention to her. Guys like Matty, I guess. And she stopped paying attention to me. I don't blame her. If I were her, I'd do the same. It's my fault, really.

I sort of stopped hanging out with everyone during high school. Not just Ema. Matty and Chris too. Those guys were still my closest friends. Just, more often than not, I'd rather read or write in the park than see them. And, more often than not, they'd rather go to a party than see me. We were all changing, I suppose. Me, in one direction; everyone else, in another.

Anyway, I didn't like Ema anymore. Even though she was prettier now than ever. Actually, I kind of resented her. I kind of resented Matty now too, for spending so much time with her.

The longer we biked, the stranger our way became. The trees stopped looking familiar. The path narrowed. The forest thickened. It was the farthest I'd ever biked down the tracks. I looked behind me to see how far we'd come, and then turned forward, and said a little type of prayer. In my head, I mean. It wasn't addressed to anyone in particular. In fact, it was kind of addressed to everyone, whoever would listen. I prayed that everything work out. I said, 'Please, let it all work out.' I wasn't talking about the treasure hunt, either. I really did mean everything. For so long, as a kid and all, I'd been such a critic. I can't stand this. I don't want to do that. Acting like nothing was done right. I longed for the freedom to do it my way. But now here I was. I had freedom. I had my way. But I was paralyzed. No university and no clue. What was I doing? On this dumb treasure hunt. I was the biggest failure I knew. 'Please,' I repeated, 'let it all work out.'

When I finished praying, I focused on the road ahead, and pedaled harder. I passed Matty. I pedaled harder. I passed Chris. I pedaled harder. My thighs burned. I pedaled harder.

I was a championship biker shooting past the competition. The breeze, hot and heavy, rushed past. It felt good. The path turned left; I turned left. The path turned more, curling like a damn race track; I turned more, slanting like a damn racer. My pedal skidded against the dirt. I couldn't see the path ahead. I was turning too sharply and too quickly. Far behind were Matty and Chris. My wheels slid out. I straightened as best I could, and pumped the brakes. But my bike sped forward and the path kept curling. I shot right off it, right into the forest. Bumping through trees, I was poked and bitten by branches. I pulled the brakes hard, and went right over the handle bars, landing in a pile of dirt and leaves.

Nothing hurt. I pushed myself up. Though shaky, I wasn't shocked. I expected it, in a way. It's what I do. I'm always getting worked up to be, oh, I dunno, a championship biker. It's kind of funny, if you think about it. For instance, in ninth grade I determined to be the best student in school. I studied hard and got pretty good grades. But then I got bored or lazy, or maybe I just pedaled too hard. By tenth grade, my marks were back to normal. By eleventh, I nearly failed a class. And now, in twelfth grade, I hadn't applied to a single university. Even as I write this book, I wonder whether I'm just pedaling too hard. I mean, who knows if I'll ever finish? Probably won't. But let's say I do—who's gonna read this crap? Probably no one. I'm not a writer. I don't even like most books. And, to think, I could've spent all this time doing something useful, something respectable, something for my future. Instead, I waste my energy, pedaling wildly, until I knock myself off the god damn bike.

Before I knew it, Chris and Matty had dropped their bikes and run through the forest to find me.

'Alright dude?' Chris asked, laughing.

'Yeah,' I said, laughing. 'I'm fine.'

'What happened?' Matty asked.

'Dunno,' I said, smiling and scratching the back of my head. 'Went a little too fast, I guess.'

'Be careful.' Chris said. 'We have a long trip ahead.'

'Yeah, my bad.' I said.

I walked to get my bike. But as soon as I took my first step, my left ankle panged. I couldn't really put weight on it. I didn't want to tell the guys though. So I just sort of kept walking. My adrenaline still pumped so it wasn't that bad. When I crouched to pick up my bike, I saw my ankle was real swollen, a bit purple too. Either way, I wasn't going to say anything. Our trip had just begun. And this trip was all I had.

Limping slightly, I walked my bike out of the forest.

'You sure you okay?' Chris asked.

'Yeah,' I said.

As we started to bike again, I realized it wasn't only my ankle that was busted. My bike was too. The pedals were jammed. They worked fine when I pedaled backwards. But as soon as I pedaled forward, they locked.

'Hold on a sec,' I said.

'What now?' Matty asked.

'My bike. The pedals are jammed.'

'Man,' Matty said. 'It's sundown. We have no food. You're limping. And your bike's broken. Maybe we should just go home. Try another time, or better yet, not try.'

'Relax, I can fix this.' I insisted. The thought of going back made me sick. I wasn't sure why. This trip was a pretty dumb idea. I didn't even care about the treasure anymore. In fact, I didn't really expect to find it. I never did.

Maybe I just wanted to avoid thinking about the future. Or maybe I wanted to prove that I could, for once, see something to the end. Even if it was pointless. I mean, most things people do are pointless. My parents' marriage, for instance. Waste of twenty years, if you ask me. At least my plan would only waste a week. And no stupid jammed pedal or stupid swollen ankle would stop me.

I got off my bike, and flipped the thing over so that the seat and handles were on the ground and the two wheels where in the air. I pushed on the pedal with my hand. It jammed up. The gears seemed fine, though. I pushed again. The pedal jammed again. This time I saw the problem: the chain. Part of it was clumped up. I took the chain off the bike and tried to straighten it out. I could a little, but not entirely. One of the links was deformed, and had latched itself to another, creating this kind of knot.

'Okay,' I said. 'There's some good news and some bad.'

'Uh-huh,' Chris said. I sensed his frustration. That made two, because Matty clearly wanted to go back. This kind of trip just wasn't his brand of whisky.

'Well,' I continued, pretending not to notice. 'The good news is, I've found the problem. It's easy to fix. The bad news, I'm gonna need pliers or something. In Boucherville, there must be someone who can help. But we'll have to walk our bikes there.'

'Pf,' Matty puffed. 'I'm starved. Let's call someone for a ride home.'

'Don't be such a pussy, Matty,' I said. 'What's an adventure without obstacles? No adventure at all.'

'I dunno,' Matty said. 'Chris, what do you think?'

'We can walk to Boucherville,' Chris said. 'It shouldn't take long—at most a couple hours. We'll get the bike fixed. Have a nice dinner. It'll be great.' He smiled and winked, and then, without even waiting, he started walking to Boucherville. I followed. Matty did too.

I wondered whether Chris knew how important this trip was to me. Or whether he was simply being his regular, easy-going self. Either way, our moods soon recovered. And as we walked, bikes at our side, a slim moon replaced a round sun, and a dark sky replaced a light one.