Cool

Summer 1989

The world is unfair.

My sister has a purple bike. Mine is a stupid pink one, with a banana seat. It's a little kid's bike. So uncool. My sister's bike, on the other hand, is awesome. It looks like a mountain bike. And is purple. It looks like something a teenager would have. It's so cool, it hurts.

I covet my sister's bicycle. I look at it longingly in the garage. When we ride around the block, I imagine the neighbors looking out their windows at us, and agreeing with each other that Allison is so much cooler than me, with her purple bike. But I know that Allison is not cooler, she just has a better bike. I'm the cool one. I'm edgy. I'm just stuck with this stupid banana seat bike is all.

If I could just ride her bike. Then my outer coolness would match my inner coolness. And everything would be right with the world. I would have cool new friends, the Reene Boys would want to play with me instead of her. I would race down the street faster than everyone else. If I could just have her bike, I would come in first place. I just know it.

I know better than to ask to borrow her bike. I know the answer already, and I don't want to be caught showing that I think something she has is cool.

So, I steal it.

I sneak it out of the garage into the summer afternoon daylight. It is magnificent. Purple and gleaming, it is the embodiment of cool.

I swing one leg over the cross bar and hop onto the subtle pink seat. I look down at my legs, next to the purple steal of the bike my tan legs look mature, and the the scabs on my knees make me look tough and edgy instead of clumsy. I look cool. I feel cool. I am cool.

And then I push off for a ride around the block. I am coasting down the driveway. The wind is tugging at my hair. I am independent and grownup, taking a bike ride on my own. I don't answer to anyone.

Then I look up. I am heading straight for the mailbox. I am gaining speed. I realize that this bike is bigger than my little-kid pink bike. That the pedals are too far away. I can't reach the brakes. I can't turn fast enough.

Crash.

45 pounds of bike and six-year-old girl child come into contact with the unforgiving steal of the mailbox. I go down hard. The bike skids away from me. And I sit up, all illusions of coolness wiped out.

And I start to cry. Then I go look for my mom.

With a face covered in blood, my mom straps me into the front seat and rushes me to the hospital. I get two stitches and a pocketful of lolli-pops. And then Mom takes me to A&W for a root-beer float and curly fries.

Pretty cool.