This is called a hypotenuse, which we learned yesterday in math. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a driver’s license,” I say. “Lawns everywhere, beware.” He grins, hopping off the seat and leaning the handlebars down onto the grass. “Efficiency.” It’s Saturday afternoon. He’s wearing a New York Knicks jersey. I come off the porch and head for the side of the garage, carrying my small bag of trash. He can’t know I was waiting. Hoping. He pokes around a bit, looking, then fetches the basketball from my garage. “You got a bike?” he asks. “There’s someplace I want to show you.” “What?” “Oh, no. I’m not telling.” He sticks the ball under his arm, hopping back on his bike. I yell to Grammie that I’m going for a ride, and we take off down the street. Bailey rides hard, glancing back at me occasionally, but every time I’m right there, keeping up. This, I know how to do. We make a wide left turn beyond the edge of our subdivision. The desert stretches out all around us, and Bailey leads me down a well-trampled path of scrub dirt, every rut of which is all too familiar.
