The Book of One Hundred Truths by Julie Schumacher Read Free Book Online

great. I can clean it for you. Help me get it outside.”
    Jocelyn didn’t budge.
    “Come on. What’s the matter? It’ll be fun.”
    “I don’t know how to ride a bike,” she said.
    Several streamers fell to the floor of the garage. “You don’t know how? You’re seven, and you can’t ride a bike?”
    She folded down her ankle socks, aligning them perfectly along her skinny calves. I was desperate to go somewhere, to get away from the house and the list of chores Ellen had probably left on the refrigerator. (
Thea: Replace engine in car. Pour cement for driveway. Reroof garage.
) “We could ride double on one bike,” I said, glancing at the dark green model I’d been planning to ride.
    “Riding double isn’t safe,” Jocelyn said.
    Muttering darkly to myself, I shoved the pink bike back into place, then waded deeper into the garage. I pushed past the charcoal grill and the rusted lawn mower and the coils of garden hose that reminded me of bright green snakes, and then, in the corner, I discovered something I had almost forgotten: the giant trike.
    “I think that’s Granda’s,” Jocelyn said.
    It was. I squeezed the hand brake on the oversized three-wheeler and remembered that when I was little, my Granda used to put me in the rectangular wicker basket in front of him and pedal me around Port Harbor. He used to sing, too. He sang songs from old movies, from
Oklahoma!
and
South Pacific.
He had a soft, deep voice—the kind you could feel inside your chest. He probably couldn’t pedal the trike anymore. And I hadn’t heard him sing in years.
    I shoved the grill and the hose out of the way and dragged the trike into the sunlight. “I bet you’d fit in that basket,” I said. I found a bike pump and started pumping up the tires. I plucked some spiders’ eggs from the spokes.
    Jocelyn looked skeptical.
    “Look,” I said. “We can sit here dusting and doing laundry all day, or we can go exploring. Which sounds more interesting to you?”
    I helped her climb up. Her thighs weren’t much bigger than my wrists and easily slipped through the wicker openings. “We aren’t going very far, are we?” she asked.
    “We’re on an island.” I pushed the trike onto the sidewalk. “There isn’t very far to go.”
    “Thea, wait. I don’t have a seat belt.”
    A seat belt
? I found a yellow bungee cord hanging on a peg by the garage door. “Here. This’ll be perfect. Some people even use them in cars, they’re so safe.”
    “Really? Do they?”
    “Sure. Would I lie to you?”
    Jocelyn fastened the bungee to the wicker basket, stretching it like a belt across her waist.
    “Are you ready?” I asked.
    She straightened her headband and nodded. “Let’s ride.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

    P ort Harbor was small, and there was almost no traffic. As soon as we rode away from the house, I began to feel free, like a dog whose owner had unfastened its leash and let it run.
    “What are we going to explore?” Jocelyn shouted. She looked like a statue on the front of an old-fashioned ship.
    I was pedaling too hard to answer. I had to stand up because the trike was heavy. Wiry yellow strands of Jocelyn’s hair kept floating or blowing into my mouth.
    “We’re going past the museum,” Jocelyn announced, like a miniature tour guide. “And there’s the fish store.” She pointed at a peeling wooden sign: LANDVIK’S FRESH FISH . “I went there with Nenna.”
    I plopped down behind her on the vinyl seat. We rode past the Port Harbor Fire and Rescue, past the Knitting Niche, the Seaway Hotel, and Francisco’s Pizza. I turned right and headed into the breeze. “Can you tell where I’m taking us?” I asked.
    “No.” Jocelyn’s legs were dangling on either side of the wide front tire like pale white fruit.
    About eight blocks later, we glided to a stop.
    “Look over there,” I said. “See the ramp? We made it all the way to the boardwalk.” About twenty-five yards ahead of us was a mile-long stretch of rides and