Orange Krate

Photo by Pavel Danilyuk

The Recreation Center was a bike ride away from Happy Acres. Located next to the Kern River, the center’s massive, drab exterior looked more like a prison than a place for fun. But every kid I knew wanted to be there on a hot day for Summer Sessions. 

Mom paid for two weeks of Summer Sessions for Brother and me. She said we needed more activities besides moping around. 

On the first day of our Summer Sessions, Brother and I rode our bikes to the center. We raced and played follow the leader down the middle of Beardsley Avenue. 

Brother had a brand new Schwinn Orange Krate boy’s bike. He bought it himself with lawn moving money and a cashed birthday check from grandma. Every kid in Happy Acres wanted his bike, and Brother rubbed it in. It was a magnificent candy-colored orange chopper bike. It had a low-rider banana-style seat, extra-tall chrome suicide handlebars, and a 5-speed gear shift like a car. It was sparkly, and I wasn’t allowed to touch it. 

We took a shortcut to the Recreation Center on a sandy road that wound through wilted trees and tumbleweeds next to the river. It was a treacherous journey for a bike. If you peddled too fast on a turn, your front wheel could easily slip out from under you. Peddling too slow, you got bogged down, and your bike tipped over.

Rarely did I wear shoes in the summertime. After school got out, the bottoms of my feet turned black and leathery. I could run up and down a gravel driveway and barely feel a thing. But on a scorching 105-degree day, a tumble onto burning sand could turn even the toughest soles into a ginormous blister.

I don’t know what Brother did when we got to the center on that first day. After chaining our bikes together to a light pole, he took off with some boys. I never saw him after that until it was time to go home.

Mostly I stayed in the craft room. My mouth dropped when I saw all those stacks of construction paper in every color of the rainbow. There was a box full of Elmer’s Glue bottles, tubs of paste, and an old ice cream bucket of blunt scissors. Set out on folding tables were jars of finger paint, butcher paper, brand-new boxes of crayons, packages of feathers, glitter, paper bags, and Popsicle sticks. I never left that craft room, not even to pee.

By the time my first day’s session was over, I’d already cut out dozens of colorful snowflakes and paper doll chains. All my paper bag puppets were glued and decorated to look like cats. I made cootie catchers for all my friends and an elaborate pink feather and silver glitter birthday card for Mom. My six feet of finger-painted butcher paper was dry and cracked like desert mud. But the best part was coating my arms and hands in Elmer’s Glue so I could shed my skin like a gopher snake. 

Brother poked his head inside the craft room. “Hey dummy, we gotta go. Now!”  

I wanted to take all my crafts home to show Mom, but without a bike basket, there was no way I could steer, peddle and carry so many crafts without crashing. I threw them all in the trash can, figuring I’d make them all over again tomorrow.

We rode the shortcut home. Late afternoon was even hotter than noon. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, only jet trails and turkey vultures circling above. On the horizon danced a silvery mirage that reminded me I was thirsty. All I could think about was how good it would be to sit under our swamp cooler vent at home, licking one of Mom’s homemade Kool-Aid popsicles. 

Brother and I peddled single file when three boys jumped out from behind some tumbleweeds. I recognized them from the Recreation Center. Two of the boys grabbed Brother and his bike while the third straddled my front wheel and held my handlebars. My bare feet dangled inches above the burning sand. 

Fat Earl got right up in Brother’s face. “Today is your lucky day, dim wit,” he said. “I’m going to clobber you with a knuckle sandwich.” He made boxing fists and started punching an imaginary bag next to Brother’s flinching head. “Nice bike, dork-o.” Fat Earl circled Brother and his Orange Krate like a rabid dog. “When I’m done with you, I’m taking that bike of yours for a long ride.” 

Brother’s eyes widened.

Next to Fat Earl stood a very nervous boy named Marty. He was too tall for his age. His face was pimply and white. Kept fidgeting with the hem of his yellow shirt and looking around to see if anyone was coming. 

“I already told you, Earl. I’m not fighting you or anyone,” Brother protested.

“What? Did you say something, sissy boy? I can smell a sissy boy for miles, and you sure stink.” Fat Earl shoved Brother and his bike onto the hot sand. “Fight me, you pussy face.” 

I could tell Brother was mad. His face was the color of a pomegranate, and his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. I wanted Brother to get up. I wanted him to fight, to take aim, and belt Fat Earl in the mouth. Instead, Brother just sat in the sand and did nothing. 

I panicked for both of us. 

“You leave my brother alone,” I shouted. 

“Who’s this? Your baby sister? How old are you anyway?” said Fat Earl. 

“Nine!” I lied. Eight was a baby’s age, but nine was grown up. Besides, I would’ve been nine in few weeks anyway.

Fat Earl did some donuts in the sand with Brother’s Orange Krate. When he finished and pulled up beside me, he looked sweaty and stunk like a cheeseburger with onions. His faded jean cutoffs were filthy, and his black t-shirt had more holes than his tennis shoes. I narrowed my eyes and snarled at him.

Fat Earl taunted Brother and me with death while the other boys, Marty and Sam, giggled like woodpeckers. 

“Hey boys,” said Fat Earl. “If this bozo won’t fight, let’s beat up his little sister.” He grabbed my arm and squeezed it so tight I cried out. I tried to make him let go, but each time I punched him with my free arm, my bike teeter-tottered, and my bare feet burned on the sand. 

Straddling my front tire, Sam tried his best to keep me and my bike upright, but he couldn’t hold it steady forever. 

“Look who forgot to wear her shoes today. Sand too hot for you, little baby girl?” Fat Earl smirked. He tipped me and my bike until my right foot disappeared into the scalding sand. I screamed. 

Suddenly Brother shot up. “Get your hands off my sister,” He roared. “This is between you and me, Earl. Leave her out of it. Pick on someone you’re own size, you big FATSO!” 

Fat Earl looked as surprised as the rest of us. No one called Fat Earl fat, at least not to his face.  

“Run along, little girl,” Fat Earl said. “Go home and cry to your Mommy. It’s your brother I want.” 

Stan wasn’t like the other two boys. “Are you going to be okay? he asked. He held my bike steady, so I could rest my singed feet on my peddles. Then, he gave my bike a good push on the count of three, and see me free. 

I rode home as fast as I could to get Mom.  

“Slow down. Slow down. What’s the matter?” she said.

“We gotta go help Brother! They’re going to kill him!”

Mom and I went looking for Brother and found him walking alongside his Orange Krate on Beardsley Avenue. His tires were flat, and his nose was a bloody mess.

Mom wanted to go back to the Recreation Center and give them a piece of her mind for poor supervision, but Brother insisted she didn’t.

“I’m okay,” he said, standing straight. “They won’t be bothering us anymore.” 

He winked at me.

I knew I loved Brother for that one day.