– Cool.

– Yeah.

They all stand there on the Arroyos’ porch.

George touches the blood on his neck.

– Let’s get the fuckin’ bike before they come back.

They go in, Paul, George, and Hector wheeling their bikes with them.

Their eyes adjust to the darkness inside the house.

Paul leans his bike against the wall.

– Fucking A.

The livingroom is littered with the mutilated carcasses of several dozen bikes.

Hector picks up the gear assembly from a ten speed.

– It’s a fucking chop shop.

Paul kicks a milk crate full of pedals.

– Bike thieves suck.

Andy bends and lifts his own bike from where Timo dumped it on the floor.

– That’s a movie.

They all look at him.

Paul starts picking through the pedals.

– What the fuck are you talking about?

– The Bicycle Thief. It’s a movie we watched in Humanities.

He’s inspecting his bike, searching for outward signs that Timo has ridden it. Marks he’ll have to avoid looking at for fear that they’ll remind him of what a dildo he was, not locking up his bike.

George lifts the edge of a blue plastic tarp to look at whatever is tented beneath.

– They show movies in Humanities? Fuck, why didn’t we take that class?

Paul chucks a rusty pedal at Andy’s foot.

– Because we’re not super mutant brains like your mutant brother.

Andy ignores the pedal, clutching both the brake levers on his handlebars, making sure the action has stayed springy in the two hours the bike was gone.

– It’s not that brainy of a class. Just reading and talking and stuff. Writing a few papers.

George shakes his head.

– And watching movies. Only movie we ever got to see was the car crash movies in Driver’s Ed.

Hector is squatting next to a snaked pile of chains. He finds a broken one and unclasps the master link, leaving himself with two lengths, neither the perfect eighteen inches he prefers.

He chooses the shorter of the two and drops the other.

– It is a good movie?

George stares at him.

– It’s a bunch of people who got creamed on the highway.

– No, the movie Andy’s talking about, the bicycle thing.

Andy remembers the movie, the way it made him feel.

– Yeah, it’s, you know, it’s sad, depressing. But it’s a good story. Black and white. It’s in Italian. You have to read the subtitles.

Paul has picked out two matching chrome pedals. He drops them back in the crate.

– Black and white movies give me a migraine.

Hector whips his piece of chain back and forth a couple times. It’s a little rusty. He wraps it around his hand, over the scratches and thin white scars on the backs of his fingers that come from fighting with chain. He flexes his encased fist.

He walks over to Paul.

– Everything gives you headaches.

– Fuck you, they’re not headaches, they’re migraines.

Hector punches the wall, cracking the plaster and leaving a series of deep parallel tracks.

– Whatever, your head’s always hurtin’ and you’re always whinin’ about it.

– You ever had one you’d know the fuckin’ diff.

He turns and jabs Hector’s forehead with the tip of his index finger.

– And I don’t whine, fag.

Hector slaps the finger away and takes a boxing stance.

– Whiner.

Paul slaps at his head.

– Fuck you, puss.

They spar for a minute, Hector jabbing, Paul letting him hit his shoulders and chest and reaching out to deliver open hand slaps to the side of Hector’s head.

Hector goes up on his tiptoes.

– Oh meee, I got a miiigrane. It hurts sooo bad.

– Fuck you, mama’s boy.

– Hey.

They look as George whips the tarp away and reveals the final product of the Arroyos’ chop shop.

Resting on top of several flattened cardboard boxes are two custom BMXers built around Mongoose frames. The bikes are flipped upside down, balanced on their handlebars and seats, the brake cables unattached but the other hardware in place.

Hector squats next to the electric blue one and runs a finger over the graffiti lettering that runs down the crotchbar.

– Oh, man, this is trick.

Andy looks over his shoulder.

– What’s it say?

– Chupacabre. It’s like a Mexican demon.

Paul picks up a box cutter from the floor and slips the blade in and out.

– Fuckin’ bike thieves still suck no matter how good they put shit back together.

George takes a look at the yellow bike with the chopped forks.

He points.

– The blue flames are rad.

Paul clicks the box cutter all the way open.

– We should trash that shit.

Andy looks at his own piece of shit bike and then at the two works of art.

– What?

– We should trash ’em. Teach the Arroyos’ a fuckin’ lesson for stealin’ bikes.

He takes a step toward the BMX chopper, box cutter in his hand.

Andy gets in front of him.

– No, man, leave ’em alone.

Paul points the cutter at Andy’s bike.

– Fuck do you care? They would have done that shit to your bike, chopped it up and used it for someone else. ’Cept your bike is so lame they probably only could of used like the sprocket or a couple spokes. They stole your bike, man. Let’s do something about it. Don’t puss out.

– I’m not pussing, I just. You know, we should just get out anyway, they’re gonna be back.

– Fuck that. They stole your bike, we’re not going anywhere until we do something about it.

Paul’s voice is rising, his face turning red.

Andy sees him wince.

– You OK?

Paul closes his eyes.

He breathes. He turns his back to his friends, lets his mouth drop open, relaxes the muscles in his neck.

He dreams.

He’s dreaming about Chargers and GTOs and Mustangs. He’s dreaming about driving. He’s dreaming about the four of them piled into a black ’72 fastback with red detailed louvers over the sloped rear window and a fat yellow racing stripe down the middle of the hood. Dreaming about laying rubber out the exit of the bowling alley. Dreaming about speeding after a European sports car full of fucking jocks and cutting it off and piling out the doors and fucking them up because they can’t just drive away after they scream shit at them on the sidewalk. About nailing chicks in the backseat.

He’s dreaming about walking out the front door of his house and getting in a badass set of wheels and driving it away and deciding never to go home and no one ever being able to catch him.

Andy touches Paul’s back.

– You OK?

Paul turns and slaps his hand away.

– Don’t touch me, puss, I’m fucking fine.

He drops the cutter.

– So leave the bikes alone, whatever, but I’m robbing these motherfuckers blind.

And he sets off down the hall toward the bedrooms.

Andy looks at George and Hector, points at the door.

– C’mon, guys, we got to get out of here.

George and Hector look at one another.

And they follow Paul.

– Fine. Whatever. I’m getting out of here.

Andy goes to the window and looks out. The girls are back across the street, playing on the sidewalk. He touches his bike, imagines the havoc if the Arroyos come home with them still in the house. Imagines the feeling if something were to go down without him being there, and then he goes down the hall.

He watches the doorways as they toss Fernando’s and Ramon’s rooms and sees Hector find the fistfuls of stolen gold and silver chains hidden in the body of a donkey piñata. Sees Paul sweeping Fernando’s dresser top clear of combs and hairnets and bandanas and a small shrine of the Madonna, sees him finding the rolls of singles and fives and tens stuffed to the back of the underwear drawer. He goes back into the hall and opens a door and finds the closet Timo’s been dumping his stuff in and picks through it, taking a single photograph and walking away and pulling open another door and looking into the garage.