No Longer In Flight

He was flying. 

          The wind put up no resistance as he flew down the hill, the houses blurring past him.  He felt almost as if he could lift his arms and fly- fly far, far, away.  To the edges of the world, and back again.  Like a real life fairy tale.  He let out a loud whoop as he went, pretending he was preparing for lift off, like in ET, and imagining the looks on his friend’s faces if he did.  Then again, he had always been hopelessly optimistic. 

          He was half a block from the bottom of the hill when a squad car came from an alleyway, turning slowly onto the road.  Nigel smiled, bangs plastered to the top of his head in the wind.  He whooped again.  He was going faster than a police car! Especially since the hill was an increasing decline.  Faster and faster by the minute he went on his Big Kid bike. 

        It was not usually a busy set of roads, but occasionally Bad Person was picked up here.  Nigel and all his friends would always try and watch, but were shooed away by The Adults.  He couldn’t wait until he was big enough to see the Bad Men.  They were sort of like resident aliens in the neighborhood, though Nigel had never seen one.  He wondered what one would look like.  Big, probably.  And fat, with fur coats and dark hair and mustaches.  But some would be thin, with huge shoulders.  And they would laugh a lot.  Big, deep laughs.  And they would do it often. 

        He wondered if a Bad Person had been picked up today.  There were no adults around this time to keep him from watching. 

        As the police car stopped, he realized what it must be; the police were here for him.  Surely he was going above the speed limit.  He reached for his new handbrakes- the kind all the big kids had, that he had gotten for his eighth birthday last week- but his finger couldn’t reach by itself; he would have to lift up his hand.  But instinct kept his hands firmly glued to the handlebars, like he had been told.  Maybe he should tape a plastic straw to the bars, like a pulley, so they would be easier to reach?
        The figure in the car was holding something long and round up to his mouth.  Was it some sort of high-tech walkie takie? Was he being reported?
        Nigel’s dream of flying evaporated as panic took over.  No one else was around- he and the car were alone together on this narrow lane.  The police car was growing in his vision, the sinister paint job screaming at him.  POLICE! POLICE! POLICE!  There was no way to stop. 
        He turned the handlebars like he had been taught, quick breaths lost on the wind.  Maybe he should have taken this road slowly, like his mom was always bugging him to.  The bike jerked around, nearly throwing him off, and he jumped as he heard a loud screech of metal on metal, and a shout of “Hey!”
        A word he was Not Allowed To Say That His Mom Didn’t Know He Knew entered his mind.  He had scratched a police car! Would they take him to jail? He was only eight.  They didn’t lock eight year olds up.  Right?
        His house was a block down, around the corner.  But if he turned here, then the policeman might not find his as easily.  He would just turn when he got a chance. 

            Nigel peddled quickly towards the maze of alleyways, glancing behind him.  The police would be looking for a boy on a bike.  So he would dump the bike, and come back for it later.  He was pleased with himself for thinking of this, as he carefully chained it to a chain link fence, double checking to make sure it was properly locked, and putting the key in his jeans pocket. 

        But what would he tell his mother? It was… it got a flat. Because… he went over a pothole.  The all-purpose excuse.  Nigel swallowed hard, reaching for a broken off piece of cement.  But it was better than going to jail, and his dad could fix it.  Dads could fix anything. 

        Gripping a piece of rock that had fallen from the wall, Nigel poked and prodded his bike tire. It wouldn’t give. He looked around nervously. The policeman wasn’t on to him, yet, but he would be soon… he stabbed at it with the rock until a small hole appeared.  It took longer than he had expected it would, and he was afraid the police man was getting closer. 
   
    Taking one last sad look at his bike- his new, shiny red bike-, he turned, marching down the maze of alleyways.  He hurried, taking a few random turns to shake the policeman off the trail, like they did in books.  His sneakers made loud crunching sounds on the gravel, and that worried him.  The police had to be good trackers, or they wouldn’t catch the Bad People. 

        Was he a Bad Person now?

        There was a quick sound.  A stone scraping on brick.  Another word that was Not Allowed prodded his mind, but Nigel kept his mouth shut. 

        He would have to work on a Plan.  Or an Excuse.  He was taking the back roads, (That he was not allowed to take, with Very Few Exceptions,) because… Because there was a police car? Yes, that would work.  There was a police car, and he thought it might have a Bad Person.  So… so he was avoiding the car, by going the back way. 

          Nigel was pleased with himself.  He prided himself on coming up with excuses, but this one was pure genius.  (A phrase that his best friend for life Mateo used, and sounded good.  Nigel assumed it had something to do with the ‘genius’ book of world records.)

        His house was to the… left,? It must be- he was supposed to turn another block down.  The buildings were tall around him, like little giants.  Little, falling apart giants.  The image of one falling down on his head was enough to keep him moving quickly in the fading light.

        A shadow moved on the wall behind him, rippling slowly like liquid crystal.  It was hard to see what it was- it looked like an arm, reaching out to grab him… Nigel ducked behind an organized mess of lumber next to the sidewalk. 

        His skin pricked, as he pressed his head into his knees, counting the boards to keep his mind occupied. One board, two, three… seventeen… did the broken one count?

        It seemed to take hours before the arm- figure- passed.  A gray tabby cat looked at him innocently, and Nigel swallowed.  It was only a cat, he reassured himself.  But still…

        It was quiet out, the road ahead of him a curved line.  The silence was deafening, which would make his sounds all the louder, he realized.  But the police might be louder too? He didn’t want to count on it.  Policemen probably floated above ground, like in science fiction.  To catch criminals- robbers, murders, and… little boys that mutilated their cars?

        His breath dangled in the air as he saw how dark it was getting.  What if his mom was looking for him?

        “I was trying to avoid a police car,” he muttered, practicing.  “I had to go through the back alleyways to avoid it, in case there were Bad People around.  My bike hit a rock, and got a flat.” He would say it over and over, practice eye contact.  But what if it seemed too perfect, too rehearsed, like a live recording? Act natural, he told himself. Look ashamed. 

        There was another scrape of rock on rock, jarring him back to reality.  Quiet as the living dead, he tiptoed towards the next turn.  His house was towards the main road… so he should be going… he held his hands out in L shapes… left soon. 
 
      His hands were tingling from the cold, and he wondered if they were turning red yet.  Or purple.  There wasn’t enough light to check as he clenched them into fists.  The consistent change of the roads was scary… he had only passed one left turn, and he was supposed to turn on the second. 
   
    He must… the phrase ‘make haste’ came to mind- he had heard it in a movie, and liked the sound of it.  He must make haste… slowly, to avoid being heard.  Nigel smiled.  “Make haste slowly.” He said in a loud whisper.  Too loud.  There was a quick movement in the shadows, and he turned away, moving faster.  Making haste. 
 
      But the streetlamp only lit up a six or seven foot area of the crumbling road, and he could not see what was in front or behind him. 
   
    Then there was the dreaded spot right in between streetlamps, where the rocky ground was invisible.  He had always been told to be careful and look where he was going, because…
     
  Hell, Nigel thought angrily, as he tripped over a rock.  His hands slid on the rough ground.  It felt like he had rubbed his hands with steel wool.  “Hell,” he hissed again, and was appalled that a word he was Not Allowed To Say had slipped past his lips.  Shuddering in horror, he squinted.  Was that a left turn ahead of him?
 
      There was a steady sound of footsteps behind him, and the street seemed to get darker.  He half expected scary music to start playing.  Each step was carefully measured- thunk.  Thunk.  Thunk.  Heavier than his own, lighter, pitter-pats. The police! Nigel broke into a run, feet slapping against the bricks, not daring to glance over his shoulder.  There were more footsteps, getting closer… .closer…

        He took a random turn, lungs burning.  How long had the police man been following him? If he could only get out to the main road…
   
    He turned right, then right again, slipping and sliding on the lose bricks.  Moss squished loudly under his desperate feet as Nigel wondered what would happen if he was found missing. 
   
    Maybe it wasn’t the police behind him after all, but a Bad Person.  The kind that took away kids his age.  Nigel had never been told why, but he assumed- as did all his peers- that it was either for eating or experimentation. 
       
He tried to decide whether it would be better or worse than going to jail.  But compared to being eaten, going to jail seemed awfully good. 
        He realized he had slowed, and pushed himself faster.  His legs were like jelly, and his side burned.  An hour ago, he had been biking around happily.  Or had he been wandering more by now?
       
“Nigel Tee?” called a garbled voice behind him.  It sounded like the person was also gasping for breath. 
     
  They knew his name! This must be the kind of trap his mom always warned him about.  ‘Never get in a car with a stranger,’ ‘don’t accept gifts from strangers’ and ‘even if they know your name, they might have read it off a name tag.’ His name was on his bike… maybe this person had been following him since he entered the maze? Nigel started to run faster, but the shadow cast by the streetlight showed a tall person getting closer… closer… reaching out to grab him… he could almost feel a hand on his shoulder, breathing on the back of his neck. He tried to go faster. His lungs were burning- he couldn’t breathe-
   
    He had always been told to scream if he was in this situation.  So he opened his mouth in preparation, trying to pull in some air from his failing lungs, trying to ignore the aching in his side, and-
   
    “Nigel Tee,” the voice said sternly, no longer out of breath.  A familiar voice, and he turned in relief. The yellow lamp lit up a well known figure, coat pulled tightly around her.  “Nigel Tee.” His mother said again, angry, “What happened to your bike?”