crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2021-07-12 07:41 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2021-07-12 07:41 pm
Memory 29: Chicken
The street stretches away below them like some city planner once dreamed of designing roller coasters: impossibly steep, lined on either side by buildings with quaint windows, all done up in pastels.
There’s a cafe packed with tourists that’s showing some sports match on all the vid screens, and a hotel that’s supposed to be stupid expensive. Cars glide past, electric and soundless; pigeons line the rooftop of the building across the way.
The view out to the harbor’s kind of awesome from here, but Hurricane’s not looking at the view.
He’s sitting in a shopping cart, cross-legged, twisted around backward to look up at his sister. He’s perhaps six years old, a gangly bean sprout of a boy with uncombed hair in sandy blond and a face full of freckles.
His sister’s got one foot on the bottom of the cart, and she’s holding onto the handle. She looks like him: same freckles; hair slightly paler but still uncombed, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail; same grin, wide and bright and excited. She is perhaps fifteen years old, in a tank top and battered bluejeans.
“You ready for this?” says Michaela.
“Only like seven years ago,” says Hurricane.
“Uh huh,” says Michaela. “Back before you were born.”
“I knew I was gonna grow up to do awesome things.” He twists around further, to drum his fingers against the backs of her hands, where they hold onto the cart. “Come on, sis, let’s go.”
“Last chance to hit the brakes.”
“Like I’d chicken out now.” He’s practically vibrating with excitement, and she grins down at him, the smile broad and earnest.
“Okay, Jakey, turn it around. You better keep your hands on the cart, too.”
Obedient, he twists back around – twines his fingers in between the metal sections of the cart and faces forward.
“On three,” says Michaela. “One. Two.”
“Three!” yells Hurricane, at the top of his lungs.
She pushes off like she’s riding a skateboard, kicking once and then twice against the ground before they start to move, then stepping up onto the ledge at the back of the cart.
They go from a tentative crawl to full-on rocketing downward in the space of perhaps five seconds. The angle of the hill doesn’t allow for middle ground; it drags them onward, faster and then faster still.
Startled tourists turn to watch as they fly by. The world is a blur of sights, all color and motion: walls painted eggshell blue and butter yellow; an oval sign in swirling script that reads Nob Hill Inn; the graceful black latticework of the chairs at the cafe.
Hurricane lets got of the cart to throw his hands overhead. He whoops, loud and delighted; behind him, Michaela is laughing.
They make it down a block – pass the first intersection with three near misses and a blaring of horns. They keep going right up until the cart catches on the ramp to the next sidewalk, and the forward momentum is halted, abruptly, by the too-high lip of the curb: an obstacle that can’t just be clattered over.
The cart tips, listing forward; the front wheels snag, and the back wheels come up off the ground.
Hurricane yelps. Michaela says, “Shit,” voice in a higher register than usual.
Hurricane spills out onto the ground and rolls, end over end, and the world goes briefly dark.
There’s a moment of silence, set with the backdrop of city noise. A woman says, “Are those kids okay?” There are footsteps, somewhere up above.
Then there’s a hand on his face, clammy and trembling a little.
“Jakey?” says Michaela.
He opens his eyes to find her hovering there. A strand of her hair’s come loose; it hangs in her face. Her lip is split, and she’s very, very pale.
Hurricane blinks, slowly.
He groans, and he shoves himself back up to sitting. The world spins a little when he does, and he gets his other hand back behind him, braced on the cement, to try and stop it.
“Hey, sis,” says Hurricane, distant and unsteady.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she says, and pulls him into a hug, fierce and a little desperate.
Hurricane closes his eyes and leans against her shoulder. “How bout,” he starts to say, but then has to break off because his voice is wobbly and kind of weird.
He swallows, and he tries again. “How bout we don’t tell Ma?”
There’s a cafe packed with tourists that’s showing some sports match on all the vid screens, and a hotel that’s supposed to be stupid expensive. Cars glide past, electric and soundless; pigeons line the rooftop of the building across the way.
The view out to the harbor’s kind of awesome from here, but Hurricane’s not looking at the view.
He’s sitting in a shopping cart, cross-legged, twisted around backward to look up at his sister. He’s perhaps six years old, a gangly bean sprout of a boy with uncombed hair in sandy blond and a face full of freckles.
His sister’s got one foot on the bottom of the cart, and she’s holding onto the handle. She looks like him: same freckles; hair slightly paler but still uncombed, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail; same grin, wide and bright and excited. She is perhaps fifteen years old, in a tank top and battered bluejeans.
“You ready for this?” says Michaela.
“Only like seven years ago,” says Hurricane.
“Uh huh,” says Michaela. “Back before you were born.”
“I knew I was gonna grow up to do awesome things.” He twists around further, to drum his fingers against the backs of her hands, where they hold onto the cart. “Come on, sis, let’s go.”
“Last chance to hit the brakes.”
“Like I’d chicken out now.” He’s practically vibrating with excitement, and she grins down at him, the smile broad and earnest.
“Okay, Jakey, turn it around. You better keep your hands on the cart, too.”
Obedient, he twists back around – twines his fingers in between the metal sections of the cart and faces forward.
“On three,” says Michaela. “One. Two.”
“Three!” yells Hurricane, at the top of his lungs.
She pushes off like she’s riding a skateboard, kicking once and then twice against the ground before they start to move, then stepping up onto the ledge at the back of the cart.
They go from a tentative crawl to full-on rocketing downward in the space of perhaps five seconds. The angle of the hill doesn’t allow for middle ground; it drags them onward, faster and then faster still.
Startled tourists turn to watch as they fly by. The world is a blur of sights, all color and motion: walls painted eggshell blue and butter yellow; an oval sign in swirling script that reads Nob Hill Inn; the graceful black latticework of the chairs at the cafe.
Hurricane lets got of the cart to throw his hands overhead. He whoops, loud and delighted; behind him, Michaela is laughing.
They make it down a block – pass the first intersection with three near misses and a blaring of horns. They keep going right up until the cart catches on the ramp to the next sidewalk, and the forward momentum is halted, abruptly, by the too-high lip of the curb: an obstacle that can’t just be clattered over.
The cart tips, listing forward; the front wheels snag, and the back wheels come up off the ground.
Hurricane yelps. Michaela says, “Shit,” voice in a higher register than usual.
Hurricane spills out onto the ground and rolls, end over end, and the world goes briefly dark.
There’s a moment of silence, set with the backdrop of city noise. A woman says, “Are those kids okay?” There are footsteps, somewhere up above.
Then there’s a hand on his face, clammy and trembling a little.
“Jakey?” says Michaela.
He opens his eyes to find her hovering there. A strand of her hair’s come loose; it hangs in her face. Her lip is split, and she’s very, very pale.
Hurricane blinks, slowly.
He groans, and he shoves himself back up to sitting. The world spins a little when he does, and he gets his other hand back behind him, braced on the cement, to try and stop it.
“Hey, sis,” says Hurricane, distant and unsteady.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she says, and pulls him into a hug, fierce and a little desperate.
Hurricane closes his eyes and leans against her shoulder. “How bout,” he starts to say, but then has to break off because his voice is wobbly and kind of weird.
He swallows, and he tries again. “How bout we don’t tell Ma?”