7 Days (BxB)

~2

          That old, familiar sight met my eyes as it did every morning. My red bike. A trusty piece of equipment, never losing a single bolt or screw. It was a bit rusty, chipped, banged, and made this awful squeaking noise when going too fast. This all was irrelevant to me; it was my bike

I loaded my bag with the papers in need of delivery, along with a few snacks and a pocket knife. Lacing up my sneakers, I set off.

First was Uncle Mike's house. Of course, he wasn't actually my uncle. He didn't seem to be anyone's uncle, as a matter of fact, but the town called him Uncle Mike anyway. The old man was sleeping soundly, so I made sure not to hit his window.

It was grayer this morning, with an undertone of a storm sweeping through the streets. The streets of which were exceptionally quiet. The only sound other than the role of my wheels, an occasional puddle splash, was the trees. These trees always spoke. What they were saying, I fear I would never know. I tended to get lost in their voices through my route.

Then the next house, then the next house. My shoulders were aching by the last several stops, as they did every morning. Dad said it paid off though—I had the shoulders of a football player.

The last few stops, also known as the Bonus Point stops. One point for every lawn, two points for every driveway, and three points for every doorstep.

These houses, however, were bigger than most, more prestigious. The kind you would see in old Victorian times, owned by the wealthiest of men. So really, the game was to not hit anything expensive for my head would be gone if I did.

The big red house: one point.

The lengthy gothic house: two points

The house that could pass as a small castle: three whopping points.

Excitement raced through my every nerve as I fist bumped the air. The surrounding trees seemed happy as well through the movement of their leaves.

But then there was the very last stop. This one I couldn't care less about the points. I just wanted my life. It was the most Victorian of them all, painted a grey-blue, the windows tinted and the trees flaking. Everything was just dark. The big metal gate around the corner didn't lighten the mood, either. How full-of-yourself do you have to be to put in a metal gate?

This house was when it went downhill—literally.

I used my shoe to slow the bike down on the way down the hill. I was one-hundred percent sure the noise would annoy Mr. Maddison, the head of the house, a prestigious man, and owner of many country clubs. But then again, anything would annoy Mr. Maddison.

I grabbed the last roll of paper. The doorstep wasn't too hard to reach, surrounded by a white balcony. But I wasn't taking my chances. I aimed for the looping driveway.

Steady . . . steady . . .

And then my life was over, just like that, for the paper—basically the opposite of what I wanted—hit the big window right next to the doorway.

Oops.

I thought of making a run for it. There was a tree close by I could hide behind. I thought about it, I truly did, but just as I put my foot on the pedal to bolt, the door opened.

The only word running through my brain was as follows:

Shit.