A Few Bicycles More, page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
More Unusual Than Usual
Turn Right. Turn Right. Turn Right.
Turn Left
Seeing More Than Double
Yoof!
Soft Hiding Places
A Sister Four Times Over
What Animal Would You Be?
The Seventh Wheel
Slow Down!
Not an Adventure
Help Us
A Fortune of Fortunes
A Rescue
Family Reunion #2
A Glug of Independence
Celebrate Good Times
Reap the Whirlwind
Walk a Dog or Bike a Cat
The Vacuum
Stay Close
Doing the Best You Can
We Are Not Riding Fifty Miles
Woo
Acknowledgments
Also by Christina Uss
Margaret Ferguson Books
Copyright © 2022 by Christina Uss
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
Printed and bound in August 2022 at Maple Press, York, PA, USA.
www.holidayhouse.com
First Edition
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Uss, Christina, author.
Title: A few bicycles more / by Christina Uss.
Description: First edition. | New York : Margaret Ferguson Books/Holiday House, [2022] | Audience: Ages 8 to 12. | Audience: Grades 4-6. Summary: Twelve-year-old Bicycle’s trusty bike Fortune takes them to Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, where she reunites with her long-lost family and hatches a plan to share her love of cycling with her new sisters.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021054993 | ISBN 9780823450879 (hardcover)
Subjects: CYAC: Bicycles and bicycling—Fiction. | Quintuplets—Fiction. Sisters—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Harpers Ferry (W. Va.)—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.U86 Fe 2022 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021054993
ISBN: 978-0-8234-5087-9 (hardcover)
To my own Egg and Drumstick
MORE UNUSUAL THAN USUAL
The Wheels of Fortune 713-J was no ordinary bike.
To defend its rider, it could shoot rubber snakes like missiles. To feed its rider, it produced something that looked (but didn’t taste) like a Tootsie Roll. Tucked neatly inside its seat post, it hid a tent with built-in air-conditioning. With the touch of a button, it could produce maps or play any kind of music you wanted to listen to. It printed money, planned getaways, and was learning how to tell knock-knock jokes. Every bike has a personality, but the Fortune was in a class by itself.
On this Friday afternoon, though, the Fortune was acting more unusual than usual. It was insisting that its owner, a twelve-year-old girl called Bicycle, pedal the wrong way.
TURN RIGHT, it blinked in large letters on its computer screen.
They were on a paved trail a few miles from their neighborhood in Washington, D.C., where people liked to ride and jog. To their right rippled the Potomac River. The Potomac wasn’t some little creek. If Bicycle turned right, plop and swoosh: she and the Fortune would be underwater. She wasn’t about to do something as silly as that. Ever since earning her name by saying “bicycle” as her first and most-frequently-used word, Bicycle was destined to go everywhere on two wheels. She was an excellent rider.
“Is this a joke? Because I think you’re better off with the knock-knock kind,” Bicycle said.
The Fortune was still figuring out what made jokes funny. Its last one was: Knock knock. Who’s there? A man knocking at the door. A man knocking at the door who? His name is Edward. It hadn’t gotten the hang of them yet.
TURN RIGHT, the computer screen blinked again.
“There’s no road there, Fortune,” Bicycle explained for the second time. The bike had started blinking like this three blocks earlier. “No bridge, no path, no nothing. There’s just water. I’m turning left and heading home.” They’d gone for a ride after Bicycle finished her homeschool lessons, and the day was edging toward dinnertime.
It crossed her mind that maybe the Fortune was acting weird because it was bored. She’d had the great good luck to buy the Fortune this past summer, thinking it was a snazzy racing bike. It had proved to be more than snazzy. It had become Bicycle’s friend, doing its best to help her when she needed it—and since they’d biked together across the United States and back again, she’d needed it a lot.
However, she hadn’t needed the tent or any of the other fancy features since they’d returned to Washington, D.C., a month ago. Bicycle had needed a break from epic adventuring, so they’d only taken short rides to familiar places. Maybe this whole “turn right” bit was her bike’s way of asking for more excitement in their daily rides.
She had an idea. “I’m still not up for any major adventures, but I’ll tell you what—I promise we will try practicing wheelies when we get to our driveway.”
TURN RIGHT, the display blinked again, this time in bold. RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT. An alarm started going off. The Fortune had an array of different alarms, including a police-siren wail, a school-bell clang, and a howler-monkey yawp. It was using the yawp of a king-size howler monkey. People jogging nearby turned to glare at them.
“Hey. Hey! Why are you doing that?” Bicycle asked, pressing its buttons and hoping one was the alarm’s off switch. The Fortune had a ton of buttons, and Bicycle still didn’t know what they all did. She hit each of them at least once, but it didn’t make any difference. “Fortune, help me out here!”
The alarm was replaced by a piece of gospel music blaring at top volume. The singers warbled about being taken to the river. When they hit a high note, the music stopped as abruptly as it began.
The Fortune’s display went blank for a long moment before it blinked, I am sorry. I did not pick the music, nor did I intend to make so much noise. I also did not choose to tell you to turn right, since right was clearly wrong.
“Did your computer overheat or something?” It was warm for a mid-October day. Bicycle thought anyone might act obnoxiously when they got too hot. She got pretty grouchy herself without shade and cool drinks.
I do not know.
Bicycle knew the Fortune did not like admitting it didn’t know something, so she chose not to make a big deal out of it. “Probably some kind of temporary electronic burp, nothing to worry about. We’ll go home and I’ll give you a quick rinse with the hose. That’ll cool you down.” She pushed a pedal forward, turned left, and was relieved to see the Fortune’s display get back to normal with sensible directions.
We have a light tailwind from the west. It is 3.14159 miles to the Mostly Silent Monastery, so we will be home in 11.78 minutes.
Mostly Silent Monasteries and their sister organizations, Nearly Silent Nunneries, are found in most U.S. states and around the world. They welcome members of the public to come in whenever they need someone to listen to them. Mostly Silent Monks and Nearly Silent Nuns are trained to be the best possible listeners. They pay attention with their whole selves and talk as little as necessary. They haven’t taken vows of complete silence like some folks do because their founders thought that being 100 percent silent would make it awfully hard to be polite, or to be safe, or to get something to eat when they were hungry. Thus, they’ve taken vows never to say more than the Sacred Eight Words: “yes,” “no,” “maybe,” “now,” “later,” “sleep,” “help,” and “sandwich.” It isn’t easy, but providing listening ears for the world’s worries and wonderings is worth it.
Bicycle had appeared on the steps of D.C.’s Mostly Silent Monastery as a toddler. The monks hadn’t been able to find out where she belonged, so they’d kept her and raised her. This might have been a tragic origin story for another child, but life is what you make of it. She was happy to call the peaceful place her home.
Bicycle coasted up the driveway and across the grass to the shed where the monks kept tools and gardening equipment. She parked the Fortune and unwound the hose, turning the nozzle on medium to give the bike’s frame a thorough rinse.
“Doesn’t that feel better?” she asked the Fortune as she sluiced away a small dollop of mud.
Yes, thank you. Knock knock.
“Who’s there?”
Harp music began blasting out of the Fortune’s speakers. One doesn’t ordinarily think of harp music as harsh, but it can be if played loudly enough.
Oh dear.
The Top Monk’s head, covered with a wide-brimmed sun hat, popped up between the kale plants in the garden. Bicycle hadn’t noticed him there. He was the most Mostly Silent of all the Mostly Silent Monks, having reduced his entire vocabulary down to one single word from the Sacred Eight. That word was “sandwich.”
“Sandwich?” he yelled over the din.
Bicycle knew from his tone and his facial expression that he meant, “As much as I enjoy listening to music, that is a smidgen too loud. Would you be so kind as to turn it down?”
“Sandwich!” she called back, trying to get across the meaning of “No problem!”
The Top Monk raised an eyebrow at her. She’d need a lot more practice before she’d have his kind of mastery over the Sacred Eight Words.
She placed her palm on the bike’s hand
No. Yes. Maybe?
Instead of stopping abruptly like it had before, the volume of the harp music gradually decreased into silence. Bicycle could feel the bike trembling with the effort.
“It was just the shock of the cold water,” she said, even though she had no idea if this was true. Bicycle gave the frame one last pass with the hose, then polished it dry with a rag from the shed. “I’ll take you upstairs for a rest. Come on.” She rolled the Fortune in the back door of the monastery and headed to their room.
Once the Fortune was leaning on its kickstand by the window, Bicycle sat down at her tiny desk. She pulled out her book on bike repair, pawing past the bits she already knew by heart. She scanned the index and flipped to the page that dealt with bike computers, speedometers, and odometers. The only advice it offered when a bike computer was acting wonky was to replace its battery. Bicycle glanced at the Fortune. She thought about how she’d like to be treated if she were burping out alarms and music without meaning to. Would she want someone asking questions about her batteries or prying in to replace them? She didn’t think so.
The past summer, Bicycle had made her first friends when cycling across the United States. She’d had to figure out some rules about friend-making. She knew she needed to start by saying something nice and listening carefully to what any potential friend said back. She had also learned that there was an element of mystery to friendship, and that one never knew where or how it might sprout—even between a girl and a bike with artificial intelligence.
Her group of new friends was scattered across the country, so the Fortune was the only one she saw every day. Maybe she’d have to come up with some rules about how to take care of a friendship when a friend started acting abnormally odd and loud.
She decided to give the Fortune some space. “I’m going to go see if the monks need any help with dinner,” she said.
An extra pair of hands was always welcome in the monastery kitchen. Bicycle joined the ranks at the cutting boards and chopped kale and sweet potatoes for a pot of vegetable soup big enough to feed sixty. Then she enjoyed a mostly silent meal and a mostly silent game of cards, after which she curled up in complete silence to read in bed.
YAWP YAWP YAWP YAWP—the Fortune’s howler-monkey alarm went off in the dead of night. Bicycle herself yawped in surprise and got tangled in her bedsheets. Before she could get loose, her door flew open. In burst Sister Wanda.
Sister Wanda was Bicycle’s chief guardian and teacher. She’d retired years ago from following her Nearly Silent vow and was now the Mostly Silent Monastery’s manager. She made sure that supplies were ordered, bills were paid, and daily operations ran properly. She had no qualms about using her voice to get control of a situation.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sister Wanda roared, turning on the light. She was brandishing a vase of flowers with a take-no-prisoners look in her eyes. She zeroed in on the Fortune. “Stop that this instant!”
The Fortune went on howling. This was serious. The Fortune did not disobey Sister Wanda if it could help it. No one did. Bicycle managed to unravel herself enough from her sheets to hop to the Fortune’s side.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” she said, covering both ears with her hands and trying to press buttons with her elbow. She mashed down four of them together, and the bike began playing the same gospel music as before. A group of concerned monks in pajamas crowded around the door with their fingers plugging their ears, murmuring, “Help?”
The gospel music was an improvement, but it was still ear-splitting. Sister Wanda shot a stern look at Bicycle; Bicycle shook her head in bewilderment.
Sister Wanda handed the vase of flowers to the nearest monk. “Bicycle, bring your bike down to the laundry room. Everyone else, go to the linen storage closet, grab as many winter quilts as you can and meet us downstairs.”
Bicycle hoisted the Fortune onto one shoulder. She needed both hands for this, so she commanded the muscles in her ears to pinch themselves closed. She contorted her face, trying to figure out if ears even had any muscles inside them. They didn’t seem to. She carried her friend to the laundry room and hoped her hearing would survive.
When the Fortune was parked in front of the washers and dryers, Sister Wanda directed the monks to cover the bike in thick comforter after thick comforter. The nun grilled Bicycle about the cause of the hullaballoo, and Bicycle described the strange afternoon.
Sister Wanda said, “It sounds like I should call the doctor in the morning.” She corrected herself. “That is, I will call the bike mechanic.” Anyone who knew the bike well found it hard to remember that it wasn’t alive. “We may have to go to the computer repair shop as well, or the electronics store that sells speakers. . . .”
Bicycle felt her shoulders relax as Sister Wanda made her to-do list for the following day. No problem would dare stand in the nun’s way for long.
After eleven cozy layers, the gospel music finally became bearable. The Fortune didn’t even resemble a bike anymore, just a large, snug, faintly singing lump. The Top Monk tucked in the edge of the top layer while everyone else began heading back upstairs.
Bicycle hung back, feeling like she ought to do something, but with her mind sleep-fuzzed and her body calling for bed, she had no idea what. When she finally mounted the stairs, she noticed the Top Monk standing very still with his hand resting against the comforters. He quietly sang back to the swaddled bike, “Sa-ha-hand-wi-i-ich.”
Bicycle was pretty sure he meant, I hear you.
She thought, So do I. So did everyone tonight, whether they wanted to or not. Then she remembered she hadn’t practiced popping wheelies in the driveway as she’d promised. She didn’t know if her bike had even wanted to. She was sure she could be a better friend than that.
Tomorrow, things will get fixed so that I can not only hear the Fortune but also take the time to listen to it without my ears falling off.
TURN RIGHT. TURN RIGHT. TURN RIGHT.
The next morning, Bicycle plodded downstairs, not at her most bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She found the Fortune still broadcasting music from underneath its pile of comforters. It had gone back to playing harp melodies like the one that had startled the Top Monk in the garden. The monks assigned to laundry duty were humming along.
Sister Wanda joined Bicycle and brought her to the kitchen. “Get some breakfast into yourself, child. We have an appointment at the Wheel World Bike Shop this morning. The owner assured me he’s the best mechanic in the city and that there’s no bike he can’t fix. We’ll see.” She looked skeptically at the blanket lump. “It was playing pop music before, ‘Ticket on a Ferry Ride’ by the Monkees. Has it switched to harp now? There’s no telling what might come next. Maybe I should go scare up something to use as earplugs for both of us.”
“Earplugs would be great,” Bicycle said. While she ate her bowl of oatmeal, she considered the training she’d received from the monks on how to listen. Had anyone ever said anything about how to temporarily reverse the process and not listen to something? She couldn’t think of a single bit of sound-ignoring advice. When Sister Wanda offered her the choice between a pair of earmuffs and some foam plugs, she decided she needed all the help she could get and took both.
Sister Wanda arranged for Brother Otto to answer the phones for her while they were gone. Talkative Brother Otto had been deeply relieved when, several months ago, he’d been absolved of his vows so he could help Sister Wanda in her duties.
Bicycle and Sister Wanda excavated the Fortune from the comforters and took it outside to the driveway. The bike was still playing the harp music without pause. It belted out a lullaby in the driveway that was so loud it probably woke up sleeping babies across the city.
Bicycle yelled to the Fortune in what she hoped was a reassuring tone of voice, but it was hard to yell and not sound upset. “Okay, we’re going to the bike shop now to get this fixed!” She told it the address.
The Fortune found it in its database and displayed a map and directions: 6.28318 miles to the Wheel World Bike Shop.
She patted it.
Wearing her black exercise robe and leggings—along with a pair of leopard-print earmuffs—Sister Wanda sat astride her elderly bike. She gestured to Bicycle to lead the way. As they rode down the street, people came out of their houses to see what the noise was. Kids waved and leaned sideways to look down the road behind them.
