Aiden
The day before mytwelfth birthday, I broke my arm in three places.
The whole thing was Ruth’s fault.
We didn’t know the creek was flooded until our bikes skidded to a stop on the muddy bank. Murky brown water blocked off our usual shortcut home from school. No way around. No way over.
I was happy to take the long way, but Ruth had the bright idea to cobble together a ramp out of old bits of wood so we could jump the creek.
Sure, I hauled over most of the wood, found a few good rocks, and built the ramp. But it wasRuth’sidea.
She pedalled her pink BMX like a demon, dark hair whipping in the wind, and her lip curled with fierce determination. Her bike flew up the ramp, and she launched into the sky like a warrior princess riding on the back of a pink Pegasus.
“This was a bad idea!” she hollered as her bike soared over the creek.
She was ten and braver than any other kid in town—nothing like me. I was cautious, always plodding a few steps behind, taking the world in nice and slow, and overthinking everything. But that was one time I didn’t need to worry.
A spray of mud signalled Ruth’s safe landing on the other side. Her bike skidded to a stop, and she threw her head back, laughing. Another challenge conquered.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted from the other side of the creek. “You coming, slowpoke?”
I eyed off the ramp and the distance across the creek. I wasn’t convinced I’d make it. “I—I dunno.”
“For reals?” She rolled her eyes. “You’resucha wuss.”
Twelve-year-old me was as thick as a stump, too. Hearing Ruth’s taunt turned off all my good overthinking. I forgot she was a champion equestrian rider and the self-proclaimed Queen of Pony Club. I forgot how she was lighter than a feather, and I was already shooting up and spending half my afternoon in front of the fridge looking for more to eat.
If Ruth could do it, I could do it, right?
I definitely couldn’t do it.
I pedalled like hell, got up the ramp okay, but had no clue what to do once my bike got airborne. I soared through the sky on nothing but silent prayers and the pride glowing in Ruth’s eyes. Reality crashed me against the edge of the muddy creek bed, my head cracking against the edge, until I tumbled into the water with a splash.
Dazed and twisted in a mangled heap, I was alive—despite Ruth screaming like I’d croaked it—but my helmet was cracked clean in half, and the front wheel of my bike was bent all out of shape. My arm was even worse.
I limped home, one arm around Ruth, the other cradled against my chest, the pain searing so hot I couldn’t speak. Shock and the promise of Mum were the only things that kept me shuffling along. It didn’t matter I was twelve. Her cuddles still made everything better.
But Mum wasn’t home.
My father’s shadow blocked the final step to the back porch.
“Where the hell have you been?” he roared.
I swiped the mud off my cheek and held out my arm, but his words slammed down harder than I had in that creek.
“Man up. You’re twelve, not two. Quit that sniffling.”
I hugged my arm close to my chest and dropped my eyes to my muddy shoes. “Y-yes… S-sir…”
My stuttering only made him angrier. “Get your shoulders back. Don’t be so damn weak.” And when I tried to stand tall, but the pain shot through my arm so bad I whimpered, he shook his head, ashamed. “Four generations of police officers, and look what I ended up with—nothing but a bloody crybaby!”
In the end, my arm healed up okay. Mum took me to the hospital, and Ruth was jealous as shit because I got a week off school. I broke my arm another time playing football, too. No big deal. That was the thing about broken bones—they heal.
But whatever my father knocked out of me that day never came back. I shut down. No emotions. No weakness. Everything that hurt was buried so deep I wasn’t even sure I knew how to feel properly anymore.
For a long time, it worked to live shut off from that part of myself.
But…
