MARCUS PICKED UP THE BRASS KEY
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“What does that open?”
“You’ll see.”
Mom—Eleanor Bennett—had already left for work.
Before sunrise, she had kissed my forehead and made me promise not to open anything until Marcus was ready.
He led me through our wet backyard toward an old storage shed.
I stopped.
There was a new padlock on the doors.
“Since when does that have a lock?”
“Since I needed you to learn how to mind your business.”
I almost smiled.
Marcus slipped the key into the lock.
Then stopped.
“Sophie.”
“What?”
“I know this isn’t a car.”
“Marcus—”
“Let me finish.”
His fingers tightened around the key.
“I can’t give you what some of those parents give their kids.”
Then:
“But I can give you this.”
He opened the doors.
AT FIRST, I SAW ONLY DARKNESS
Then morning sunlight reached inside.
There was a bicycle.
Bright yellow.
Not pale yellow.
Not mustard.
The ridiculous, cheerful yellow I had loved since childhood.
Chrome handlebars.
Whitewall tires.
Black seat.
A silver bell.
I stared.
Then looked at Marcus.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That color.”
He shrugged.
“Every birthday cake you’ve chosen since I met you had yellow flowers.”
That answer hurt more than it should have.
He had noticed.
