Their Second Bikes
It was a strange town, this one. Naturally, most of its inhabitants were American, but there was a rather obscure number of foreigners one could expect to see frequenting the shops, strolling around town, running businesses, and going to school. People from all over Europe and a few other countries besides, who had seen the war coming and escaped before it was too late. It led to some very interesting accents drifting around –especially at school.
Most of the children had been born here, save for those, like Arthur, whose parents had moved to America after the war to try to get away from the memories. But still, even those that had spent their whole lives in this little town had grown up learning English in a household that spoke two languages. If they spoke English at home, it was taught by parents with strong European accents; if they spoke Something-Else at home, then naturally it affected their English sometimes, and foreign words slipped into their sentences when they didn't know the correct word in English.
The accents were the most obvious thing about it, but Arthur began to notice just how different and unique everyone at school seemed to be.
Everybody had a story to tell about the war – a father who saved this many people, an uncle who piloted such-and-such a plane, a mother who got to cut off a soldier's leg! And besides that, it seemed that everybody had a culture their family had brought with them to America – something that nobody else knew about, with which they could impress and amaze each other constantly. Francis got the most amazing packed lunches, because he swore that everyone in France was a five star chef. Antonio told everyone that people in Spain wrestled bulls to stay in shape. Everyone was so different, and so impressive.
Most of the children had odd and interesting traditions at home that made people jealous or laugh, too. The parents from other countries wanted to keep their history alive, raise their children the way they had been raised, and so a lot of them ended up with some quirky lifestyles at home that were always a talking point with the Americans. Santa Claus visited Feliks house twice in December, just because he was Polish. Kiku slept on the floor, if you can believe it, and he was actually allowed to slurp his soup and spaghetti!
The novelties never grew old or rand dry, even as the days went by and Arthur grew accustomed to life in America. Everyone around here was different, everyone was unique…And yet Alfred still chose to stick around with him.
Arthur had sort of understood it at first. 'New kids' were exciting, and Alfred didn't know any other English children who had actually been in London during the war (not that Arthur could provide the gory details Alfred wanted to hear, since he'd only been very young at the time). Arthur was older, too, so he made a good friend for purposes of playground status. He also lived about three houses down, so it made sense that Alfred would get to know him quickly.
But he stuck around. And he didn't seem to want to leave, although a year had slowly grown beyond their first meeting.
Even when a twelve-year-old Hungarian girl, an approachable tomboy, moved in just round the corner, Alfred didn't hang around her as much as he did Arthur. Sure he talked to her, showed her off at school as his new friend, and invited her bike riding with them (because his mother had made him, he confided in Arthur). But he soon got tired of her, and when she made her own friends he forgot about her completely. He even admitted to Arthur that he preferred it when it was just the two of them.
Although there were plenty of people more interesting and special and exciting than Arthur, Alfred stuck with him. And Arthur found that hard to understand when he could see so clearly just how interesting and special and exciting other people were.
"Um…Alfred?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't you… want to hang out with other people?"
Alfred's tires screeched to a stop on the pavement as he dug his heels into the ground. Arthur, surprised, rode on a little before tugging on his breaks and leaning one foot down on the ground. He turned his head to look at Alfred, a few paces behind him.
He looked devastated.
"Do you want me to hang out with other people?" he asked, heart almost visibly ready to shatter.
It felt like they were in a ghost town. Everything looked brown and barren in the summer heat wave, and the road and gardens of the nearby houses were empty as everyone took refuge from the weather indoors. No doors were open, nobody in sight. A rare breeze swept down the road and Arthur shuddered into the silence he hadn't really noticed before. When had he started being able to ride around with Alfred in silence without feeling the need to fill the air with noise? Alfred was never quiet…
"No. I want it to be just you me," said Arthur quietly. He was echoing the words Alfred had said when they'd stopped hanging around with Elizabeta, the Hungarian girl. But it was still oddly embarrassing, and Arthur had to quickly look down at the pavement and scuff his shoe on some gravel.
When he glanced back, Alfred was looking at him. A smile Arthur hadn't realised had become so familiar and heart-warming to him spread across Alfred's face, his eyes shining in a way Arthur didn't think he'd ever noticed on anyone else. It was all a little…odd.
Alfred flipped the kickstand of his bike back up and rode forward to line up with Arthur.
"Me, too. You're my best friend," smiled Alfred, looking unashamedly at the other, no awkwardness or nerves in his face or voice at all.
Arthur let the smile grow on his own face, relieved that he hadn't upset the other boy or turned him away. "You're my best friend, too."
Alfred's smile widened, his white teeth standing out in his summer-sun-tanned face, and Arthur felt his own features working to mirror him. Though he could never manage a smile quite as good as Alfred's.
In the years that followed, they would look back on this conversation as the start of it all. It probably didn't really have a beginning, but this was the moment they'd remember. They wouldn't tell each other, though: it was the same secret, but they each kept it to themselves. If one of them happened to mention this day, they'd pretend they didn't remember it so clearly: not the sepia colours of the summer afternoon, the screech of Alfred's tires or the cloudless blue sky. They'd pretend that their hearts hadn't been fluttering, that they'd hadn't been so nervous to say something so simple, that they weren't different than any other pair of best friends.
Alfred was eleven, and Arthur was thirteen. They'd both got new bicycles for their birthdays because they'd outgrown last year's, and the 50s were being kind to their parents – money coming in and an easy lifestyle to enjoy. They were going to spend the summer riding around together as usual, and it was going to be great. And it was. Sometimes it just felt a little different to last year…