This is My Message to You

Blue

BLUE

The end of July is always the most beautiful time of year, and the summer before seventh grade was no exception. Connor and I had various sports camps and activities that summer, so we hadn't hung out as much as usual, but whenever we were home we would bike to the pool or the soccer fields and spend all day in the sun.

Our neighborhood boasts some of the best hills in town, big sloping ones that are great for sledding in the winter. In warmer weather, Connor and I sought the adrenaline rush of racing our bikes downhill; we would take our feet off the pedals and let the wheels fly. I think we must've burned tire tracks into all the hills in the neighborhood during our summers.

Seventh grade put a stop to that, though. I remember one of those gorgeous days with a bright sun and a sky so blue that it hurt to look at. Connor and I spent the afternoon playing soccer at the park, excited for the fall season when we would finally be on the varsity teams. On our way home, we hit up the usual hills, panting for breath as we pedaled our way up and shrieking like hooligans as we hurtled down.

Clairmont and Montgomery streets mark the corner of the best hill around, which was also the closest hill to our street, so we always finished our hill races on it. I reached the top before Connor did that day – which I made sure to tell him – and didn't wait for him to catch up, instead pushing off the ground with my feet and careening down the hill.

Sometimes it still scares me to think about what would have happened if I hadn't noticed the car zooming toward the intersection. Maybe I heard Connor screaming behind me, or the color of the car caught my eye, or something, but somehow I managed to wrap one hand around a brake and squeeze hard as I neared the bottom.

Screeeeech!

My front tire scorched the pavement as it skidded to a halt, but my rear tire kept spinning, so the bike bucked upwards. Next thing I knew, I couldn't feel the seat underneath me and all I could see was blue as I was flung toward the sky.

Oomph.

The cement met my body with a massive thud. For a long moment, I lay there completely winded, staring up at the blue sky as dots danced across my vision. Then a face popped into view overhead, blocking out the sky, and dimly I heard Connor asking, "Riley, are you alive? Oh my gosh, Riley –"

I think it was right then – twelve years old, lying dazed on the pavement – that I first realized how Connor's eyes matched that brilliantly blue sky.

(I was probably concussed, okay?)

"Wh-what happened?" I asked, blinking to stop the dots.

Connor pointed at my bike, toppled sideways on the road. "You must've hit the wrong break, Ri – you went flying over the handlebars, it was amazing – I mean, you prob'ly coulda died, but it was so cool –"

I struggled to sit up but discovered that my arm was trapped under my back. As I tried to pull it free, intense pain shot up my entire arm, causing me to cry out.

"What?" demanded Connor, hovering anxiously. "Are you dying?"

"No, you idiot –" I cradled my arm to my chest, gasping a little as it throbbed. "I must've landed on my arm wrong – I think it might be broken –"

"Really?"

Connor sounded way too excited for my liking. Sticking my tongue out at him, I pushed my hair out of my face and examined my arm, brushing gravel out of the scratches on my skin as carefully as I could. Whenever I touched it too hard, I couldn't help yelping in pain.

"I can go get your mom," offered Connor, since we were just a few blocks from home and neither of us had cell phones at that point.

"She's not home yet," I said, and suddenly I wanted my mom so bad that tears began to push against my eyelids, threatening to flood down my face. But I was way too proud to cry in front of Connor by seventh grade, so I bit my lip and stared at the cement.

He sat down on the sidewalk next to me, putting his elbows on his knees as he inspected my arm. "You know," he said, "on Myth Busters the other day, they proved that swearing helps relieve pain."

"Swearing?" I snorted skeptically. The boys in our class thought it was the newest, coolest thing to use bad language; I thought that was stupid. "That's just talking, how could that help a broken arm?"

"You could try it." He grinned at me. "Or are you too chicken to say bad words?"

I glared at him for a minute, and then I said, "Shit, this hurts."

His mouth dropped open, and he laughed out loud. "Riley, you said the s-word! I've never heard you say that before!"

"You're a piece of shit," I informed him. "A damn stupid piece of shit."

We both burst into giggles, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the edge of the sidewalk, the sun beating down on our necks, and the sky blazing blue.

I broke my arm that day, a fracture that took the rest of the summer to heal. My mom wasn't too into the idea of letting us bike down hills anymore after that. But I think that's okay, because while I'll never be able to scientifically prove it, in that moment laughing and swearing with Connor, my arm didn't hurt quite so badly.