by Clare Smith

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Heat bled through the back of his grey school shirt. Bike thrown down, knees bent—one grazed, one grimy—he balanced back against the substation, waiting.

His head cocked, ear tilted to the peal of the bell. The senior class spilled out first, chasing, jeering, and shoving each other across the field. He pressed into the hot metal, counting the siblings as their voices trailed down the street.

Squeak, squeak. His cue. Snatching his bike, he threw his leg over and pushed off, pedaling fast to catch up.

“Hey.”

“Smithy.”

“Yours?”

A creeping smirk, a sideways glance, a bet placed—no odds offered. Both boys reared up, hauling on the handlebars, legs driving down.

Matched finish. Both bikes clattered to the concrete, mud arcing up to splatter the gleaming patio doors.

A head stacked with rollers popped out. Lips pressed thin, tight, and hard. Brows drawn close, the woman glared at them, pupils flaring and retracting like a cat’s.

“Ring your mother!”

One pane rattled as the door slammed shut, then cracked open again. “Remember, it’s 8176!”

They swaggered away, laughter barely stifled. Unconcerned, intent only on fun.

He made the call. No answer.

Hours passed—excavators, dozers, shingle piles transformed into sniper nests. Until the sun slid toward the bar and into the Tasman Sea.

A faint call, “Steven!”

Back on his bike, he yelled, “Bye!” and pushed off.

Slower this time, through paddocks, past the abattoir, and into town.

At the T-intersection, his brothers leaned insouciant against a battered PB Vauxhall, laughing. He sped up, skidding to a halt as his bike slammed sideways into Mrs. Stanard’s artful flowerbed.

Her blinds were down, the windows tight shut. No chance, she saw, as he kicked the broken plants to the gutter.

He pulled his bike free, shoulders stiff as his brothers roared with laughter. Across the street, sisters perched on the low concrete fence, their feet swinging to the blare of the radio. Oblivious, disinterested.

Mudflap scraping, he slinked up the driveway.

“Trouble?” his brother Roger asked, sliding out from under the Land Rover.

“No.”

Bike dumped in the shed. He followed the smell. Mmm Thursday, sausages.

Mum turned from the bench. “You didn’t call.”

“I did. No answer.”

“I’ve been here all day.”

He frowned, confused. “I rang 8176.”

Roger slid into his seat, nudging him along.

“You got the wrong number again, didn’t you?” Roger said, smirking. “Bet you rang Mrs. Stanard.”

“No!”

His voice pitched high, frustration sparking. He didn’t understand why the numbers jumbled in his head.

Dad leaned against the doorframe, towel in hand.

“Again? Did you call her by mistake?”

“No! I said there was no answer!”

Mum paused, untying her apron strings.

“Odd,” she said. “Her blinds are still down. Haven’t seen her today.”

The towel flew onto the counter.

Dad turned, running out the door. “I’ll go check on her.”

The boy sat, face stricken. 8176 clear in his head. Why do they jumble? The consequences of his mistake, sinking in.

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Copyright © 2025 Clare Smith