Ava and the Red Bell

At the top of Willow Hill, there was a long, flat path with a shed at the end.

Ava stood beside her small blue bike. She wanted to ride all the way to the shed, with her feet up and her bell going ring-ring. But every time she pushed off, the bike wobbled left, wobbled right, and her feet came down. Bump.

"Again," said Ava.

Her grandpa sat on a stump with a flask of tea. He had come to fix a fence, not to fix a bike. "I'm busy with my fence," he called. "But I'm watching."

Ava pushed off. Wobble, wobble, bump.

She looked down at her feet. She looked at her hands. She squeezed the handlebars tight, tight, tight. The bike shook even more.

"Again," said Ava.

Wobble, wobble, bump.

A fat brown hen walked onto the path. She had her own plans, and they were about worms. She pecked at the dirt and did not move over.

Ava's feet came down. She sat very still and looked at the hen. The hen was not looking at her feet. The hen was looking at the shed, and walking straight toward it.

"Oh," said Ava. "She looks where she's going."

Ava pushed off. This time she did not look at the wheel. She looked at the shed, at its little green door. Her hands let go a bit, soft as holding a bird. The bike stopped shaking. It went rolling, rolling, steady as a spoon in porridge.

Then the hen hopped right across the path.

Ava swerved. The bell went ring-ring-RING-a-ding, much louder than she meant. The hen squawked and ran off, flapping, and Grandpa spilled his tea down his boots.

Ava kept rolling. Her feet were up. The shed came closer, and closer, and then her front wheel bumped gently against the green door.

Ava put one foot down. Behind her the hen clucked, and the wind hummed in the spokes as the wheels slowly stopped.