The Biker and Me

Danny POV Today was my eighteenth birthday, and I had a nostalgic moment as I looked back at how I got here, in this place, with these people around me celebrating my day; it's a far cry from my humble beginnings. My name is Danny. My dad wanted a boy, so it's not Danielle or any other girl's name shortened, just plain Danny. My dad's a drunk, and my mother's a drug addict, and we live in the slums, living in a two-bedroom shack, with wind blowing through broken windows, and there's rarely food in the kitchen. They cleaned up their act when Mum fell pregnant again, and they actually put food on the table; for a while, I thought things were changing for the better, fingers crossed. Dad got the baby boy he so desired, and for a while they looked like a loving couple. Dad stopped drinking, and Mum stayed clean. My life changed when my baby brother was born, for the better briefly, still clean and sober. The first six months were fine; my brother Sam stayed in Mum and Dad’s room, and they appeared to be getting along well. They rarely argued, and that was a huge change in my eyes. Then something happened. I don’t know what, but Mum went back to the drugs, and Dad began drinking again. I was seven years old when that change happened, and as I said, we lived in a run-down two-bedroom shack in the slums. It was hard enough, but today my already difficult life got a lot worse. That was when they moved Sam into my room, and I became the main carer; my parents more or less forgot we existed. My bed became our bed; I ended up removing the base and putting the mattress on the floor because I was worried he would fall out. I was up at night walking around my room when he went through teething. My only saving grace was a lady, Cherryl, who lives a block away and had a baby at the same time, and I went to her for help; she agreed to care for Sam while I went to school. Everyone who lived nearby knew what my parents were like and tried to help where they could. They never had food or money to share; they all had the same money problem, flat broke. I would get up at five, when Sam woke up, wash, dress, and feed him what I could, then dress myself, strap him to my chest, ride my bike to Cherryl, and leave him there while I went to school. School was hard. I was brainy, or so the teachers say, but when all you can do is homework and reading, you learn a lot, of course. I had no sleepovers, although I had offers, but they soon dried up when I had to say no or ask, 'Can I bring my brother?' In school, you have three groups: the slums, the rich, and the bikers. I was stuck with the slums: holes in my worn-out shoes, clothes I'd repaired so many times; it was hard to tell what they looked like when they were new. Not that I ever had new clothes. So I stayed alone, studying in the library or sitting in the stands and watching the boys play soccer. I wasn't into boys yet; I was still too young. But I enjoyed watching the sport. After school, I would visit three restaurants, carrying my empty plastic containers in the hope of getting food for dinner for Sam and me. If the first gave, I went home happy; if not, I tried all three. If that didn't work, I would search the bins, but that was the last resort. Today I was lucky; after three "not today", I found a box with three slices of pizza left in it. I took it home with glee; we rarely got pizza. "You got food for tonight?" Cherryl always asked, and I always said yes; she knew when I was lying, but didn't call me out. I did housework for her to cover babysitting costs. I knew she fed Sam lunch; I wasn't sure what it was, but he was always happy. "Pizza tonight." I proudly showed her my three pieces of pizza, and she nodded with a smile. This was my life. On school holidays, I stayed home with Sam, and we played games or anything I could think of to keep him amused. When he started school, I would still drop him off at Cherryl's, and Cherryl would take her boy and Sam to school and pick them up. At first, it was hard to get him a uniform, school bag, and pencils, but I managed by collecting bottles and cans and buying what he needed at the local second-hand store. Every Saturday, I would go to the local church and collect a food hamper; sometimes they would give me clothes for both Sam and me. That was a treat. They gave me some more blankets and a new school bag for Sam. It wasn't brand new, but if they got donations, they had a table where you could take what you needed, and that's where I found the bag and new shoes for him. I even took a microwave so I could heat the food I managed to scrounge. Our town was called Stoneridge; we had two mines: one for coal, the other for iron. The thousand or so people that live in the slums mostly work there; that's where my dad works. The rich own them and run them; the rich section has about eighteen hundred people living in the more respectable area. Some I call snobs, because they look down on everyone. The rest are bikers; they own a lot of shops and businesses, and they really keep this town ticking over. Just over two and a half thousand of them; they virtually own the town. The rich like to think they do. Still, if the mines closed tomorrow, other than those in the slums, in a worse state than they are now, the town wouldn't die; the rich might move away, but that wouldn't hurt the town. The bikers do more for the town than the rich section. It was my fourteenth birthday today. Cherryl gave me a cupcake as my birthday cake and a pair of shoes she no longer wears. I was over the moon. The day at school flew by; a good start makes a big difference. I was sitting under a tree, eating my lunch, an apple Cherryl gave me, and the cupcake, watching the bikers playing soccer, and yeah, I like one of them- always have- but I'm too shy to approach him. He's the same grade as me, since I jumped a grade and am with other fifteen-year-olds; Talen turned fifteen two weeks ago and was already six foot three and still growing. I clapped when the team scored; it was a good goal, and then clapped again when the other side scored. "You don't care who wins, do ya?" Came a voice I hate from the side of me. "They were good goals." I didn't bother turning to look at Clarisa; no need. I knew what she looked like, and she probably had her support crew with her. "Keep your eyes and hands off Talon; he's mine." I shrugged; what could I say? She was possessive of him because he was one of the few guys that she hadn't taken to bed yet, and she was trying everything in her power to win him over, but at the age of fourteen, her reputation was already bad, so being with the bad boy didn't make any sense. Maybe because she heard I had a secret crush on him, and I do, but it might be my hormones kicking in, because I was at the age where you start noticing boys, unless you are Clarisa; word is, she started spreading her legs at twelve. Wonder what her father would say if he knew his little princess's reputation. "DO YOU HEAR ME?" Clarisa shouted; the guys on the field looked over at the shouting and stopped playing. Great, just what I don't need is their attention on me. "I watch all the guys on the field. I love soccer; I can't play- two left feet- but I do enjoy watching them kick goals and the build-up; it's poetry in motion, and if that means I look at Talen as he does a play on the ball, so be it. I am not going to close my eyes and miss the action, just because you said so." I never put up with her; she has yet to get violent, but Clarisa had others who did the dirty work. She was more the sort to tip paint over your locker than hit you. "Just stay away from him, got it?" She turned and walked towards the field, where the dugouts were. A no-go zone for us from the slums. I watched her walk down and out of sight, then back to the field, where Talon and some of his mates were staring at me. Great, how to ruin my birthday. I got up and left; it was almost bell time anyway.