Page 17 of Levi Bailey has Butterflies

“Well, yeah. I thought you might be embarrassed learning outside, in public.”

“Huh.” She says as if she’s never really thought about being embarrassed before. “I’m not ashamed of who I am.” She lifts one shoulder. “I know why I never learned. And I don’t care what other people think.”

“Good for you. Very after-school-special like. Shall we?” I hold my arm out toward the door, guiding her right back outside. She may not be embarrassed, but I’m not super thrilled. I don’t need anyone seeing me and thinking this is something I do on the regular. Levi Bailey doesn’t get butterflies and he doesn’t give bike lessons—not normally.

We step outside and Meredith lifts her Retrospec from the wall, she kicks up the stand, then peers back at me, waiting for instructions.

I stand to the side, watching her. She mounts the bike not without some struggle—but then she is in a skirt.

“You need better riding attire.”

“Like?” She scans down to her Keds Tennis shoes. They aren’t the problem.

“Maybe pants next time.”

“I don’t own any pants.” She lifts one shoulder, the collar of her denim jacket brushing the edge of the tips of her hair. “Dresses are so comfortable. And cute. And—”

“Seriously? Are you six?” But as I insult her all I can think about are her legs. Why would this girl evereverwear pants? She shouldn’t, not with legs like that. Then again, her legs would probably look pretty great in pants. I’m not sure why I’m contemplating. I’m not interested in her or her legs.

“Six?” she says—not in the least offended.

“Yes, my niece might say the same thing.”

She clears her throat—maybe sheisuncomfortable. Good. Less comfort, the shorter this lesson should be. “I mean, I’ve worn pants. I just don’t like them. Like I said, dresses are comfortable.”

“Maybe not when riding a bike.”

“Do I need to change? I could go buy some—”

“No.” I shake my head. All I’m doing is dragging this lesson out longer. And I need Meredith Porter and her legs to go along their merry way. “No. You’re fine.” I motion from her head to toe—not in a creepy way but in a let’s-get-things-moving way. “Just like that.”

She sits, hands at her sides, feet on the ground.

“Okay,” I tell her, “hands on the handlebars. Now, put your weight on the back of the saddle.”

“Saddle?”

“The seat. You need to find your center of gravity.”

“Got it.” She nods again and inches herself back in her seat.

“Now, walk along this block and practice with your brakes.”

She listens, but tiptoes rather than walks.

“Just walk, Meredith. Normal.”

“Normal?” She peers back at me. “I’m on a bike, walking. How is any of this normal?”

“Look ahead, not back at me.” I walk forward, meeting her where she is. “And not down. Look ahead.”

“I am looking ahead.” It’s the most cross she’s ever sounded in my presence. And really, it’s not that cross.

“Now, kick off the ground and try to pedal.”

She does—but unlike with Alice, I don’t bother holding the seat of the bike. Coco would be scolding me, but the woman is twenty-three years old. I assumed she found some sort of balance throughout her lifetime. She said she needed a nudge. She said she needed onelittlelesson. Just one.

She was wrong.

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