City of Saints & Thieves(33)

“Your parents actually let you ride that thing?”

Michael takes the helmet off. “I won’t tell if you don’t. It’s Dad’s. He bought it in a moment of midlife crisis or something. Never uses it. He’d kill me if he knew I took it out. He doesn’t even know I can ride.”

“Can you?”

“Of course.”

“The guards going to tell on you?” I ask.

“I bribe them.”

“Of course you do. Maybe you can just bribe your driver?”

He smirks. “You scared?”

“No. Give me that,” I say, and take the helmet he’s offering me.

It’s like wearing a cooking pot on my head. No one wears them on the piki-piki. Michael motions me closer and buckles something under my chin, which makes it feel more like a helmet and less like a pot, but not much. Then he flips a switch on his own helmet. I can hear his voice as clearly as though his mouth is against my ear. “It’s just like a piki-piki. Only . . . faster.”

“I’m not worried.” I swing on behind him. Just like a piki-piki, I tell myself.

Michael nudges us forward a few inches. “Gotta hang on tight.”

I scoot up until I’m right against Michael’s back. I can grip a side handle with one hand, but the other has to go around Michael’s waist. I am keenly aware of all the places where my body touches his. He shows me where to put my feet and then looks back. Our helmets bump.

“Ready?”

My stomach clenches. I’m afraid of what my voice will sound like, so instead I give him a firm nod.

And then we’re blistering out of the gate and down the road.

I grab him around the waist with both hands. It goes so fast, I think stupidly.

Piki-piki have motors that sound like bumblebees and can barely outpace bicycles. This thing is like a cheetah after prey, and I don’t care about anything but hanging on. We come up to our first bend in the road, and I clench my thighs, no longer caring about touching Michael.

“Lean into the curve!” Michael shouts, and I try to follow his movements. We’re tilted so far over I could reach out and touch the pavement, but the last thing I would do right now is let go.

The mansions of the Ring whip past us in a blur. I scream a little when Michael rockets around a car that’s going too slow. I can hear him laughing. “You okay back there?”

“Fine!” I say, my voice high. I clear my throat.

The road down from the Ring twists and winds, but it’s at least free of the potholes that cover most of Sangui City’s streets. After a few minutes I start to get used to the speed and even feel my racing heart switch from fear to exhilaration. I realize I’ve been gripping so hard that my hands have fallen asleep. I loosen them and Michael takes a deep breath, like maybe I’ve been crushing his lungs.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s fast!”

Michael laughs. “You haven’t seen anything yet!”

“No! No faster!”

Michael lets up on the gas. “Sorry. Riding just makes me feel . . . awake. Alive.” He pauses, and I’m surprised to hear something like hesitation in his voice. “I thought you’d like it.”

I take inventory of my senses. The air is whipping past me and the shadows and the sun ripple over my arms and legs as we rocket through the jacaranda trees that tunnel the road. Their flowers lie on the ground like purple snow. It’s beautiful, and I know what he means, to have that one thing that makes you feel truly yourself and alive. It’s how I felt breaking into his house two nights ago. Like no one in the world could tell me what to do; no one knew how to do my job better. Terrifying, but absolutely right.

“I do,” I say.





SEVENTEEN


We have to slow down once we get into town, and I immediately start to sweat under the helmet. I hadn’t really realized how much cooler it is up in the Ring. And down here it’s a lot less fun trying to push our way through the traffic and potholes and dust. The closer we get to the harbor, the more crowded it gets. There are bicycles and chickens and children and goats, and lots of people who just stop to gape at the motorcycle, like it’s a herald of the second coming.

I give directions, and Michael threads through the busy streets. We have to go practically to the other side of Sangui City, over the bridge and back into the winding, narrow streets of Old Town. We drive down Biashara Street and even pass Kiki’s school. I can hear the girls shouting and laughing in the yard, and I crane my neck but don’t see Kiki as we drive past the front gates. Of course, what would I say to her if I did? Hi, sis! Remember your half brother, Michael? His dad killed our mom. ’Kay, bye!

Right. She’s not going to know anything about all this. Ever.

From the back of the bike, Old Town’s grit fades away into the vignettes I imagine the tourists see: rambling warrens of pale limestone buildings and waving palm trees; market stalls with perfect pyramids of yellow and red mangoes, frilly bunches of greens, bananas, and peppers hung like garlands. There are serious-faced men in long white kanzus and women wrapped in rainbow kanga prints or head-to-toe buibuis that billow like black sails. There is clear blue sky above, and below, electric blue water. From here, it looks just like paradise.

We’re almost to the fish market when Michael clears his throat. “So are you going to tell me who it is we’re meeting?”