The right pedal clanked against the chain guard, and the whole bike rattled and squeaked, threatening to collapse into a pile of rusty parts.
The tornado, however, was still going strong when I skidded to a halt in our driveway. So I transferred pedal power into painting power.
I pried open the gallon of Navajo White my dad had bought me and started slopping paint around.
Chet appeared about ten minutes later. “My,” he laughed, “you’ve got an enviable amount of energy today, don’t you?”
“No,” I said, brushing back some hair with the back of my hand, “I’m just mad.”
He produced his own brush and an empty coffee can. “Uh-oh. Who at?”
“Myself!” “Oh, that’s a tough one. Did you do poorly on a test?”
“No! I… ” I turned to him and said, “How did you fall in love with your wife?”
He poured some Navajo White into his can and smiled. “Ah,” he said. “Boy problems.”
“I do not have boy problems!” He hesitated but didn’t argue.
Instead, he said, “I fell in love with her by mistake.”
“By mistake? What do you mean?” “I didn’t intend to.
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