The bike was my older brother’s before it was mine. He’d painted it blue to cover the original red. I painted it green the summer I turned fifteen, the summer I started washing dishes at Rosario’s.
I rode it four miles each way, six days a week. The kitchen was 110 degrees and the thermostat by the back door was taped over with a note that read DON’T TOUCH in Mario’s handwriting. Nobody touched it.
I told myself the job was temporary. Everything was temporary. That’s what my mother said about the apartment, the neighborhood, the rust on the bike chain.
Last night I packed the last box for my move. Today is the first day of the new job, the one with the desk and the benefits and the number I never thought I’d see on a paycheck.
I rode the bike there. Green paint chipping down to blue, blue down to red underneath.
Nobody at the office saw it. I locked it to a rack two blocks away and walked in like I’d arrived on four wheels and a full tank of gas.
But I know what’s under the paint. I know exactly what carried me here.