The crowd was distracted by this collision—by this boy who chose to ride his silver bicycle home instead of walking, and by his dirty ivory suit, which should have been washed and hung to dry with wooden clothespins the night before. So even though they tried, the crowd could no longer stay within their three careful lines on the paved road. The soles of their shoes became covered with mud and they slid every which way—through the grass and up to the river and through the soil. They fell, everyone fell.

From the ground the crowd stared at the pair. The white men were troubled by the commotion, but did not stay on the ground, they didn’t slow down and did not stare. From the ground some of the crowd was desperately intrigued by this event and by the way the girl bit her lip, and the way the boy touched his right pants pocket, and with the confusion that persisted around the field, the yellow grass. They made up stories:

Maybe, they whispered, she’s found the right body to dislike in this boy, with his dirty ivory suit he’ll fill the vacant side, and she won’t have to fall asleep alone in a bed that is too large for her body, she’ll be able to roll over in her sleep and wake up in the night to a side full of chaos, or warmth, and she’ll have him pull on her nipples with his nails until the triangles of sun push through the thin curtains of the kitchen window.

The others disagreed, no, no, this ghost of a girl has finally recognized the murderous elbows, she’ll feel obligated to create an olecranon fracture in them both, using a hammer or a wooden stick; she’ll ruin his el-bows.

The crowd could see the weak outline of the gold hoop earrings in the boy’s right pocket as it pushed against his thigh. They knew they would see the girl in the field on the following Tuesday. The new pair stared at one another, they touched each other’s collarbones, and the crowd knew.

The pair left the field behind. They rode on the silver bicycle, traveling near the brown river where children were swimming and splashing. There were no white boys splashing, there were no white boys left. There were only the white men, who were beginning to get sick and would soon die—everyone knew.

The ride was bumpy; the silver bicycle hit many rocks and many pieces of gravel. The boy followed the instructions given by the girl who sat behind him; they made many turns. The girl had already forgiven the boy for making her fall. She could feel the bruises forming on her left wrist and somewhere near her lower back and buttocks. This was not the first time she had asked someone for a ride home. She delighted at the thought of sleeping with him.