Sleepers Read Free Page B

John sweaty and breathless from the hard pushing. We were in the middle of the pack, Russell still on our left, a Puerto Rican crew from Chelsea driving a purple cart on our right.
    “More speed,” I told the guys. “We’re not getting there fast enough.”
    “Relax,” Michael said. “We’re right where we’re supposed to be.”
    “If I go any faster, I’ll have a heart attack,” John muttered between wheezes.
    The brake pads by my feet flapped against the sides of the cart and one of the front wheels started to wobble.
    “I don’t know if these brakes are gonna hold,” I said.
    “Don’t think brakes,” Michael hissed. “Think speed.”
    “How do I stop?” I asked with a hint of panic.
    “You’ll hit somethin’,” Michael said. “Don’t worry.”
    “That’s what I love, Mikey,” I told him. “You just think of everything.”

    A T THE TOP of the hill I was on my own, two feet from Russell’s cart. We quickly glanced at each other, the sneer still on his face. I locked my cart against his, the spin of my wheels chopping at his wood, trying to move him over to the hard side of the curb.
    “Don’t, man,” Russell shouted. “You’re gonna lose a wheel.”
    A cart driven by a pock-faced redhead in goggles was up behind me, pushing me even closer into Russell. My hands were raw and my legs stiff. We came down fast, the carts bunched together, my hopes of knocking Russell from the race diminishing with each wobbly spin of my front wheel.
    At the south end of 11th Avenue, a few feet from a Mobil gas station crowded with onlookers, the front wheel finally gave way and snapped off. The cart tilted down, breaking pace with Russell, small sparks shooting from the pavement.
    “You’re lookin’ at a wheelchair,” Russell yelled atme as he zoomed past, snarl locked in place, not even the slightest hint of pity in his voice.
    I was heading straight for a street divider, the eraser brakes my feet were pumping now as useless to me as the rest of the cart. The remaining carts had gone straight down the street, toward 12th Avenue. The skin on my hands was split and streams of blood ran through my fingers. Holding the ropes as tight as I could, I used my weight to steer away from the divider.
    The cart was starting to lose some speed, but still moved with enough force to do damage. My arms were tired and I couldn’t hold the ropes any longer: The nylon ridges were cutting in too deep. I let go and braced myself against the sides of the Dr. Brown case. The cart veered wildly left and right, bounced across 11th Avenue, past a double-parked station wagon, jumped the curb, and slammed against the side of a corner mailbox.
    I got out, kicked it angrily over onto its side, and sat down on the fender of a parked Chevy. I put my face up to the sun and my elbows on the trunk and waited for Michael, Thomas, and John to make their way down the hill toward me.
    “You okay?” John wanted to know, pointing to my hands, which were bleeding badly.
    “What happened?” Michael asked. “We saw you locked in with Russell, then we lost you in the crowd.”
    “Woulda taken a bulldozer to knock over Russell’s cart,” I said.
    “Next year we gotta steal better wood,” Tommy said. “And maybe get better sets of wheels.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought we’d do better.”
    “That’s okay,” Michael said. “Not your fault. You just suck as a driver.”
    “Mikey’s right,” John said. “You ain’t exactly Andretti behind the wheel.”
    “I ain’t got a wheel, first of all,” I said. “And Andretti’s got brakes.”
    “Little things,” Michael said sadly. “You let little things get to you.”
    “I hate you guys,” I said.
    “Next year we’ll get you a parachute.” John patted me on the back. “Make your bailout a lot easier.”
    “And gloves too,” Tommy said. “Black ones. Like the real race drivers wear.”
    “I really hate you guys.”
    We walked together back to Tenth Avenue and