Amara had been riding with training wheels for as long as she could remember. All her friends had already taken theirs off. She wanted to try, but every time she thought about it, her stomach did a flip.
One Saturday, Dad said, Today is the day. He knelt down and unscrewed the training wheels with a wrench. Amara watched them come off and felt her heart start to race. The bike looked different without them — thinner, wobbly, dangerous.
Dad held the back of the seat as Amara climbed on. I will not let go until you are ready, he promised. She gripped the handlebars so tightly her knuckles turned white and started pedaling slowly down the sidewalk.
For the first few minutes, Dad jogged beside her, one hand on the seat. Amara wobbled left, then right, then left again. She felt like a baby bird trying to balance on a branch for the very first time.
Keep pedaling, Dad said. Don't look down — look ahead at where you want to go. Amara fixed her eyes on the big tree at the end of the block and pumped her legs harder. The wobbling started to fade.
She did not notice when Dad's hand left the seat. She was pedaling on her own, the wind pushing her braids back, the sidewalk rolling smoothly beneath her wheels. She was doing it. She was actually doing it.
Dad! she yelled over her shoulder. Look! She saw him standing twenty feet behind her, grinning with his arms crossed. You have been on your own for the last thirty seconds! he called back.
Amara rode all the way to the end of the block, turned around, and rode back. Then she did it again. And again. By the time the streetlights came on, her legs were sore and her smile was the biggest it had ever been.