He glances over his shoulder, the bill of his hat shading his eyes from me. “Kind of nosey, don’t you think?”
“I think you sound like a kid who could use a ride. Where do you live?”
“A few miles from here.”
I’m inferring based on the limited information I gathered that he has troubles at home. It’s no excuse for his behavior, but he deserves someone who will make sure he’s okay too. Like I should have done with Quinn.
Were his parents going to let him ridemilesby himself? In a suburb,yeah, I can see it. But this school is touching two of the busiest intersections. Downtown traffic stops for no one. Drivers don’t look for pedestrians either. The memory of El strapped to a dozen different tubes keeping her alive invades my thoughts. The odds of this kid making it home are not something I’m willing to risk.
I stall. “You’re pretty good on that thing.”
Blake smirks, tucking his board closer to his armpit. “You saw me ride two feet.”
“Well, I couldn’t even make it that far.”That’s an understatement.“Wanna show me a thing or two?” The parking lot is no skate park, but something tells me he doesn’t need one to impress me.
His gaze sweeps the school perimeter.
“I won’t say anything if you don’t.”
He shoots me a lopsided grin. “All right.” Then he drops the skateboard on its wheels and plants his back foot on the tail, his other foot hanging slightly off the front end. In one swift motion, he leans his weight on his back foot and pops his board in the air. It does a full rotation before he lands on it. I’m intrigued and he hasn’t even left the sidewalk yet.
There’s a rail touching a ramp for wheelchair access to the bus drop-off lane a few feet away. He rolls over to it. With his hand hanging on to the underside of his board, he jumps up and slides down the metal, shooting off the end and racing in an arc around the concrete lot. He kicks the back end and picks it up, stopping in front of me.
“Impressive. How long have you been skating for?”
“A couple years or something. It’s faster to get home that way.”
Six cars pile into the pick-up lane. A momentary distraction. By the time I look back at Blake, he’s already headed home.
I jog the impressive number of paces he took to catch up to him. “Hold up. Do you ride home a lot?”
He shrugs. “Most days, yeah.”
And yet he still called that person for a ride. Something tells me he was hoping he wouldn’t have to.
“Does your mom work late or something?”
“My dad does.”
“Is that why you did the play?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
I’m just trying to figure this kid out. See if he was forced into being here. Strapping a reason to his behavior. Blaming his actions on resentment rather than bullying. There’s no excuse for how he acted. But the first option—indignation—is redeemable in my eyes. I can work with that. His avoidance of my question tells me I’m right.
“I’m kind of nosey like that.”
That makes him smile for a second. Then he drops his head to stare at his Vans. “I don’t like… being home alone.” Vulnerability oozes from that delayed admission. He’s about as good at opening up as me.
A blast of chatter bursts through the front doors of the school. Everyone from practice funnels out.
“Come on.” I wave him in the opposite direction he’s still walking in.
“Why?”
I shuffle backward. “Our ride is here.”
I don’t wait to see if he follows me. My attention magnetizes to the slumped shoulders of my daughter. She’s walking toward the car holding Summer’s hand.
