Phillip laughs along, though the V-shaped dip of his eyebrows tells me he doesn’t understand this either. “You’re not white.”
Spoken by the boy who once licked Drew’s arm to see if he tasted like chocolate. I kid you not.
“Good call, big guy.” Drew does a little hop and spin with the kind of agility you don’t see often in muscular men. “This woman who likes your uncle is not just all right. She’s so gorgeous she could stop traffic. It’s a good thing he didn’t bring her along today because she’d probably cause a few skateboard crashes.”
“Really?” Phillip hugs his longboard tighter.
That’s right, kid. Choose your own goals over a girl.
“Really. Though he should bring her here another time since this is such a romantic location.” Harris points through the giant trees at the city’s skyline below.
I roll my eyes toward heaven. God knows I don’t need a woman in my life, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be Gemma. She’s too much. Too much seems like a good thing at first unless a guy has already had too much. Then it’s as Proverbs says,One who is full loathes honey. See? God and I are on the same page. I’ve had honey, and it just made things sticky. “Being romantic and being stupid are the same thing.”
A couple of skater girls cross our path and glance over warily.
Harris waves off their worries. “Don’t mind him. Even Casanova had bad days.”
Thankfully we’ve crested the hill, and my nephew seems to have lost interest in my love life. He yells, “This place is amazing,” and runs ahead toward the crowd gathering at the reservoir.
That statement I can agree with. The huge rectangle pool of water is surrounded by an iron fence and guarded by a stone gatehouse. It’s one of the seven reservoirs built on Mt. Tabor during the early 1900s to store water for local residents. After a man was caught peeing in one of the reservoirs some years back, there was a big to-do and the city stopped using them for drinking water, but they are still kept as historic sites.
I nod after Phillip. “I’ve gotta try to keep up with him. When’s your race?”
Harris glances at his smart watch. “It’ll start in an hour. If you stay for the stunts up here, you’ll still have time to get to the bottom of the hill to see me cross the finish line first.”
I slap him on the back before we split directions. “Good luck, old man.”
There’s a thousand-dollar grand prize he wants to use for a security system on his mom’s house. His dad died last year, and she lives in an older neighborhood that’s going downhill, but she refuses to move. I’m glad she has Harris. And I’m glad he has her. As for me, I have Phillip.
I jog after my nephew and catch up at the street that’s been blocked off for the races. On the far side of the street are stairs leading down to a lower reservoir that now sits empty but offers a great scenic overlook of the valley filled with trees and skyscrapers. While people usually come here to watch the sunset, nobody is paying any attention to the view today. Instead, the crowd has formed a circle around a group of skaters lining up in front of a limbo stick.
Phillip looks to me expectantly. “Can I play?”
I scan the ages and abilities of the kids in the circle. Most of them are teenagers who are using their time waiting in line to flip their boards or practice handstands. Phillip is nowhere near that level. But there seem to be younger kids in line too, and they’re all just cheering each other on.
Do I let my cop side out to keep Phillip safe, or do I vicariously relive my childhood through him? Maybe if I were a parent, I’d instinctively know what to do, but since I haven’t even had parents in my own life, I’m at a loss.
“Please, Uncle Karson. Dad would let me.” He plays his trump card.
“Way to send me on a guilt trip, you hoodlum.”
He giggles with glee.
“Go ahead. That’s what your kneepads and wrist guards are for, right?”
Phillip runs out to join the line with the kind of enthusiasm I’ve only ever seen in cheerleaders and small dogs.
I cross my arms and watch proudly. He makes friends with the older girl behind him, and she seems to be demonstrating how he should squat and duck to avoid hitting the pole on his turn.
When he gets up to the front of the line, I debate about whether to film him or not. If something goes horribly wrong, I wouldn’t want my sister to ever see the footage. But if he does something right, I definitely want him to be able to send it to his dad.
I pull out my phone and focus.
Phillip steps one foot to the board. With a shrug of his bony shoulders, he pushes off.
The wheels whir. The crowd cheers. Phillip steps his back foot next to his front and drops into a squat so low he might as well have been sitting on the board. His blue helmet ducks between his knees, and he sails underneath the pole with almost a foot to spare.
I punch my free fist overhead in victory. “Thatta kid!”
