I grab my board and take to the concrete walkways surrounding the building. It’s a two-story structure with nice, smooth concrete and a good variety of curbs, rails, and stairs. There’s a loading ramp in the back and a wheelchair access out front. The way it’s laid out, you can skate the whole thing without ever getting off your board. I start at the top, sweeping through the drive-thru ATMs and using the curbs to practice my nosegrinds, front tailslides, and a few backside slappies, then up the loading ramp, executing some 360s and kickflips along the way. When I’m warmed up, I do a couple of nightmare flips on the upper level to show off my new trick, then pull off a 50-50 grind down the handicap rail and land that pretty decently.
A crowd gathers, and the guys start calling out tricks. Some of them I do; some I don’t. A few of them pull out their phones to film me. I’m not much of a show pony, but I’ll try any trick once, even if the bros are all hating on it. And if I like it, I’ll practice until I’ve perfected it.
I’m having a good day, feeling pretty confident, so I decide to go balls to the wall. I skate around the front of the building to the top floor, where there’s a huge sprawling staircase leading down to the parking lot. Instead of grinding the rail, I do a varial kickflip in the air. I’m airborne for longer than seems humanly possible and stick it on the lower level. It’s the best kind of rush. Fear and adrenaline and relief at not busting my ass in front of everyone. The guys all clap and whistle and list all the ways I murdered that trick. One kid keeps saying “What the fuck” over and over, with more passion each time.
Okay, maybe I am a bit of a show-off.
Chris laughs and punches my arm and calls me Killer, one of his nicknames for me. The attention is a little much, so I tell them I’ll be back and ride next door to where there’s a 7-Eleven. I saywhat’s upto Justin who works there, used to go to our school, and sometimes comes out to skate with us.
“You’ve gotten pretty good,” Justin says when I lay the drinks on the counter, Gatorade for me and a Mountain Dew for Chris. Even though I told him it shrinks your balls, he still drinks it. I guess he has the ballage to spare.
“Thanks, man. I had some time on my hands this summer.” I guess Justin was watching us from inside the 7-Eleven.
“You have a lot of….” He pauses and seems to be searching for the right word. “Grace? You move well on the board. A lot of skaters look like they’re trying to take a shit while skating, but you make it look easy.”
“Like taking an actual shit,” I joke.
He smiles and looks a little bashful. It’s kind of cute. “Yeah, if everything’s working right, I guess. You skate pretty, if that makes it any better.”
“I appreciate it,” I tell him with a smile. I’m always saying weird shit or intending to say one thing when something else slips out, so I cut Justin some slack.
I pay him for the drinks and return to the parking lot, where Chris is grinding the curbs. Chris skates like he surfs—all power and strength, but the pavement isn’t nearly as flexible or forgiving as a wave. You have to relax your ankles a lot more to maneuver a skateboard, which is hard for him. Sometimes it takes a light touch.
I watch him for a few minutes, recalling how I was the one to show him how to ollie in middle school, and the only reason he stuck with it was to prove to me that he could do it too. That’s probably the only reason I got so good at skateboarding—to have something I was better at than him. Then I notice his tongue poking out in concentration, and it reminds me of the other night in the tent when his focus was on getting me off.
Abort, abort, abort.
“You laid waste to that bank, Papi,” Dave says to me like a bruh. He’s broken away from his group of friends to join me where I stand, apart from the others.
“Don’t call me that.” Like a cloud passing in front of the sun, my mood instantly sours.
“Maybe you could tell me your name so I won’t have to.”
“You know my name.”
“I want you to tell me.”
“Theo Wooten.”
“Dave Ackerman.” He puts out his hand and instead of shaking it, I take a drink of my Gatorade. He gestures like he’s slicking back his hair to play off the rebuff.
“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he continues. “In my defense, I didn’t know she was your sister.”
“Is this going to be one of those things where you pick on me until I try to fight you?”
He backs away, but not very far. “I hope not. I don’t want to fight you. I know you and your friends call me Asshole Dave, but I’m really not trying to be an asshole.”
“You must be a natural at it, then.”
That shuts him up. I finish my drink, toss the bottle in a nearby trashcan, and drop my board on the pavement to deliver Chris his Mountain Dew while it’s still cold.
Dave grabs my arm. “We should hang out,” he says again.
I shrug him off me, kick up my board and look at him for the first time, thinking up a way to tell him off, but he’s not smirking anymore. His eyes search mine, and his expression looks almost… vulnerable. Why in the world would Asshole Dave want to hang out with me, other than to torment me?
“Why?” I ask.
He glances away like he’s nervous or maybe trying to make sure no one’s around, clears his throat, and says all secretively, “Because I think you’re hot?”
