Goddamned Asshole Dave.
CHRIS MAKESme train that whole week at the skate park. He even wears a whistle, tube socks, and a headband to keep the sweat off his forehead. He means for it to be funny, and it works. He looks so ridiculous that I can’t even get mad at him when he pushes me to work harder or land a trick with more finesse, or when I bust my ass, to get back up.
There are a lot of shorties at the skate park who want to learn my tricks, so we take some time each afternoon giving them pointers. Needless to say, we have a sort of following by the end of the week. Chris talks me up, telling the kids to come out on Saturday for the competition and cheer for me. I can’t believe it, though, when we show up on Saturday morning and there’s a crowd of middle schoolers all chanting my name. Ryanne is with us, and she gushes over how adorable it all is, and Chris ruffles my hair. We already registered online by sending in Chris’s video of me skating, so all I have to do is show my ID and get a number. There are a few members of Plan Z’s pro team already testing the concrete—T-Bo Hendrix, Austin Schriller, and Havi Martinez. Seeing them shred gets my gut doing a spin cycle, and I remember to breathe deeply and concentrate on the steady sound of my wheels on pavement as I warm up.
I scan the crowds to see if my dad is here. Nope. I check my phone, and there are no messages or calls from him either. I see my mom and sister in the stands and wave. My mom calls my name and blows kisses. It’s embarrassing but also sweet. Chris notices me scoping out the bleachers and asks me who I’m expecting. I tell him, and he shakes his head. Then we drop it. I can’t let it distract me. I’ve got to focus.
The competition is spread out over the entire park, with sections cordoned off with metal blockades. Bleachers have been set up for viewing, but most of the people we know are clustered around the blockades up front. Plan Z was here the day before setting up proper half- and quarter-pipes for vert skating, so most of the skate park structures are reserved for park. The competition is set up in heats, where the top twenty in points continue on to the second round, and then the top five go into the finals, which are televised live on Plan Z’s web channel. By noon I’ve made it into the top twenty, along with the pro and semipro skaters and a few guys who must not be from around here because I’ve never seen them before. After a lunch of chili dogs—Chris’s suggestion—we do our second heat, and I bust my ass on the laser flip but kill it on the nightmare flip. I make up for the biff in grinds, which Chris was right, the judges seem to score higher than the less technical tricks.
When the news comes through that I’ve made it through the second heat, I can’t stop smiling. Ryanne hugs me and Chris smacks my ass. Our gaggle of middle schoolers all cheer when the announcer calls my name, and I jog down the line where they’re hanging on the metal guard rails like the little street urchins they are. I slap all their hands, and they go totally nuts. Some of our skater friends are here and they give me props as well, but there’s something about the littler kids’ blind admiration that strikes a chord. It’s like their dreams haven’t been sapped out of them just yet, and they’re looking at me like if I can do it, then they can too. I guess that’s what it’s like to be a role model.
“You came with your own fan club?” a man asks me. I saw him before at the registration table. I noticed him because he seemed overdressed for the occasion—slacks and fancy dress shoes, a long-sleeved collared shirt open at the top, and hair that was once carefully styled but has since melted in the heat.
“Local kids,” I tell him.
“Are you local?”
“Yeah.”
He seems to perk up at that. “You must know the area pretty well, then?”
“I do.”
“Then I’m in luck.” He offers his hand for me to shake. “I’m Vincent Longorio with Plan Z. I do marketing and arrange the skate sessions. I have a few guys getting ready to do a Dirty South tour….” He pauses. “You know what Dirty South means?”
I laugh because this guy is, like, ten years older than me. I’m not sure if Dirty South is a new term to him, or if he thinks it will be for me. “Like rap music from the south?”
“Exactly,” he says with a smile. “We’re taking a road trip through the South during winter break. We were thinking of going straight to Miami from Daytona, but if you’d be willing to be our tour guide, I’d love to stop in here for a day or two.”
“Totally,” I say, then think to ask, “What does a tour guide do?”
“Shows the crew where the best skate places are. You eighteen?”
“No, sixteen.”
Vincent nods. “We’d need your legal guardian to sign off on it. You’ll probably be in some of the footage. We’d pay you for your time. And who knows, if you do well, Plan Z is always looking for talented and photogenic youth.”
I smile, feeling a little bashful. “Yeah, cool,” I tell him. He asks me for my number, and I give it to him. Then he hands me his business card, and I tuck it into my wallet. Chris comes up while we’re exchanging information, and I introduce him to Vincent as my boyfriend.
“Boyfriend?” Vincent asks, his eyebrows hitching up a little like it’s a scandal.
“Is that a problem?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“Not at all.” His smile widens. “We’re a very inclusive group.”
“The finals are starting soon, T,” Chris says, commanding my attention. He gives Vincent a hard look, and I chalk it up to Chris’s territorial nature. Whether it’s surfing at the beach or skating, he’s always a little suspicious of outsiders, especially those who end up selling photographs or footage of a session without permission—it happens pretty often.
I grab my board and wait in line behind the other contestants. I’m slated to go last, which is good because I want to see what tricks the others pull off before my run. Now it’s just the pros and me—all of them execute their runs more or less flawlessly, with a lot of style and charisma. T-Bo sends his skateboard under the rail while jumping over the top of it and landing on the other side. It’s so simple, yet flashy at the same time, that I kick myself for not thinking of it first.
And then it’s my turn to go. I decide to abandon my routine, which feels stale by now, and just go with whatever feels right. I don’t know if it’s the crowd’s energy or knowing that I have nothing to lose, but everything comes so easily—every grind, kickflip, and ollie feels effortless, like my board is an extension of my body. I nail all my best tricks, some of them twice, so that by the time the buzzer goes off, I’m sweating and breathless and totally amped because even if I didn’t score the highest in points, I really did kill it.
“Dude,” Chris keeps saying over and over as he embraces me in a big, sweaty bro-hug. Ryanne bounces and claps and doesn’t know our skater lingo, so she just keeps saying, “Wow, Theo, that was amazing.” My mom and sister sandwich me in a hug, and Tabs asks me if I’m famous now.
I end up coming in second, just shy of first in points behind Austin Schriller because of his wicked 720 flip I’ve never seen anyone land in real life. Kudos to him. He comes up to me afterward and asks if I’m with anyone, and it takes me a minute to realize he means if I’ve signed with someone. “No,” I tell him.
“You should talk to Vincent,” he says. “We could use someone like you on our team.”
As if being summoned, Vincent materializes a moment later. “I’m going to call you in a couple weeks about being our guide, Theo.” He says it almost like it’s a warning. “You do well in that, we might have room for one more on our team.”
