“Come on, Anise!” Emery shouts. I smile at her voice.
I kick the ground hard and rocket down the first leg of the course. As I rush across the park, I thank the gods for whatever athletic aptitude they’ve bestowed upon me because I don’t fall or waver. Some stiffness eases from my muscles. Maybe I’m not going to make a complete fool of myself.
I finish the first lap quickly, wind rushing through my hair, ears and eyes pricked and stinging like riding a wave in Santa Cruz. And then, as I’m starting to feel comfortable, I remember that I’m supposed to be doing tricks too and that a dog (literally a dog—I watched the YouTube video) can ride a skateboard. My feet act before my brain and I pop an ollie. The trick is faultless. My board smacks back on the pavement, and I kick off again, barely losing any momentum. So I pop another and another, hearing a whoop of applause and cheering from the table, before gearing down and gaining more speed and confidence with it.
The exhilaration takes over. As I complete my second lap, the concrete under my board feels almost as natural as churning ocean water. And for the first time here, I’m at ease. Near the end of my third lap, it’s time to show how comfortable I truly am. I kick the board into the air. It spins perfectly and effortlessly. Then the board and I both fall to the ground, a cocky grin spreading across my face as I steady my balance with my arms and secure my footing and—WHAM.
I’m on the ground. My bruise-battered ass is defeated and embarrassed because I missed my goddamn footing. My skateboard is half the length of my surfboard, and where I expected board, I only found air. The fall is no worse than the dozens I’ve had all week, yet I’m mortified.
The next thing I know, Lincoln is in front of me, reaching over to help me up. I hesitate, then take his hand, which is calloused, yet soft. I’m waiting for the taunts, the mocking, but he says, “Very nice. Like, scary nice actually.”
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “Or really bad at sarcasm?”
“Not at all,” Lincoln says. “That was pretty dang…hmm… What’s the surfer term for it? Rad?”
“Sure. Rad. In an outdated, eighties kind of way.”
“Okay, sure, you fell on your ass,” Lincoln continues, “but you fell after pulling off an almost perfect kickflip. Do you know how long it takes the average person to learn one of those?”
“Uh, no…” I wonder what kind of signal it would send if I massage my sore ass in front of Lincoln.
“Three months,” Lincoln says and holds up three fingers to emphasize his point. “I mean, it only took me one, but I am a bit of a skateboarding genius. And, you know, an all-around genius. I did just graduate top of my class—that is, if you don’t count the valedictorian, the salutatorian, and whatever the third-torian is. So nailing an almost perfect kickflip in a week is, as I said, rad.”
I shift from one foot to the other, still trying to process exactly how bruised my ass is and how to respond. “So does that mean I won?”
He laughs. “Absolutely not. I’m still going to kick your ass.” He throws his board onto the ground and hops on. “Feel free to join the judging panel and watch the magic happen.”
Lincoln is…perplexing. I’m not used to being complimented and mocked within the same relative breath. I guess some might call it honesty, but I call it damn unnerving.
I watch him. He’s incredibly balanced. I wonder if having one arm throws off your natural equilibrium; though, maybe he was born with one arm, so it is his natural equilibrium. He’s taller than a lot of my friends, making quite an impressive figure. Not that I think he’s impressive or anything. He jumps and lands two perfect kickflips in a row. The sound of wheels hitting pavement carries across the park.
Okay, he is kind of impressive.
I make my way back to the table, where the boys are cheering for Lincoln as he speeds around. Austin watches Lincoln with intent and awe. I wonder what it’d be like to have a sibling to cheer me on. Would it feel different than support from my friends? When I was seven, my mom stuck around for a couple of months straight. Even Dad got up his hopes that we could be a family for the long haul. One morning, I got up the nerve to ask her if she could give me a brother or a sister. She smiled and said, “Sure, why not?”
Two days later she was gone again.
“Your kickflip was awesome!” Parker says, jolting me back.
“Very awesome!” Nash agrees.
I don’t understand how my falling down translates to awesome, but instead of arguing, I just say, “Thanks guys,” and sit down, resisting the embarrassing urge to stand on top of the table with them for an optimal view. I can see Lincoln clearly enough, looping around the park, successfully performing ollies and kickflips and a trick that I think is called a bigflip. He executes each move without a break in stride, always hitting the pavement with speed. Jealousy seethes through me, in part because he’s better than me, but mostly because he’s at home here. This is his turf. I miss that feeling.
As he’s making his third lap, Lincoln suddenly veers off course, shooting diagonally across the skate park for the giant bowl. “Dropping in!” he calls out to the few people around it.
“Oh, come on!” I shout. “That wasn’t part of the deal!”
But I can’t begrudge him too much. Who doesn’t want to show off doing something they love? Parker and Nash jump off the table in excitement and run off toward the bowl, while Austin follows at a slower pace. I hesitate. I shouldn’t care—I know I shouldn’t care—and yet curiosity tugs at me. After watching what Lincoln can do on a flat surface, I want to see more, so I grab my board and ride over to the edge of the bowl.
The bowl is a free-form shape, like someone took an oval and pulled and pushed it like taffy. Lincoln glides along the sides, skimming down the walls and then back up, riding the whole length in one fluid motion that almost reminds me of surfing. All around the edges of the bowl, other skaters watch, some even clapping and cheering Lincoln on, basking in his success like it’s their own. As Lincoln loops up again, he jumps out of the bowl across from me and lands with a firm crack against the concrete. He kicks up the board, holds it under his nub, then looks my way and grins.
He bumps fists and high fives some other skaters before making his way over to us. A young girl drops into the bowl, and she zooms around without an ounce of hesitation. I’m mesmerized, the tension tightening then easing in my shoulders every time she skates up and skims over the lip of the bowl.
“Not bad, huh?” Lincoln asks. He stands next to me now, his face lightly sheened with sweat. He runs his hand over his cropped hair.
My competitive nature goes to point out a flaw in his performance—any flaw—but the thing is, I’m not sure there were any. And even if there were, I’m not experienced enough to have caught them.
“It was okay,” I say. “I mean, ignoring the part where you blatantly broke the rules of the competition.” My words are quick and stiff. I can’t help it. I came here today knowing I would lose, but that’s not making the loss any easier. I’ve been the best for too many years to take defeat lightly, even if this defeat is in a brand new sport.
Lincoln grins, then asks, “Judges, do you have a decision?”
“The judges need to confer before delivering final results,” Austin says in mock seriousness. He turns to my cousins and motions them into a huddle. “Anise, Lincoln, please give us some space.”
We let them deliberate even though there’s nothing to deliberate. The twins are enjoying themselves, and that’s what’s important. Lincoln’s hand presses against my bare shoulder and guides me away from our judges. The touch is easy, reminding me of Eric. How can a familiarity that’s been cultivated over almost two decades with one guy be achieved in just a few encounters with another?
Lincoln nods at my cousins. “They’re pretty cute,” he says, then drops his hand, yet stands close to me, close enough that I notice a small scar on his right eyebrow, sla
nting diagonally through the fine hairs. Before he can catch me staring, I clear my throat and step a bit to the side.
“Yeah, they’re not bad,” I say. “Until you’re trapped in a house with them for an entire summer. Did you know nine-year-old boys require feeding? Like multiple times a day?”
“Huh,” Lincoln says. “I did not know that. I thought you just threw some kibble in the bowl and let them have at it for a week.”
I laugh, and my smile lingers. “So, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you doing this summer?”
“Besides converting surfers into skaters?” He scratches his head again. “You know, now that I think about it, I’m basically a skateboarding evangelist.”
“Yeah, besides that.”
“Well, I just graduated, but I think I mentioned, I’m going to hike the PCT—the Pacific Crest Trail. So I’m going to take a year off before college to train and work to save money.”
“What’s the job?” I ask.
“Skateboarding evangelist.” Lincoln somehow manages to keep a straight face.
“That come with benefits?”
“Excellent benefits. I actually work at a nature store—you know, hiking gear, trail food, that sort of stuff.”
“Sounds appropriate.”
“Yeah, it’s—”
Before Lincoln has a chance to continue, Nash cuts him off. “We’re ready!”
All three boys walk toward us. Parker and Nash try to maintain serious faces, but they keep breaking into giggles.
“So?” Lincoln asks. “What’s it going to be?”
Austin says, “After careful deliberation, we’ve come to the unanimous decision of naming—”
“Lincoln wins!” Parker and Nash scream.
“—Lincoln our victor,” Austin finishes. He rolls his eyes and smiles at the boys.
I take a deep breath, sucking in all my pride along with it, and say, “Nice job.”
“The bet,” he prods.
“Fine.” I sigh and then quickly mutter, “I admit skateboarding is just as difficult as surfing.”
“Ah, thank you, gracious loser,” he responds. “But seriously, you should feel pretty good about yourself right now. I’ve been around a lot of different skate parks over the years, and I’ve never seen someone learn so quickly.”
“Skate parks?” I ask.
“Remember, I wasn’t born here either. You’re not the only Nebraska transplant. Austin and I have only been in this fine state for two years.”
Only two years? I already knew he wasn’t born here, but Lincoln glides around this place like he’s the goddamn mayor—like he appeared first, and then the world grew up around him. I just assumed he’d lived here for most of his life. I’m about to ask more, but then Austin steps forward. “Lincoln, we’ve got to go. Dad wants us home early today, remember?”
“Damn. Right.” Lincoln turns to me and hesitates, his eyes sweeping over me, lingering longer than normal. “I’ll see you later, Anise.”
My cheeks flush. Don’t ask me why. My cheeks just seem to do that around him. “Right,” I say. “See you later.”
He skates away, then flips his board and comes back toward me. “Hey.” He slides to a stop. “You should come to the park again tomorrow.”
“I should?” I ask.
He nods with an easy smile, a smile that warms my body slowly, like when the sun first peeks out, promising a day of pure heat. “Definitely you should. Earlier the better, okay?”
“Umm, okay,” I say.
And then he skates away a second time. Parker and Nash come up behind me. “That was fun,” Parker says.
“Yeah,” Nash agrees. “He’s, like, way cooler than you.”
“Awesome, you guys,” I say. “Thanks so much.”
“Come on, let’s go skate,” Nash says.
For a second, I’m actually tempted. I was so close to nailing that kickflip, I’m convinced that one more crack at it will be a success. Though I’d never admit it to Lincoln, it’s invigorating to learn a totally new sport, getting my body to move in a completely new way. But then I glance over, and Emery’s rooted on the same spot of the bench, and I decide my presence is more needed there.
“You guys go on,” I tell the boys. After they skate off, I walk over and sit down next to Emery, and even though she has on her headphones, I say, “Hey.”
She turns to me, eyes hard again. “What?”
“I just said ‘hey.’”
She sighs and lifts off the headphones. “Dude, I can’t hear you. What?”
I wonder if she’s fucking with me. I know she’s upset, but this shift in temperament feels extreme. “I just said ‘hey,’” I repeat.
“Is that all?”
“Look, Emery,” I pause, trying to formulate my thoughts. “Here’s the thing, you said everything is okay, but you aren’t hanging out with your friends, and you’re being, you know,” a pain in my ass, “short-tempered with me, and I know I’m not the brightest person in the world, but I’ve got to take that as a hint that everything is actually not okay.”
Her stone face wavers, eyes blinking a bit faster than usual. But then she crosses her arms and sets her jaw. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just taking a break from them, okay?”
“And I want to believe that. But if you could tell me a little about why you’re taking a break from them, I’d be more comfortable keeping this from your mom.”
Dammit. I did it again.
“You’re not keeping anything from her because there isn’t anything to keep. Nothing happened, okay?” Her voice rises. “Don’t you get it? Nothing. Happened.”
But the problem is—the more she says nothing happened, the more I’m convinced something did.
Eight
“Fuck!” I gasp as the knife slips and slices through the thin skin of my index finger. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I bring the finger to my mouth and suck the few droplets of metallic-tasting blood.
“You okay in here?” Dad pops into the kitchen.
His skin is damp from his morning run. I wave him away. “Fine, fine. Just accidentally cut myself instead of the PB&J.”
“Let me see that.” Dad gestures for my finger. I open my hand and let him inspect the small wound. He brings it close and takes his time.
Once, I think I was nine, Dad was at work and my mom was taking care of me. We were out somewhere I’d never been before, riding bicycles on this empty road, going faster and faster and faster, when I lost my balance and fell, scraping both my knees. The skin was shredded and bleeding enough to drip down my legs. I began to cry and expected my mom to baby me like Dad always did, to hush me and hold me and tell me it’d be okay. But she didn’t. She ran over, her mess of curls golden-brown in the sun, and said, “Look!”
Ahead of us was a giant downhill slope, much steeper than I’d ever biked before, injured or not. I looked back at my mom, and she was smiling and laughing, and she said, “Let’s go, come on!”
Her enthusiasm ensnared me, and the pain went away. I remember getting back on my bike and riding next to her, too excited to care about my scraped knee dripping blood all the way down the hill.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Dad says, letting go of my hand. “Just make sure you clean it out whenever you touch that dirty skateboard, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be at work already?” I rinse my hands in the kitchen sink so I don’t accidently make PB&J blood sandwiches. It’s just past nine in the morning, and since the weather forecast promised a rare cool day, I’m packing lunches for the kids so we can spend all day at the park. There’s also maybe a part of me that wants to go early because Lincoln asked me to. But it’s tiny. Miniscule. Not even a real factor.
“Going in late today. Want some help with those?”
; I nod, and for the next twenty minutes, Dad and I stand side by side and make pasta salad, sliced fruit, and of course, PB&Js. We work in comfortable silence. I consider telling Dad what happened with Emery yesterday, but last night she seemed to have calmed down once more. If I tell Dad I’m worried about her, he’ll tell Aunt Jackie because parents have that universal rule about never keeping information about their children from other parents. I’m concerned about Emery. Remembering the tears in her eyes still cuts at me, but I want her to trust me, and I should do the same and trust her. So I will. For now.
“You guys want a ride to the park?” Dad asks as we finish up. Parker and Nash have come to hang out in the kitchen, and I have to keep swatting away their hands as they grab bits of the lunch.
“That’s okay. Thanks though.” A week ago I would have said yes, but I’m actually itching to get back on my skateboard, muscles burning, wind whipping my hair, relishing the exhilaration my body craves.
• • •
The park is almost empty, which is not surprising since it’s not even ten in the morning. Emery once again heads to the skate park with us instead of going off to find her friends. When I ask why, she says none of them are here. It is early, but I still don’t believe her, yet it’s only been a day since whatever happened. It’s probably fine to give her more time to figure it out.
When we get to the skate park, she plants herself on the same bench as yesterday. I go to keep her company, but then Parker and Nash spot Lincoln and Austin by the quarter pipe and drag me in their direction. Lincoln waves at me and I get the same feeling as when a perfect overhead wave is approaching.
“Hey guys!” Austin gives Parker and Nash high fives. His cheerful attitude once again surprises me given his black T-shirt threaded with safety pins. Parker and Nash beg Austin to help them with yet another trick, and Austin agrees. All three head off toward the rails, while Lincoln stays by my side.
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