When Everything Is Blue

by Laura Lascarso

  “Grinds are so basic.” I much prefer the aerial tricks, preferably over long flights of stairs. I like the “wow” factor.

  “Grinds show off your technical ability, and judges love them. Plus, the skate park has a hell of a lot more rails than it does stairs. Curbs too. You should work on your mounts and dismounts. Transitions matter,” he says with emphasis, because I’m starting to nod and smile like I do whenever he goes into boss mode. “For the three-step flight of stairs, I’d practice your nollie laser flip. That’s a crowd pleaser. Save the nightmare flip for the finale.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “I want your no-comply’s so smooth it looks like you’re moonwalking.”

  “Are you done?” I’d rather our goodbye kiss not be interrupted by Chris’s verbal diarrhea.

  He smiles and cups my face in both hands, plants a big sloppy kiss on my mouth for fun, then comes in again for something softer and more meaningful. “Wish me luck,” he says.

  “Good luck.” I pinch his ass for a little extra, and he yelps and swats at me.

  The next morning between classes, I watch on my phone as Chris makes his transcontinental flight, arriving safely in California by midafternoon. He sends me text updates about his great coming-out weekend. Apparently his mom hinted to his dad at what was going on, so his dad was prepared with some celebratory festivities, including a fancy dinner at Chris’s favorite restaurant and night out at a gay nightclub owned by a client of his dad.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but even more than that I’m glad Chris and his dad have the kind of relationship where coming out only brings them closer. That’s pretty damn special. Even though I’ve envied Chris’s blessed life over the years, I want only the best for him. He deserves it.

  On Sunday night it’s gotten pretty late at the BOA. Most of the skate rats have all gone home for the night, and it’s just me and a couple of other guys. Word has spread that I’m entering Plan Z, and like Chris, everyone has an opinion on which tricks are my best and which ones need work. Dave is there, too, but he hasn’t tried talking to me since the incident. There was another scandal at Sabal Palm High, a tryst between an assistant coach and a senior. What’s in Wooten’s mouth has faded a bit.

  I’m taking a break between sets when Dave approaches me. I briefly consider getting on my skateboard and jetting home or else going in for another round, but I decide instead to stand my ground and face him once and for all, even better since Chris isn’t here. Dave’s been giving me puppy-dog looks in the hallway and joining in the chorus of supporters when I’m skating. I know he wants to make up.

  “I heard you’re going to compete in Plan Z,” Dave says, keeping a couple feet of distance between us. Like a shamed dog, he also won’t make eye contact.

  “Yup.”

  “You’re going to murder it.”

  I shrug. The silence is deafening.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” he says.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You read my note?”

  “No.” I ended up burning it, which is way better than sticking pins in it. In any case, I found it to be therapeutic.

  “I fucked up, Theo.”

  I nod, unable to find it in me to accept his apology. There’s a wall about ten feet high between us, with razor wire, and I can’t scale it.

  “Can you kick my ass to make me feel better?” Dave asks.

  I’m not built that way. All the anger and frustration I felt toward Dave has morphed into this tough little nut of bitterness, candy-coated with regret. When I think about what he did, I feel sick and weak and betrayed, so I try not to think about it at all. “What you did was so uncool, Dave. I don’t even have the words for it. And I know a lot of words.”

  “You didn’t deserve that.”

  “No one deserves that.”

  “I’m sorry, Theo. I was getting some things off my chest to one of the guys, and your name slipped out. He didn’t believe we were hooking up, so I sent him that picture. I was stupid. And an asshole. Everything you ever said about me is true.”

  I don’t like how he’s making me out to be the asshole, like all he could do was live up to my expectations. Besides, that was before I even knew him.

  “You played me twice,” I tell him. “First in taking that picture without me knowing, and then in sending it around.”

  “If I could take it back, I would. I swear.”

  For a moment there’s nothing between us but the sticky sounds of wheels on pavement. I wish I could forgive him—I really do—but he totally screwed me over, and just like some things can’t be unseen, some deeds can’t be undone. Whenever I look back on how I came out, I’ll think of that goddamned picture and how Dave stole it from me, like that scene in Indiana Jones where the guy gets his heart ripped out and the ripper presents it to the crowd like it’s some kind of prize. I was a trophy for Dave. Whether or not it was his intention, that’s how it feels.

  “I thought we could be friends,” I say to Dave. “I wanted to, but now when you’re around, I just feel….” I search for the word. “Unsafe.”

  Dave nods, and I glance over at him, feeling that familiar tug inside me. In a way it’d be so much easier to forgive him. I really did like hanging out with him…. But he’s not trustworthy, and I’ll never risk getting played by him again.

  “I just wanted to tell you to your face I’m sorry,” he says.

  I’m afraid to say anything that will give the impression he’s allowed back into my life, so I just stand there in a fortress of silence.

  Dave sighs. “Good luck at Plan Z. I’ll be cheering for you.”

  I watch him walk away, feeling massive amounts of emptiness and regret—for the friendship we lost and the one we could have had.

  Goddamned Asshole Dave.

  CHRIS MAKES me 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 fro
m 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.”

  “Yeah, sure, that’d be great.” I’m still reeling from the fact that I got through the competition while keeping my rep intact. The chance at a sponsorship is a total bonus and not anything I was expecting.

  The second-place prize is $1000, which couldn’t come at a better time, because I owe my mom for putting me on her car insurance. As we pack up to leave, I scan the crowds one more time, thinking it would have been cool if my dad had showed up.

  Well, there you have it.

  Sebastian

  WE GO out for pizza afterward—it’s my go-to cuisine after grilled cheese. Then we say goodbye to Tabs and my mom and drop Ryanne off at her house. When it’s just Chris and me back in my car again, he says with a little grumble in his voice, “Guys are always giving you their number.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “That Plan Z guy. He was totally hitting on you.”

  Vincent? I just saw it as him being friendly—maybe even a little charming—in order to get what he wanted. “You think he’s gay?”

  “He was totally checking you out, and not in the sponsorship-potential way. I liked it better when I only had to worry about girls liking you. Guys are dogs.”

  I agree with him on that, but Vincent seemed pretty business-oriented. “He was pretty old, Chris. Pushing thirty.”

  “Gay life doesn’t have the same age-difference rules.”

  “Gay life? Is that like Salt Life?” I tease. All of a sudden Chris is the expert on being queer? I swear it’s the same as when I taught him how to ollie back in seventh grade, and then suddenly he was the authority on skating. “I’m pretty sure the law doesn’t give a shit if you’re gay or not. And besides, he should know my boyfriend is the jealous type who will kick his ass if he tries anything.”

  Chris is quiet for a moment then goes, “Am I that guy?”

  I glance over to see him experiencing a rare moment of self-doubt. “I don’t know. Are you?”

  Chris shakes his head as though ridding himself of the persona. “Sorry about that, T. I’ve just waited so long for this. I’m a little worried someone’s going to swoop in and steal you away.”

  It’s funny to me that Chris would stress about that. If only he’d been in my head the past year or so, he’d know he has nothing to fear. “Consider my ass bolted to the floor like the furniture in Juvie.”

  He smiles. “Cool.”

  Chris opens his legs so his knees are spread wide and adjusts his balls. I wonder if it’s for my benefit. I have the urge to swerve off the road and park in the nearest secluded spot and demonstrate the skills I learned from Dave, but I’ve heard too many stories about kids getting caught by the police with their pants down and being
brought into the station for their parents to come claim them. I’m not getting charged with indecent exposure at the tender age of sixteen or worse, having to make that call to my mother.

  “You have to work tomorrow?” Chris asks.

  “No, I took off. Why?”

  “I want to go to Sebastian.”

  “When? Tonight?”

  “Yeah,” he says in a deep, throaty voice.

  “To surf?”

  Chris hums, giving himself away.

  “You bringing your tent?”

  He chuckles, deep and sexy. “Yeah. So… you want to come?

  “Yes, again and again.”

  Chris laughs. “Don’t psyche me out, T.”

  I smile, loving that slow burn in the bottom of my groin, knowing whatever happens in Sebastian, it’s sure to be memorable.

  “Go easy on me, Boss.”

  He leans his head back against the seat rest and glances over at me with that cocky grin I adore. “No promises.”

  WE NEVER make it to the beach. The sun set long ago by the time we arrive at the campground in Sebastian. Chris builds the fire. I set up the tent. It’s like it’s always been, except I’m too keyed up. I can’t calm my thoughts long enough to concentrate on any one thing, which makes setting up camp kind of scattered, with me forgetting basic things like making sure to anchor in the stakes. Then I have to force myself to be still and sit down next to Chris, so my anxiety doesn’t spread like a brushfire to him.

  Chris reviews the day, somewhat methodically, going over all the good rides the skaters had and all the biffs, each of their strengths and weaknesses. My strength, according to him, is making my tricks look easy. My weakness is not taking more risks because I haven’t practiced a trick enough times. I actually have a target ratio of attempts vs. completions for any given trick before I’ll go public with it. While Chris doesn’t know the exact details, I think he suspects it.