Skater Boy (Patchwork House Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  King laughed. “Fuck that.”

  “You done learning?” I asked the girl, ignoring him. She shook her head, the helmet still covering half her face. I pushed it up, revealing big, blue eyes. “Then grab your board.”

  Tweetie followed after Romeo and Daniel, but King hung back. I knew he was sizing me up, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing.

  We hadn’t been together long, but we’d built a reputation.

  And a bond.

  We knew enough, knew the house and life we were building came first, and we knew we had each other’s backs, which was more than either of us had ever had. I knew King was worried, because he only had rule: no girls, and he knew how much I hated that rule.

  Everyone deserved a home.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “Tweetie has potential. It’s not like she’s coming home with us.”

  His brows caved. “Tweetie?”

  “Look at that crazy blonde hair and those intense blue eyes,” I said with a shrug. “She’s like fucking Tweetie bird.” Another moment, then he shrugged with reluctant trust.

  “Alright, dude.”

  Daniel focused the recorder on me. I stuck my tongue out before flipping it off, and he got a shot of the steep, winding road I was about to carve. The day had been a normal misty autumn, but now the sky was inky black, the clouds dark gray to match.

  “My dad says this hill is haunted,” Tweetie’s small yet decisive voice cut in.

  I rolled my lips to keep from laughing. Yeah, people in Heaven Falls were afraid of the winding, poorly lit road situated a few miles from the base of our town’s waterfall. Everyone called it Devil’s Hill, but maybe it wasn’t a hill that claimed lives—maybe it was drivers too intoxicated by their latest opioid high.

  But sure, the hill was haunted.

  “Are we really taking the girl along?” King asked, eyeing Tweetie, whose helmet had finally given up. It hung against her back, pulled at her neck by the strap.

  I pulled her by the collar, making her trip over her heels to get to me. “She wants to learn how to skate. Who better to teach her than the greatest skater in the world?” I ruffled her bouncy curls and a collective groan followed.

  Her head fell backward, wide eyes finding mine. “You’re the best in the world?”

  “Will be.” I grinned. I’d just been signed. Just had my first magazine spread, followed by another, then another. I was winning comps left and right. My aggressive, untamed street style hadn’t been seen before.

  Growing up on the streets finally had some benefits.

  I never really thought I’d be anything, so seeing magazines print my name next to godlike was a trip. The world said I’d made it. I still didn’t believe it.

  But there was awe in her blue pools, a heady, gold-hued awe. She looked at me like I was a god. Suddenly my tongue felt thick.

  I quickly grabbed my board then lifted her onto it.

  “You think you can skate this?” Her eyes grew and she shook her head. Again, I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

  I gave Daniel the nod to let him know it was time to film then we went flying down the hill, her laughter echoing with the wind in my ears.

  When we landed, her hair was windblown, her cheeks red. She had that look again, the wide-eyed, I’ve-just-seen-fireworks-for-the-first-time, look.

  “You really are the best,” she breathed. “Thank you. Thank you for teaching me. Thank you.” She kept stuttering over her thanks.

  I glanced down at her. “You’ll make it up to me.” How was written on her small face. “Someday you’ll grow up, become the best skater, and then you’ll be teaching me. So you have to keep skating, you owe me, understand?”

  She nodded, eyes wide and solemn.

  I kicked my board up with the tip of my shoe, holding it in one hand, reaching for a joint with the other.

  Drop. A single raindrop landed on my bare hand. I stopped, staring up at the sky, waiting for more. One second, two…nothing fell.

  “Cigarettes are bad for you.”

  I glanced down at Tweetie then smiled. “I know.” She frowned, a small wrinkle puckering her pink lips. I could see the question written in the furrow of her feathery, light brown brows: Why?

  I bent low until I was eye to eye with her indomitable stare. “I like doing bad things.” Her eyes grew wide as saucers, but it wasn’t fear written across them.

  It was curiosity.

  I coughed. “Do you know the first rule of skateboarding?” She shook her head with a wide arc. “You fall.” I ruffled her hair and pushed her off her skateboard to prove my point. She landed on her ass in the middle of the street.

  I laughed, then laughed harder at the stunned look painting her face stone.

  Drop. Drop. Drop. Drop.

  Rain. Dark gray, shiny beads landing as if in slow motion. Catching the moonlight and shadowing Tweetie. The sudden sprinkle turning into an all-out pour around us. Then, all at once, Tweetie joined in my laughter.

  There was something bright about this girl that shed light on an otherwise dark world. I rarely saw the day. I lived in the underground, in a place without laws or rules. I loved it, but it got heavy. She was…light.

  “Flip!” King yelled for me, but I waved him off. I kicked up my board, doing another trick as the rain poured. I wanted to give this little girl a great fucking memory to take home, inspiration or some shit—

  “Flip!” King shouted again, and I stumbled over my board, snapping my head at the terror in his voice. King, who never freaked out. King, who was cool even when a hoard of cops were barreling down, had terror in his voice. He pointed at the hill.

  A car tore down Devil’s Hill.

  Moments from hitting Tweetie.

  There was no time to think. With my joint still between my lips, I lunged for her. I pulled her to my chest and rolled us as far from the center of the street as I could.

  One.

  Two.

  Drip.

  Drop.

  My breaths were howling wind, my heartbeat thunder. Rain soaked into my shirt, slid down my bare arms, slick along the new tattoos I’d gotten with the guys.

  I never prayed—it just wasn’t my scene—but here I found myself talking to whoever would listen so this little girl would be saved.

  The crash was loud and earsplitting. Tweetie flinched in my grasp.

  Then someone grabbed me, tugged me up. King. Beyond him I saw the shock in Daniel and Romeo’s faces. A joint was still poised in Romeo’s fingers, leaking smoke into the sky. The video recorder previously in Daniel’s hand fallen to the ground.

  Blood.

  All over Tweetie.

  I reached for her but stopped. It was my blood. Must have scraped my arm when I dove for her. It dripped down my shoulder, into her yellow curls. Sirens wailed in the distance, but I was frozen, dripping onto Tweetie.

  Drip.

  Drop.

  “Go.” King grabbed me again, twisting me to him. “Get out of here!” He shoved me down the road. The car was twisted around the tree like a metal vine, shinier in the rain. Too shiny. An arm lay limp out the smashed front window, flat on the hood.

  But the person inside was fine.

  Right?

  “The girl,” I said. She was immobile. I didn’t think I’d hurt her—I tried not to. She was so small on the road, her too-big helmet askew on the back of her neck, getting wetter and wetter.

  “I’ll stay,” he said.

  “King…” Was the most well connected, but he was also one pissed-off cop away from serious jail time. His parents had it out for Patchwork. They couldn’t accept he’d left, and they didn’t do long heartfelt talks.

  They did cops.

  “You just got signed. You’re going places. Don’t fuck this up, Flip.” I glanced back to where the car had slammed into the tree. Glass glittered on the road, diamond red in the moonlight. The dying engine wove a morbid melody with the sirens. I quickly looked away, nausea buildi
ng.

  Had I just killed someone?

  The possibility was growing heavier and heavier inside my gut, a slowly sinking lead, an anchor to this moment. If I hadn’t been in the street…if I hadn’t done that trick…if I’d listened to King, paid more attention, this wouldn’t have happened.

  “This isn’t right,” I said. “I did this.”

  “King,” Daniel attempted. “You’ve already done enough.” King came from the good side of town. A girl fucked him up good, he wasn’t going back, and you weren’t to ask him why, but he’d splintered his family further when his grandmother bought Patchwork House and put it in his name. We all paid our way, me with skateboarding, Daniel with fighting, and Romeo with music.

  We all always thought King would go back, that he only considered this a pit stop.

  If he did this, how could he?

  “Mate, think clearly about what you’re doing,” Romeo tried.

  “My parents want me in jail,” King said. “So I’ll go to jail.” I couldn’t help but feel there was more to this. I knew he carried guilt on his shoulders from whatever happened to make him leave. I dragged a hand across my forehead, trying to wipe away water, only to see more red. Watery blood on my palm.

  My eyes fell back to Tweetie as the siren’s wail got louder. I’d never been one for doing the right thing. I lived the way I did because I didn’t like rules. But something about this was wrong.

  Cowardly.

  “King—”

  “Just promise me something.” Tearing my eyes from Tweetie was like ripping off dried wax, but I met King’s eyes; brown shag wet, falling across one iron gray eye. “Promise me you’ll make it big and put Patchwork on the map. I want to see the look on my parents’ faces when they see the world call our lifestyle legitimate.”

  He shoved me down the road and I stumbled backward numbly, eyes darting from the wreck to Tweetie. King’s eyes were unyielding, forcing me to keep going until I turned around and ran, running and running until my lungs felt like they would capsize.

  I didn’t know the day would end like this. I didn’t know I would end up a murderer, a coward, and a liar in one fell swoop. Just like I didn’t know the man in the car would end up being the girl on the road’s father.

  I never could’ve imagined I would fall in love with her. One day, after so many years had passed, I was the one learning from her, our ending just as predestined as the beginning.

  Seven

  Drop In: Going from flat ground into a steep transition.

  TWEETIE

  Some time ago

  Tweetie is 10, Flip is 15

  The first time I saw him, really saw him, was at the trial. It was like he couldn’t care less, slouching in his chair and focusing on his nails. As if it bothered him to be there.

  That should have pissed me off.

  It made me wonder.

  Kingston Ayers, or King, they called him. They said he’d saved my life but killed my father. If it wasn’t for him doing tricks in the street, Dad wouldn’t have swerved to avoid him. I wasn’t so sure. If I hadn’t stayed out past sundown, Dad wouldn’t have been out looking for me.

  Either way, I knew it was my fault too. I was equally to blame.

  Everything was a blur after the accident. A rush of ambulances and police cars. I do remember King standing above me, eyes a unique, brilliant silver.

  I could’ve sworn there were other boys. I could’ve sworn the boy who taught me was not Kingston Ayers. Kingston always frowned, and I could still remember the boy’s smile if I closed my eyes.

  But the woman who spoke with me after the accident said I was wrong. She said trauma has a way of reshaping memories. Kingston Ayers was the only one at the scene.

  He only got ten months. Only. It was practically a year. That seemed like forever to be locked up.

  So I waited.

  I waited nearly a year for him, a year before I could say the burning words on my mind.

  He lived in the big, three-story house a few blocks from mine—well, not mine anymore. I didn’t live anywhere anymore. Technically I lived at On Angel’s Wings because I had no immediate family, at least that was what the nice counselor who talked to me after the accident said, after asking me a lot of questions about grandparents I didn’t have, or friends of my dad that didn’t exist. Questions that seemed to mean more.

  It was always me and Dad.

  So they put me there.

  I stayed one week before I grabbed my bag and left. Summer was quickly fading into autumn and I knew I should be worried about where I was going to sleep. The rain was already starting and soon winter would arrive. Sleeping outside would get harder.

  I found myself drawn to the three-story house. It was never without a raging party. Each time I went back, a new spot of graffiti covered the front, like a patchwork quilt.

  The first time I walked by, I kept going, and the second, and the third. Tonight, I leaned against the tree opposite the house, watching. Technically I wasn’t on their property, but the only thing separating me from them was the cobblestone sidewalk.

  They called the boys who lived here the Corrupt of Heaven Falls.

  The worst, most deviant boys in our town.

  “You could get in a lot of trouble being here.” I jumped. It was him. King. When had he come? Where had he come from?

  With his head bent low, a cigarette flame lit up his face.

  “Go away. This isn’t a place for someone like you.” He didn’t look at me when he spoke or even when he walked back inside.

  He never came outside again.

  After a month, I decided to go in.

  “You can do it,” I said, walking back and forth on the strip of stone. “Just do it.”

  So I did.

  Smoke made everything blurry and secretive. Cigarettes mingled with something very distinctly sweet, like sugar and rum, a wicked Christmas. The music was live and alive. A man with beautiful, silky long brown hair sang shirtless and covered in tattoos, wearing leather pants.

  Then everyone started jumping, and I was pushed around with them. People so tall they were redwoods to me slammed me around like a ping pong ball. I couldn’t breathe. Fear crept into my gut. I was in over my head, like when I demanded my dad take away my nightlight because I didn’t want to be afraid, and I’d spent months awake examining every shadow.

  They were called Corrupt for a reason.

  “Hey, what the fuck? There’s a little girl in here.”

  Suddenly I was gripped by the elbow, dragged out, back through the party, the kissing, the fighting. Then he threw me off the porch.

  I stumbled, trying not to fall off the steps. He stood as a sentry on the top step, arms folded.

  “Go away, Tweetie. This isn’t a place for a kid, and I don’t feel like babysitting.”

  I tilted my head. “Did you just call me Tweetie?” King looked stunned, like I’d caught him in a lie. I pressed. “Why?”

  “Because you’re annoying like a bird.”

  I breathed through my nose, trying to get my emotions under control. “You’re…you’re…” You’re the boy who saved me. You taught me when no one else would. But I didn’t say that. I couldn’t—not when he looked at me like that. “You’re a jerk! You killed my dad.”

  His eyes flared.

  Something replaced the apathy.

  Then all at once it was gone.

  “Yeah, and you’re a little girl who can’t take a hint.”

  He turned to go inside, so I said something—anything to get him to stay. “I hate you.”

  He threw me a look over his shoulder and for an instant I thought he was going to say something.

  He kept walking.

  FLIP

  Tweetie lived on the streets now. Every day she stood outside Patchwork, hoping King would appear. We had that in common. I wanted someone to show up for her, even if I couldn’t.

  And every day I watched Patchwork—watched Tweetie—from the shadows, hidden where trees tangl
ed into the rest of the abandoned Victorians that made up the neighborhood.

  “Jesus.” King jumped, seeing Tweetie on the porch steps. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you to avoid bad influences?”

  “No!” she yelled. “Because I don’t have anyone to teach me.”

  King paused, realizing what he’d said, then yanked her by the wrist. He threw her off the steps like he did almost every day.

  Tweetie stormed past me, face scrunched in anger.

  It was the closest we’d been to one another since the accident.

  I waited until she turned the corner.

  “Well, you look like shit.”

  I turned to find a tattooed, shirtless chest. Pierced nipples, pierced lip, pierced fucking everything—I know, the dude was hardly ever dressed. With long, slick straight hair that chicks went nuts for and a red lip perpetually curved with a wicked hook, he was like the devil, finding humor in the worst places.

  Romeo.

  “Maybe you should come back to Patchwork, yeah? Where are you even sleeping?” I wasn’t, not really. I watched Tweetie sleep under the overpass. Then once she woke up and went to Patchwork, I might catch a few hours on a bench somewhere. How could I sleep comfortably when I’d let my brother rot in jail?

  I shrugged, pushing off the subject.

  “Look who finally showed up.” Daniel spotted me from the porch, taking the steps two at a time to join us beneath the trees. King followed his line of sight, face immediately souring.

  “I’m not giving her any more fucking burgers or fries,” King said when he got to me. “So if that’s why you’re here, go ahead and fuck off.” I had a feeling she was growing tired of the ones I’d been buying for her, anyway.

  Leaves shivered in a cool breeze, our silence speaking volumes. King shouldn’t have been in jail, but someone high enough put him there. At first I thought it was his parents, but they got his sentence reduced. I’d gone to him, told him I’d come clean. If it had been me, I’d have been out with probation.

  He’d told me it wasn’t about me anymore, to focus on my promise. I’d only ever seen that look the night we met. Somehow this was about his girl.