by Claire Adams
“We can’t go, we just got here, and we’ve only got twenty minutes before this thing starts,” Mia says. “We’ll be lucky if we can get you to the start area by then, and don’t you have to check in or something?”
“Yeah, but could we just drive around for a little bit?” I ask.
“You’re nervous!” she gasps. “I can’t believe it.”
“You’ve seen me nervous,” I tell her (nervously). “What’s the big deal?”
“Okay, I’ve seen you nervous,” she says, “but this is a whole new level of scaredy cat I wasn’t anticipating.”
“Oh, ha, ha,” I mock. “So, can we get out of here or what?”
“Got your board?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Got your pads or do they give those to you?” she asks. “You know, you really should have let me help you pack.”
“No,” I tell her. “I had to go into my dad’s house, and I didn’t want you to have to deal with that. I didn’t want to deal with that, but I haven’t really been back to pick up any of my stuff.”
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering why you’ve been alternating between the same three or four outfits since you moved in with Rob,” she teases.
“All but one of them are his,” I tell her. “Fuck, now I’m all freaked out because I’m going to have to go back at some point and deal with my dad. You know, for a student of psychology, you’re really not helping here.”
“Hey!” she protests, “who’s the one that finally got you past your mental block on the ramp?”
“I did,” I tell her. “You may have provided the guidance, but I did the work.”
“That’s how psychology is supposed to work!” she exclaims.
“Well, it’s not working now, I can tell you that much,” I mutter and look out the window.
Yeah, we’re really cutting it close. I’m really hoping to have the decision made for me, only when it happens, it doesn’t happen in the way I expect.
“You know,” she says, “I never paid up.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“That day we went to the park and I was trying to convince you to take three more runs,” she says.
“Oh, that’s right,” I answer. “That was the day you told me that you didn’t think we were going to work out. Thanks, now I’m worried about how solid our—”
“Oh, quit your stalling and get out of the car,” she says, taking the keys out of the ignition and getting out, herself.
She shuts the door and now I’m sitting in Mia’s dad’s car by myself.
It’s nice and quiet in here. Things are so much simpler in this car. Maybe I can just stay here until the demo’s over and then I won’t have to trash my future by trying to drop in in front of a couple hundred people today.
If that plan had any wings, though, they’re effectively clipped as Mia makes her way to the outside of my door and pulls on the handle.
She lets go, frustrated.
“Let go of the handle,” she says through the window.
“What?” I mouth. “I can’t hear you.”
I know we’ve gone past the realm of nerves into a near-complete age regression, but I do not want to get out of this car. It has a nice, minty aroma that I find rather soothing. How could anyone be so callous as to want to pull me away from such a thing?
The back passenger’s door opens and Mia grabs the duffel bag containing my pads, two beers, and my victory joint.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m giving away your stuff,” she says. “Apparently, it looks like you’re not going to be using it, so I thought we could make some kid really happy.”
“Yeah, very funny,” I mock, but when she drops the duffel bag on the ground next to her and grabs my board, I try to lunge and grab it.
“Oh, looks like someone’s starting to take me seriously,” she says. “How about you get out of the car and go win this thing?”
“It’s not a competition,” I tell her. “Well, technically it is, but the winner doesn’t get anything but a little plaque and a picture in their advertising for the next year.”
“Sounds pretty sweet,” she says, dangling my board. “Now, are you coming, or am I going to have to walk over there and see if that young man would like some free gear that used to be owned by a former-almost-pro?”
“Fine,” I tell her and I unbuckle my seatbelt. I get out and take the board from her. “Oh, was she mean to you?” I ask my skateboard, cradling it like I’m burping an infant.
“I can’t believe I let you put your thing in me,” she says with a scoff and shuts the back door, locking it with her key fob.
We’re making our way to the front, and I’m hoping Mia can’t hear the guy on the loudspeaker announcing that competitors have only five more minutes to check in for the demo.
“What were you going to say before?” I ask.
“When?”
“You were talking about when we were at the skate park and I didn’t want to—” I start.
“Oh, right,” she says. “I never gave you your reward. I told you I was going to make it worth your while if you tried three more times and, well you did, so I guess I owe you that reward.”
“You weren’t just going to say that and leave it there, though, were you?” I ask. “I mean, why bring it up now if that’s all you were going to say about it?”
“Well,” she says, “I was considering offering you an even bigger reward on top of that one for going through with the exhibition today, but you’ve really been less than easy to work with, so I don’t think I’m going to do that.”
“Oh, come on,” I tell her. “Look, I’m already on my way in.”
“Nope,” she says. “You blew it.”
“At least tell me what you were going to—” I start, but I don’t get a chance to finish.
“Ian?” a familiar voice calls from nearby. “Ian Zavala?”
Oh shit.
I turn to find Nick and Rob walking toward the entrance.
“Oh my god!” Nick says, throwing his hands above his head. “I can’t believe—it is Ian Zavala!”
“Yeah, man,” Rob chimes in, “will you sign my balls?”
“Really great, guys,” I say, glad that I’m now almost certain to be well out of running distance, should Mia realize just how little time I have left to get signed in. “Really, you’re very clever.”
“I’ve got all your magazines. Seriously,” Nick says, “you’re living with Rob now, man. You really need to get your porn out of my hou—oh, hey!” he says, acknowledging Mia’s presence. “I’m Nick, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Nick, Ian’s attractive friend, and you are…?”
“I’m Mia,” Mia answers, extending her arm to shake Nick’s hand.
Exactly how the two of them have never been properly introduced eludes me, but the farther I can keep Nick from Mia, the better. It’s not that I don’t like the guy, I just don’t want either of them exchanging embarrassing stories about me.
I’m really not so worried about Mia. Apart from my vert troubles, of which Rob and Nick are very aware, Mia’s never really seen me do anything to humiliate myself.
Nick, on the other hand…
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be checked in and all that shit already?” Nick asks.
“He’s probably just trying to bitch out of it,” Rob says.
“What exactly does it mean to ‘bitch out’ of something, Rob?” I ask. “What’s the etymology on the phrase?”
“Are we really that close to time?” Mia asks. “I knew my dad didn’t set the clock for the right time.”
He didn’t. I set it ahead ten minutes when I was loading up my gear and she was finishing getting ready to go.
“What time is it?” Mia asks.
Rob looks at his watch while Nick looks at Mia, and I can see the little fucker salivating over the chance he thinks he’s going to get to make me look like an idiot in front of her.
/> “A couple minutes after four,” Rob says. “You’re fucked, bro.”
“Nah,” Nick says, still looking at Mia with that crooked little smile he gets when he’s about to spill something. “I got it.”
“Got what?” I ask, but Nick doesn’t answer. He just pulls out his phone.
“Hey, slut, what’s up?” he asks, and I’m turning to Mia, mouthing an apology.
She waves me off and looks back toward Nick.
“Yeah, I got a buddy who was supposed to get his ass here like an hour ago, but he’s… Yeah, he’s signed up and everything, he just needs to get checked in,” Nick says. “Any chance you could do us a favor?”
“It’s already after four,” I tell Mia. “I’m sorry I took so long in the car like that.”
“Yeah, his name is Ian Zavala,” Nick says. “Z-A—hey Ian,” he says, turning to me, “how do you spell your last name?” Before I can go to answer, though, he presses his phone harder against his ear, saying, “You’ve got it? Awesome, we’re coming through the front now. Just hold the start. You’re the best, mom.”
“That was your mom?” Mia asks.
“Yeah,” Nick says. “When I started getting into boarding, she started looking around for inroads. That’s my mom’s thing, man,” he says. “She may not be an expert at most things, but she can dig her way into any business and, once she’s there, she always gives me the hookup. She’s been an outside investor in this place for years, man. She says the word and shit gets done, you—”
“I think she was asking because you started the conversation with, ‘slut,’” I interrupt to tell him.
“Dude, don’t call my mom a slut,” Nick says, shaking his head and taking one too many steps toward me. “That’s not cool.”
He’s about an inch from my face, and I’m not sure whether he’s serious or not—it’s often difficult to tell with him.
“Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya,” Nick says and pats my cheek. “Now get your ass in there.”
“He hasn’t signed my balls yet,” Rob says.
You know, apart from his willingness to let me crash at his place even after we beat the crap out of each other, I’m really having a difficult time remembering why I’m still friends with Rob.
As much as I’m dreading the vert portion of the demo—why the hell did I even sign up for it?—I don’t think I’m going to be able to stall my way out of this any longer.
“Go,” Mia says. “I’ll see you when you’re done. You’re going to do great.”
“Yeah,” I mutter and get on my board.
I can do this. It’s not such a big deal.
As long as I just keep telling myself that, maybe it’ll become the truth.
Once I’m through the gate, it’s easy enough to see where I need to go and so I skate over to the start area while a woman’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, seeming to thank everyone that had ever made any sort of contribution—financial or otherwise—to the skate park.
That must be Nick’s much-fabled mom.
Even knowing the guy for years, I’ve still never met anyone in his family, though apparently he has a big one.
I get to the start area and a big guy, also with a clipboard, stops me, saying, “I’m sorry, this area’s for skaters only.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, “I’m on the list: Ian Zavala.”
“Check in for skaters ended almost ten minutes ago,” the man says. “Sorry, bud. You missed your chance with this one.”
Well, I tried. Not only that, but Mia tried, too. Even Nick and his mom tried, but oh well. I guess that’s that.
“Wait,” the guy says. “What was the last name?”
“Zavala,” I answer. “I know I’m late. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
“No, man,” he says, stepping out of the way, “I’m sorry. Yeah, Kara told us you’d be coming. Your number’s right here,” he says and lifts the top page of his clip board and producing two squares of paper with the number 2311 on them.
“You just carry that around on your clipboard?” I ask.
“Nah, man,” the guy says. “Kara called on the radio and had someone bring it over. Better get ready, though. They’re about to start and you’re not even in your pads.”
Shit.
As I’m walking past the man with the clipboard, I can hear the beep of his walkie-talkie. “He’s here. You can tell Kara she can stop reading names out of the phone book,” he says.
Nick’s mom is certainly tenacious.
“Please, a big round of applause for all of our friends here at the Richfield Community Skate and Ride!” the voice on the loudspeaker declares. “Are you ready for some skating?” Nick’s mom says to thunderous applause.
I check the board to see the skating order.
My name is crossed out near the top, but it’s scribbled in again at the bottom.
Last.
I love being last.
Nick’s mom’s voice comes over the loudspeaker one more time, declaring, “Here we go!”
The first skater rolls in and we’re getting started.
First, we’re going to do the street demo, then the vert. The scoring, as this is technically not a competition, is a little lazy: Everyone gets three runs, only the highest scoring run counts and whoever’s got the best score “wins.”
It’d probably seem a lot more like winning if I was actually going to get paid for being their poster boy, but I guess getting my face out there isn’t a bad thing.
It is a rather nice face, after all.
My first run comes up and I start off a little easy, taking my time between tricks, only bothering with one gap and basically just trying not to make the other skaters want to kill themselves before they’ve had a chance to take their other two runs.
If I was as confident on vert as I was on a street course, I’d probably already have my own video game series.
I finish my run only five points up on my nearest competitor.
This is too easy.
The next round goes by and I’m actually outscored by a particularly determined guy with vampire teeth affixed in his mouth.
I’ve really got to stop doing the local demos.
When my second run comes up, I do just enough more to put myself back in first place and I wait for everyone to shit their pants on their third run.
I think they know I’m toying with them. This pleases me.
Still, as skater after skater takes their final run, I’m becoming acutely aware that I’m not going to have long to enjoy my runaway victory on the street course because the vert course is about to make everyone forget that I could ever skate.
Vampire kid—who I’m reasonably certain has never even heard the name Peter Steele—has a solid last run and he takes first place.
He’s up by three points.
Now it’s time to turn it on.
This is why I love being last. When you’re first, it’s all business because you don’t know what everyone after you is going to do. There’s always someone who can knock you off the top of the mountain.
Being last, though…
They call my name for my final run and I’m on my board, coming down the roll-in ramp, feeling a mix of complete control and absolute helplessness.
Just push it out of your mind, Ian. You’ve got this.
I start with a varial heelflip, decent enough on its own, but as I land, I bring down my front foot a little sooner than my back foot, sticking the nose manual. Still on my front two wheels, I nollie into a back foot impossible and I can almost feel the blood draining from the faces of my competitors already.
Problem is, my foot comes down on the side of the board and I botch the landing. I’m running out of time and I have nothing to put on the board but a failed combo.
Shit.
I get back on my board and put a little extra into it as I push toward the ledge, a pop shove it into a Smith grind on the ledge and a 180 out.
At least I stuck that one.
I still
have some time, but I’ve got to step it up or I’m going to be out of this thing before I even get to the vert.
Rolling up the halfpipe, I 50-50 the lip, but all I’m really looking for right here is the speed of dropping in, and I get it. Coming up to the fun box, I’m riding switch relative to the rest of my run, and a quick backside 180 into a 5-0 on the rail, and I manage to kick out a double kickflip, revert on the landing and I just might be back in this thing.
The clock says ten seconds now, and the revert hurt my speed coming off the fun box, so I’m pumping as hard as I can up the roll-in and, when I get to the top, time for only one more line, I come back down the roll-in hard.
The sweat is dripping into my eyes and all I can hear is my heartbeat and the sound of the wheels beneath my feet, and I’m crouched as I come up to the kicker.
I catch the clock running down out of the corner of my eye: 6, 5, 4…
One more quick push for that little bit extra I’m going to need and in the air, I’m spinning 180, 360—I finally get comfortable in my mute air—540…
The ground is coming up fast as I pull my free hand into my body, trying to get just that final touch and my wheels come down smooth out of the “switch” (ha!) 720 mute, and I don’t really care if winning doesn’t mean anything, I’m off my board, hands at each side of my mouth and I’m shouting, “Woo!”
I take a look back at the kicker and just start laughing. Coming off my board early in the run may have damaged my score enough that I don’t come in first, but getting a 720 off that kicker is enough of a feather in my cap.
After collecting my board, I climb back up to the starting area and wait for the score.
“What was that?!” Mia shouts, coming up to the barrier between the crowd and the skaters.
I walk over to her, grinning so much my cheeks kind of hurt, and I pull off my helmet.
“When I saw I had ten seconds left, I tried to think of the most crack-headed idea I could think of, and trying to pull a 720 off that two-foot kicker when I absolutely couldn’t afford to screw it up seemed like a pretty stupid option,” I tell her.
“Stupid or not,” she says, pointing up to the board, “it worked.”
I turn around and look up at the board.
Half a point: that’s all that separates me and my closest competitor, but I eked out the first-place spot.
