by Phil Earle
Still, she bought it, but only just, because she wasn’t keen on Sinus or any of his family. I think she worried that I’d trip over one of their huge body parts and end up in the hospital.
Turned out my idea was a dud, anyway. The lights in the park were way too dim to penetrate the blackness surrounding the ramp, and without a decent set of floodlights, there was no way I was going to learn. Not without ending up attached to an IV drip.
It started to bother me, to play on my mind more than it should have. I was sketching ramps when I should’ve been embracing trigonometry. Teachers noticed, and threats were made about letters to parents. It was bumming me out.
In the end I turned to my new friends, Dan and Stan, for help.
I saw them at school a lot, stood on the edges of their conversations, laughed when they did, nodded at what they said, but we didn’t really talk much unless we were at the park. Which was fine, you know; they were older. Permission to breathe their air at school was acceptance enough for me.
They laughed when I told them I was nervous about the ramp.
“Dude! Of course you’re scared of it. That’s the whole point. Without the fear there wouldn’t be the buzz.” Dan was wide-eyed as he spoke, like he’d slurped a dozen Red Bulls through a straw in thirty seconds.
Stan was equally animated.
“Exactly. If you don’t respect the ramp, it’ll eat you up. There’s nothing to worry about—you’ve got the best teachers in the whole park right here. We’ll show you the ropes.”
I grabbed my board impatiently, pumped up by their words.
“Whoa, whoa, big man,” gasped Dan. “Not now. It’s way too busy in there. Sunday morning. It’ll be quieter, less crazy. Less chance of maiming yourself.”
And with a nod and another handshake that moved so fast their fingers blurred, they launched themselves onto their boards, leaving me to count down the seconds to Sunday.
Sunday finally arrived. It wheezed toward me asthmatically, refusing point-blank to take a hit on its inhaler, compounding my paranoia and fraying my nerves still further.
I’d focused on nothing but dropping off the top of the ramp for the first time. It occupied my every thought, awake or asleep.
As I brushed my teeth impatiently on Sunday morning, I stared into the mirror and cringed at the bags that hung beneath my eyes. I knew no one could look more tired than me. Until I saw Mom.
She was slumped at the kitchen table, every inch of her sagging as she clung to a steaming cup of coffee. I asked her if she was okay, but it took three attempts for her to even hear me.
“Hard week at college?” I asked again, wondering if I should try sign language instead.
She tried to smile, but failed. “No, no. Lots of fun. I think I’m getting the hang of it now.”
She wasn’t herself. In fact, she wasn’t my mom at all. Some kind of personality abduction had occurred. I felt like I should check the backyard for signs of a UFO. There had to be some explanation for what was going on.
She looked so different. Like someone had slapped twenty years on her by scrunching up her face like an old piece of paper. She rubbed self-consciously at her cheeks, the wrinkles fading momentarily before creasing again.
It freaked me out, of course it did, because Mom never, ever looked defeated by anything. Defeat wasn’t in her vocabulary.
If anything or anyone had the audacity to challenge her or try to prove her wrong, she’d fight back, nails exposed and voice raised if necessary. She might have been a monumental pain in the nether regions, but at least she had energy and enthusiasm. She wouldn’t have endlessly gone to night school for the past eight years without it.
So what had happened? I had to ask.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Mom?”
She managed to raise her eyes to mine, and they twinkled with affection for a nanosecond before fizzling out.
“That’s very nice of you to ask, Charlie. And I am. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you go back to bed, then? I’ll bring your cup up for you if you like?”
I felt bad suggesting it, and there was no way she’d accept, but it’d be easier to sneak out if she was back under her comforter. Easier on my guilt levels too, if I didn’t have to lie to get out the door.
“Maybe I will. Another half an hour wouldn’t do any harm, right?”
“Absolutely.” I nodded, though her answer made me want to probe further, dig into what on earth was going on.
We sat in silence for a minute. She looked like she might drown in her coffee cup if I abandoned her.
“Go on, then,” I whispered encouragingly in her ear. “Get yourself back to bed.”
I ushered her to the stairs, passing the cup into her hands as she climbed.
“I’m going out for a bit now. Be back for lunch.”
I braced myself for the inevitable question Where to? but it didn’t come. Instead, she simply said, “Okay,” and closed the bedroom door behind her.
I frowned. It shouldn’t have been so easy. There were no questions, no curfew, not even a searching look into my guilt-ridden eyes.
Puzzled, I considered abandoning all plans, until anticipation started to bite again at my gut.
Shaking all other thoughts out of my head, I pulled on my sneakers without unlacing them and eased the front door shut.
As I hit the street, I glanced backward once, to Mom’s bedroom window, my heart leaping when I saw her figure filling the pane.
Is she on to me after all? Lulling me into a false sense of security?
I studied her gaze, my heart settling when I realized she was staring absently into space. She looked so sad that I considered turning back. Fortunately, she shuffled away from the window and my guilt went with her.
Enough of all this. I had to get to the ramp quickly, before I changed my mind.
Dan and Stan were waiting for me, legs dangling from the top of the ramp as they chugged on cans of Red Bull. If bravery was an ingredient, then I’d buy a can or two myself because the park wasn’t quiet at all—it was packed.
There were already a dozen kids zipping up and down the half-pipe and at least the same number practicing tricks around the pool. I felt sweat collect beneath my hoodie and tease me by sliding the length of my spine.
My two friends didn’t look worried about it, though; they were too excited about seeing me drop in for the first time.
“Savor this day,” said Stan dreamily.
“Everyone remembers their first time,” agreed Dan. “No matter what happens.”
I couldn’t quite share their excitement; my guts were threatening to empty themselves at any moment. I made a note of the distance from the ramp to the grim, derelict restroom beyond the railings.
My nerve was failing, but I couldn’t let it show. Not now that I’d come this far.
“I think I’ll take a little skate around first. Practice my ollie, get in the zone.”
“Do it,” they agreed, watching as I zipped around the old kiddie pool area, confidence spreading through me as I managed the dips and rises that had been my playground, but not a patch on the monster that was the ramp.
Slowly, the fear started to settle. As my momentum built and the board hugged my soles obediently, I reminded myself that I actually had some skills, so why shouldn’t I give the ramp a whirl? If falling was the worst thing that could happen, well, I’d done that a hundred times already and was still here. Still walking.
Yep, this was it. It was time.
Dan and Stan clapped their hands as we stood at the top of the half-pipe, looking down into the well before the ramp climbed again.
“This is it, little man. Life’ll never be the same again,” Dan said with a grin.
“And, remember, don’t try and pull any tricks,” Stan added. “The aim of the game is staying on and feeling the buzz. Get those knees flexed, use your arms to balance…and have fun.”
I stood there, beyond fear or excitement. E
very emotion possible swirled and whacked against my ribs. Nervously, I hooked the front of the board over the edge, foot on the tail, keeping me upright. My eyes focused on the ramp, I waited for a lull….
It came seconds later, a clear path parting: it was now or never. Clumsy death or graceful glory.
I applied pressure to the nose of the board, leaning forward with every bit of commitment I had. The ground fell away quickly, too quickly, and my panic levels grappled with the clouds above. I was falling, and in a panic pushed my weight even farther forward, feeling my guts lurch as the wall grabbed my wheels and propelled me on. Before I knew it I was climbing for the first time, wheels racing, a strange, excited, terrified howl blasting from my lips. I didn’t know if anyone else heard, and I didn’t care.
I was doing it. Having fun. Flying. Forgetting every gibe, every loose elbow, every walk of shame I’d ever been subjected to. None of that mattered if I had this. None of it.
I remembered the bags of Dad’s food that had balanced me for hours on end, felt the dull echo of every bruise I’d subjected my body to in practice.
Focus, I said to myself. Concentrate, balance, concentrate. Don’t mess it up, not now.
I thought of Mom too, of the guilt I’d carried around about hiding this from her. How I could get rid of it all now.
Come clean and show her. Show her she could be proud instead of afraid. I could do this. Look at me!
Every turn became more important than the one before.
Every bit of pressure I put on the board’s tail to rotate was measured, precise, anything but clumsy.
At that moment, I wished I had a camera, something to preserve the moment when I was crowned king of the world.
And, as it turned out, someone was filming it—not for posterity or glory, but to magnify my ultimate embarrassment.
As I dropped into the bowl for the umpteenth time, I saw something below me.
Someone that didn’t belong there.
It wasn’t another skater: there was no regulation hoodie or baggy jeans on show.
And there definitely wasn’t a board under their feet.
There was just my mom.
With her hands on her hips and a face like thunder.
My heart stopped and the board thundered on, but not for long. The writing was on the wall, and it consisted of two simple words: GAME OVER.
I didn’t dare open my eyes.
Not because I was scared I’d broken something.
No, the fear came from the last thing I saw before the board and I went our separate ways.
I didn’t understand where she’d come from or how she’d known—all I knew was that it was definitely Mom towering over me. I could feel the anger radiating from her.
I jumped to my feet quickly, a minuscule part of me hoping that if I played down the fall, she might not see skating as four-wheeled Russian roulette.
One look at Krakatoa erupting from her face, though, told me I was out of luck.
I was about to get a massive bawling out, even by her overpowering standards.
“Charlie Han!” she roared, reducing the whole park to silence in only two words.
“What on EARTH do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, you know, just hanging out…” I ran out of lies before the end of the sentence and changed tack, trying the dutiful-son card. “I didn’t hit you, did I? Before that silly little fall…”
“Dude, you didn’t touch her,” interrupted Stan from over my shoulder. “You did this crazy Eskimo roll to avoid her. Ballsiest move I’ve ever seen. Especially without a helmet.”
Mom shot him a look of death, before upping it to one of extermination as she turned back to me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked her. “You were off to bed. You should be there now. You’re probably ill. Hallucinating and everything…” I was rambling and knew it.
“Oh, I know what I’m seeing. Though, believe me, I wish I were dreaming. I couldn’t sleep. Thought a walk might clear my head. Shows just how wrong you can get things, doesn’t it?”
I could see she was trying to keep a lid on her anger but failing. Veins were popping on her neck. She didn’t look tired anymore.
“So? Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” she hissed.
I felt a crowd start to gather as the others sniffed a family drama at worst, and the sight of blood at best. I half expected to hear a chant of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” swell and engulf us. It didn’t, though. They were clearly as terrified as I was.
“Nothing’s going on. I’m just hanging out. Skateboarding, that’s all it is.”
My best casual voice wasn’t cutting it, sounding strangled enough to summon every dog in the park.
“That’s all?” she yelled, each word getting sharper. “That’s ALL? Are you insane? How long has this been going on, and why on earth didn’t you think to tell me?”
I panicked, not sure what the right answer was. Did I lie and say this was the first time I’d tried it? Or claim ignorance and say I’d lost my memory in the fall?
Which answer wouldn’t lead me to being humiliated in front of the people I was most desperate to impress?
My brain formulated an elaborate, coincidence-laden lie, but at the last second my mouth betrayed me, spitting out the truth in one lame punctuation-free apology.
“AcoupleofmonthsnowIwantedtotellyoubutIthoughtyoudstopmeandIlovedoingthisandImreallygoodatittoojustasktheotherstheylltellyouthesame.”
It sounded ridiculous, like the apologetic whine of a puppy who’d went on the rug before ripping up his master’s sheepskin slippers.
All credibility, all hope, gone. I watched it disappear, so much faster than it had taken to gather.
Mom didn’t care about that, though. She didn’t want to hear what Dan or Stan thought and, anyway, they were too stunned, or terrified, to tell her.
“So you went behind my back instead, huh? You lied to me, for months. And where did this thing come from?” she asked, pointing at my board disdainfully. “Did you steal it?”
For some reason, despite it being my own lies tripping me up, I started to get all indignant.
“Of course I didn’t steal it. I wouldn’t do that, would I?”
“I don’t know what you’re capable of, Charlie. Not anymore.”
“I borrowed it from Bunion.” I saw her roll her eyes in disgust. “But I saved up to add to it, from all the delivery tips I earned.”
This wasn’t what she wanted to hear: it made her feel like my lies were even deeper and premeditated.
“You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you? You and your father. Trying to undermine me, when all I’m trying to do is look after you, keep you safe.”
The kids were crowded even closer now, eyes flicking between us as we spoke, like they were watching a game of verbal tennis. At times I thought I heard gasps as the conversation bounced between us.
“Keep me safe? You don’t let me do anything! I’ve never been bowling, or biking when friends have gone. You wouldn’t even let me go to the movies with Sinus, because you thought I might choke on some popcorn in the dark and no one would notice.”
“That was years a—”
Someone snorted behind me, but stifled it when Mom and I both turned and stared.
“And don’t even mention Dad in all this,” I ranted. “He hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. If he knew, he’d have come straight to you, because he knows what a NIGHTMARE you are!”
She looked ready to explode now, and I felt the crowd take a step back, fearing collateral damage.
“A nightmare, am I? I’ll tell you what a nightmare is. A nightmare would be you falling off that death trap and knocking yourself into the middle of next week. A nightmare would be sitting by your bed waiting for you to wake up, because you weren’t brave enough to tell us what you were doing.”
She didn’t pause for breath; it was like she had gills.
“But I’ll tell you what, young man, you might think I
don’t let you do anything—”
“Well, you don’t. All you do is wrap me up in cotton!”
“Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet. I’ll wrap you in so much cotton that you won’t be able to move!”
And with one shove, she moved me toward the crowd, which parted silently, all eyes staring at the two of us.
I dropped my head, feeling the ultimate shame when she ripped the skateboard out of my arms and carried it herself.
The silence was overpowering, broken only by the hammering of my own heart.
We walked another thirty feet before the quiet was broken.
Broken by an avalanche of laughter from the ramp, which thundered toward us, covering me in seconds.
I’d gone from hero to zero in one minute. My humiliation was complete.
Prison life was tough.
Imagine Alcatraz with higher walls or Shawshank with louder guards.
Mom laid down the law as soon as we got home, giving poor Dad as big a shellacking as me, despite it all being news to him.
He tried to escape back to the kitchen on several occasions, only to be blocked by Mom as she prowled in front of us.
I was expecting her to turn our pockets out on the counter or delouse us before we were allowed near the kitchen.
It might sound like I’m making light of it, and I suppose I am. It felt important to find humor in the darkest moment of my already cloud-covered existence.
So we stood there for another fifteen minutes, Dad thanking his lucky stars the takeout wasn’t open yet.
Taking a battering in front of your regular customers would’ve been an indignity too far.
Finally, as tears threatened to overtake anger, and having grounded me for what felt like the rest of my life, Mom stormed upstairs, leaving me to wait for Dad’s reaction.
He still had a cleaver in his hand.
Despite how well I knew both him and his placid personality, I couldn’t help but feel slightly nervous.
He wasn’t livid like her, though—more surprised and disappointed, which in some way felt worse. He stood there shaking his head as I told him again where she’d found me.
