Skateboard Tough

by Matt Christopher

  The trouble was, the blacktop pavement was almost fully occupied, too.

  Isn’t anybody with any kind of authority in this town ever going to consider kids like me who enjoy skateboarding? Brett thought. Couldn’t they turn one small corner of the park into a skateboarding arena where skateboarders could skate to their hearts’ content and not worry about running into someone? What could be so hard about that?

  Nothing, Brett thought. It just takes someone with interest and initiative, that’s all. Someone to take the bull by the horns.

  But who is in a position to do that? Maybe an owner of one of the sporting goods stores in town, Brett reflected. Why haven’t any of them come up with the idea?

  The more he thought about it the more disgusted he became.

  Finally, he saw a vacant space on the pavement not twenty feet away, right next to a concrete drain lined with a curving concrete wall. His troubled thoughts melted away. What a perfect spot for some neat tricks!

  He raced to the vacant spot, wheelied to a stop, then leaped into the drain and landed with his front foot over the back wheel. He glided up the curve toward the pavement side, then zipped down into the depths of the drain and up the curved wall, his eyes on the nose of his board.

  He raced to the top of the wall, lifted the tail and sailed along the coping, his knees bent, his hands stretched out to catch himself should he lose his balance and fall. But he didn’t lose his balance. He didn’t fall. He was performing like a veteran. His heart pounded. He had never felt so good. He had just performed a trick he had never performed before in his life.

  He heard a cheer, and someone clapped. I guess someone else is enjoying this too, Brett thought with pride.

  He skated about fifteen feet along the coping, then shifted direction down the wall, putting the rear wheels of his skateboard down, and glided toward the bottom of the drain.

  He whisked up on the other side, spinning near the top as he did so, and landed on the pavement with perfect ease.

  He heard more applause, and a voice cried, “Geez, man! You’re something, you know that? That was a Fastplant One-eighty Ollie!”

  Brett grinned. He’d recognize that high-pitched voice anywhere.

  “Hi, W.E.,” he said, seeing the human Walking Encyclopedia sitting at a picnic bench under an old, gnarled oak. “How long you been there?”

  “Long enough to see you perform those fantastic tricks,” W.E. said, rising from the bench. His eyes lowered to Brett’s skateboard and he shook his head. “You’ve really improved since you found that board.”

  “Thanks,” Brett said, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm. Those tricky performances had sped up his circulation and made him hot.

  “Doesn’t it make you wonder? At least a little bit?” W.E. asked.

  “Wonder? About what?”

  “About how you’ve been able to perform such difficult tricks,” W.E. replied. “Tricks you’d never even known about before.”

  “I must’ve seen them done somewhere,” Brett said, feeling as though he had to justify himself. “Maybe I saw pictures in a magazine. Or some kid doing them on TV.”

  W.E. smiled. “Think so?”

  Brett shrugged. “How else could I have been able to do them?”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” W.E. said. “Ah …” He cleared his throat. “Have you really wondered about it, Brett?”

  “About what?”

  “The skateboard.”

  “Wonder about it? Why should I? It fits me perfectly, and I can skate on it better than I can on my other one. That’s all I’m interested in, man.”

  “You don’t think The Lizard has anything to do with … well, your skating? And with that worker almost getting killed?”

  Brett stared at him. “What are you talking about? That worker didn’t almost get killed. He just sprained an ankle. And how could The Lizard have anything to do with that?“

  You’ve lost your marbles, W.E., he wanted to add.

  “Okay. But you just think about it sometime,” W.E. said.

  This time Brett did say it. “You’ve lost your marbles, W.E., you know that? You’ve really lost ‘em.”

  Spinning around, Brett skated back into the drain and performed another 360-degree pivot. Remembering the maneuver W.E. had called the Nose Grind, he skated up the side of the wall, reached the coping, and turned up the tail of the skateboard just as another voice cut into his actions. “Okay, kid! Off that wall and git! This is no skate-boarding arena!”

  The voice of authority. Brett didn’t have to look up to see who had ordered him off the premises. He leveled off the skateboard, zoomed down the wall, leaped onto the pavement, and wheelied to a stop in front of the park ranger. Brett nodded at the tall, broad-shouldered official wearing a brown uniform. Then he picked up his board and headed up the pavement toward home.

  Remorse replaced his former enthusiasm. Here we go again, he thought. He’d been careful. Sure, he’d come close to running into that woman this morning, but he hadn’t after all. And she could have done her share, too, by watching out for herself and her kid.

  Anyway, that was the only time he had almost run into anybody. And he was going to make doubly sure it wouldn’t happen again.

  But look what happened. Along comes this big-shot park ranger and tells him to “git.” As though he were a stray dog.

  Once again he wished he could do something to convince people that kids like him needed a place to skate. An arena. But what could he do? Go to the town council? They’d laugh at him. There wasn’t anything …

  Then again, there was one thing he could do … write a letter to the editor of the Springton Herald! That might get somebody to start thinking.

  Vowing to give it a try, Brett got back on his skateboard and headed toward home. He suddenly felt energized, and he couldn’t wait to get his thoughts down on paper.

  As Brett wheeled past Mrs. Weatherspoon’s house, he noticed that she wasn’t in her usual spot. Guess she finally got tired of staring into space, he thought, relieved that he didn’t have to feel her ugly glare on him.

  Brett’s mother greeted him with an ugly glare of her own as soon as he walked in the door. Just looking at her flushed, unhappy face made him wish he had stayed out longer. Now what was wrong?

  “I was wondering when you were coming home, young man,” she said angrily. “I got a call from a woman up the street.”

  “Mrs. Weatherspoon?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me her name. But she said that you and another boy were skateboarding in front of her house and that you almost ran into a dog with your skateboard.”

  It had to he that nosy old Mrs. Weatherspoon, Brett thought. That explained why she wasn’t on her front porch — she was inside, phoning his mom.

  “Look, Brett.” His mother lifted a finger and shook it in front of his nose as if it were a weapon. “I’m not going to stand for any trouble from you because of your skateboarding. It seems to me that ever since that skateboard was dug up you haven’t been off it for more than a minute. This is my last warning to you. One more incident like this — just one more, mind you — and that skateboard goes to the junkyard. Period!”

  6

  For the next two days Brett didn’t look at The Lizard even once, let alone skate on it. He was afraid that he might do something accidentally to give his mother an excuse to cart The Lizard to the junkyard.

  One thing he couldn’t get off his mind was Mrs. Weatherspoon. He knew she had squealed on him. But why? What had he ever done to her? She’s just an old busybody, he thought angrily.

  Since he wasn’t out skateboarding, Brett had plenty of time to compose his letter to the editor of the Herald. As his family watched the evening news, Brett looked at the TV screen without seeing it. He was deep in thought.

  “Well, no comment?”

  He glanced at his father. “Sorry, Dad. What …?”

  “Didn’t you hear that? Your Blue Jays just blew another one.�
��

  “Oh, they did?”

  “That’s what the man said. Weren’t you listening?”

  Brett shrugged, and shifted his position slightly on the lounge chair. “I guess I wasn’t,” he admitted.

  “What have you got on your mind?” his father asked. “Let me guess. That skateboard. The Lizard.”

  Brett shrugged again. “Partly,” he answered.

  “Partly?”

  “I’ve been thinking about writing a letter to the newspaper,” he said.

  “Oh? About what?”

  “About somebody building a skateboarding rink in town.”

  “A skateboarding rink?” his father echoed. “Hey! I think that’s a terrific idea! Why not?” His voice quickly dropped. “But I doubt it’ll work.”

  “You don’t think I should write a letter?” Brett asked, disappointed.

  “They might not even print it,” his father said. “This town seems to frown on skateboarding.”

  “But that’s because we skateboarders have no special place,” Brett said, giving voice to all the arguments brewing in his head. “If we had a place to skateboard, we’d be off the streets. We wouldn’t be a danger to other people, even though I don’t think we’re any more of a danger than kids who ride bikes, or motorbikes, or roller skates.”

  “I agree with your father,” his mother cut in from her chair near the picture window. “It could be a waste of time.”

  Thanks, Mom, he wanted to say. I knew you’d he with me all the way. How she had consented to let his father buy him his first skateboard he’d never know. He must have caught her at a weak moment.

  “Go for it, Brett,” Shannon said. “If you don’t, you’ll never know.”

  She shot a glance at her mother right after she said that, as if she expected her mother to make some kind of harsh remark. But Mrs. Thyson just pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the TV set.

  “I second that,” Mr. Thyson said. “It’s worth a shot. And we’re proud of you for thinking of it, right, hon?” He looked at his wife, who acted as though she hadn’t heard him.

  Brett smiled, and got up. He excused himself and headed for his bedroom, eager to get going on the letter. He couldn’t wait to tell the whole town — including his mother — that skateboarders could be responsible.

  He cleared off a space on his small desk, got a pen and paper, thought for a bit, then began to write:

  Dear Editor,

  I’m one of the many kids in Springton who enjoy skateboarding, but there’s no place for us to skateboard except on the sidewalks. And nobody wants us to skateboard on them. They say we’re dangerous and cause a lot of trouble. So what can we do? Nothing!

  But we’re not going to do just nothing. We’re going to keep skateboarding. Skateboarding has become a national sport. It’s even become an international one. A lot of cities and towns have built special rinks for skateboarders. Why can’t Springton do the same for its kids? If they did, then we would stay off the sidewalks. We wouldn’t be a menace, like some people say we are. And we’d be happy.

  I hope that you will print this letter, and that it will get somebody to thinking about building us a rink. There are fields for baseball, football, and soccer. But there’s not a single place for skateboarding.

  I hope that whoever reads this letter will think about that.

  Sincerely yours,

  Brett Thyson

  He read the letter over and felt satisfied with it. Then he wrote the newspaper’s address on an envelope, put on a stamp, and went downstairs.

  “It’s finished,” he told his parents.

  “I guess you don’t want us to read it,” his father said.

  “It’s not much,” Brett said with a shrug. “Anyway, if it’s printed, you can read it then.” He headed for the door. “I’m going to mail it now.” Before his mother could say anything, he added, “I’m going on my bike.”

  There, Mom. Satisfied?

  He stuck the letter inside his jacket pocket, opened the garage door, and got his bike. The Lizard was there on the bench, and he gave it a passing glance, as if he felt guilty for taking the bike instead of the skateboard. “Maybe tomorrow, Liz,” he said half aloud.

  It was fourteen blocks to the post office. He took his time riding there, staying as close to the right-side curb as possible, swinging out into the street only when there was a parked car in front of him. He passed the tennis courts, and noticed the crowd, the cars in the parking lot.

  See what I mean, Mr. Editor? he thought. Even tennis players have their place; we should have ours.

  He finally arrived at the post office, a sprawling brick building with half a dozen steps leading up to the double doors. He went in and dropped the letter into the slot marked STAMPED LETTERS.

  There, he told himself proudly, I’ve done it. I’ve written and mailed the letter. Now I can only wait and see if it’ll be printed and if anybody will do anything about it.

  He rode back the same way he had come, so he could stop and watch some of the tennis matches. His mother and father used to play tennis, he remembered, then quit because his mother started to get bothered by arthritis. Brett had played some tennis himself before he got into skateboarding. Once he switched, he was hooked.

  He watched for a while, then got back on his bike and headed for home.

  When he reached his block, something caught his attention. Shannon was whizzing around the corner on a skateboard. He watched in disbelief — and then horror — as she bumped into another kid riding his skateboard just as a blue truck blazed around the corner.

  7

  Shannon!” Brett screamed. “Oh, no!”

  Shannon fell off her board as it hit the other kid’s. The truck nearly hit them both, then swerved at the last minute and continued on, its horn blaring.

  Brett’s heart plunged to the bottom of his feet as he ran over to Shannon. The kid who had collided with her was none other than Kyle Robinson. Figures, Brett thought. where there’s trouble, there’s kyle. Brett noticed that Kyle hadn’t even lost his balance during the incident, and now he just stood there, looking helplessly at Shannon.

  Brett raced up to her side, laid his bike on the curb, and knelt down beside her. “Shannon! You hurt?”

  “No, I’m … I’m all right,” she said, gingerly lifting herself to her feet.

  “She ran into me,” Kyle broke in before Brett could say anything. “She was coming around the corner. I saw her, but not in time. And that truck …”

  Brett glanced down the street in the direction Kyle was pointing, but the truck was already out of sight.

  Once Brett realized that Shannon wasn’t hurt, he took a closer look at the board she had been riding. The Lizard! “Who told you you could borrow The Lizard?” he yelled at Shannon. “Nobody borrows The Lizard! Do you understand that? Nobody!”

  She shrank back from him as if afraid he was going to strike her. And he felt like striking her, too. She had no business …

  From the corner of his eye he saw Kyle skate off down the street, glancing nervously over his shoulder. Chicken, Brett thought.

  “I’m sorry,” Shannon apologized. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Well, I do mind,” Brett said. “I don’t want anybody to ride The Lizard but me! Understand?”

  He picked up the bike. “Here. You take the bike,” he said. “I’ll take The Lizard.”

  She looked so apologetic that Brett almost felt sorry for her. But he couldn’t let her know that. He wanted to make sure she would never borrow The Lizard again.

  She took the bike and got on it.

  Then her eyes darted past his shoulders, and at the same time Brett heard someone behind him.

  He whirled, and saw Johnee and W.E. running toward them.

  “You okay, Shan?” Johnee asked.

  “I’m fine,” Shannon said.

  “We saw the accident,” W.E. said.

  Brett frowned. “So?”

  “Shannon ran into
Kyle, but it wasn’t her fault,” W.E. said.

  “Look,” Brett said, “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I’m going to say it anyway, Brett, because it’s true. It’s the skateboard. It’s The Lizard.”

  “No, it isn’t! You’re crazy! The Lizard has nothing to do with it!”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Shannon asked.

  “Oh,” Brett said impatiently, “W.E. seems to think that this board is haunted.”

  Brett expected his sister to laugh at the idea, but she just stared at the board as though it were the first time she had ever laid eyes on it.

  “You don’t believe him, do you, Johnee?” Brett cried, anger reddening his cheeks and neck. “You don’t believe that crock, do you?”

  Johnee met his eyes, but he said nothing. He seemed puzzled, uncertain.

  “Okay! Okay!” Brett yelled hotly, skating away. “The heck with you guys! Believe what you want! It’s not The Lizard! That’s dumb! Dumb! Come on, Shan! Let’s get out of here!”

  He headed for home on The Lizard and Shannon followed him on the bike.

  I can’t believe those guys, Brett thought bitterly. Especially W.E., spreading crazy stories about me. Why can’t he just face facts? The Lizard isn’t hexed, it’s just a fantastic board. After all, it did belong to a champion …

  The thought of Lance Hawker — and how he died — sent chills up Brett’s spine despite himself. What if the same thing had happened to Shannon?

  As if she read his mind, Shannon said, “Shall we tell Mom about the accident?”

  “No,” Brett said quickly. She was the last person he wanted to tell. She’d throw The Lizard out for sure. “It would just worry her. Mom’s got enough worries to keep her busy for a month.”

  Shannon nodded knowingly. “But what if she asks me about my knees? You’ve got to be blind not to see those scratches.”

  “Just tell her you slipped on a banana peel,” he said, laughing.

  “Oh, sure,” she said.

  Brett stopped laughing when he remembered how mad he was about her taking The Lizard without permission.