by Claire Adams
It’s kind of funny that it actually took him so long to switch over from flatland.
Ah, Rodney. If only I was a little older and you weren’t married…
“That is Mike Onomato?” Abs says, and I congratulate myself for converting yet another soul to the glory that is skating. It may take a while for her to actually care about the sport, but at least the seed is planted.
That’s all I’m doing: planting seeds.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says.
“If you’d actually watched those videos I sent you, you’d already know what he looks like,” I tell her.
“I wanted to be surprised,” she answers, her mouth never staying more than half-closed as her eyes move back and forth with her new crush.
I get bored with Abby’s enthrallment—huh—and I’m watching Mike Onomato grinding the top of a quarter-pipe, coming out of it with a 540 shove that landed flawlessly.
I like Mike.
On the flat now, Mike’s only got a couple of seconds, so he throws in a quick varial heelflip underflip like it’s not even a big deal, but just as he’s about to come down, there’s a touch on my shoulder and I instinctively turn, missing the landing.
I only know that Mike Onomato stuck it by the response of the crowd, and I’m looking at a guy I’ve never seen before.
“How are you doing?” he asks, looking Abs in the eye and me noticeably lower than that.
I cross my arms over my chest and turn half away from him.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Hey there,” Abs says.
“Okay, so you’re the nice one then,” the guy says, pointing to Abs.
While Abs is saying, “We’re both nice,” I’m saying, “Neither one of us is the nice one.”
“Yeah, well,” the guy says and claps his hands together. “I’m Ian. You two fans of skating?”
I turn back toward the street course, though I can hear Abby and Ian’s conversation well enough. “You two fans of skating?” Moron.
“I had no idea the women around here were so attractive.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re just saying that.”
“I’m serious.”
“Are you from around here?”
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Kyle Law and Ray Vasquez finish their runs, and I’m getting sick of all the chatter behind me. We’re not here to talk to guys; we’re here to watch the street competition.
I turn around, grab Abs by the arm, and say something about needing a bathroom.
Abs tries to turn, to free herself, but my grip is firm.
“I’m sure we’ll see you later!” Abs calls out.
“What are you doing?” I ask, not breaking pace, my fingers still clamped around Abby’s forearm.
“What?” Abs says. “He was kind of cute.”
“He was annoying,” I tell her, and when we’re finally well out of sight of the street course, I let go of her arm.
“Jeez,” Abs says. “You didn’t have to grab me so tight.”
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I just wanted to get out of there.”
“What’s wrong?” Abs asks. “I know you’re not this out of your head just because some guy came over and talked to us.”
She’s right of course, but I really don’t want to get into it with her right now.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “That’s not going to leave a bruise or anything, is it?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t think so. Can we go back now, or are you actually going to squat down behind one of those trash cans?”
“We can go back,” I tell her, “but I’m really not in the mood for social hour with every guy who starts flirting with us. Can you live with that?”
“Fine,” Abs says. “We’ll go to the other side of the course or whatever and we’ll watch it there.”
“And if someone else walks up?” I ask.
“We blow them off,” Abs says. “Can we go now?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I just really want you to be into this stuff. It’s kind of a big thing for me.”
“I’ve never seen you skate,” Abs says. “I thought it was just a fashion thing.”
“I never said I was some big skater,” I tell her. “There’s just something about it, though. I don’t know. On the one hand, it’s very physical. It requires a lot of strength and stamina, but it’s also subtle, artistic. You can just get lost watching someone skate.”
“You’re kind of talking about it like a spiritual experience,” Abs says.
Well, for me, it is, but I hardly expect her to understand that. She hasn’t even seen a full round.
“Let’s go,” I tell her.
These are the days when I feel like I can almost see myself and grasp who I am, besides the 20-year-old skate freak with the straight black hair and the camo pants who still lives with her father. My life’s not a bad one, I guess, and there’s much for me to be grateful for, but days like this are almost holy to me.
That’s why I don’t want to let anything in that might ruin it.
“You can probably let go of my arm this time,” Abs says, but I’m not listening to her. I’m listening to the announcer, trying to make out what he’s saying through the distance and over the noise of the crowd.
We just missed Mike Onomato’s second run. We also missed about five other skaters, but mostly, we missed Mike.
By the time we’re to the other side of the street course, the cycle’s almost run through again, and the crowd is so thick. We’re already to the final heat of this round.
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter.
“This is only the first round, right?” Abs asks.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“So what’s the big deal?” she asks. “Unless Mike Last-Name-I-Don’t-Remember sucked it up, he’ll be in the next round.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, and look back toward the street course.
I’ve seen most of these guys before, though there are a couple of newcomers. Of all these guys, though, Mike Onomato is the only one who’s ever been called a pro.
Still, as I look up at the big screen showing the current standings, I’m seeing something I hadn’t expected. Someone named Zavala is beating Mike Onomato.
He’s not beating him—he is humiliating him.
There are a total of three rounds whittling down the field, then a semi-final and a final round. In this round, the top two skaters will advance, and Abs is right: Mike’s going through, but unless this Zavala person is some kind of fluke, I don’t know if I like the way this whole thing is about to go.
“What’s wrong?” Abs asks.
“What?” I return.
“Well, you finally let go of my arm for a minute, but now it feels like you’re trying to punish me for something,” she says.
I look down at my hand as its fingers curl tightly into Abby’s arm.
When the visual processes in my brain, I let her go and apologize, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of getting my best friend more interested in what I’m interested in. You’d think that sort of thing would have been a prerequisite for the friendship, but she looked the part.
I know I’m not a teenager anymore, and continuing this friendship that started because Abby, who I often think of as my own portable pop sensibility, used to dress like a skater chick back when it was a more popular look is certainly not the easiest decision to explain, but despite the fact that she doesn’t really care about any of the things that I care about or always act in a way that I feel to be appropriate or listen to me unless I’m waving something flashy in front of her face, she gets me, and that’s enough.
In the future, I think I’ll probably condense that down to the last six words. Most people’s eyes start glazing otherwise.
“That guy’s up,” Abs says.
“What guy?” I ask dumbly, though I’m looking at the same board she is.
The obvious reaction would be excitement, seeing someone with such a clear talent, but I’m not ready to give up on that last teenage hero. I refuse to become jaded, though I’m beginning to lose track of how to go about avoiding that anymore.
Mike’s still an amateur skater. That’s why he’s in this competition. Usually, he’s the one way out front, though.
I think, logically, that even if this guy ends up beating the pants off of Mike, that doesn’t mean the latter’s going to lose his shot at the big time. I just thought I was going to be there to see it happen. That was supposed to be today.
Magazines have been doing articles on Mike and sponsors have been hovering, but for whatever reason, he’s just never had that breakout moment. That was supposed to be today.
I care so much because I’ve been watching Mike Onomato skateboard for a long time now. The competitions have always been a thing for him, but I don’t always have the money to go.
I care so much because Mike’s not one of those guys on the cusp of stardom that’s touring right along with the pros, only divided from his counterparts by an as-yet-unsigned contract with this sponsor or that.
Mike’s from here.
I don’t know who Mike is because he’s always been as good as he is today. Really thinking back, I don’t think I even noticed he’d gotten very good at all until a few months ago. I know who Mike is because he’s been skating at the park near my house as long, if not a little longer, than I’ve been visiting it.
It’s kind of reaffirming to see someone so close, if not personally, then at least in terms of general proximity, having doors like that open; the disappointment of seeing someone else’s name above his right now is only overshadowed by seeing the person himself. It’s Ian, the flirty slacker/moron that decided it was his right to implant himself in my day with my friend.
That’s how it always happens. My dad told me about this particular brand of misery a long time ago. At first, I thought he was just spouting the curmudgeonly conspiracies of his age, but I’m really starting to think he was right. “Every time someone decent and talented is about to get ahead, they’ll be overshadowed or dragged back down by someone with all the inspirational qualities of a cherry pit.”
Dad’s not much of an optimist.
Still, as I’m watching Zavala, I., the I. apparently standing for Ian, I’m having trouble remembering why I’m so upset. For a minute, I even forget that it has something to do with the guy skating on the other side of these barricades.
I didn’t even really bother looking at him before. I just wanted him to go away.
It’s not his general look so much that captivates me, though his sometimes colorful sleeves of tattoos do catch the eye a bit. It’s the way he moves that gets me.
He’s smooth, but precise. There doesn’t seem to be any wasted motion whatsoever, but every movement of his is a flourish. The guy is pulling some insane junk out there. There’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on, but whatever it is, I’ve never seen someone skate like this.
I don’t know how I’ve never heard of him, but he must be some near-pro on his way to a business meeting that’s going to render him permanently ineligible to enter competitions like this one in the future.
He’s riding a manual up to the rail of the funbox, and he doesn’t need to do anything else. He could fall flat on his face and he’d still trounce everyone by at least 20 points.
Before the last few seconds of the round click away, Ian makes what starts as the slightest gesture, and the manual turns into a hardflip late kickflip as the clock runs out and he somehow manages to kiss the rail before his board is back on the incline and he rolls out perfectly.
Mike who?
Chapter Two
Snooze Button
Ian
“…I’m not going to tell you again!” Dad shouts and slams the door.
The only problem is, I was asleep for the first part of the conversation, so that thing that he’s not going to tell me again—he might have to bend that rule a little bit.
I’m not really Dad’s cup of tea anyway. He was decent enough about the way I chose to spend my free time while I was still a teenager, so long as I kept my grades up and went to college after high school graduation.
That’s probably what the old man was yelling about. I’m looking at the clock and I’m running late for my first day of the new semester.
I get out of bed and throw something on. After my first class, I’m free for the next four hours, so why bother getting all nice and pretty for everyone? Not that I’ve ever been accused of being pretty. I think the tats took care of that.
I’m Daddy’s little ray of gloom.
So far, I’ve managed to meet his absolute bare minimum requirements of me, so he can’t kick me out, but I’ve been riding that line for a while now, and I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to put up with it.
Dad’s a rich lawyer, so I’m supposed to be a rich lawyer.
I’m pre-law, sure, but that’s not where my interests lie. That’s just how I’m getting by until I get my shot. I’m not worried about blowing it, either. I just need one shot, and I’m out of here on my own terms and I’ll never have to work a real job a day in my life.
What can I say? I have ambition. I’ve heard that’s a positive thing to most people.
I take a moment to admire the trophy from that street competition a few weeks ago. It was my first time going up against Mike Onomato. Everyone told me he was the guy to beat.
Well…
Dad’s waiting in the entryway, holding out the key to his new Mercedes, but I walk past him, muttering something about the beautiful fall air. I get my hand on the front door knob.
“You’re going to be late,” he says. “It’s your first day. Do you think you could at least try to put forward an effort? Maybe even just pretend for my benefit so I don’t have to sit so close to your continued attempts to implode your future? Is that possible?”
“You’re kind of high-strung, Dad,” I tell him. “Has anyone ever said that to you?”
“You’ve said that to me multiple times a day since you were 14, son,” he says. “Now I don’t care if you drive or ride, but get in the car and leave that—” the jerk grabs the skateboard from out of my hand “—behind. I want you focusing on your classes. You’re coming toward the end of pre-law, and soon you’ll be headed to law school as long as you keep your grades up, so this is the time for you to make your mark and build the—”
I finish the sentence, “—build the foundation for an enjoyable and comfortable future for me and my family. I’ve heard the spiel, Dad. I’m not that late.”
He opens the front door, still holding my skateboard in his other hand.
“You’re not a teenager anymore,” he says. “You’re too old to ride a skateboard to class.”
“I’m a skater, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s kind of what I’m going to be doing for a while.”
“Right now, you’re unemployed and you live at home with me and your mother, so I think we can start taking skateboarding seriously as a career when it starts paying for your school and your housing and your…” he goes on.
This is the most ridiculous thing about my life. I’m an adult, but I’m still under his thumb. I guess I could move in with one of my buddies from the park, but they’re squalor junkies, and it’s all I can do to stand at their doors while they grab their shit.
Maybe I could get a real job, but there’s not a whole lot of hiring going on around here. There’s a waiting list to work at the burger franchises. Maybe if I had some sort of marketable skill other than pushing around a wheeled board for the enjoyment of others it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but for now, I suckle the teat of my father’s wealth.
I usually call it something different.
“I’ll ride in the car,” I tell him, probably interrupting what he was saying, though I honestly couldn’t tell you for sure. “Just give me the board and spare me the sp
eech, will you?”
He turns his head away from me slightly, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. It’s his lawyer stare. Maybe I’m just used to it, but I don’t really remember ever being intimidated by the look. It’s funnier that he thinks he can intimidate someone with a look more than anything.
“Fine,” he says and hands the board back to me. “Where’s your backpack?”
“I’m picking one up,” I tell him. “I haven’t really had time to do much school shopping.”
“You’ve been spending all of your time practicing for that competition,” he says. “You’re going to have to learn that there are things more important than hobbies in life.”
“Wasn’t there an agreement that you’d spare me the lecture?” I ask.
“I’m your father,” he says. “Until you’re doing what I think you should be doing, I’m going to lecture you relentlessly. It’s how we work as parents. Mothers nag, though. Fathers lecture and mothers nag. It’s a little different. I honestly don’t know which is worse.”
This is his attempt to get back into my good graces, the old, “aw, come on there, champ,” routine. It’s almost endearing. The problem is that I’m 21 years old, and I’m a little tired of the, “aw, shucks,” routine.
“So, did you meet any girls this summer?” he asks. “I’m sorry I haven’t really been around all that much. You know I had that big case, and that just led to another one, and, well, you know how it goes sometimes.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “You work hard so that I can blow your money on tattoos and skateboards. I appreciate it.”
All right, so the buddy, buddy routine still works a little bit.
“You can keep those through law school,” he says, “but you’re going to want to have them removed, at least up to the elbow before you go to work with a firm.”
“What if I don’t want to work for a firm, but as a pro-bono lawyer that helps poor people sue rich people?” I ask.
“What’s the point of that?” he asks. “If that’s your rebellion, you’re in for a shock, boy, because you’re going to find out those poor people you make rich are going to end up just like the rich people you made poor. Anyone’s an asshole with enough money in their bank account.”
