by Claire Adams
“Dad, this is Mia,” Ian says. “She’s my partner for our final project in psychology.”
“Charmed,” Ian’s dad says, giving me the briefest of glances before looking back at his son. “If you could grab the stuff from the trunk and the back seat, I’d really appreciate it—and go around the back so you don’t get blood all over my carpet,” Mr. Zavala says to Ian, all but shooing him out of the house. As soon as Ian’s out the door, his dad turns to me and asks, “The two of you are working on some kind of project, huh?”
All I can get out is the “Y—” before Mr. Zavala is talking again.
“I’m not stupid,” he says. “I know the kind of people Ian likes to hang out with and you’d fit right in.”
I’m not sure why he seems to be mad at me.
“We were assigned as partners for—” I start again, but am again, interrupted.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Zavala says. “You and Ian were assigned as partners for your psychology class, and yet there doesn’t seem to be any sign of books or notes. What kind of a project is it: human sexuality?”
“That’s not what—” I start.
“It doesn’t really matter whether the two of you are actually working on a project for school or not,” Mr. Zavala interrupts. “What matters is that people like you are sucking my son into that ridiculous life of skateboarding and you need to stay away from him. He’s a bright kid with a bright future as long as he gives up the stupider hobbies of his past, and I’m not going to have some barely legal Jezebel coming in here and helping Ian destroy his future.”
I wasn’t expecting that.
The guy came off as a jerk the moment I laid eyes on him, but I wasn’t actually expecting him to talk to me like that.
Mr. Zavala seems frustrated by my silence just as much as he did by my voice, and he shakes his head, saying, “I’ll never understand what it is about people like you and him that makes you think that you can just go through life like it’s some kind of a big game.”
“I don’t think it’s a game at all,” I tell him. “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, but—”
“We can stand here going back and forth until the cows come home,” Mr. Zavala interrupts. “I think you’ll find that you’ll get the same result and save a lot of time if you just go.”
What is this guy’s problem? Yeah, I look like a punk/skater chick because, well, I am a punk/skater chick, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have goals or priorities. It certainly doesn’t mean that I’m out to stop his son from being successful.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can give voice to breath, Mr. Zavala says, “One of these days, Ian’s going to grow up, and if he doesn’t get his act together, he’s going to be pretty disappointed at what he finds around him. I’m sure you’re a nice girl, but he’s not for you, so I think it’s best if you just go.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m shocked and hurt as much as I am angry and offended, and there are no words I can conjure to adequately respond in any other way than by simply doing what he told me to do and walking out the front door.
Behind me, I can hear the sliding door open and Ian’s calling after me, asking where I’m going, but I don’t stop. I just shut the door behind me.
Chapter Eight
The Silver Tongue
Ian
It’s been about a week since Mia up and left my house without a word and I haven’t yet been able to pry an explanation out of her.
At least I’m in the one place where she can’t ignore me entirely.
Class starts and I’m writing in my notebook, still trying to figure out some way to get Mia and me back to where we were before my loudmouthed father had to crash the party. I tear the page out, fold it once, twice, and I use it to tap Mia on the shoulder.
She turns her head and sees the paper. Rolling her eyes, she whispers, “Really?”
I nod.
She sighs and takes the note, unfolding it.
I wrote, “We should get together again, soon.”
The professor’s discussing something that would probably make a lot more sense if I had paid attention at the beginning, so I just give up and tune out entirely.
I still haven’t been able to get past my vert problem and I’m starting to lose hope.
It’s the stupidest thing, having the sponsorship hang on how good you do in three different categories. Not everyone does vert. Not everyone does street. The best trick competition seems fair enough, as everyone does that shit with their friends for fun anyway, but I never wanted to be a vert skater.
This is bullshit.
Sadly, none of those arguments have changed anything yet.
Mia passes me back the folded piece of paper and I open it up.
She wrote, “You mean for our project? We should probably get going on those interviews.”
I don’t know if she can hear me scoff, but if I had to guess…
I write, “I don’t mean for the project. We should hang out, get to know each other. You look like you could use some fun.”
She turns before I can tap her on the shoulder and takes the note.
I can actually see the skin of her neck turn red as she reads the note, and I can’t remember hearing someone write so loudly. I didn’t even know it was possible for someone to write loudly.
About 15 seconds later, she’s holding the note behind her head before dropping it on my desk.
I have to cover my mouth as I chuckle at how easily I can irritate her.
Her new addition to the passed note reads, “I just love how you assume I never have any fun, like I’m some sort of spinster freak who’s afraid of a good time.”
This is too easy.
I write, “So you’re up for a night out, then?” and pass it up to her.
After a hasty rustling of paper, Mia groans loudly enough for the professor to stop mid-sentence to look at her.
“Sorry,” Mia says. “Just clearing my throat.”
The professor goes on talking whatever voodoo she’s talking, and Mia hunches forward to respond.
She’s so much fun to torment.
Mia tosses the note over her shoulder, now crumbled into a ball, and it bounces off my desk before going off onto the floor.
I lean over, pick it up, open it, and read it.
She just wrote, “Does this approach ever work?”
I smile and write, “You tell me. There’s a skate exhibition tonight. Nothing big, just some kids whose parents are particularly proud of them. They’re not great or anything, but it might be fun to watch.”
I pass it forward.
“Ian?” the professor says as soon as the note has left my hand, and I’m having a flashback to third grade English class when I used to pass notes to my friend Bobby—he goes by Rob now.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“What do you think we can make of the placebo effect?” she asks.
I love it when professors try a gotcha question when you’re not paying attention, but then don’t bother making it difficult. It’s so great watching that smug superiority drain out of them and then feel it entering me.
“I think we can make of it that the mind is a powerful thing and that when it comes time to test a drug, much less treat a patient, it’s important to take all aspects of that patient, including that power of their mind to heal itself when it believes it’s being healed, into account,” I answer.
“What does it tell you about the nature of the mind, though?” she asks.
“I’m not quite sure what you’re asking,” I return, but before she can clarify, I make a guess. “If you’re asking what it means that the mind can be fooled through nothing but its own perceptions regarding medicine and the authority of doctors, I’d say it means that the mind is easily manipulated. When a person wants to believe something, they’ll construct their entire reality around making that belief a reality. The problem comes when that belief and objective reality don’t coincide and a person is either unable or unwilling
to recognize it. That’s when people become delusional.”
“So you think that the placebo effect is just a delusion?” the professor asks.
“Of course it is,” I answer. “Patients believe they’re taking medicine, given to them by a doctor in order to cure or at least treat a condition they have. That belief can go a long way. The problem with a delusion is that it never goes all the way, though. If it did, anyone who experienced the placebo effect, assuming nothing shatters the illusion for them, would be cured of whatever was wrong with them.”
“So you’re saying that the body knows how to fight illness, even mental illness, it’s just—I don’t know, lazy?” the professor asks.
In front of me, Mia tears up the note we’d been passing and she starts writing on another paper. If my posture was better, I might even be able to see over her shoulder enough to read it.
“No,” I answer. “I’m saying that delusion isn’t a cure. A person isn’t actually getting better, their symptoms merely improve for a little while as the belief holds out. Eventually, though, even if the delusion isn’t shattered, their body will return to its natural state, and if it’s not being treated by a treatment that actually works, they’re going to go back to where they were before the event and just continue to degrade.”
“I think Mr. Zavala brings up an interesting point…” the teacher says, and I can finally ignore her again. While she’s waxing poetic on something I said or something she inferred from what I said, Mia passes me back a new folded piece of paper.
I open it up and read, “When and where?”
Sometimes, actually coming off as if you know something can be a positive thing.
* * *
I ride down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of pedestrians as I go.
I’d suggested that I pick Mia up—with a real car and everything—but she insisted that we meet up at the exhibition.
The First Annual Peewee Skating Demo is the result of a few parents who were bugged relentlessly by their 6 or 7-year-olds to build them some kind of ramp. The demo itself isn’t so much a testament to the skill of the kids on their boards as it is an exhibition of the fathers’ various works of wooden art.
It’s always kind of bothered me when people tag the word “peewee” onto a kid’s sport. I just remember playing soccer when I was in first or second grade and never wanting to tell anyone about it for fear that word would come up at some point.
I get off my board about a block away from where they’re setting everything up and I look around the crowd for Mia.
Something small and blunt goes half an inch between my ribs and I pull back, spinning around.
Mia waves, saying, “Hey, so what is this exactly? I didn’t know there was anything going on tonight.”
I rub my side and I’m almost angry until I get a good look at her.
She’s dressed the same as always: skater garb with that same pair of Converse that she always wears, but something about her is different.
“You look happy,” I say.
She furrows her brow, as that wasn’t really a solid answer to her question, saying, “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You look good,” I tell her.
She looks down at what I’m pretty sure are the same clothes she had on earlier, saying, “Thanks.”
“So,” I say and we start walking together toward the growing crowd, “what did it?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“What changed your mind about coming out with me tonight?” I ask.
“I never said I wasn’t going to,” she answers.
“Yeah, but you’ve been avoiding me, and before you wrote that new note, you didn’t seem too thrilled to be near me at all,” I tell her.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I was going to say no.”
“Why didn’t you?” I persist.
She rubs the back of her neck, avoiding my gaze, and says, “I guess I thought it couldn’t do much harm.”
“Why would it do any harm?” I ask.
“Let’s just forget about it,” she says. “I’m here. Now, who’s skating tonight?”
“Kids,” I tell her. “I think there are four or five of them and they’re all under 10.”
We get a little closer to where they’ve set up on the blocked off portion of the street, and it’s just what I’d envisioned: a couple of plywood kickers, one actually decent quarter-pipe, and what I can only assume are objects to be avoided.
“Where’d you hear about this?” she asks.
“Tonya’s kid’s skating today,” I tell her. “She knows I skate and she wanted to know if I’d like to come and show my support.”
“Stop doing that,” she says.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Forget it.”
“What?” I ask again. “Is something bothering you? You’ve been avoiding me since that night at my house and now you’re acting all weird.”
“It’s nothing,” she says. “Let’s just watch the kids skate.”
We stand there quietly for a little while as a surprisingly large group of people gather to watch these kids tear it up on what are, for the most part, the sketchiest jumps, rails, and pipes I’ve ever seen.
Someone comes out and gives a little introduction, explaining how the whole thing started and what it means to have so many people come out to cheer the kids on and so on and so on.
“It was my dad, wasn’t it?” I ask. “He wouldn’t tell me what you two were talking about, but I know what kind of mood he was in. I hate it when he’s like that.”
“It wasn’t him,” she says. “I just think that it might be best if we only got together to focus on our project from now on.”
“You have me a little confused then,” I tell her, but have to wait for the crowd to stop cheering as the kids come out and start to skate.
“What do you mean?” she asks loudly, still clapping her hands until one of the skaters, a little blond kid with bits of curly hair coming out through the bottom of his helmet goes racing straight into the wrong side of one of the kickers and does a rather impressive, though clearly unintentional, flip, and lands with one leg on the slope of the kicker and the other knee coming up to hit him in the forehead.
I don’t know how nobody expected any injuries tonight.
The kid cries loudly for a minute, but just as his mom comes out to help him off the course, he grabs his board and skates off, his face still almost maroon with embarrassment and wet with tears.
“You said I confused you,” Mia says when the whole scene is over and the mother wanders back off the course, looking back repeatedly at her son, unsure whether she should let him continue or not.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “You told me that you think we should only see each other when it’s regarding our project, and yet here you are.”
“Yeah,” she says distantly.
This isn’t how I saw tonight going. I figured she’d be a little annoyed with me at first, then she’d spit out whatever’s bothering her and we’d move on. So far, she only seems to be concerned with being annoyed.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say, hoping a different approach will do the trick.
“You know,” she says, “a couple of those kids aren’t half bad. That one’s over there doing kick flips and the one wearing the Spider-Man costume just did a nose manual.”
“Why don’t I ever see you on a board?” I ask.
She turns and looks at me, her mouth open a little. “What do you mean?” she asks.
“Well, you’re so into skating, but I’ve never seen you on or even near a board,” I tell her. “Are you just a fangirl or have you actually given it a shot?”
“A fangirl?” she asks. “You think I’m a fangirl?”
“Aren’t you?” I ask.
When all else fails, she seems to respond to negativity pretty consistently.
“I’m not a fangirl of anything,” she says. “I skate. I just don’t like to do it around
people.”
“Neither do I, really,” I tell her. “How do you solve that little problem, though?”
“Oh yeah,” she scoffs. “You have trouble skating around people.”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Haven’t you noticed that I’ve never actually learned how to be comfortable on a board?”
“You’re full of crap,” she says.
“Seriously,” I tell her. “I do a lot better than I used to, but I don’t have a normal or goofy stance. Neither one seems to work for me, so I just keep switching back and forth as I ride. Over time, you know, I got to where it wasn’t a problem, but I’m still not what I would call comfortable on a board.”
“That’s what it is,” she says with a gasp. “I was wondering why you look so different when you’re skating—not dropping in, obviously. I think that’s pretty standard for someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. You never favor one stance or another, and what looks like masterfully contained clumsiness is actually masterfully contained clumsiness.”
“I’m glad I could confirm your theory,” I tell her. “I look clumsy?”
“I don’t know if that’s the right word or not,” she says, “but you always look like you’re right on the verge of losing your balance, but you never do. How do you ride, though? Why’s it taken so long for you to feel comfortable on a board?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It’s just one of those things that never really set in. I think I tried a normal stance at first, but when I found out that Tony Hawk has a goofy stance, I started doing that, but after a couple of weeks, that didn’t seem to work any better for me than the normal stance did. I just kept going back and forth until, finally, I just kind of gave up and rode however I happened to land.”
“Everyone rides how they happen to land,” she says, “but everyone favors one side or another.”
I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s great for the scoring, though. I’m counting on that in the best trick. I’ll do the first two runs normal and the last three goofy. They’ll count one or the other of them as switch and bump up my score a little bit.”
