by Claire Adams
He leaves the room, not bothering to close the door on his way out.
After about a minute has passed and I haven’t heard anything that would indicate he’s still upstairs, I get out from under the covers and grab a loose shirt to hold in front of my more private sections, and I close the door.
The lock clicks back in place, and Mia cautiously peeks out from underneath the covers, mouthing, “Is he gone?”
I walk back over to her, letting the shirt drop as I look for something clean to put on for the day. “He’s still here in the house, but I don’t think he’s upstairs.” I look at the clock. “He should be on his way out of here before too long.”
As if on cue, I can hear the familiar sound of my dad’s car starting, and when the sound of the engine fades into the distance, my blood pressure starts to return to a less alarming level.
“All right,” I tell her. “I guess that’s it. We can get dressed and get out of here.”
“Just a minute,” Mia says. “Come over here for a second. I have a question to ask you.”
“Go ahead and ask,” I tell her. “He’s gone. We can talk as much as we want.”
“Just come here,” she says.
“Okay,” I tell her, though I’m slow to act as I’m taking in the vision of Mia in the light of morning.
She’s still holding the top of the blanket tight against her breast, but the view couldn’t feel more intimate as she looks up at me, her hair out of place and her lips pulled back into a knowing smile.
“Come on,” she says. “Sit down a sec.”
I go to sit, but I’ve no more than hit the bed when Mia makes her move, wrapping her arms around me in a playful half-tackle, and we fall off the bed onto the floor.
“You know,” she says, straddling me, her hands holding my wrists, “your dad’s right: you really need to stop being late to class so often. That said,” she continues and smirks before giving me a quick peck on the lips, “it’s too late to make that change today.”
Now she’s kissing me deeply, even deeper, it seems, than she did last night.
It’s looking like I’m going to miss my first class entirely.
Chapter Eleven
The Slow Crash
Mia
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this excited about, well, anything.
Things between Ian and me may have gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, but I think the course has been corrected. It’s all I can do to wait for my last class to be over.
I’m meeting Ian at the skate park and, come hell or compound fractures, I’m going to help him get comfortable dropping in. Really, it’s about the only thing left I’m finding unattractive about Ian.
I get a text from Abs, asking what I’m up to, but I’m already running behind schedule—my last professor kept us after to talk about the implications of gravity and other forces in the near-void of space. It would have made a little more sense if he was an astronomy professor or a physics professor or basically any science professor, but I guess people in the English department get bored from time to time—so I respond with a quick, “Running late. Talk to you later.”
I’m out in front of the humanities building in time to see the taillights of my bus a couple blocks down.
Great.
Oh well, I still have one idea.
“Sorry about that. Professor’s driving me crazy. What are you up to?” I write Abs.
Maybe it’s not the coolest thing for a friend to use another friend for a ride to go spend some time with a third party who the first friend had sex with last night and twice this morning, especially after that first friend told the second friend that she, the first friend, that is, was in some kind of rush and couldn’t talk, thus blowing off the second friend, but I have to see Ian and I have to see him now.
As far as my brain is concerned, Ian is a drug called oxytocin and he’s pretty much settled in for the foreseeable future.
The phone vibrates in my hand and I pull up the new message. “Not so busy after all, eh?” Abby writes.
“I was running to try to catch my bus,” I write. “I didn’t make it.”
The favor’s implied in the explanation, and I still haven’t settled on an explanation for leaving Abby’s house after she went to sleep, so this should be a pretty entertaining response.
It’s not that I mind walking, but the skate park is nowhere near the university, and I don’t know how long Ian’s got before his nerves start getting the better of him and he decides to back out of vert practice today.
As much as I love skating and skating culture, I’m not an expert when it comes to telling someone how to do anything on a board, much less something like prepping one’s self for a vert competition. That being said, I do have another specialty that might prove to be just as valuable: the human mind.
I know Ian probably thinks he’s something special because he got my head with the condom wrapper thing last night, but when it comes to hardcore psychology, I’ve got the bigger assets.
My phone buzzes. The new text reads, “That blows. Wanna do something?”
I sigh and look around, hoping to spot an acquaintance, only to realize that I really don’t have that many of them to choose from and none of them seem to be in this general area at the moment.
I write, “I told Ian I’d help him with a thing down at the skate park. I don’t suppose I could weasel a ride from you, could I?”
We’ll just have to see how that’s going to go over. Until then, I’m not going to let Ian know that anything’s changed. He didn’t really seem that enthusiastic about going back to the park in broad daylight—at least as far as that one little area of the park with the really long drop in goes.
My phone buzzes and I check the message. It reads, “You know the toll for taxi service.”
Good. She’s still trying to bilk me for cat food money. There’s no surer sign that things are status quo when I’m asking Abs a favor than a play for free cat food. It’s her favor currency.
“How much do I already owe you?” I write back.
Some favors, naturally, are smaller than others, and don’t always necessitate the purchase of a full bag. That being the case, Abs measures her favors in ounces.
A 1-ounce favor is something like passing the salt, where she’s just as likely as not to count it.
Most favors tend to be more in the 3 to 5-ounce area. This accounts for everything from, “Hey, could you run to the kitchen and grab me a soda?” coming in at 3 ounces of cat food and, “I’m short on tampons, could I get one from you?” at a solid 5 ounces worth of cat food.
The good news here is that Abs only ever buys cat food in quantities of 5 pounds or more. That being the case, a person such as myself has 80 ounces to work with before any repayment ever need be made.
Unfortunately, she can be a little stingy when she’s feeling unappreciated, and it usually comes out in the form of extreme favor tariffs.
The biggest payout I ever gave was a result of borrowing Abby’s car for a couple of weeks while my dad was out of town. For that, I agreed to a 20-ounce fee. When I ended up running her car into a thankfully empty phone booth three days into that rental period, well, I’m not sure I’ve paid off that particular tab yet.
My phone buzzes.
The message reads, “I think we’ve whittled it down to 6 or 7 40-pounders. Call it 7 and tack one more on and you’ve got yourself a ride.”
I write back, “Why so steep?”
I’m only asking for a ride. I can see her tacking a few extra ounces onto the bill for choosing to hang out with Ian instead of her, but a whole 40-pound bag is ridiculous. I don’t know if I can live in that kind of favor economy.
She writes back, “Take it or leave it.”
This is so annoying.
* * *
“All right, do you know what happened last time?” I ask.
“I lost my focus and my confidence?” he asks.
“That’s right,” I tell him. It hel
ps that I’ve been repeating that to him for the last 20 minutes. “Try running through it in your mind again.”
He closes his eyes and I look down over the park.
More than anything, I’m trying to give Ian a few seconds’ break from the small crowd that’s grown to watch the Incredible Falling Man. I can understand the allure of people falling, don’t get me wrong: seeing people fall is one of life’s most precious treasures, but at some point, it’s just mean-spirited.
“Okay, are you ready?” I ask.
“I’m still falling off at the bottom every time,” he says. “If I can’t even get my own imagination to—”
“We’ve been over this,” I tell him. “You’re expecting something, and because it’s what you’re expecting, you’re getting it, over and over. Try expecting something else: expect that you’ll drop in and roll out without a problem.”
The advice is a little pop-psychology for my tastes, but I’m seriously running out of ideas with Ian. He cannot get past his own image of failure. Every time he looks like he might get it, he either comes off his board or overcorrects in some bizarre way he’s never been able to sufficiently explain to me and crashes.
The last two times he’s managed to run out, much to the chagrin of the still-growing audience. If I can convince him that running out is somehow an improvement, maybe I can get him past his mental block.
“All right,” I tell him, “you’re doing great and you’re making progress—I know you may not see it right now, but you really are. You haven’t started bleeding once.”
“Do you think they’re taking bets?” he asks.
“I haven’t seen any money changing hands, but we have been standing up here for about five minutes, so maybe they’re just waiting for your next run,” I tell him. “If it helps at all, if they are taking bets, I’d put five bucks on you nailing this thing in the next three tries.”
“Really?” he asks, every inch of his posture in some way drooping.
I gotta feel bad for the poor guy.
“Yeah,” I tell him, “really. So, why don’t you give it another three tries and we’ll see how quick I’d win.”
“Okay,” he says. “I got this shit.”
“That’s right,” I tell him.
After the excruciating and rather public collection of humiliations he’s racked up today, I don’t think I’m going to chastise him about the language for a while. It’s just simple mercy.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to show everyone down there that I’ve got this. This isn’t a problem.”
“You show ‘em,” I tell him, remembering the heights of ecstasy he’s brought me to in the last 24 hours to refill some of the patience and understanding I’m presently hemorrhaging.
“All right,” he says.
He just stands there.
“Ian?” I ask.
“Yeah?” he returns.
“You’re not going,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “I’m just waiting until the mood is right.”
I just purse my lips and nod. If that’s what it’s going to take for him to take another run so that we can be one step closer to putting this whole grating process behind us, then that’s what it’s going to take.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I say after he stands there another 20 or 30 seconds, “you keep trying and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“What?” he asks, shaking his head a little.
“Did I pull you away from something?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just, don’t you think they’d have better things to do with their time than hang around here waiting for me to fall on my ass?”
“I’m serious,” I tell him. “Give it three more tries, and I will make sure you are very handsomely rewarded.”
He looks over at me, his eyes wide at first, but after a few seconds, I see his eyes drift from my face downward and I finally know that he’s paying attention.
“Yeah?” he asks. “How so?”
“You’ll have to find out,” I tell him. “It’s a surprise, but I can promise you will like it.”
I have nothing planned, but I’m sure I can throw together some sort of sexual favor he’ll find as a suitable reward for his efforts.
“Okay,” he says. “Three tries.”
“Don’t think of them as tries, think of them as opportunities to practice your new skill,” I tell him. “Just think of it like you’ve already done it a million times before. You know what to do, right?” I ask.
“Yeah?” he more asks than answers, but it’ll have to do. Money actually is starting to change hands down below, and it’s going to be difficult convincing him it doesn’t have anything to do with him.
“All right,” I tell him. “First run, you’ve got this thing.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got it.”
He puts his front foot on the board, leans in, rolls down, and runs out just as he’s about to be on level ground.
“That’s all right,” I call down. “You’ll get it next time.”
I’m not unaware that I probably sound like one of those perma-optimist parents who are always telling their kids—who are always, always, always, just terribly bad at everything—that any shortcoming is just a hiccup in an otherwise impeccable career of doing things right. It’s got to be a little extra dose of humiliation, but at least it’s getting him up the ladder a bit quicker.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says as he finally reaches the top.
“Do what?” I ask dumbly.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Two more and then we can go, right?”
“Two more and then you’ll have a reward coming to you when we’re in a much, much less public place,” I tell him. “After that, we’ll see where you are with things and go from there.”
“Okay,” he says curtly.
It’s unclear whether his clenched jaw is a signal of determination or just annoyance that I’m being such a dictator. I’m not going to make the guy keep doing this if it’s just going to screw with his head more than his head has already been screwed with, but just up and leaving in shame isn’t going to do him any good, either.
He’s just become my new psychology project.
“We’re probably going to have to figure out a time to figure out where and how we’re going to do interviews,” I tell him. “You know, for school.”
“Is there any way we could not talk about school right now?” he asks.
“Well, I’m still waiting for you to take your second run, so…” I just let the sentence hang, crossing my arms over my chest.
Before last run, I was all advice and modest encouragement. This run, I’m unimpressed and stern. Next run, I haven’t really thought it out, but I’ll probably just end up in some stage of groveling just to get him down the ramp one more time.
“All right,” he says, his front foot coming down, and he’s about halfway down the slope when he comes off the board again, though he somehow manages to stay on his feet as he runs out of it.
I’m really at a loss here.
I’ve tried everything short of blowing him before he takes a run at it and nothing seems to be doing any good. There’s the old adage that you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, but psychology’s supposed to short-circuit all that. He’s supposed to be my lump of clay.
He’s impervious.
When he gets to the top, this time, I don’t give him any advice. I don’t talk to him or even look at him.
“One more and I get my reward, huh?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I pretend like he’s not there so maybe he can pretend I’m not here. Exactly how that’s going to translate into him forgetting that there are about two dozen people waiting and hoping for blood, I don’t know, but I’m doing what I can.
“Fair enough,” he says, and I can hear him get the tail set in position.
When I hear the clap of his front w
heels hitting the concrete, I turn to look, and my eyes find Ian just in time to see him come off his board, only this time, he’s pitched way too far forward to get his feet underneath him and he crashes with the sick noise of air being forced from lungs by impact.
I make my way down the ladder, trying to block out the laughter coming from across the way as I try to get down to Ian.
When I’m finally down to ground level, he’s already up and walking toward me, but it’s easy enough to see that he’s just done for right now.
“Can we go?” he asks. “I know I have to get this if I’m going to compete, but I really think I’d do better without all the—”
“Yeah,” I nod, “yeah. Maybe take a quick street run to clear your head and remind yourself that you know what to do on a board, you know, maybe help remind some of the other people around here of that as well so you don’t have that look on your face like you want to punch a baby.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Hey, thanks for sticking it out with me on this. I know it can’t be that rewarding seeing me come off my board every single fucking time I try to—”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “We all have our gaps. Don’t even worry about it, all right? Just go clear your head, and if you want to take another run or two down the vert ramp, that’s cool, if not, we can go.”
“All right,” he says. “Thanks.”
He leans forward a little as if to give me a kiss, but hesitates, his eyes wandering in the direction of the thickest part of the group that had been watching him, but they’ve all lost interest.
Still, he’s indecisive, so I pop my head forward a little, give him a quick peck on the lips and send him on his way.
He’s got a sheepish smile on his face as he rides off, and I’m taking a deep breath.
He’s screwed.
Unless everyone else in the competition has at least one area they can’t score in at all, there’s no way mathematically that he can make any kind of positive showing at the competition.
I’m not sure if there’s any way to justify him competing if he’s going to risk becoming known as “that guy who fell on his face repeatedly.” That can’t be good for a career, even if he were to never go near another vert ramp or anything resembling it again.
