by Claire Adams
“I’m going to go see when they’re going to open it up so you can get in there and practice,” Nick says, still giving Marci the stink eye for breaking the no-talking-before-a-competition rule.
To be honest, the only reason I ever instituted this particular rule is because I started getting sick of Rob blathering on about the last time he got faced every time we got in the car to head to a competition.
Nick starts walking and Marci goes with him. Rob looks at me, even lifts his hand to about the level of his eyes and opens his mouth, but only ends up telling me that he’s going to go with Nick.
As soon as their backs are turned, my hand goes into my pocket and I pull up Mia’s number. My thumb hovers over the send key, but I just end up turning the screen off again and replacing the phone in my pocket.
I apologized, but that hadn’t reversed anything.
The fact of the matter is that I was really shitty to Mia and she absolutely didn’t deserve it.
Thinking back on the expression on her face, how the corners of her eyes and the corners of her lips were pulled back as she grinned, the perky enthusiasm of her voice and then the way those eyes went wide and that mouth came open when I started going off on her right in front of about two dozen strangers, and those are just the people who I’m absolutely sure could hear every stupid, fucked up word out of my mouth.
I don’t blame her for a damn thing.
Still, it’d be nice if she was here.
I pull my phone back out, but it’s in my pocket again just as quickly.
What exactly am I supposed to say to her? “Hey, I know I was a jerk to you last time we were at one of these things, but you should come down here so I can feel better about everything?”
It doesn’t seem like the classiest move.
I try to get my mind off of Mia and back on the competition, but every time I visualize myself on the vert ramp, even though I haven’t come off my board again since that last run at the Richfield Community Skate and Ride, I’m falling off, crashing to the ground and seeing any hope I had of making a living at this go right into someone else’s hands.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to relax and focus, but no matter what I do, in my head, I’m crashing every time.
Rob, Nick and Marci come back over, saying that the park course and the vert ramp will be available for pre-competition practice in about an hour, leaving about another two hours before the competition actually begins.
I tell them thanks for checking on that, and add that I’m just going to skate around to clear my head for a while.
Nobody objects. Nobody really says anything.
Of the few people that are waiting in line to get in, as far as I can tell, I’m the only competitor here. There are a few people tooling around on board in the parking lot, but none of them seem that advanced with it.
I’ve been to the park before, but only once a few years ago, and that was before they had the vert ramp inside the repurposed warehouse that is the venue. It wasn’t a competition, just me and a couple of buddies wanted to see if it was really as nice as everyone said it was. It’s funny how much easier everything seemed back then.
My mom had already been diagnosed, but I was starting to really distinguish myself on the board. I knew there was a long way left to go, but I was making progress and, before I knew it—or so I told myself—I’d be in a position to take the turn and go pro.
Well, that’s today, and it doesn’t seem like much time has passed at all right now as I skate around, feeling more unsure of myself now than I did back then.
When I get to the end of the parking lot, I look both ways down the street and just keep going. It’s not like I’m going to be late if I take a little detour and explore the area.
They say that forward motion, whether it’s walking or riding a bike or driving or skating or whatever, helps the mind work through things, but all I can see is Mia’s face after I climbed off of that stupid fucking vert ramp.
Forward motion isn’t helping my mind work through shit.
Nevertheless, I just keep going.
The town of Greenville doesn’t really have much to boast about other than the skate park. It’s a small town, less than 10,000 residents, and the most interesting thing I’ve found on its streets so far are the bronze statues of horses every fifty feet or so along the main drive, painted in various ways, some as advertisements while some are painted to look like normal horses.
I get a few blocks away from the skate park and take a right, going from the road to the sidewalk to let people past as they walk. Another couple of blocks and I turn again to head back.
This isn’t helping, and the fact that it’s not helping is actually serving to frustrate me more. I’ll be stupefied if I end up making any kind of a decent showing in the competition.
I’m trying to meter my breathing and just tune into the feel of the board beneath my feet, but it’s all I can do not to hyperventilate.
I was afraid of this.
Given any opportunity to think, I can generally figure out a couple dozen unique ways to poke holes in anything, and I’m having a really difficult time seeing any way that I’m going to come through this with a smile on my face.
I take that final right turn and it takes me back to the edge of the parking lot.
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since I skated out of here, but the crowd seems to have at least tripled in size.
So recently on the verge of hyperventilation, it’s all I can do right now to breathe at all as I see the first of my competitors in the crowd, chatting. It’s Mike Onomato.
Mike, now Mike’s a nice guy, but he’s one of those people whose parents wanted him to be the Mozart of skating, so they spared no expense on instructors, mentors, ramp construction, and on, and on. It’s always been a source of pride for me that I can beat his ass in street comps, but I’ve seen him on the vert and he’s no slouch.
Still, I don’t want to be rude, so I skate over to him to say hello.
“Ian Zavala,” Mike says over the head of a short, teenage girl for whom he’s signing an autograph. Seriously, where does this guy get his PR? “Glad you could make it,” he says. “It never feels like a real street x when you’re not around.”
“Hey, somebody’s got to come and knock you off the top of the mountain,” I tell him. “I’m just doing my public duty.”
He smiles and combs his hair back with his fingers before taking another photo from a fan and signing it.
“Heard you started competing in vert,” he says. “Think it’s going to be enough?”
“You heard about that, huh?” I ask.
I might be out of this thing before it even starts.
“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. When I did my first vert competition, they could barely fit me at the bottom of the scoreboard I did so badly.”
He doesn’t bother mentioning that was when he was twelve.
I’ve always wondered why it’s taken Mike so long to go pro. For a while, we were skating in different places, different competitions. I knew who he was, though I doubt he could say the same about me.
Everyone told me he was the guy to beat in the park.
Ha, ha.
“Any tips to help me wipe the floor with you?” I ask.
“Just keep low on the drop in and the ride up,” he says. “You’re fine standing on the flat, but even there, I’d recommend at least a little knee-flex.”
“You were there,” I say, simply stating the obvious.
“Yeah,” he says. “I wanted to see how worried I need to be about today. I knew you were going to be here, but I’d never seen you on the ramp.”
“Got to be feeling pretty confident right about now, huh?” I ask.
He shakes his head, and I’m sure he’s about to offer me some sort of consolation, but a new group of teenage girls spots Mike and descends upon him.
“I should probably leave you to your adoring fans,” I tell him.
>
“Zavala,” Mike says before I go.
“Yeah?”
“Just relax,” he says. “If there’s one big difference between what I’ve seen you do in the park and what I saw you do on the ramp, it was that you’re more relaxed in the park. On the ramp, you were fine and everything, but you just need to loosen up, man,” he says. “Do that, and I’m sure I’ll be competing with you for number one.”
“Yeah,” I respond. “Thanks.”
I push off and start heading back toward where I last saw Rob and them, but just as soon as I’ve caught sight of Nick’s bright pink t-shirt, my board stops beneath me and inertia throws me off the front.
I’m on my feet when I land, but I’m really not in the mood, as I look back to find that someone had kicked a board in front of mine.
“What the fuck?!” I shout, turning around and startling most everybody in the general area.
“Hey, Ian,” a familiar voice says, though I can’t place it until I see Mia’s friend Abby—Abs, whatever—lift a hand and wave at me.
“Oh,” I say with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”
“Have you seen Mia?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “She’s here?”
“I know she was going back and forth on it,” Abby says. “I don’t know what she ended up deciding.”
“Got ya,” I tell her. “I haven’t seen her. It’s still pretty early, though.”
“Yeah,” Abby says and starts twirling a finger through her hair. “Anyway,” she says, “I was really sad to hear about what happened with the two of you. It’s really very tragic.”
“Yeah,” I respond, looking past her. “Thanks.”
“Mia’s kind of like that, though,” she says. “She never really knows what she wants, so she goes for whatever she thinks she can’t get. Unfortunately,” Abby says, letting her hand fall back to her side, “once she gets something, she doesn’t want it anymore.”
“There might have been a bit of that,” I tell Abby, “but this last thing was my fault. I really screwed up.”
“Yeah,” Abby says, sighing. “I just hate seeing good guys get hurt, but with her, that’s what always seems to happen.”
“Aren’t the two of you friends?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It almost seems like you’re… never mind.”
“I just don’t think she really appreciates a good man when she’s found one,” Abby says, adjusting her bra while I try to pretend this isn’t just about the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been talking to someone. “Some women never do.”
“Look, Abby,” I start, “I think I see where this is going, and I don’t think it would be right.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks, blinking at a prodigious rate and placing her open hand over the top of her shirt. “I just saw you and wanted to say hi.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Well, it’s good to see you. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other—”
Abby grabs the back of my head and kisses me hard. It happens so fast I don’t even process what’s happening for a few seconds, but when I do, I manage to pull back and escape her grip.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She’s not looking at me, though.
Abby’s looking past me on my right side with half a smile on her face, and she lifts her chin in a reverse-nod.
I turn around and there, about twenty feet away, but facing in this direction like she was walking over here, is Mia.
“Wait!” I shout, but she’s already turned around and she’s walking away.
There still aren’t all that many people hanging around up here near the building, but those who are all seem to be between Mia and me as I try to catch up with her, to explain what happened.
I don’t give a shit, though. I’m not giving up.
Chapter Seventeen
Crescendo
Mia
I can hear Ian trying to make his way through the growing crowd behind me, but I don’t stop walking.
Abs had been acting funny for a little while now, but I never thought she’d do something like that. Not to me.
My hands are shaking as I pull the keys out of my pocket and unlock the door. I don’t get in, though.
Really, I shouldn’t be mad at Ian: I saw what happened, and he didn’t seem to have anything to do with it, except to pull away. It’s not even like we’re still together or anything.
Not that we’ve had that talk.
Still, he should have known she’d try something like that at some point from the way she went after him at that party. I should have known.
How did I not know?
“Mia!” Ian shouts as he jogs toward me, his skateboard nowhere in sight.
That breaks the back and forth, and I get in my car and lock the doors.
My phone’s ringing, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to talk to whoever’s on the other end. I just need to get out of here.
I throw the car in reverse and go to pull out, but Ian steps behind me.
Cracking the window, I’m telling him to get out of the way.
“Just let me talk to you for a second,” he says. “That wasn’t what it looked like. I mean, yeah, she kissed me, but I didn’t—”
I close my window and just wait for him to move. At some point, he’s going to come up to my window, and when he does that, I can back out.
I think he’s figured out what I’m thinking, though, because he’s hesitating at the back of the car. Finally, though, he starts coming around the driver’s side and I start to pull out.
He presses himself against the car next to me to avoid my mirror, and I’m out of the parking spot. Just as I’ve gotten the car into drive and am starting to move forward, though, Ian jumps in front of me, rather melodramatically and I stop.
“Move,” I tell him through the windshield.
He doesn’t move.
I roll down my window and repeat, “Move!”
“No,” he says. “Not until you talk to me.”
I roll the window back up and throw the car in reverse, but apparently I’m not speed demon enough because Ian’s made his way around the car and is now blocking me from the back.
“Rookie move,” I mutter, putting the car in drive and hitting the gas.
I try not to look in the rearview mirror. I try, but I fail, and as soon as I see his shoulders slump as he watches me drive off, suddenly, I don’t know what the heck I’m doing.
The fact of the matter is, whether I listen to his explanation or not, I can’t just up and leave.
I pull into a parking spot toward the edge of the lot, and I just sit for a minute, my hands on the steering wheel, head against the headrest.
What am I supposed to do now? Any move I make feels like a bad decision.
I know what happened was Abby’s fault, and that Ian and I split up, but that doesn’t change the sick feeling in my stomach after seeing it. It’s jealousy, stupid jealousy, but knowing that doesn’t magically make it go away.
There’s no way this won’t look pretty stupid, but I pull back out of my new parking spot and drive back to the old one, putting the car in park and my head back once more, my eyes closed.
There’s a knock on my window and, even though I was expecting it, I still jump a little.
I roll down the window.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Listen,” he says, “what happened back there—I didn’t want that. I’m not attracted to her, and as soon as I realized what was happening, I—”
“Just save it,” I tell him. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like we’re a thing.”
“I know,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like that.”
“Like what?” I ask stupidly.
“For us to be a thing,” he answers. “I know I’m the one that screwed this up, but what happened today, that wasn’t my f
ault. She kicked a board in front of me as I was going past, and I thought she was just kidding around, wanting to talk to me because you’re her friend and you and I used to date, but—”
“I think I told you to save it,” I tell him.
“Will you just get out and talk to me?” he asks. “You’re obviously not leaving.”
He’s baiting me. I know he’s baiting me. It doesn’t matter.
I throw my door open, the car still idling, and I get out of the car and up in his face as people file past us as they make their way through the parking lot.
“You’ve got excuses for everything,” I tell him. “That’s why we’re not together anymore. Rather than realize that you were on a vert ramp for the first time ever and just chalk it up to experience, you had to take it out on me, and I had nothing to do with your crappy performance! I didn’t even think it was crappy. I didn’t care that you came in last on vert, I was just proud of you for having the courage to do it. Why do you think I came today?”
“Why did you come today?” he asks.
“I just told you,” I tell him.
“Because you’re proud of me?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. “Well, yeah, that’s what I said, but—”
“Then what is it?” he asks. “If you were just going to come and storm off, what’s the point?”
“Well, I didn’t expect to see you standing there with my best friend on your face,” I retort.
“You know what your problem is?” he asks and doesn’t even take a breath before continuing. “You want things to go just the way you expect them to, and at the first indication that something might not be going according to plan, you just bail on it. I may be the reason we split up this last time, but how many times did you go back and forth about us before we were even together?”
“That just shows that I should have listened to my intuition in the first place,” I tell him.
“That’s bullshit!” he says, his eyes narrowing. “You call it intuition, I call it fear. You never intended to give us a fair shot, so when I flew off the handle, that was your cue to leave.”
