Girl Out of Water(25)

“Umm, actually though, you couldn’t,” Lincoln says.

“It was my first time! You can’t—I can’t—” Frustration rips through me. I’ve been forced away from my friends, my ocean, my board, and dropped in the middle of the country with no warning. I’ve been torn from comfort and stability, thrown out to sea without a buoy. I hate feeling powerless. I hate it, and I’m over it.

“I’ll tell you what,” Lincoln says right as I’m ready to boil over. He clasps a hand onto my shoulder and leans toward me. “How about a chance at redemption?”

“Redemption?” I ask.

Lincoln steps back onto his own board and rides in those tidy half circles in front of me. “Sure, redemption. If you think skateboarding is so easy, I’ll give you a week to prove it.”

I eye him with suspicion. “And how exactly do I prove it?”

“One week from now, we meet back here for a little competition. If I win, you admit skateboarding is just as difficult as surfing. And if you win—”

“You give me a hundred bucks.”

Lincoln smiles. “That’s a pretty uneven bet.”

“How long have you been skating?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years. One week.” I narrow my eyes. “Sounds pretty even to me.”

His eyes flicker with something, and I flush with warmth. “Fine,” he says. “Deal.”

Still smiling, he holds out his hand. We shake on the bet.





Six


Dinner is quiet tonight. We sit around the table, picking over reheated shepherd’s pie, the least impressive dish in Dad’s culinary repertoire, and all the less appetizing in its days-old form.

The embarrassment I feel from earlier today is unprecedented and unsettling. The memory of my cousins and Lincoln laughing at me hurts worse than the scrapes on my arms. Because the only thing worse than failing is failing while someone watches. I’ve always been a natural at sports, and not only surfing. I’ve played beach volleyball with friends, rowed crew for a year, and I even do yoga with Dad sometimes. Why should skateboarding be any different?

After we finish eating, Dad and the kids head to their rooms for the night. Instead of doing the same, I go outside for some fresh air. The temperature drops fast here, and the shorts and tank I sweltered in this afternoon now leave me with prickled skin. Parker and Nash’s skateboards sit in the yard, stationary yet somehow more menacing than approaching ten-foot swells. I can’t believe I agreed to that bet. Why on earth would I do something so senseless? I guess I could get out of it by avoiding the skate park for the rest of summer, but the park is the only form of entertainment that doesn’t require a car and makes all three of my cousins happy.

And there’s no way I’m going back there to face the mortification of defeat. So—

I have to learn to skate.

And I can’t do that without practicing.

I grab one of the boards from the grass and throw it onto the concrete driveway. It clatters to the ground, a raw echo in the still night. The quiet of the suburbs makes my skin crawl. Every rustle and whistle can be heard without the crashing of the waves to smooth the world out. I still haven’t adjusted to life without the privacy of white noise, still haven’t slept well in this thunderous silence.

I sigh and step cautiously onto the board, willing my body to adjust to this new equilibrium. But my body refuses. Everything about this feels unnatural, from the wheels threatening to roll without my permission to wearing shoes instead of standing barefoot, naked toes digging against waxed grit.

I should go inside, curl up on the old corduroy recliner, and message with Eric while watching ESPN2. If I can’t be in Santa Cruz, I might as well live vicariously through surfing marathons and incessant communication with my friends. But I haven’t talked to Eric for days. On my phone, I find more online pictures of him than texts from him. He messaged me daily at first, asking about my day, but with nothing really new to tell him, my answers back have become shorter and more sporadic.

I should focus on the now. What I can do in Nebraska. I’ve never backed down from a challenge, and I’m not making an exception for Lincoln’s.

So I lock my jaw, place one foot down on the concrete, and push off. Slowly. I don’t want a repeat incident of earlier. The board scoots down the driveway about a foot, then wobbles, then stills. How can this possibly compare to the thrill of a solid frontside floater or the overwhelming ecstasy of my first aerial?

It can’t.

But if I want to beat Lincoln, I’m going to have to do a lot better. I step off the board, pull out my phone, and YouTube binge basics. If I can get good enough, maybe I’ll knock that ever-present smile from his smug, attractive face.

? ? ?

“Yes, yes, fuck!” I stumble off the board and almost twist my ankle. Again.

Two hours of practice. My thighs burn. Sweat drips down the nape of my neck. But I like it, the feel of exertion. Plus, I can now ride the entire length of the driveway without stumbling. But I can’t ollie, which according to YouTubers, is the simplest trick in a skater’s repertoire. If I can’t master the simplest trick, I definitely can’t beat Lincoln. I pick up the skateboard and slam it back onto the ground for no other reason than the satisfaction of that piercing clatter.

I step up and position both my feet perpendicularly to the board, left foot resting above the raised edge at the end. I go over the three simple steps: