Girl Out of Water(32)

Except of course it’s not nothing. Something shut her down, caused her to come home practically in tears. I want to hug her, tell her she can confide in me, reassure her, but she’s standing in this tensed, arms-crossed, fuck off position, and at least for now, I want to respect her desire for space. She doesn’t look physically hurt, and the tears have stopped, and the boys want to go to the park, and I have to do this absurd challenge, so for now, maybe I should listen to her.

“All right,” I relent. “But…when…or if you decide you’re not fine, let me know, because you know, it’s okay to be not okay.”

Emery rolls her eyes, then brushes past me and out the door.

? ? ?

The sun presses higher into the air, turning a hot day into a blistering one. It feels like a sin to step out of the bliss of air conditioning. By the time we get to the park, my clothes are dripping off me like the clocks in those Salvador Dali paintings. Definitely not attractive. Not that there’s a reason for me to look attractive. I would just prefer if my perspiration levels weren’t reaching new highs today. At least I managed to skate all the way here without incident. Twisting an ankle before arrival wouldn’t have been good for my already depreciating self-confidence.

We enter the park, and for the first time, Emery doesn’t bike toward the basketball courts. “Umm, Emery?”

“What?” she responds, continuing to ride alongside us to the skate park.

“Aren’t you going to the courts?”

She doesn’t respond. Oh, I’m actually that dense. Of course she’s not going to the courts. Whatever happened this weekend had to do with her friends, so she doesn’t want to see them right now. I’m a total asshole for even asking. My mind races. “Oh, great. You want to watch me get my ass kicked too, right?”

“Right.” She even grins. Or not-frowns. Which is a giant leap forward from an hour ago. “Totally right. Gotta take pictures for posterity and all.”

I not-frown back at her. “So sweet of you. Thanks, Emery.”

As we enter the skate park, the boys follow close behind me, like they’re bailiffs keeping me from running without posting bail. My goal today is to be collected. I might not skate better than Lincoln, but at least I can lose with grace. I can be the bigger person. I can suck up my battered pride for my cousins and their love of this sport.

But then I see Lincoln. He’s wearing his jean-shorts-flannel-combo that is either style or a complete absence of style. My pulse thuds, and I almost stumble off my skateboard. My nerves of steel aren’t looking so steely.

The twins holler for Lincoln from across the park, attracting the attention of almost everyone here. Lincoln glances up, and even from this far away, I can see him smiling. He doesn’t look the least bit nervous. And why would he be? This is his sport. His skate park.

Lincoln and Austin skate over and slide to easy stops a few feet away.

“Hey there,” Lincoln says to Emery. “You must be the third Sutter sibling.” He holds out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Lincoln.”

She hesitates a moment, then shakes his hand. “Hey, I’m Emery.”

“Hey Emery,” Austin says, his voice peppier than I expected from someone who wears only black. His genuine smile mirrors Lincoln’s. Emery nods back. I wonder if they know each other from school. Then he turns to me. “Austin,” he says. “Nice to meet ya!”

“Yeah, hey, hi,” I say and try to smile back, but I’m too busy worrying about Emery and my kickflip to give it any real effort.

Then, without a word, Emery goes to sit on one of the benches.

Parker and Nash have already turned to Austin and are gushing over some trick he pulled off the other week, asking if he would teach them how to do it. As the boys and Austin enthuse over each other, Lincoln turns to me and smiles. Like we’re friends. Like this is normal. Like it’s totally perfectly normal to challenge a relative stranger to a skating competition. Maybe it is. Maybe, with a lack of better options, competitions with strangers are normal forms of entertainment in Nebraska.

Or maybe it’s only a normal activity for this particular guy who makes my skin flush deeper than sunburn.

“So,” he says, gesturing to my new board and helmet. “I see you’ve taken a liking to this fine sport.”

“Not exactly,” I say. “My dad just didn’t want to see, and I quote, ‘my pretty brains splattered all over the driveway.’”

“Makes sense,” Lincoln says. “You do have pretty brains.”

Lincoln has a talent for doling out the world’s strangest compliments.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I figured we’d both hop on the quarter pipe for a few minutes each, scoring points for the most 360s, hardflips, noseslides, the usual, with points factored in for speed and style. Sound good?”

I stare at him, mouth open. He can’t be serious. Is he trying to kill me? I’ve barely figured out riding without falling off and ollying, and I still haven’t mastered the kickflip. I’m not even sure what most of those other moves are, much less have the ability to perform them.

Lincoln bursts out laughing. He pats me on the shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. I was joking. Apparently I need to take my poker face on tour. Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to turn into Cara-Beth in a week.”