Girl Out of Water(34)

The next thing I know, Lincoln is in front of me, reaching over to help me up. I hesitate, then take his hand, which is calloused, yet soft. I’m waiting for the taunts, the mocking, but he says, “Very nice. Like, scary nice actually.”

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “Or really bad at sarcasm?”

“Not at all,” Lincoln says. “That was pretty dang…hmm… What’s the surfer term for it? Rad?”

“Sure. Rad. In an outdated, eighties kind of way.”

“Okay, sure, you fell on your ass,” Lincoln continues, “but you fell after pulling off an almost perfect kickflip. Do you know how long it takes the average person to learn one of those?”

“Uh, no…” I wonder what kind of signal it would send if I massage my sore ass in front of Lincoln.

“Three months,” Lincoln says and holds up three fingers to emphasize his point. “I mean, it only took me one, but I am a bit of a skateboarding genius. And, you know, an all-around genius. I did just graduate top of my class—that is, if you don’t count the valedictorian, the salutatorian, and whatever the third-torian is. So nailing an almost perfect kickflip in a week is, as I said, rad.”

I shift from one foot to the other, still trying to process exactly how bruised my ass is and how to respond. “So does that mean I won?”

He laughs. “Absolutely not. I’m still going to kick your ass.” He throws his board onto the ground and hops on. “Feel free to join the judging panel and watch the magic happen.”

Lincoln is…perplexing. I’m not used to being complimented and mocked within the same relative breath. I guess some might call it honesty, but I call it damn unnerving.

I watch him. He’s incredibly balanced. I wonder if having one arm throws off your natural equilibrium; though, maybe he was born with one arm, so it is his natural equilibrium. He’s taller than a lot of my friends, making quite an impressive figure. Not that I think he’s impressive or anything. He jumps and lands two perfect kickflips in a row. The sound of wheels hitting pavement carries across the park.

Okay, he is kind of impressive.

I make my way back to the table, where the boys are cheering for Lincoln as he speeds around. Austin watches Lincoln with intent and awe. I wonder what it’d be like to have a sibling to cheer me on. Would it feel different than support from my friends? When I was seven, my mom stuck around for a couple of months straight. Even Dad got up his hopes that we could be a family for the long haul. One morning, I got up the nerve to ask her if she could give me a brother or a sister. She smiled and said, “Sure, why not?”

Two days later she was gone again.

“Your kickflip was awesome!” Parker says, jolting me back.

“Very awesome!” Nash agrees.

I don’t understand how my falling down translates to awesome, but instead of arguing, I just say, “Thanks guys,” and sit down, resisting the embarrassing urge to stand on top of the table with them for an optimal view. I can see Lincoln clearly enough, looping around the park, successfully performing ollies and kickflips and a trick that I think is called a bigflip. He executes each move without a break in stride, always hitting the pavement with speed. Jealousy seethes through me, in part because he’s better than me, but mostly because he’s at home here. This is his turf. I miss that feeling.

As he’s making his third lap, Lincoln suddenly veers off course, shooting diagonally across the skate park for the giant bowl. “Dropping in!” he calls out to the few people around it.

“Oh, come on!” I shout. “That wasn’t part of the deal!”

But I can’t begrudge him too much. Who doesn’t want to show off doing something they love? Parker and Nash jump off the table in excitement and run off toward the bowl, while Austin follows at a slower pace. I hesitate. I shouldn’t care—I know I shouldn’t care—and yet curiosity tugs at me. After watching what Lincoln can do on a flat surface, I want to see more, so I grab my board and ride over to the edge of the bowl.

The bowl is a free-form shape, like someone took an oval and pulled and pushed it like taffy. Lincoln glides along the sides, skimming down the walls and then back up, riding the whole length in one fluid motion that almost reminds me of surfing. All around the edges of the bowl, other skaters watch, some even clapping and cheering Lincoln on, basking in his success like it’s their own. As Lincoln loops up again, he jumps out of the bowl across from me and lands with a firm crack against the concrete. He kicks up the board, holds it under his nub, then looks my way and grins.

He bumps fists and high fives some other skaters before making his way over to us. A young girl drops into the bowl, and she zooms around without an ounce of hesitation. I’m mesmerized, the tension tightening then easing in my shoulders every time she skates up and skims over the lip of the bowl.

“Not bad, huh?” Lincoln asks. He stands next to me now, his face lightly sheened with sweat. He runs his hand over his cropped hair.

My competitive nature goes to point out a flaw in his performance—any flaw—but the thing is, I’m not sure there were any. And even if there were, I’m not experienced enough to have caught them.

“It was okay,” I say. “I mean, ignoring the part where you blatantly broke the rules of the competition.” My words are quick and stiff. I can’t help it. I came here today knowing I would lose, but that’s not making the loss any easier. I’ve been the best for too many years to take defeat lightly, even if this defeat is in a brand new sport.