When Everything Is Blue(14)

He turns up the music—a local punk band. Did I mention he has great taste in music too? I glance over to find him bobbing his head along to the beat, and I figure that must be the end of it. Chris pulls into his driveway and shuts off the engine.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him while grabbing my skateboard and backpack.

“Hold up,” he says before I can bounce. He lays one hand on my arm and leaves it there, like he’s claiming it for his own.

I freeze but keep my stuff in my hands. He looks upset, and it probably has something to do with the way I’ve been acting. All distant and mopey.

“You’ve been ditching me all week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

This heart-to-heart is exactly what I wanted to avoid, in avoiding him. Chris has a way of getting at the truth of the matter. I set my backpack and board down at my feet. How do I make him feel better about it without telling him about Dave’s bullshit? And what if he brings up Sebastian?

“I’ve just been busy,” I say.

“With what?”

“I don’t know. School?”

He sighs and shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me, something I can’t stand, to think that I’ve displeased him. “That’s bullshit, but whatever. You working this weekend?”

“Yeah. Both days.”

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

I mentally review my empty calendar. “Nothing.”

“Let’s go down to BOA.”

BOA—Bank of America—is one of our prime skate spots and my favorite. Chris knows it too. I don’t really feel like being forced to act normal in front of him, but if I bail, it will only make him try harder and probably hurt his feelings as well. Making him feel bad is, like, twice the pain for me.

“Let me change and I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” I say.

He nods. “See you then.”

An hour or so later, we ride our skateboards down to BOA since it’s not too far from where we live. The sea breeze is up, and it feels nice in my hair and billowing up my shirt. The Florida heat can make you feel like you’re trapped in a sweaty plastic bubble for, like, six months out of the year, so any breeze is practically Arctic by comparison. When we arrive at the bank, there are a few kids already out. The BOA closed down a while back, and the property has been for sale ever since. Cops hardly ever patrol it, and so long as we don’t break any windows or litter too much, no one seems to mind.

“Asshole Dave’s here,” Chris says to me. I don’t know which of us came up with the name, but it stuck.

I scan the parking lot, and at the same time, Dave spots me. He doesn’t give me that trademark smirk, though, just nods and goes back to whatever he was doing. Maybe he won’t give me such a hard time with Chris around. It’s pretty damn annoying that this kid is showing up at my neighborhood skate holes where I’ve been coming for years. Who the hell invited him anyway?

I grab my board and take to the concrete walkways surrounding the building. It’s a two-story structure with nice, smooth concrete and a good variety of curbs, rails, and stairs. There’s a loading ramp in the back and a wheelchair access out front. The way it’s laid out, you can skate the whole thing without ever getting off your board. I start at the top, sweeping through the drive-thru ATMs and using the curbs to practice my nosegrinds, front tailslides, and a few backside slappies, then up the loading ramp, executing some 360s and kickflips along the way. When I’m warmed up, I do a couple of nightmare flips on the upper level to show off my new trick, then pull off a 50-50 grind down the handicap rail and land that pretty decently.

A crowd gathers, and the guys start calling out tricks. Some of them I do; some I don’t. A few of them pull out their phones to film me. I’m not much of a show pony, but I’ll try any trick once, even if the bros are all hating on it. And if I like it, I’ll practice until I’ve perfected it.

I’m having a good day, feeling pretty confident, so I decide to go balls to the wall. I skate around the front of the building to the top floor, where there’s a huge sprawling staircase leading down to the parking lot. Instead of grinding the rail, I do a varial kickflip in the air. I’m airborne for longer than seems humanly possible and stick it on the lower level. It’s the best kind of rush. Fear and adrenaline and relief at not busting my ass in front of everyone. The guys all clap and whistle and list all the ways I murdered that trick. One kid keeps saying “What the fuck” over and over, with more passion each time.

Okay, maybe I am a bit of a show-off.

Chris laughs and punches my arm and calls me Killer, one of his nicknames for me. The attention is a little much, so I tell them I’ll be back and ride next door to where there’s a 7-Eleven. I say what’s up to Justin who works there, used to go to our school, and sometimes comes out to skate with us.

“You’ve gotten pretty good,” Justin says when I lay the drinks on the counter, Gatorade for me and a Mountain Dew for Chris. Even though I told him it shrinks your balls, he still drinks it. I guess he has the ballage to spare.

“Thanks, man. I had some time on my hands this summer.” I guess Justin was watching us from inside the 7-Eleven.

“You have a lot of….” He pauses and seems to be searching for the right word. “Grace? You move well on the board. A lot of skaters look like they’re trying to take a shit while skating, but you make it look easy.”