More Than Good Enough(29)

Right now, there was nothing I wanted more.

I needed to hold her so bad.

In my mind, I was screaming. I couldn’t go back to the house. But I felt like a coward for leaving her there, alone with Dad and the cops. They probably arrested his drunk ass. Where was I supposed to go now? Maybe I could hunt down my grandma’s number in Fort Myers. Yeah right. The patron saint of greyhounds—I was so unworthy of her time. She sent cards every Christmas, along with 8x10 glossies of her fur babies.

Who was I kidding? I mean, honestly. Why would Pippa want to be with me? She was this amazing girl with all kinds of stuff going on. Not to mention the cutest smile ever.

If Pippa knew the crap I thought about, she’d bolt in the other direction, like I was a zombie or something. I’d eat her brains out. That’s what I’d do. If you stayed with me long enough, this is what happened. The world turned to ashes like in my favorite video game, Silent Hill. Even Pyramid Head, the ultimate bad guy, didn’t stand a chance against it.

I destroyed everything I touched.

That’s all I could think about, contemplating the evil nature of my universe from that damn half-pipe. Then a bunch of skaters showed up—little badasses, all thugged out in their gold chains and tie-dyed shirts. They were taking turns slurping a gallon-sized jug of iced tea and spitting it at each other. This skinny kid with a mouthful of metal was laughing hardcore. I couldn’t remember when I’d laughed like that.

“Nice hat.” He saluted me.

I returned the salute. “Thanks.”

“You got a big cut on your face,” he said.

I got the feeling he wasn’t judging me. Just stating the obvious, the way twelve-year-olds do. “Yeah,” I told him. “That’s what I figured.”

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Only when I smile.”

He nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Try not to smile, then.”

“Good advice.”

The others stayed back. They were blabbing in that slippery language, Hitchiti, the tribe’s native tongue. Except it didn’t really belong to us. It was a mix of Creek and Choctaw. That much I’d learned from Wikipedia. My uncle only spoke Hitchiti in front of tourists.

The skinny kid rolled off with his buddies. One of them glanced over his shoulder and said a word that made me sick all over again: “Hatki.”

White.

He actually thought I was white.

This was f*cked up on so many levels. I mean, yeah. My mom was from the UK. “Across the pond” was how she put it. Not that you’d ever guess by looking at my skin, the same color as maple syrup. Sometimes people would talk Spanish at me. God, that really pissed me off. They just assumed I knew what the hell they were saying. They never asked.

While the Miccosukee kids did their thing, I wished I could zoom into another dimension. I’d tell them it doesn’t get better. All that shit about “doing your best” in school and making good grades in Geometry. What does it get you? A stupid desk job in an office.

I’d tell them to live every second like the last. Not the most original statement. Still, it’s better than the crap you get in school. My teachers couldn’t even admit that Columbus didn’t “discover” America. It was there from the start.

Why doesn’t somebody tell the truth? Nothing gets better unless you make it happen. There should be a special class. Call it Reality 101. You could learn about stuff that really matters. Like what to do if your dad gets wasted and decides to use you as a punching bag.

The Miccosukee kids looked so free, gliding back and forth on the ramps. When they crashed, it was no big deal. They just got back up again. My new friend, Mr. Skinny, tried to kickflip onto a ramp. Of course, he was doing it all wrong.

After watching him eat pavement like a million times, I finally said, “Hey newb. Let me see that board.”

He circled around the rails, then slowed in front of me. “Why? You want to steal it?”

“Nah. I’ve seen better boards at Kmart.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert?” he said, stepping off it. “That’s why your face is wrecked? You tried to vert and got a concussion?”

I shrugged. “The wack meter doesn’t lie.”

Mr. Skinny was amped now. “Well, I’d like to see you throw down.”

“Sure,” I said. “Prepare to be owned.”

He shoved the board at me. “How about those rails?” he said, walking toward the opposite end of the park.

I’d never grinded on a rail. That trick was impossible to pull off. You couldn’t even practice it. Not without multiple levels of hell. Man, what did I get myself into?

This was going to suck.

As I stepped onto the board, he yelled, “Dude. What happened to your shoes?”

“Don’t need them.”

His buds rolled to the side. They held out their cell phones, ready to snap a picture, waiting for me to fail.

I steered toward the cement pyramid. It felt good to skate again. I’d forgotten how much it chilled my brain. All the shit that happened today.

When I picked up enough speed, I ollied onto the rail. As I locked my back wheels against the metal edge, I stayed centered. The pain inside my muscles dripped away. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I got caught between the cement and the sky. I was right there, floating in that space outside the “now.”