the door behind me.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to my pack.
I turn around to look at it. “That’s a skateboard, Dad.”
“Thanks, Bennett.” He shakes his head at me. “Why are you bringing a skateboard?”
“I’m sticking to my rules. I still don’t believe I should change things deliberately, but I’ve been sort of… experimenting with altering little things: you know, small, insignificant details that could have a huge effect on the outcome.” I give him a mischievous grin and gesture toward the board. “This is a diversion.”
Dad seems relatively comfortable with the small amount of information I’m giving him, so I hold out my hands. He looks wary as he glances down at them. “It’s been a while. Do you still remember how this works?”
He nods once. When he takes them, his grip is strong and his hands feel rough and large in mine, nothing like Anna’s or Brooke’s. For a moment, I feel like I’m ten again; small, fragile, and not at all like the person with the power.
“You ready?” I ask.
Dad doesn’t say anything as he closes his eyes.
I close mine and lock in the time. I visualize the nondescript alley I found online, a half a block away from the intersection where everything just changed for four people. I muster a silent plea that I’ll be able to fix it for all of them.
“Open your eyes.”
Dad opens them and looks around. I can tell he’s trying not to panic. “Where are we?”
I gesture toward the far end of the alley. Cars are zooming past, and I start off walking in that direction and tell Dad to follow me. When we arrive, I peer around the corner and take in the surroundings. Halfway between the alley and the busy intersection, I see a wide cement stairway that leads to an office building. I didn’t see that on the map, but it makes this spot even more perfect.
I point into the distance, across the intersection, and Dad stands next to me, following my gaze. “See that red fire hydrant on the next block?”
He squints. “Yes.”
I tell him everything I know from the news story online. “The car went out of control and slammed into that hydrant, and a few seconds later, hit the bikers. But all of them passed through this intersection first, at different times, before any of that happened. We have about ten minutes before the bikes arrive at this spot, so here’s our plan.” Dad stares at me with wide eyes as I describe what I have in mind, and when I get to the part where I tell him his role in the whole thing, he lets out a series of “okays” and “got its.” He might be a bit shell-shocked, but as far as I can tell, he’s taking it all in.
“That’s the plan?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I brace myself for criticism or, at the very least, additions. Dad smiles and says, “That’s really good.”
I smile back. “Thanks. I kind of thought so too.” He has a funny look on his face, like he’s about to say something important, but instead, he looks over his shoulder and down the street. A bike courier zooms past us.
“You’d better get going,” he says, pointing toward the intersection. He heads off in the opposite direction.
In one swift string of moves, I pull my skateboard out of the backpack, start into a run as I throw it on the ground, and swing the pack over my shoulders as I skate away. I push with my back foot and glide, weaving back and forth to find my balance. A minute later, I’m at the bottom of the steps. I pop my board into my hand and race up to the top. It’s perfect—the ground is smooth and there’s no one here.
I’m floating around the empty courtyard, feeling the board under my feet and gathering my nerve, when I spot a short cement divider at the far end. I build up speed, heading straight for it. I’m feeling confident as I pop an ollie at the base. I clear it easily and land clean on the other side.
I turn around and skate back toward the steps. I leave my board at the top and race halfway down so I can check the scene. There are other bikers on the road, but I think I spot the three of them on the next block. They’re riding slowly in a single-file line, and when the light turns, they stop. So far, so good.
At the top of the steps I grab my board, jump onto the ledge, do a 50-50 grind to the bottom, and land perfectly. Now I see Dad clearly as he rounds the corner, just in front of the bikers, all of them moving quickly. I run back up to the top of the stairs and skate deep into the courtyard so I can generate enough momentum.
Then I’m off, skating fast toward the steps, the wind pushing my hair off my face. I speed toward them, focused on nothing but the cement ledge that separates the steps from a cluster of trees. I ollie onto it, balance the trucks on the edge, and slide down—fast, but completely in control. And I land, bending my knees to absorb the shock and forcing the board into a quick turn to keep from going into the street. And that’s when I fake my crash.
I let my board slip out from under my feet, sending me tumbling hard toward the ground. I fall onto my shoulder and roll it out like I’ve done hundreds of times, but I imagine the whole thing looks far more dramatic to a nonskater. In case it doesn’t, I add a little flourish, taking the whole display up a notch or two.
Gripping my leg to my chest I lie on the ground, yelling loudly and writhing in pain. And that’s when Dad arrives at my side, wearing his suit and looking like a concerned pedestrian. “Are you okay?” he keeps asking, while I respond with more yelling. And writhing.
He reaches for his cell phone and I have to turn away to conceal the grin on my face. I never thought I’d turn a do-over into a heroic act, and I sure as hell never thought I’d make Dad my sidekick.
Now the man has stopped and is straddling his bike and balancing his weight on the curb. His two daughters are stopped too, waiting curiously behind him and staring at me. I let out a high-pitched groan and return to thrashing on the ground.
Dad has to yell to be heard above the hum of the passing traffic. “My cell phone is dead and this boy needs some help. Can you call nine-one-one?”
I can’t hear what the man says in reply, but he appears to be digging around in the pocket of his jeans.
This brilliant street performance should probably be my sole focus, but I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on. I look past the girls and into the street, and see the truck. Dad’s watching it too, and I’m sure neither one of us is breathing as it shifts into the lane closest to us.
I sit up to get a better view, no longer caring if I’ve broken my cover. In a fraction of a second, no one will be looking at me anyway.
The truck speeds up to make the light and travels through the intersection, and a few seconds later, it veers off the road and up onto the curb. It sideswipes the fire hydrant, sending water shooting into the air. It doesn’t stop moving until it slams into the side of the building. Stucco goes flying in every direction and smoke starts shooting up from the open hood.
I know how this scene will look a few hours from now—I clearly remember the “after” photo of the building: windows shattered, framing exposed, stucco piled on the sidewalk—but when I look at the little girl in front of me, I remember the other picture that ran with the news story. She’s still standing astride her light blue,
She crouches down low. “Is your leg okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. I think it’s okay.” I’m sure I look ridiculous, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, wearing this goofy smile.
Then my dad is by my side, his voice loud and direct. “Stay here. We’re going to go check on the driver.” The little girl and I watch as our fathers take off running toward the scene of the accident.
“I hope he’s okay,” she says.
“Don’t worry,” I say in a tone of voice that’s probably far too enthusiastic for this situation. “I have a feeling he’s fine.”
