I give him a quick wave, push off, and fly down the vert. My run starts out clean, but toward the bottom something’s terribly wrong! It’s not my knees that are knocking, it’s my board. Oh, no! I’ve got the wobbles. My trucks are loose! With all the distractions I’ve had, I didn’t check the bolts, bearings, and screws like I usually do. And my constant mess-ups earlier must’ve loosened everything.
It’s pretty clear I can’t make it up the other side. No rock and roll for me. At this rate, I’ll never master it. At the bottom of the ramp, I grab my board and shuffle off the half-pipe. I’m the biggest skater dog to ever poop out on the pipe.
Wyatt comes over and stands close to me. Uncomfortably close. “Speed wobbles,” he says. “It happens.”
Wyatt understands. I could hug him, but I need at least twenty more social graces lessons before moving up to impulsive hug.
“I can show you an easier trick, if you want,” Wyatt offers.
“No! I’ll get this. I swear. I’ll prove it.”
“You’ve got nothing to prove to me, Bernie.” Wyatt plants a foot on his board. “Listen, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got an extra baseball practice at five.”
I want to keep Wyatt here for a little longer, so I muster up more questions like Odelia has taught me. “Where’s your practice?” I ask. “At the south end field? Or the north one? How long are your practices? Are you coming back to skate afterwards?” Five questions. Fired off like a robotic TV reporter grilling a sports star after a game.
Wyatt answers, “South. Until dark. See ya.”
Ugh. I stink at this conversation stuff.
I move to a spot on the bleachers and inhale what’s left in my water bottle. A father and son enter the park. The dad is carrying a mini skateboard for his boy who’s probably no older than five or six. The kid is talking fast—so fast that his poor dad can’t get a word in. And he’s running around acting as if he’s trying to jump invisible hurdles. Between the speed of his language and the speed of his legs, the boy screams attention deficit. How is this dad ever going to get this kid to settle down enough to teach him how to skateboard?
“Denny,” the dad says, “you’ve been begging me for weeks to come to the park. We’re here, so let me show you how to ride. We’ll take it step by step. Hop on. I’ve got you.”
Denny steps on. Denny steps off. The dad picks him up and puts him on. Denny jumps off, laughing. More hurdle hopping again. When Denny finally sticks to the board, he thinks he’s an expert. He pushes off too hard, and does a faceplant into the concrete. “I’m bad at this,” he whines. He stamps his feet and has a full-out temper tantrum.
Dad waits for the outburst to be over. “Let’s try riding together. Get on. I’ll push off and step on the back.”
Eventually, the dad teaches Denny how to ride on his own. All it took was patience. Denny will be tackling the mini ramp by the end of the day.
I bet I could do what Denny’s dad did. I could teach the Smile Academy kids how to skate! They need to let out their bottled-up energy and get some exercise. They need to get outside and enjoy what’s left of the summer. And I need to have something to keep my mind off everything that’s going on!
***
Dressed for the Part or Partly Dressed
It’s Tuesday, Prince and Princess Day at Smile Academy. I’m in my room, staring at the ceiling fan, trying to get myself in a partying mood. I push my comfy sheets to my feet, lean over the side of my bed, and search for a shoebox. I’ve been putting random junk in that box since I was two—junk I didn’t have the heart to throw out. On top, there’s the red ribbon I got last February. I entered a poster contest about bike safety and won. DON’T BE LIKE MIKE, it said. WEAR A HELMET WHEN RIDING YOUR BIKE. I drew a boy upside on his bike, seconds away from crashing. The poster still hangs in the Porchtown Police Station.
There are lots of photos of me and Roxanne from third grade, the year I got a camera for my birthday. There’s a bouncy ball, a charm bracelet from Aunt Winnie that I never wore, a used-up iTunes gift card, four glass beads, a star-shaped magnet that says YOU CAN’T KEEP ME FROM SHINING, and a Valentine’s Day card I was too embarrassed to give to Max Murphy, this second-grader who never got one from anybody. There’s a five-by-seven picture of me dressed as Cinderella, taken by a professional photographer. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was miserable because the photographer wouldn’t let me wear my battery-operated, light-up tiara because of the glare it caused.
I push all that junk aside and find what I want—my princess stash from years ago. There’s my favorite plastic golden tiara with plastic “jewels,” a candy “ruby” ring with a matching chewable necklace, a pair of anklets with frilly lace tops, and a magic wand. Looking at my old princess accessories puts me in a better mood.
“That’s a great collection.” Odelia’s popped into my room and is sitting on the edge of my bed.
“You’re dressed for the party already? You look beautiful.”
Odelia’s wearing the same fuchsia gown she wore when she showed up on my street in a pink convertible. Gold earrings dangle from her dainty earlobes. They match the gold-and-pink topaz necklace around her neck. These are new. I’ve never seen them before. Her hair is up and the tiara that’s perched on top catches the morning sunlight and makes random streaks on my dark green walls. I had gotten used to Odelia dressing like a regular kid, so I’m
