We’re told to warm up, and the skaters race for the park’s obstacles at the same time. The half-pipe is blocked off, and that worries me. I could have used some last-minute practice. I cruise up and down the ramps and the volcano and pull off a few tricks. I ollie up the low rail, slide down, land it with a solid THUMP.
I can’t look at the crowd. I can’t look for Odelia. Or for Wyatt. Or anyone else, for that matter. My mojo is pretty fragile today, and I can’t lose the sketchy bit of confidence I have.
I sail over to the quarter-pipe, but a kid called J-Bone keeps jumping in front of me. I swallow the vinegar and pour on the honey. I tug his sleeve to get his attention. “You’re good,” I tell him. “Listen, can I get in a couple of runs alone before the whistle blows? Please?”
J-Bone steps to the side, sweeping his arms, giving me permission. “No problem,” he says. Then he checks me out. “Hey, you’re a girl.”
At first, I’m not exactly sure what to say to that. Then it comes to me. I look him straight in the eye, say “Thank you,” and skate away, smiling.
I try my rock to fakie once on the quarter and do it, no problem. I’m about to practice the rock and roll when a guy in a Lawrence County Security shirt shoos us off the pipe. This is it. The skate-off is about to begin.
The skaters are separated into three groups of seven. I’m in the last heat. Wyatt’s in the first and I watch him carve around the park’s obstacles as smooth as a spoon slips through melting ice cream. He ollies up the high rail, the flat bar, the manny pad, and a random bench, and completes each move without messing up. He flies down the staircase with the grace of an eagle, adds a tail grab, and lands without a hitch. Every once in a while, he throws in a front nose manual, because it’s his favorite. His pop-shove-it is perfect; he adds several mandatory kick flips along with heel flips, a varial, and a 360. And he goes for the harder 5-0 grind instead of the 50-50. Of course. He is that good.
So is everyone else! During the second heat, a kid with a red beanie does a backside lipslide down the rail. Really? Who does that? Another boy pulls off a one-handed handstand on the coping. I feel as if I’m watching Porchtown’s version of the X Games.
When I’m up, I do a couple of ollies and heel flips. I’ve never ollied the staircase or the hubbas before, and even though every other skater has done this, there’s no way I’m adding a new move. I attack my pop-shove-it, do a 50-50 on the rail, and pull both moves off. I lock down my highest ollie so far, and start my kick flip. As if in slow motion, I feel the board rotate the full 360 degrees. In that split second, I pray my back foot catches it, my front foot sticks to it, and both feet land on it. When I realize my feet have landed on the deck exactly as the board’s four wheels hit the concrete, I let out the breath I was holding. Kick flip, over and done. I’m sweaty, my mojo is working, and yes, I. Am. A. Girl. I have five minutes left. I can do what I came to do. It’s time for the half-pipe.
While I wait for an opening, I check the audience. Odelia’s there in the front row. She holds up crossed fingers and shouts, “Good luck!”
I can’t get distracted. I have to erase everything out of my mind except the rock and roll. I take to the ramp like a 007 secret agent on a mission. When I drop in, I feel the adrenaline soaring through my veins. I get up the speed I need—the perfect amount of speed—and fly up the vert, leaning not too far backward and not too little forward. Once at the top—BANG! I flip my trucks over the coping and my deck lands smack dab in the middle, exactly where it should be. So far, so good. Putting any cockiness out of my brain, I shift my weight to the back and pivot like a whip, like Wyatt’s taught me. When the front trucks connect, I throw my full weight—every ounce of my ninety-five pounds—on the skateboard, keeping my center of gravity toward the downside. And. I. GO!
When I’m at the bottom and my heart stops pounding in my ears, I hear, “Made of awesome! Made of awesome! Bernice is made of awesome!” I smile and wave, just as a whistle blows. The competition is over. And I’m still in one piece!
Wyatt is by the fence. I join him. I pull off my helmet, attempt to fluff my hair, and say hi. I tell him he was terrific, and he talks about who should place and who stunk.
“You did great,” he tells me. “None of the other girls were as smooth as you on the half-pipe.”
Wyatt motions for me sit on the ground with him. I fiddle with my shoelaces because one, my cheeks are busy changing colors, and two, I’m still so nervous around him. Seconds later, I remember to say, “Thanks.” Wyatt nudges me with an elbow, and I try not to think about his arm touching mine,
