Sweat soaks through my gloves and the butterflies in my stomach have turned into blood-sucking vampire bats. I bite my lower lip as I balance on the coping—the straight, hard ridge at the top—and hope for the guts to take my board and my body over the edge. Odelia waves to me like a prom queen on a float, and I get distracted. No one saw that, right?
Moron Forge (known as Ron to his parents and to me because I’m too chicken to call him Moron to his face) yells, “Stop hoggin’ the pipe, Berndog!” Moron is a loud-mouthed loser. He’s not that good at skating, only at ordering everybody around.
Boys tie my tongue in knots, so a snappy comeback to Moron is out of the question. I send him a dirty look and back up that look with a killer move. I put my foot on the front of my board and WHOOSH! I launch myself off the top. Dropping in I feel an adrenaline rush—an outrageous rush that sadly lasts only a split second. As I lean back into the curve, I realize my mistake. I should have leaned into it. My board goes left. I head right . . . and . . . CRASH! “Yee OW!” I slide five feet across the plywood and land at the bottom. I end up crumpled in a ball like a discarded gum wrapper. Not pretty.
I do a quick body check to make sure I haven’t cracked my spine. No bones are sticking out anywhere, so that’s a plus. A blur of a boy runs toward me and when I finally focus, I feel faint. It’s Wyatt. Wyatt Anderson. My insides turn to mush.
“Yo, that was epic, Dude. You alive?” he asks.
Wyatt has called me Dude since June 25th, the first day he rolled into the park on his black-and-red board. Wyatt obviously knows I’m not a boy. I have boobilage—insignificant chest pimples that I swear weren’t there last month. I can’t come close to getting mad at Wyatt for calling me Dude because I am in deep like with him. So deep in like with him that I can’t form more than a word or two if he’s within twenty feet.
News flash! Wyatt Anderson, the park’s cutest boy, is hovering over me, talking to me. I stare into his chin and stall. I want to say something. Anything. I want to sound witty and smart. I want to pretend my leg is broken in three places, so he’ll pick me up and carry me home.
“Dude, you got a concussion?”
I nod. “I’m good,” I say, popping to a stand. I walk to the gate, trying to look all casual, when really my leg is about to amputate itself. I don’t turn, but sense Wyatt’s eyes burning into me. When I hit the corner, I limp like a clown on stilts, minus one stilt.
Odelia glides to my side.
I limp faster.
“Bernice,” she says, annoyed. “Why do you go out in public looking and smelling like you do?” Odelia takes in an exaggerated breath, leans toward me, and pinches her nose.
I’m caught off guard and step back. A chill works its way up my neck.
Odelia taps her chin with her fingertip, and clicks her tongue. “And then you suffer the consequences because you can’t muster up the confidence to talk to a boy. It’s serendipitous that this has happened! I know now how to begin your instruction in the social graces.”
“Seren—what?” Maybe Wyatt’s right. Maybe I’m smack dab in the middle of a concussion.
“Ser-en-dip-i-tous,” Odelia says, sounding out the syllables like a second-grade teacher. “It means an accidental discovery of that which is useful.”
“Useful like a clean half-pipe run?” I snap.
“What I mean is that I’ve accidentally discovered—”
I interrupt. “The only thing you’ve discovered is that I choke up when I’m around Wyatt. I can’t spit out more than two words.”
“That’s right!” Odelia answers brightly. “My social graces lessons will help you with that.”
“Get this through your tiara-ed head, Odelia,” I say tapping her forehead. “I don’t want lessons of any kind, and I don’t need your help. Even if you could help me, I can’t be seen hanging out with someone who dresses as weirdly as you do. I’m a butthead for even letting you tag along today. I have to go.” I let my board fall to the sidewalk, hop on, and push off toward home.
***
Beauty and the Butthead
I nod to Mom, who’s sitting on the porch next door with her friend from the Handy Women of America Club. Dad’s not home. He’s slaving away at the family business—Jersey Bait and Tackle—that’s over the state line in New Jersey. I have the house to myself, and that’s a good thing. My parents won’t question me about the gash on my thigh. They don’t have a problem with me skating, but if they knew my little injury was the result of riding the half-pipe, they’d freak.
I put a glob of antibiotic ointment on my cut, but leave off bandages. Wimps wear those. And I am not a wimp. Truth is, I am totally a wimp. A wimp when it comes to talking to boys, but that doesn’t count.
I head for the kitchen in search of munchies. I need to snack away my pain. Not the pain from the cut, the pain in my gut caused by that embarrassing moment with Wyatt. I had a boy’s undivided attention, and I couldn’t talk to him. He must think I’m a stuck-up idiot.
I could use some chocolate. There’s no sign of a candy bar, chocolate chip granola bar, or fudge brownie anywhere in
