“We can go whenever you’re ready.”
Claire nodded. Sipped more water.
Derrick started packing up her board, the tattered elbow and kneepads, when Dark came rushing over. No, rushing wasn’t the right word. He walked like somebody was chasing him, but also like he was acutely aware that everybody was paying attention to how he moved. The result was almost bashful, incongruous with his lanky frame.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, bud. Claire’s probably had enough for today.”
As he was talking, one of the other boys came up. “But you only got in one run.”
Behind them, the final boy yelled out, “Half a run, technically!”
When they laughed, it was different from the kids on the bus. The kids in her classes. This was familiar, bringing her in instead of pushing her out. For the briefest moment, it was a ray of warm, thawing light.
“A run’s a run,” the second kid said, reaching a hand toward Claire. “They call me Leg. That’s God. And you know Dark. But one run? That’s not a day. Especially if you’re skipping to hit up the Lair.”
As soon as he said it, Leg looked at Derrick like he might call the principal. As if he wasn’t complicit.
“I mean, school’s cool and everything,” Leg stammered. “But sometimes you need a mental health day. You know?”
“Your whole life is a mental health day, Leg,” God said.
They all laughed again, and it made Claire smile.
“Leg’s, like, the opposite of perfect attendance. What do you call that?”
“Community college,” Mark-O said.
The boys offered up a collective “Oh shit!” and immediately began riffing on potential merchandise. T-shirts. Stickers. The Lair would make a killing, they all agreed.
As they were talking to Mark-O, Derrick leaned close to her and said, “Up to you.”
Every single muscle in her body, every single cell, played a constant message: run, hide, go. At first, this response had been necessary for survival—for healing, they assumed. But she could no longer tell the difference between the constant panic that steered her away from everyone and everything and three seemingly nice guys who just wanted to skate.
So instead of talking she picked up her board (breathing, breathing), strapped on her helmet, and walked back into the ramp.
Leg and God didn’t stop talking to her, even as they traded tricks, trying to one-up each other—to impress Derrick, all of which made Claire smile. Dark sat on a couch just off the lip of one of the smaller ramps, writing or drawing in a black-and-white composition notebook. Every so often, he’d look up, catch Claire’s eye, and then go immediately back to the notebook.
It was as if the skate gods noticed her distraction and reached down to nudge her, just enough to lose balance. She hit the ground hard.
God got to her first, followed by Leg. After the initial check-in, the perfunctory “Damn, you really ate shit” acknowledgment, God yelled out, “She’s fine!” before Derrick could even get to them.
After that, they took turns rolling up next to Claire, encouraging her, giving her pointers, and once, God grabbed her hands and took her flying across the skate park. When God saw she was stable, he let go and she rode all the way to the ramp where Dark was sitting.
She tried to get off her board without falling, fell anyway, and then sat there watching Derrick and the other boys before Dark said, “You can come up here if you want.”
Claire tried to climb to the top of the ramp, but her entire body was torched. Dark reached down to help her up and, once she was on the couch, they sat there silent and awkward, watching the others.
Eventually, he gave her a long look before he exhaled and said, “So . . . why do you skate? You’re really, you know, bad.”
It made her laugh, the sound ringing across the nearly-empty park. Derrick shot her a glance, a smile, at the surprise of her voice. And it had surprised her, too. When was the last time she’d laughed? Actually laughed.
“Shit.” The pained look he seemed to always wear deepened. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I don’t skate but I still come. I guess I wanted to let you know you don’t have to skate.”
Before she knew what was happening, Claire started talking.
“I just keep thinking some of Derrick’s genes might show themselves. Maybe? Hopefully?”
They both watched as Derrick rode his board high above the top of a ramp, turning an effortless 360, before dropping back down onto the ramp with barely a sound. The boys slapped their boards against the ground in appreciation.
“He’s pretty amazing,” Dark said. “I think God and Leg are in love.”
“He was pro. Before.”
Claire almost laughed again at the way Dark’s jaw dropped. Leg must’ve seen it, must’ve thought something important was happening, because he flew toward them, taking the ramp too fast and nearly falling when he tried to stick the landing right next to Claire.
He jumped up, snapping his fingers and then fixing his hair in one fluid motion.
“Meant to do that, anyway. Dark, you trying to get me a prom date over here?”
“Jesus, please don’t start.”
Claire gave Dark a look, but he was already staring at the cover of his journal and shaking his head. She couldn’t tell if he was nervous, embarrassed, or something else.
“Her brother is a pro,” Dark said, obviously changing the subject.
“What? With who?”
Leg dropped next to Claire and stared at her like the question was a test—one Claire wasn’t sure how to pass.
Her anxiety spiked but she pushed through it and, trying to sound casual, said, “Dirty Version.”
Leg jerked back, like she’d just asked him if he wanted to know Jesus as his personal savior.
“Dirty Version? Holy shit.”
Claire nodded, but Leg was already standing, yelling for God. Even Dark looked impressed. Derrick rolled up, kicking his board into his hand as he tried to figure out what was going on. She smiled quickly and shook her head—it’s nothing—but before Claire could say anything, Leg yelled out, “Shit, bro. Dirty! Version! They make the best videos. Respect.”
Derrick smiled at Claire, as if she’d been trading secrets to score points with Dark and Leg. It embarrassed her, because it was true and because now Dark and Leg were staring at her, too, probably thinking the same thing.
“For a bit. Then I got old.”
“You still look pretty solid to me,” God said.
“You sound like Mark-O,” Derrick said, pulling off his helmet and pushing the hair back from his eyes. “But shit. Who knows what will happen?”
“Do they, like, have an old man division?” Leg asked, completely serious.
“Bro,” God said, shaking his head. “He’s, like, twenty-eight.”
Claire laughed with the rest of them, but she couldn’t help but notice how tired Derrick sounded. How uncertain he looked, as if he didn’t believe things would ever change. Both of them stumbling and feeling their way through a dense cloud with no end in sight.
Chapter Four
CLAIRE WOKE UP SORE THE NEXT MORNING, A FACT THAT announced itself suddenly when she first stood up. She had a flash, a memory, of basketball practice—long summer runs through the hills of North Carolina that made her legs rubbery. A time she could barely remember.