ten
Coco Nogales is a surfer from Mexico City,
who sold gum as a homeless kid until he heard of Puerto Escondido. He moved there after saving up money for seven months to buy
a bus ticket. Now he’s a world-class surfer.
—according to The Wave by Susan Casey
I’m stoked. Today I’m surprising Grace—taking her to a skate park. She’s gonna flip. Most surfers skateboard, but Grace has never tried it. I think it’s fear. But I’m going to teach her how to surf on concrete and reinforce some skills she needs for a 360. It’s a great way to have fun and to get her away from chumps like Damien for an afternoon. I need to make up for screwing up the other day at the beach. It was obvious I kind of pissed Grace off when I popped off at Damien.
As I drive through a part of town Grace has probably never seen, a big pang hits me in the gut. This is—was—Jorge’s hood. He’s the reason I even feel comfortable coming here. I pull into Rick D’s Skate Park.
Grace squeaks, “Skateboarding?”
“Longboarding, Parker, longboarding,” I say. “It’s a great way to work on your footwork, like cross-stepping. And then we’ll work on some f ^boaootwork to help you with the elusive 360.”
“Falling onto water has a lot less consequences than onto concrete.” She twists her hands around, eyeing the Dervish, a freaking awesome longboard skateboard.
Bam. I cock my head at her and enjoy giving her the Look. The mom look. Might be the only time I get to use it. “Are you turning chicken?”
She flaps her arms and says, “Bawk.”
I laugh. “At least you’ll admit it. Helmets, pads, and Kevlar gloves will help protect you from getting all scraped up.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “What about broken bones?” Then she glances around. “Or bullets?”
The bullets comment irritates me. “This place is all good during the day. Just don’t hang around here at night.” Still, a little uneasy, I glance around just in case. Yeah, that happens every now and then in this neighborhood. But not at the skate park. And not in the daytime. I brush those concerns off with a wave of the hand. “We’re not riding a half-pipe or ramps, just a course with a gentle slope. It’s as beginner as it gets. Besides, you forget how good your balance is.”
She frowns. “I don’t have the gear.”
She’s grasping at straws now. “I bought a board here last summer. The guy who works here said he’d hook us up with gear for you to borrow.”
Ten minutes later, I’m watching Grace adjust the strap to her helmet, which is lopsided. I reach over. “Dude. Let me help.” She lifts her chin and looks at me, grateful. I’m enjoying the moment. Tightening the strap, touching her just below her delicate jawline. Cheesy, yes. But true. All the way.
I pass her the gloves.
She says, “I’m about to pee my pants.”
I laugh. “No worries. I’ll say you’re with someone else.”
She pushes me. My skin warms where her hand should still be.
She says, “When’d you learn how to do this?”
I laugh. “Every little boy skateboards. At least the cool ones do. But Jorge got me into the tricks and stuff.”
She gives me a sad look. That’s the one look I don’t want. I ignore it. I’ll have my day. Someday. In court. When I’m on the side of folks like Jorge. He could have been the next Coco Nogales. But Jorge’s six feet under and Grace’s pity looks don’t change shit. Her naive and flippant sympathy irritate me. Somebody like her dad should have handled Jorge’s case. But his firm only takes so many pro bono cases. The whole deal sucks. Period.
I harden myself. Shrug her off. “I usually practice in the afternoons, after you go home.”
“What’s up with being so secretive?” she asks.
“I don’t have to tell you everything. I’ve skateboarded forever. It’s time to branch out—hence, longboarding. I have my secrets.” I hop on my Dervish and carve big arcs on the sidewalk. I walk up and down the Dervish, cross-stepping like it’s a surfboard.
Grace fiddles with the frayed edge of a pair of shorts. “Show off.”
I keep it up. “Jealous.”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
I stop by running my board into the grass and flip off it into the air.
Grace screeches, “What the heck? You could break your neck.”
I cup my hands over my mouth and bass before playfully mocking Grace. “What the heck? I could break my neck,” followed by rap-sounding noises.
She pushes into me with her side. “Quit it. I’m serious.”
I bass some more, beatbox, and rap, “Qu-qu-qu-quit it. Qu-qu-qu-quit it. The little lady’s scared I’ll bit it.” I quit and tug at my chinstrap.
“I don’t suggest you pursue a career as a rapper, and you might want to work on the whole staying-in-the-same-verb-tense thing.”
“Aw, c’mon, girl. You know I’m irresistible.”
“Whatev. No more flipping in the air off moving objects. It freaks me out.”
I shrug. “Let’s start you off as basic as it gets—carving. It’s all in the hips. Pretend you’re carving on the water and that’s pretty much it.”
She makes a point of eyeing the board and then the concrete.
“Check it. I’ll walk next to you while you get started. You can even hold on to me for balance. We’ll take it super slow and let you feel the rhythm.” I stand in front of her, the board at our feet between us, holding my hands out.
She grabs hold of my hands. Her board rolls back and forth a little. She tightens her grip.
I smile. “See, no problemas. Now I’ll walk forward and when you feel comfortable, sway your hips back and forth, keeping your feet in the same position they would be on your surfboard. It’s easy. Promise.”
I walk sideways, facing Grace. She’s tense, I hold on to her and smile. A few feet later, she relaxes a bit.
“That’s it. Loosen up. Try turning your hips. I’ll stay with you.”
She nods. She’s in the zone. She turns her hips and a smile creeps across her face.
She whispers, “It’s like surfing concrete.”
I’m not even sure she knows she said anything out loud. Her cut >
face is lit up like a kid at Christmas. She lets go of my hands and weaves back and forth, gliding on the sidewalk.
This is one of the few times outside of surfing I’ve seen her this relaxed. This happy. My day is made.
She carves big arcs. Getting confident. Maybe too much. She tightens her curves and her speed picks up. I jog toward her. She’s headed straight for a patch of grass. Shit. She didn’t give me a chance to teach her how to—she nails the grass and hops off the board. Whew.
I say, “Whaddya think?”
She lies down on a patch of green. “I think this is amazing.”
I join her. “You ready to learn how to cross-step?”
She turns to face me. “You know it.”
I roll to my side and face her. “Think we can include this in our training regimen?”
She lights up from the inside out. “Heck yeah. This is total clutch.”
I raise my hand for a high five. She meets me midair. We connect for the slightest moment. I curl my fingers around hers for a moment before letting go. Holding hands with Grace is like playing with fire, and I’m not much on getting burned.