Exit Asshole Dave

WHEN MY mom and sister get home that evening. I tell them, politely, to butt out.

“He’s waited sixteen years to hear about it,” I say. “He can wait a little longer.”

I also tell Chris about punking out with my dad. His response: “It’s cool. You’ll do it when you’re ready.”

Like, never.

Over the next few days, Chris and I prowl around town for prime skating terrain, spending a few hours at the skate park to appease him, but significantly more time in places like Tropical Smoothie and BOA and random drainage ditches, where I feel a little freer and more spontaneous, where I can try out crazy combinations without worrying I’ll look stupid in front of my colleagues. Chris films me with his phone and says he’s going to cut up the videos and upload them to YouTube in preparation for my big debut. I’m a little worried What’s in Wooten’s mouth will follow me to a YouTube channel, but there’s only so much I can stress about. My top priority for now is not looking like a total amateur at Plan Z.

“Homework assignment, Wooten,” Chris says to me Thursday night before we part. He’s heading out to Cali in the morning to visit his dad for a long weekend, leaving me to my own devices for a few days. “That two-story rail outside of BOA—I want you to be able to slide it any which way—front, back, nose, tail, and board.”

“Grinds are so basic.” I much prefer the aerial tricks, preferably over long flights of stairs. I like the “wow” factor.

“Grinds show off your technical ability, and judges love them. Plus, the skate park has a hell of a lot more rails than it does stairs. Curbs too. You should work on your mounts and dismounts. Transitions matter,” he says with emphasis, because I’m starting to nod and smile like I do whenever he goes into boss mode. “For the three-step flight of stairs, I’d practice your nollie laser flip. That’s a crowd pleaser. Save the nightmare flip for the finale.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“I want your no-comply’s so smooth it looks like you’re moonwalking.”

“Are you done?” I’d rather our goodbye kiss not be interrupted by Chris’s verbal diarrhea.

He smiles and cups my face in both hands, plants a big sloppy kiss on my mouth for fun, then comes in again for something softer and more meaningful. “Wish me luck,” he says.

“Good luck.” I pinch his ass for a little extra, and he yelps and swats at me.

The next morning between classes, I watch on my phone as Chris makes his transcontinental flight, arriving safely in California by midafternoon. He sends me text updates about his great coming-out weekend. Apparently his mom hinted to his dad at what was going on, so his dad was prepared with some celebratory festivities, including a fancy dinner at Chris’s favorite restaurant and night out at a gay nightclub owned by a client of his dad.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but even more than that I’m glad Chris and his dad have the kind of relationship where coming out only brings them closer. That’s pretty damn special. Even though I’ve envied Chris’s blessed life over the years, I want only the best for him. He deserves it.

On Sunday night it’s gotten pretty late at the BOA. Most of the skate rats have all gone home for the night, and it’s just me and a couple of other guys. Word has spread that I’m entering Plan Z, and like Chris, everyone has an opinion on which tricks are my best and which ones need work. Dave is there, too, but he hasn’t tried talking to me since the incident. There was another scandal at Sabal Palm High, a tryst between an assistant coach and a senior. What’s in Wooten’s mouth has faded a bit.

I’m taking a break between sets when Dave approaches me. I briefly consider getting on my skateboard and jetting home or else going in for another round, but I decide instead to stand my ground and face him once and for all, even better since Chris isn’t here. Dave’s been giving me puppy-dog looks in the hallway and joining in the chorus of supporters when I’m skating. I know he wants to make up.

“I heard you’re going to compete in Plan Z,” Dave says, keeping a couple feet of distance between us. Like a shamed dog, he also won’t make eye contact.

“Yup.”

“You’re going to murder it.”

I shrug. The silence is deafening.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” he says.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You read my note?”

“No.” I ended up burning it, which is way better than sticking pins in it. In any case, I found it to be therapeutic.

“I fucked up, Theo.”

I nod, unable to find it in me to accept his apology. There’s a wall about ten feet high between us, with razor wire, and I can’t scale it.

“Can you kick my ass to make me feel better?” Dave asks.

I’m not built that way. All the anger and frustration I felt toward Dave has morphed into this tough little nut of bitterness, candy-coated with regret. When I think about what he did, I feel sick and weak and betrayed, so I try not to think about it at all. “What you did was so uncool, Dave. I don’t even have the words for it. And I know a lot of words.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“No one deserves that.”

“I’m sorry, Theo. I was getting some things off my chest to one of the guys, and your name slipped out. He didn’t believe we were hooking up, so I sent him that picture. I was stupid. And an asshole. Everything you ever said about me is true.”

I don’t like how he’s making me out to be the asshole, like all he could do was live up to my expectations. Besides, that was before I even knew him.

“You played me twice,” I tell him. “First in taking that picture without me knowing, and then in sending it around.”

“If I could take it back, I would. I swear.”

For a moment there’s nothing between us but the sticky sounds of wheels on pavement. I wish I could forgive him—I really do—but he totally screwed me over, and just like some things can’t be unseen, some deeds can’t be undone. Whenever I look back on how I came out, I’ll think of that goddamned picture and how Dave stole it from me, like that scene in Indiana Jones where the guy gets his heart ripped out and the ripper presents it to the crowd like it’s some kind of prize. I was a trophy for Dave. Whether or not it was his intention, that’s how it feels.

“I thought we could be friends,” I say to Dave. “I wanted to, but now when you’re around, I just feel….” I search for the word. “Unsafe.”

Dave nods, and I glance over at him, feeling that familiar tug inside me. In a way it’d be so much easier to forgive him. I really did like hanging out with him…. But he’s not trustworthy, and I’ll never risk getting played by him again.

“I just wanted to tell you to your face I’m sorry,” he says.

I’m afraid to say anything that will give the impression he’s allowed back into my life, so I just stand there in a fortress of silence.

Dave sighs. “Good luck at Plan Z. I’ll be cheering for you.”

I watch him walk away, feeling massive amounts of emptiness and regret—for the friendship we lost and the one we could have had.

Goddamned Asshole Dave.

CHRIS MAKES me train that whole week at the skate park. He even wears a whistle, tube socks, and a headband to keep the sweat off his forehead. He means for it to be funny, and it works. He looks so ridiculous that I can’t even get mad at him when he pushes me to work harder or land a trick with more finesse, or when I bust my ass, to get back up.

There are a lot of shorties at the skate park who want to learn my tricks, so we take some time each afternoon giving them pointers. Needless to say, we have a sort of following by the end of the week. Chris talks me up, telling the kids to come out on Saturday for the competition and cheer for me. I can’t believe it, though, when we show up on Saturday morning and there’s a crowd of middle schoolers all chanting my name. Ryanne is with us, and she gushes over how adorable it all is, and Chris ruffles my hair. We already registered online by sending in Chris’s video of me skating, so all I have to do is show my ID and get a number. There are a few members of Plan Z’s pro team already testing the concrete—T-Bo Hendrix, Austin Schriller, and Havi Martinez. Seeing them shred gets my gut doing a spin cycle, and I remember to breathe deeply and concentrate on the steady sound of my wheels on pavement as I warm up.

I scan the crowds to see if my dad is here. Nope. I check my phone, and there are no messages or calls from him either. I see my mom and sister in the stands and wave. My mom calls my name and blows kisses. It’s embarrassing but also sweet. Chris notices me scoping out the bleachers and asks me who I’m expecting. I tell him, and he shakes his head. Then we drop it. I can’t let it distract me. I’ve got to focus.

The competition is spread out over the entire park, with sections cordoned off with metal blockades. Bleachers have been set up for viewing, but most of the people we know are clustered around the blockades up front. Plan Z was here the day before setting up proper half- and quarter-pipes for vert skating, so most of the skate park structures are reserved for park. The competition is set up in heats, where the top twenty in points continue on to the second round, and then the top five go into the finals, which are televised live on Plan Z’s web channel. By noon I’ve made it into the top twenty, along with the pro and semipro skaters and a few guys who must not be from around here because I’ve never seen them before. After a lunch of chili dogs—Chris’s suggestion—we do our second heat, and I bust my ass on the laser flip but kill it on the nightmare flip. I make up for the biff in grinds, which Chris was right, the judges seem to score higher than the less technical tricks.

When the news comes through that I’ve made it through the second heat, I can’t stop smiling. Ryanne hugs me and Chris smacks my ass. Our gaggle of middle schoolers all cheer when the announcer calls my name, and I jog down the line where they’re hanging on the metal guard rails like the little street urchins they are. I slap all their hands, and they go totally nuts. Some of our skater friends are here and they give me props as well, but there’s something about the littler kids’ blind admiration that strikes a chord. It’s like their dreams haven’t been sapped out of them just yet, and they’re looking at me like if I can do it, then they can too. I guess that’s what it’s like to be a role model.

“You came with your own fan club?” a man asks me. I saw him before at the registration table. I noticed him because he seemed overdressed for the occasion—slacks and fancy dress shoes, a long-sleeved collared shirt open at the top, and hair that was once carefully styled but has since melted in the heat.

“Local kids,” I tell him.

“Are you local?”

“Yeah.”

He seems to perk up at that. “You must know the area pretty well, then?”

“I do.”

“Then I’m in luck.” He offers his hand for me to shake. “I’m Vincent Longorio with Plan Z. I do marketing and arrange the skate sessions. I have a few guys getting ready to do a Dirty South tour….” He pauses. “You know what Dirty South means?”

I laugh because this guy is, like, ten years older than me. I’m not sure if Dirty South is a new term to him, or if he thinks it will be for me. “Like rap music from the south?”

“Exactly,” he says with a smile. “We’re taking a road trip through the South during winter break. We were thinking of going straight to Miami from Daytona, but if you’d be willing to be our tour guide, I’d love to stop in here for a day or two.”

“Totally,” I say, then think to ask, “What does a tour guide do?”

“Shows the crew where the best skate places are. You eighteen?”

“No, sixteen.”

Vincent nods. “We’d need your legal guardian to sign off on it. You’ll probably be in some of the footage. We’d pay you for your time. And who knows, if you do well, Plan Z is always looking for talented and photogenic youth.”

I smile, feeling a little bashful. “Yeah, cool,” I tell him. He asks me for my number, and I give it to him. Then he hands me his business card, and I tuck it into my wallet. Chris comes up while we’re exchanging information, and I introduce him to Vincent as my boyfriend.

“Boyfriend?” Vincent asks, his eyebrows hitching up a little like it’s a scandal.

“Is that a problem?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

“Not at all.” His smile widens. “We’re a very inclusive group.”

“The finals are starting soon, T,” Chris says, commanding my attention. He gives Vincent a hard look, and I chalk it up to Chris’s territorial nature. Whether it’s surfing at the beach or skating, he’s always a little suspicious of outsiders, especially those who end up selling photographs or footage of a session without permission—it happens pretty often.

I grab my board and wait in line behind the other contestants. I’m slated to go last, which is good because I want to see what tricks the others pull off before my run. Now it’s just the pros and me—all of them execute their runs more or less flawlessly, with a lot of style and charisma. T-Bo sends his skateboard under the rail while jumping over the top of it and landing on the other side. It’s so simple, yet flashy at the same time, that I kick myself for not thinking of it first.

And then it’s my turn to go. I decide to abandon my routine, which feels stale by now, and just go with whatever feels right. I don’t know if it’s the crowd’s energy or knowing that I have nothing to lose, but everything comes so easily—every grind, kickflip, and ollie feels effortless, like my board is an extension of my body. I nail all my best tricks, some of them twice, so that by the time the buzzer goes off, I’m sweating and breathless and totally amped because even if I didn’t score the highest in points, I really did kill it.

“Dude,” Chris keeps saying over and over as he embraces me in a big, sweaty bro-hug. Ryanne bounces and claps and doesn’t know our skater lingo, so she just keeps saying, “Wow, Theo, that was amazing.” My mom and sister sandwich me in a hug, and Tabs asks me if I’m famous now.

I end up coming in second, just shy of first in points behind Austin Schriller because of his wicked 720 flip I’ve never seen anyone land in real life. Kudos to him. He comes up to me afterward and asks if I’m with anyone, and it takes me a minute to realize he means if I’ve signed with someone. “No,” I tell him.

“You should talk to Vincent,” he says. “We could use someone like you on our team.”

As if being summoned, Vincent materializes a moment later. “I’m going to call you in a couple weeks about being our guide, Theo.” He says it almost like it’s a warning. “You do well in that, we might have room for one more on our team.”

“Yeah, sure, that’d be great.” I’m still reeling from the fact that I got through the competition while keeping my rep intact. The chance at a sponsorship is a total bonus and not anything I was expecting.

The second-place prize is $1000, which couldn’t come at a better time, because I owe my mom for putting me on her car insurance. As we pack up to leave, I scan the crowds one more time, thinking it would have been cool if my dad had showed up.

Well, there you have it.