Fireworks: A Holiday Bad Boy Romance (59 page)

“That guy’s up,” Abs
says.

“What guy?” I ask dumbly,
though I’m looking at the same board she is.

The obvious reaction
would be excitement, seeing someone with such a clear talent, but I’m not ready
to give up on that last teenage hero. I refuse to become jaded, though I’m
beginning to lose track of how to go about avoiding that anymore.

Mike’s still an amateur
skater. That’s why he’s in this competition. Usually, he’s the one way out
front, though.

I think, logically, I
know that even if this guy ends up beating the pants off of Mike, that doesn’t
mean the latter’s going to lose his shot at the big time. I just thought I was
going to be there to see it happen. That was supposed to be today.

Magazines have been doing
articles on Mike and sponsors have been hovering, but for whatever reason, he’s
just never had that breakout moment. That was supposed to be today.

I care so much because
I’ve been watching Mike Onomato skateboard for a long time now. The
competitions have always been a thing for him, but I don’t always have the
money to go.

I care so much because
Mike’s not one of those guys on the cusp of stardom that’s touring right along
with the pros, only divided from his counterparts by an as-yet-unsigned
contract with this sponsor or that.

Mike’s from
here
.

I don’t know who Mike is
because he’s always been as good as he is today. Really thinking back, I don’t
think I even noticed he’d gotten very good at all until a few months ago. I
know who Mike is because he’s been skating at the park near my house as long,
if not a little longer, than I’ve been visiting it.

It’s kind of reaffirming
to see someone so close, if not personally, then at least in terms of general
proximity, having doors like that open; the disappointment of seeing someone else’s
name above his right now is only overshadowed by seeing the person, himself.
It’s Ian, the flirty slacker/moron that decided it was his right to implant
himself in my day with my friend.

That’s how it always
happens. My dad told me about this particular brand of misery a long time ago.
At first, I thought he was just spouting the curmudgeonly conspiracies of his
age, but I’m really starting to think he was right. “Every time someone decent
and talented is about to get ahead, they’ll be overshadowed or dragged back
down by someone with all the inspirational qualities of a cherry pit.”

Dad’s not much of an
optimist.

Still, as I’m watching
Zavala, I.—the I. apparently for Ian—I’m having trouble remembering why I’m so
upset. For a minute, I even forget that it has something to do with the guy
skating on the other side of these barricades.

I didn’t even really
bother looking at him before. I just wanted him to go away.

It’s not his general look
so much that captivates me, though his sometimes colorful sleeves of tattoos do
catch the eye a bit. It’s the way he moves that gets me.

He’s smooth, but precise.
There doesn’t seem to be any wasted motion whatsoever, but every movement of
his is a flourish. The guy is pulling some insane junk out there. There’s
something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on, but whatever it is,
I’ve never seen someone skate like this.

I don’t know how I’ve
never heard of him, but he must be some near-pro on his way to a business
meeting that’s going to render him permanently ineligible to enter competitions
like this one in the future.

He’s riding a manual up
to the rail of the fun box and he doesn’t need to do anything else. He could
fall flat on his face and he’d still trounce everyone by at least twenty
points.

Before the last few
seconds of the round click away, Ian makes what starts as the slightest gesture
and the manual turns into a hardflip late kickflip as the clock runs out and he
somehow manages to kiss the rail before his board is back on the incline and he
rolls out perfectly.

Mike who?

Chapter
Two

Snooze Button

Ian

“…I’m not going to tell
you again!” dad shouts and slams the door.

The only problem is, I
was asleep for the first part of the conversation, so that thing that he’s not
going to tell me again—he might have to bend that rule a little bit.

I’m not really dad’s cup
of tea anyway. He was decent enough about the way I choose to spend my free
time while I was still a teenager, so long as I kept my grades up and went to
college after high school graduation.

That’s probably what the
old man was yelling about. I’m looking at the clock and I’m running late for my
first day of the new semester.

I get out of bed and
throw something on. After my first class, I’m free for the next four hours, so
why bother getting all nice and pretty for everyone? Not that I’ve ever been
accused of being pretty. I think the tatts took care of that.

I’m daddy’s little ray of
gloom.

So far, I’ve managed to
meet his absolute bare-minimum requirements of me, so he can’t kick me out, but
I’ve been riding that line for a while now, and I’m not sure how much longer
he’s going to put up with it.

Dad’s a rich lawyer, so
I’m supposed to be a rich lawyer.

I’m pre-law, sure, but
that’s not where my interests lie. That’s just how I’m getting by until I get
my shot. I’m not worried about blowing it, either. I just need one shot and I’m
out of here on my own terms and I’ll never have to work a real job a day in my
life.

What can I say? I have
ambition. I’ve heard that’s a positive thing to most people.

I take a moment to admire
the trophy from that street competition a few weeks ago. It was my first time
going up against Mike Onomato. Everyone told me he was the guy to beat.

Well…

Dad’s waiting in the
entryway, holding out the key to his new Mercedes, but I walk past him,
muttering something about the beautiful fall air. I get my hand on the front
door knob.

“You’re going to be
late,” he says. “It’s your first day. Do you think you could at least try to
put forward an effort? Maybe even just pretend for my benefit so I don’t have
to sit so close to your continued attempts to implode your future? Is that
possible?”

“You’re kind of high
strung, dad,” I tell him. “Has anyone ever said that to you?”

“You’ve said that to me
multiple times a day since you were fourteen, son,” he says. “Now I don’t care
if you drive or ride, but get in the car and leave
that
—” the jerk grabs the skateboard from out of my hand “—behind.
I want you focusing on your classes. You’re coming toward the end of pre-law
and soon you’ll be headed to law school as long as you keep your grades up, so
this is the time for you to make your mark and build the—”

I finish the sentence,
“—build the foundation for an enjoyable and comfortable future for me and my
family. I’ve heard the spiel, dad. I’m not that late.”

He opens the front door,
still holding my skateboard in his other hand.

“You’re not a teenager
anymore,” he says. “You’re too old to ride a skateboard to class.”

“I’m a skater, dad,” I
tell him. “It’s kind of what I’m going to be doing for a while.”

“Right now, you’re
unemployed and you live at home with me and your mother, so I think we can
start taking skateboarding seriously as a career when it starts paying for your
school and your housing and your…” he goes on.

This is the most
ridiculous thing about my life. I’m an adult, but I’m still under his thumb. I
guess I could move in with one of my buddies from the park, but they’re squalor
junkies and it’s all I can do to stand at their doors while they grab their
shit.

Maybe I could get a real
job, but there’s not a whole lot of hiring going on around here. There’s a
waiting list to work at the burger franchises. Maybe if I had some sort of
marketable skill other than pushing around a wheeled board for the enjoyment of
others it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but for now, I suckle the teat of my
father’s wealth.

I usually call it
something different.

“I’ll ride in the car,” I
tell him, probably interrupting what he was saying, though I honestly couldn’t
tell you for sure. “Just give me the board and spare me the speech, will you?”

He turns his head away
from me slightly, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. It’s his lawyer
stare. Maybe I’m just used to it, but I don’t really remember ever being
intimidated by the look. It’s funnier that he thinks he can intimidate someone
with a look than anything.

“Fine,” he says and hands
the board back to me. “Where’s your backpack?”

“I’m picking one up,” I
tell him. “I haven’t really had time to do much school shopping.”

“You’ve been spending all
of your time practicing for that competition,” he says. “You’re going to have
to learn that there are things more important than hobbies in life.”

“Wasn’t there an
agreement that you’d spare me the lecture?” I ask.

“I’m your father,” he
says. “Until you’re doing what I think you should be doing, I’m going to
lecture you relentlessly. It’s how we work as parents. Mothers nag, though.
Fathers lecture and mothers nag. It’s a little different. I honestly don’t know
which is worse.”

This is his attempt to
get back into my good graces, the old, “aw, come on there, champ,” routine.
It’s almost endearing. The problem is that I’m twenty-one years old, and I’m a
little tired of the, “aw, shucks,” routine.

“So, did you meet any
girls this summer?” he asks. “I’m sorry I haven’t really been around all that
much. You know I had that big case and that just led to another one, and, well,
you know how it goes sometimes.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him.
“You work hard so that I can blow your money on tattoos and skateboards. I
appreciate it.”

All right, so the buddy,
buddy routine still works a little bit.

“You can keep those
through law school,” he says, “but you’re going to want to have them removed,
at least up to the elbow before you go to work with a firm.”

“What if I don’t want to
work for a firm, but as a pro-bono lawyer that helps poor people sue rich
people?” I ask.

“What’s the point of
that?” he asks. “If that’s your rebellion, you’re in for a shock, boy, because
you’re going to find out those poor people you make rich are going to end up
just like the rich people you made poor. Anyone’s an asshole with enough money
in their bank account.”

“You inspire me to be a
rich man like yourself, dad,” I tell him.

“There’s a sweet spot,”
he says. “I’ve lived in that sweet spot my entire professional life. We’ve got
enough money that we don’t have to worry about day to day financial concerns,
but we’re not so rich that we think we need to build some sort of empire for
the fact that we’re rich and we can.”

“You should come and teach
economics,” I tell him.

“I really should,” he
says. “Those guys you’ve got now haven’t been churning out any winners.”

Dad pulls over somewhere
near the center of campus and unlocks the door.

“I know you don’t think
this is where you want to be right now, but what you do now is going to have an
incredible impact on what kind of life you can have later down the road. I’m
not going to support you forever, Ian,” he says. “Once you’re out there, you’re
going to need to have something that will provide for you and any family you
may have down the line.”

“Weren’t we done with the
lecture?” I ask.

“I thought I explained
rather clearly that we’re never done with the lecture,” he says and smiles.

As I get out of the car
and close the door, I catch a look on my father’s face. It’s only there for a
brief moment, but it almost looks like a tinge of pain at seeing me going back
to school, like a parent sending his kid to kindergarten for the first time.

Then I realize that he’s
wincing at the sight of the board in my hand and the knowledge that that’s how
I’m going to start this semester: riding up to class on a skateboard, tattoos
popping out from under sleeves and pant legs, hair a wonderful mess, and
yesterday’s clothes on my back.

This isn’t the
prestigious moment he’d envisioned when he scheduled this morning off so he
could take me to my first day of fall classes.

Not really my problem.

I push the pine across
the campus, then across the street to the building where my psychology class
is. I get to my classroom without too many awkward glances.

Really, I don’t like
being the moron sitting in class with a skateboard under his feet, but I can’t
miss a moment working. This next competition is the big one.

Class is late in
starting, so I dodged a bullet there, but most of the seats are already filled.
I’m about to make my way to one toward the back when I recognize that chick I
was trying to flirt with at the competition a few weeks ago and I change
direction.

The only open seat near
her is directly behind, but I take it.

“Small world,” I say, but
she doesn’t turn around or otherwise acknowledge my presence or existence.

“All right, class,” the
professor says. “Sorry about the late start; how was everyone’s summer?
Wonderful. Now, let’s get down to business: The human mind. It’s one of the
most fascinating things—scratch that—
the
most fascinating thing that we can study, because through its ability to
perceive and to process…”

I thought it would be
better to get the core pre-law stuff out of the way first, that having a couple
of semesters where I only had to worry about generals seemed like the way to go
at the time.

Yeah, the professor’s
still talking.

Psychology is interesting
as a subject, but I hate the touchy, feely direction it’s taken in the last few
decades. Nurturing is great, and sure, it’s important, but sometimes people
need to be confronted with the results of their negative behavior and learn
that there are real consequences involved in being the dapper little snowflake
that we’re all supposed to be now.

Really, I think I’d be
willing to tolerate living with my friend Rob. He’s about the sloppiest guy
I’ve ever met, but there is that one big perk that comes with living at home: I
don’t have to worry about a job.

It’s juvenile, yes;
irresponsible, absolutely, but them’s the breaks, and if I don’t have the time
to do what I need to do with my board, I just might end up living dad’s pet
fantasy of my life course.

Speaking of fantasies, I
have never actually found myself attracted to the back of someone’s head, but
the girl sitting in front of me who caught me checking out what she was packing
under her Vans shirt at the competition has every bit of the attention I’m not
willing to let the professor borrow.

Her hair is dark, maybe
black, though it’s hard to tell with the highlights coming out under the
fluorescent lights. The hair’s almost to her shoulders, but it gives way just
in time to leave the curve of her neck bare, only it’s not bare, teasing the
proximity of an angle with a better view leading below. She’s wearing a black
choker. I caught a glimpse of some kind of pendant on the front, but I wasn’t
looking that high as I was passing.

I don’t know what it is
about her, but even before she turned around, I knew that I wanted to talk to
her. It’s something in the way that she carries herself. You usually only see
it with people who’ve been skating for a long time, but I’d never seen her
around.

She’s standing up now,
and my eyes don’t raise, they only resettle on the curve of her hips.

She’s the only person standing
and I should probably be paying attention to what it is that she’s saying
because it looks like I’m up next for whatever we’re doing, but there’s nothing
but the punch in the gut of my attraction for her.

Now she’s sitting back
down and the professor is looking at me. The rest of the class turns to look at
me and I stand up.

“I, uh…” I start. It’s
very eloquent, I know. I think Keats said that at one point.

I’m starting to regret my
mini-fantasy.

“Tell us your name, what
year you are in school and what your major is,” the professor says.

“Ah,” I say and clap my
hands, eliciting a couple of raised eyebrows, but more generally, slight
annoyance. “I’m Ian Zavala,” I tell the class. “I am a…” I actually have to
think about it “…junior, and I’m pre-law.”

“Pre-law?” the professor
says. “Well, it’s good to know the constitution’s going to be in good hands.”

I lean toward the girl
sitting next to me, a very nervous-looking Asian girl who can’t be more than
fifteen years old and ask, “Is she being sarcastic? I can’t even tell?”

“What is one thing about
you that most people don’t know,” the professor says.

Apparently I hadn’t
filled my obligatory time.