Fireworks: A Holiday Bad Boy Romance (69 page)

When all else fails, she
seems to respond to negativity pretty consistently.

“I’m not a fan girl of
anything,” she says. “I skate. I just don’t like to do it around people.”

“Neither do I, really,” I
tell her. “How do you solve that little problem, though?”

“Oh yeah,” she scoffs. “
You
have trouble skating around people.”

“Yeah,” I tell her.
“Haven’t you noticed that I’ve never actually learned how to be comfortable on
a board?”

“You’re full of crap,” she
says.

“Seriously,” I tell her.
“I do a lot better than I used to, but I don’t have a normal or goofy stance.
Neither one seems to work for me, so I just keep switching back and forth as I
ride. Over time, you know, I got to where it wasn’t a problem, but I’m still
not what I would call comfortable on a board.”

“
That’s
what it is,” she says with a gasp. “I was wondering why you
look so different when you’re skating—not dropping in, obviously. I think
that’s pretty standard for someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. You
never favor one stance or another and what looks like masterfully contained
clumsiness
is
actually masterfully
contained clumsiness.”

“I’m glad I could confirm
your theory,” I tell her. “I look clumsy?”

“I don’t know if that’s
the right word or not,” she says, “but you always look like you’re right on the
verge of losing your balance, but you never do. How do you ride, though? Why’s
it taken so long for you to feel comfortable on a board?”

“I don’t know,” I tell
her. “It’s just one of those things that never really set in. I think I tried a
normal stance at first, but when I found out that Tony Hawk has a goofy stance,
I started doing that, but after a couple of weeks, that didn’t seem to work any
better for me than the normal stance did. I just kept going back and forth
until, finally, I just kind of gave up and rode however I happened to land.”

“Everyone rides how they
happen to land,” she says, “but everyone favors one side or another.”

I shrug. “I don’t know
what to tell you. It’s great for the scoring, though. I’m counting on that in
the best trick. I’ll do the first two runs normal and the last three goofy.
They’ll count one or the other of them as switch and bump up my score a little
bit.”

“You’re the weirdest
skater I’ve ever met,” she says.

“Oh, so now I’m weird?” I
ask. Actually, given my personality and my general appearance, I suppose a case
could be made for that particular point.

“I don’t mean as a
person,” she says, “I mean as a skater. You can pretty much take anyone I’ve
seen in a street competition, but you can’t drop into a vert ramp. One of the
things that makes you so entertaining to watch is that you move differently
while you’re on your board, but that’s because you never settled on a favored
front foot. You’re kind of a mess, you know.”

“Thanks,” I tell her.
“What do you ride?”

“I don’t know,” she says.
“Neither one of them feel particularly comfortable to me.”

“Hilarious,” I say
monotone.

“What do you want me to
say?” she asks. “I get all nervous talking about skating when I’m around a real
skater.”

“You talk skating with me
all the time,” I laugh.

“
Me
skating,” she says. “It’s one thing to talk about it as a sport
or critiquing someone else’s style, but I just feel weird talking about me
skating.”

“You call me weird?” I
ask.

“You know, it’s
unfortunate that neither of our dads seem open to us being around one another,”
she says and quickly looks back toward the course where the kids are now taking
turns doing mini-runs on the quarter-pipe. It’s inspiring, hilarious and, at
times a bit sad, but it is undeniably entertaining to watch.

“Yeah,” I say. “Men are
such pigs.”

She looks back at me with
a mock expression of shock on her face. “That is not what I’m saying,” she
gasps. “My dad isn’t a pig. He’s just a little overprotective.”

“Yeah, how’s the view
from the tower, Rapunzel?” I ask.

“I’m out now,” she says.
“The tower has a staircase and a door, you know.”

“I noticed how you were
quick to say that your own dad’s not a pig, but you didn’t seem to mention
mine,” I tease.

I don’t know if I’d
necessarily call the guy a pig, but—actually, yeah: he is kind of a pig.

“I never said that anyone
was a pig,” she protests. “I’m just trying to explain my own dad’s issue. When
mom left, he just started clinging to anything that seemed like it might have
some stability to it and, for a good portion of my life, that’s been me. He’s
not a bad guy. I just wish he hadn’t insisted that I help raise him.”

“Have you heard anything
from her since she left?” I ask. “How long has it been?”

“I don’t know, nine
years, ten years. I know it’s been a long time, and no, I haven’t heard
anything from her since she left. She just decided she was done being a wife
and a mother and that was that,” Mia tells me.

It’s a strange venue for
such a conversation, but I’m thrilled to have it. This is the most I’ve been
able to get Mia to open up about herself, and if we’re going to finish the kiss
we didn’t get the chance to start, it’s going to be because she’s found a
reason to relax and take things as they come.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“That must have been rough.”

“It was,” she says. “It
wasn’t. I think, for all his failings as a parent, my dad really helped me
learn how to do things by myself.”

“When you’re not given
the option, I imagine it’s good to at least come out of it with that,” I
respond.

“I didn’t have a bad
childhood,” she says. “I didn’t have a bad time as a teenager, either. Things
were always just a little bit different after mom left. It seemed like there
were more steps required to get anything accomplished. Everything took more
time and, when we’d managed to get something done, it never seemed to be as
nice as it would have been before she was gone, you know?”

“What do you mean?” I ask
as the kid in the Spider-Man costume drops into the quarter-pipe with all the
grace of me on a vert ramp and comes to a sliding halt halfway to the other
side.

“At some point, this
stops being cute and starts feeling a little sadistic,” Mia says.

“I’m with ya,” I tell
her. “Let me at least make eye contact with Tonya so she knows I was here and
we can take off.”

“We?” she asks. “As I
remember, I only agreed to go to the exhibition with you.”

I’m looking for Tonya
through the crowd, but I finally just give up. If she doesn’t believe I was
there, I’ll mention something about her kid sliding across the quarter-pipe
dressed like a super hero and I think her temper will cool.

I’m walking Mia home and
we just keep talking. Or rather, I ask questions and let her do the talking. I
don’t know exactly what my dad said that scared her off, but I’d really like to
avoid any turn that would make things weird again.

“So you
do
skate?” I ask.

“I dabble,” she says, her
chin jutting out a little.

“You’re especially smug
for someone who has yet to actually show any ability on a board whatsoever,” I
tell her.

“I know what I’m doing,”
she says, “but I’m not great or anything. I’ve gotten pretty good at staying on
the board most of the time.”

“Yeah, I’m going to have
to see it to believe it,” I tell her and drop my board to the ground in front
of me.

“What?” she asks. “Here?”

“Why not?” I return. “You
said you don’t like people seeing you skate, well, we’re the only ones on the
whole street from what I can tell.”

I kick the board in front
of her.

“Let’s see what you’ve
got,” I say.

A bit of a smile creeps
up one side of her face, but it quickly vanishes as she looks down at the board
and kicks it back in front of me.

“I’m not really in the
mood,” she says. “I’m enjoying the walk. So, tell me why you act like an idiot
so much of the time.”

“Excuse me?” I ask,
picking up my board.

“I don’t mean that in a
bad way,” she says. “Okay, that doesn’t really make sense. What I mean is that
when it’s just you and I, you seem perfectly intelligent, but when we’re in
class or the times we’ve been out in public, or around anyone, really, it’s
like you’ve lost a significant portion of your IQ.”

“It’s just habit,” I tell
her. “Growing up, you kind of start to talk like your friends after a while. I
try to lay some knowledge on them from time to time, but they usually just make
a stupid fucking face and call me four-eyes. I don’t think they know that’s
meant as an insult for people who wear glasses, but it’s the thought that
hurts, really.”

“Why does it come out
with me?” she asks, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

I shrug. “You’re
different,” I tell her.

“How?” she asks.

“I haven’t pictured any
of my friends naked,” I tell her.

Finally,
finally
, I get to see her really laugh
for the first time since the last time she watched me try to drop in at the
park.

She brushes her hair back
behind her ear and says, “So that’s it? You’re just the cliché tattooed guy who
looks at women as meat?”

“I never really
understood that expression,” I tell her. “People say you treat women like meat
if you look at women in a mostly sexual way, but I’ve never wanted to eat a
person or fuck a hamburger, so it all kind of falls apart for me.”

“You wonder why I called
you an idiot?” she asks.

“No,” I tell her. “I
think you’re very attractive, but not just physically, though…” I make a bit of
a production about checking her out “…
damn.
But it’s not just your body, it’s your mind. You’re smart, but you like to be
treated just a little bad and I find that fascinating.”

“I like to be treated
bad?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Just a little,” I
correct. “When I talk to you straightforward, the way I feel most natural
talking to you, you don’t really respond, but when I’m just a bit of an
asshole, you’re suddenly interested.”

I wonder if she knows I’m
teasing her. What I’m saying isn’t entirely false, but it’s far from the whole
truth.

“Must be a daddy issues
thing,” she says.

“Daddy issues,” I
chuckle. “Hot.”

“Oh, don’t tell me
you’re—” she starts, but I interrupt.

“I’m not really one of
those guys,” I tell her. “No, I don’t find people with complicated paternal
relationships to hold added sex appeal. You need to stop taking everything so
literally and learn to joke around from time to time.”

I look over to see her
reaction, but she’s not next to me anymore. After a few seconds, I spot her.
She took a right and I just kept going, thinking she was still there.

I change course and catch
up with her, though I can hear her laughter before I get to her.

“You say I can’t have
fun,” she says as I fall back into place by her. “I thought it was pretty fun
watching you walk off toward nothing while talking to nobody. What about you?”

“It was a riot,” I tell
her.

“Why do you talk
differently with me?” I ask. “You say it’s because I’m different and then you
make a series of jokes, but what’s the real reason?”

I scratch my chin and
pretend to think about it for a minute.

“You know, we’re not too
far from my house and I have things to do when I get back,” she says.

“I like you,” I tell her.
“I thought I’d made that pretty obvious by now.”

“What does that mean to
you, though?” she asks. “Do you like me as a prospective girlfriend or as
someone you’d like to nail and never call again or as a friend or what?”

“You ask a lot of
questions,” I tell her.

“You’re the one who was
asking my opinion on everything this whole walk home,” she counters.

“I don’t know how to
answer that, really,” I tell her. “I like you as more than a friend and I know
that I wouldn’t want to stop calling you. The thought of dating you makes me
kind of nervous, though.”

“Why’s that?” she asks,
stopping on the side of the road.

“Because you don’t have a
problem talking to me about the things that matter, but you do have a problem
talking to me about things that do,” I tell her. “Why were you avoiding me all
week?”

“Can we just not—” she
starts, but I’m getting bored of treading water, so I interrupt.

“That’s what I’m talking
about,” I tell her. “Relationships work better when the people in it have an
idea what the hell each other are thinking. Maybe it’s nothing at all, maybe
you’ve just been busy or there’s some perfectly justifiable excuse, but at the
same time, maybe it’s something big and we should talk about it. All I can tell
from where I’m standing is that we were getting along until my dad got home
that night and then we haven’t really talked until today, and I had to badger
you to get that much. I know what I want out of—”