I kept his words in mind each boxing session, each match, every obstacle I faced, trying to show him I could be tough enough for whatever life brought me. And he kept pushing me to be stronger. So a layer of toughness had begun to grow along my skin even before my parents died, although I hadn’t been sure if I’d ever been strong enough for my dad. And now I knew I hadn’t been. I’d failed both of them, eventually.

But I was tough enough now. That layer along my skin had thickened, a full suit of scarred armor that could withstand anything. And I’d keep testing it to make sure it always would.

Chapter Four

My front wheels dropped in over the edge of the bowl and I leaned my body weight forward, sending myself careening downward and across to the other side. I almost made it up the vertical before toppling backward, my skateboard banging into my knees and my ass banging into the concrete. After another annoying, long day at school, this particular tumble at the skate park was just what I needed.

“Ooh, nice!” Fee called from where they were sitting on a picnic table nearby.

Fee and I met about nine months ago at this park. Skateboarding was a relatively new pastime for me. Shortly after the accident, I’d taken to wandering the neighborhood, mainly to escape Priam and Vicki’s excessive attempts to “connect” and get me talking. I was already being forced to see a counselor. The last thing I’d wanted was to talk about more shit at home.

I’d also quit boxing soon after the accident, and I guess I’d been craving something physical—some kind of contact that didn’t involve sharing my damn feelings… an activity that didn’t remind me of my parents. I’d found myself at this park, watching the skateboarders whipping in and out of the bowl, performing tricks, stumbling or crashing to the ground. Something about their plunging motions, the way they just gave themselves over to this deep dive into a concrete basin, seemed so appealing to me. So uncomplicated and gutsy. Throw yourself into a free fall and come up the other side. Or not. And each “not”—each time someone bailed—it was like I could feel the hit against my own arm, or ass cheek, or shoulder, jolting me out of my thoughts and into my body.

After I’d spent a few consecutive days watching from beneath a nearby tree like a creep, Fee had been walking by on their way to skate. I’d noticed them before—they seemed so calm and focused. They didn’t interact too much with the other skaters—just came, did their thing, and left. But as they walked by me that day, they’d paused and asked, “Where’s your board?”