Drop (10 page)

I pick up his helmet, and run my finger over the stickers. I hover over a four-leaf clover.

“Isaac gave me that one before my first race, for luck.”

“Did you win?”

“Didn’t come last.” Finn shrugs. “You can sit down.”

I sit cross-legged on the bed. “So why am I here?”

“I’m not sure I’m equipped to answer such probing questions about the nature of existentialism. Why are any of us here?”

I roll my eyes.

“You know what I mean. Why did you invite me over?”

“I thought maybe you could help me with my Art. You’re pretty good at it.” My heart sinks. He only wants to study. “That, and I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Whoa.

The walls are covered in mountainboard posters and photos of him and Greg, Georgia, Fat Mike, Slinky and, ugh … so many pictures of him and Violet glossy-coat Brody. Sienna told me her diet is entirely vegan. Seems to me she’s been at the Pedigree Chum. No, that’s cruel. I don’t even know her. I think I’m just a little intimidated by her. I mean, why isn’t
she
with Finn? Clearly, there’s some history – all these photos…

Look at that hair. Who am I kidding?

He points to a ticket stub Blu-tacked to a mirror. “This is from the Freestyle Board Jam Series, where I got injured last year.”

Next to the ticket stub is the drawing I gave him. Here, among all his treasures.

“You’re really talented, you know, Carla.”

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

“I want to be an artist, but it’s not exactly well paid. Unless you’re dead or Damien Hirst. And I don’t plan on being either.”

“You could be the exception.”

“Well, even if I was ever good enough, I can’t imagine my folks would be thrilled. Maybe my dad would be OK, but – not that she’s said it outright, I mean, she’s hardly ever around to say anything – I get the impression my mum would rather I become a geneticist or work at CERN or something wholly boring like that. Nuclear research is so
not
my bag.”

“It’s not about her though. It’s about you, doing what you want.”

“Do you always do what you want?”

“Pretty much.”

I think about Finn turning up late for classes, sometimes skipping them entirely, and the way he talks back to teachers. Is it doing him any long-term favours? He’s obviously intelligent, but will this do-what-I-want philosophy come back to bite him on the ass come the end of school when he’s got minimal qualifications and just a dream of professional mountainboarding to pursue?

What am I going to do if I don’t make it as an artist?

“Do you ever wonder what’ll happen if we fail our exams?” I ask.

“Not really. I’ve got my board and I make enough money.”

“You’ve got a job?”

He shrugs. “I don’t worry about it.” He goes over to his sound dock, slots his phone into place and presses
PLAY
. I guess that’s the end of that conversation.

I point to a picture of Violet. “Did you two use to go out?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Sorry. Mum’s a journalist. I guess I inherited her inquisitive nature. So, did you?”

“Violet? No way. We’ve been friends since for ever. She’s just a mate.”

I nod. “Who’s this with you and Greg?”

“That’s Dave Compton – one of my ultimate boarding heroes – met him at XBP Mountainboard Centre in Surrey. Soon I’ll have another photo for the collection. Tom Kirkman’s going to be at the UK Board Battle. Can’t wait to meet him. He’s a legend. I’ve been practising the sweetest new trick to show him.”

“I see. Cool,” I say, widening my eyes.

“Are you making fun of me, tiger?”

“I wouldn’t dare. It’s cool. You have a passion.”

“It’s more than a passion. It’s my life.”

I can’t help but laugh out loud then.

Finn sits down on the bed behind me, grabs me around the shoulders and pulls me backwards so I’m lying on his chest. I look up at him.

“The warm-up comp I told you about is tomorrow. You should come. Greg’s racing too and Georgia will be there.”

He tells me where the skate park is and I agree to meet him.

“You smell like pears,” he says.

“That’ll be my invisible Carmen Miranda headdress. Made entirely from pears. I’m on a budget and strawberries aren’t in season till June.” The corners of his mouth curl in amusement. “Or it could be my shampoo.”

I want to pull him to me, kiss him, feed him some secret potion that makes him mine and makes him want me for ever and ever and ever. We’re inches apart and I can smell the sweet manliness of his neck, his arms, his hair. I smile at the feeling. Intoxicating, powerful, it grips me.

I gulp. I think he’s going to kiss me. This is it. Me in my washed-too-many-times-was-white-now-grey-vest-top and elastic-band-tied-back-unkempt-blob hair. He. Is. Going. To. Kiss. ME.

I feel my face flush scarlet.

He leans in. I close my eyes…

The door swings open and I sit bolt upright.

“Oh, didn’t know you were here. Sorry.” Isaac looks me up and down. “Didn’t mean to, er” – he searches his feet for the word – “interrupt.”

“Heard of knocking, mate?” Finn snaps.

Isaac’s wearing a long-sleeved top under a black shirt. His jeans are loose, baggy, normal. Not like the guys in my year. He has the same coffee-dark eyes as Finn, but behind a curtain of hair. He’s attractive, but in a quiet way.

Silence expands between us.

“What do you want, Isaac?” Finn asks, breaking the tension.

“Dinner’s ready.”

He backs out of the room, and shuts the door.

“Better go,” I say. “Culinary disaster awaits at home. Dad’s attempting to cook Thai green curry. Knowing him, it’ll end up purple and taste of meatballs.”

“Mmm, delicious.”

“Not all of us are lucky enough to have a dad who’s good with a wooden spoon.” I pick up my bag and head out, hovering in the doorway.

“See you tomorrow,” Finn says, lying back on his bed.

Finn slouches against the wall, one arm around my shoulder, his mountainboard under the other. “Glad you survived your dad’s cooking. How were the Thai purple meatballs?” he asks.

“Good actually. Neither purple nor meatballs. Not exactly green curry either, but one step at a time. That Jamie Oliver book I got him for Christmas is starting to pay for itself.”

Georgia’s rocking an emo-chic look: biker boots, Ramones T-shirt, shocking pink Kate Spade handbag. She and Greg are against the wall, entangled in a pre-comp kiss … and then some.

Are they always like this?
I mouth to Finn. He smiles, shrugs, then pushes Greg’s shoulder.

“Head in the game, Greggers,” he says.

“Come on, baby, let’s get a drink,” Greg says, pulling Georgia towards a refreshments van.

Finn steps away from the wall and sets his mountainboard on the ground.

His helmet sits like Lego hair, covered in stickers like
MASTER OF DISASTER
in fluorescent orange,
GOT DIRT
? in bright blue, and the grass-green four-leaf clover. He taps his head. “This is new,” he says, pointing to a black smush.

“Erm…” I wrinkle my forehead. “OK, but … what is it?”

Finn scratches his head under the helmet. He chews his wrist guard.

“I really do need help with Art. Fuck. I drew it. Last night after you left. It’s a butterfly. For you,” he says.

“Aw, that’s sweet. Thank you.”

“You’re just giving me the sympathy vote for my terrible drawing skills.”

“No, I mean it. I do,” I say, but something else has caught Finn’s attention. Boarders are taking their places for the first
heat.

He looks to a far-off place, shielding his eyes from the sun. “This is it, Carla. First comp of the year. Just got to keep focused, breathe deep and have fun,” he reassures himself. He bites his bottom lip. “The top three get automatic places in the UK Board Battle in July. All the best riders from the South-East are here. I’ve got to beat them. I
will
beat them.”

“So how does this work?” I ask.

“It’s slopestyle. Kind of like a downhill snowboard run, but without the snow. Riders pull tricks off dirt jumps, rails, wooden kickers, sometimes even half-pipes. It’s pretty intense. You can get up to fifty kph! So sweet when you land the big tricks. We get judged on speed, style, technical difficulty and originality. I’ve got buckets of that. Been working on some wicked new jumps.”

We stand, silent except for gasps as other riders land incredible jumps or crash to earth in spectacular, bone-crunching fashion. I gulp at the sight of a shredded shin. I’m afraid Finn might get injured and miss the UK Board Battle, but he’s calm.

The loudspeaker crackles. “Finn Masterson. You’re up next.”

“Go get ’em,” I say. “Grab, spin, flip or whatever it is you do!” I grip his arm. “You nervous?”

“No point being nervous. Just got to do it. Believe I can do it.” He clenches his fists, like a strongman, bares his teeth and growls,
“Grrrrr!”

“You’d better go. They’re calling you.”

The blanket of fog that hovered over the grass this morning has lifted, sucked away by the sun, making way for Finn. He swaggers to the start line with a confidence that to me is such a commodity: confidence without arrogance. Self-belief. The downhill course stretches before him, a winding track dotted with jumps to land, rails to grind, each a goal to achieve. To him those obstacles are opportunities, points to be won.

Straight off the mark he whips up speed like a racing greyhound, swinging to the left and hitting a dirt jump. He twists his body, bending his knees behind him, reaching his arm backwards to grab the middle of the board and spins a 360. His whole body changes shape as he lands, synchronized bones and muscle, his own personal suspension system. He grazes a rail, front wheels in the air, skimming it like a surfer riding a wave. He bounces off it, crouching, pinching the front of the board between his fingers. I’m in awe. I’m in love. Jump after rail, he owns the course, defying gravity with amazing balance. When he somersaults, I imagine what he sees: the world turning, land and sky reversed, like when I do gym. I understand exactly why he loves it. He slides the board horizontal, skidding to a stop at the base of the run. Whistles and applause greet him. He unfastens his helmet. Grins. He disconnects his feet from the board and strolls over.

“You did it!” I congratulate him. “You were the best out there yet.”

He takes me by the waist, raising me high, looking up into my eyes. “Ha ha! I did it! It was you. I thought about you, nothing else. My body did the rest.”

The boardercross race is next. The finals. “Berms, rollers, doubles, triples, drops, step-ups and step-downs. Four riders race a four-hundred metre track. First to the bottom wins. Simple as that,” Finn tells me.

“Simple as that.” I smile.

He returns to the line-up, meeting Greg.

The gun goes off, but Finn doesn’t forge ahead. He’s third in a chain of four, Greg lagging behind him.

Back with me, Georgia lets out an ear-shattering whistle. “Powerful instrument you’ve got there,” I say.

“Sorry.”

My jaw and temples tense as Finn swerves a corner, his board gliding around a ridge of mud, but any doubt is unfounded. He is consistently brilliant. Like a breakdancer, snaking and dancing his way down the hill with tight-lipped concentration. Usually his attention flits about. He fidgets through ten minutes of a Chemistry quiz or Psychology coursework, itching for the next thing. I don’t think he’s ADHD or anything, but active, vocational. Academia frustrates him; it’s too immobile, too indoor, too sedentary. People learn differently. If I’m visual, well, he’s kinetic.

Under my breath, I will: “Come on, Finn. You can do it. Come on, Finn.” I wait with Georgia at the sidelines. Her form of encouragement is more audible, like her personality: unabashedly loud and clear.

“Woooo, yeah! COME ON, GREGGERS. RINSE THEM!”

She lifts her polka-dot top as the riders zoom by, flashing a fluorescent pink bra and
GO, GREGGERS
! emblazoned across her stomach in red lipstick. One competitor gets distracted and wobbles on his board.

“Er, I think that’s cheating,” I say.

“I’m not competing. How can it be cheating?” I don’t bother with the conversation about morals. Instead I sum up the sentiment in a single look, and she gets the hint. “Fine,” she says, rolling down her spotty vest. “I’m still going to cheer at the top of my lungs though. GO ON, BABY! GIVE THEM A FACEFUL OF DIRT!”

I open my sketchbook to a clean page, dove white and daunting. My pencil, a cylindrical UFO, hovers above the barren landscape. I land the point and begin to draw Finn on his board, arms outstretched, full of energy, wheels spinning. Grey lines flow, spreading organically across the page, over the crease of the spine and onto the next. I draw as fast as he boards. With a 4B, I fill in the shadows, strong and definite against those rapid strokes. I pocket the pencil, then study the picture. It moves, still animating on the page.

“Whoa! Ooooh! Owww!”
the crowd choruses. The rider out in front stacks a jump, tearing up the grassy slope and face-planting into the ground. The rider next in line can’t avoid getting tangled in the crash. Finn thinks fast, powers off the wooden ramp with battering-ram force and sails over them, victorious. One of the fallen riders limps off the course, cupping his nose and mouth, blood trickling through his fingers and over his wrist guards. The other rider gets back on his board, but it’s too late. Finn screeches to a halt fifty metres away at the finishing line. He high-fives Greg, who skirts around the crash to claim second place. Finn’s got what he came for. Racing with precision, skill and, above all, flair, he’s earned himself a place in the UK Board Battle in July.