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Catching Air, Eating Sand


Ale heaves the ramp over the sandy, stubbly grass field that lies between her place and ours. “Your dad’s gonna kill us, Em,” she says cheerfully.

“Only if he catches us.” I tighten my battered helmet, check my knee and elbow pads, and glance at the ramp. “Little closer, okay?”

Ale groans. Her shiny, dark braid swings over her shoulder as she shoves the ramp until it’s right up against the bottom of the six-foot-high quarter-pipe. It’s a kicker—a small, movable ramp that bikers and boarders use to launch themselves into the air.

Which is the plan.

Ale flips her braid back and shakes her sore arms. “That good?”

“Perfect.” I nailed riding down the quarter-pipe months ago, but the field’s too bumpy for me to get enough speed to hit the kicker from the ground. So I decided to try combining the two. Problem solved. I hope. “Boost, please!”

“Em, you sure about this?” Ale’s hesitation is so brief it’s almost invisible. When I give her a look, she laughs. “Okay, okay. But promise you won’t make me have to explain to your dad how you got stuck headfirst in a round bale.”

“Deal,” I tell her, and Ale helps get me and my ride to the top of the quarter-pipe. For all his worry now, Dad used to be on this thing every weekend, too. Built it himself—one part tree stand, two parts salvaged plywood, three parts other random junk. Skateboards, motocross, he did it all—it’s no secret where I got my love of speed.

We used to be out here together, instead of me having to sneak around.

I pull on my padded gloves, bring my front wheels to the edge, and breathe. The view from the top of a drop—even a basic one like this—gets me going every time. Those tadpoles swimming in my chest and the sweat on my palms are the best kind of rush. Now that added jump waiting at the bottom makes my guts fizz like I ate a handful of live bees and chased them with a bottle of Coke.

Right. Let’s do this.

Helmet—double-check.

Mouth guard—check.

Visor—down.

Pads—tight.

I restrap my gloves and grip my wheel rims. Breathe. Dad won’t be home from class for at least an hour. A good daughter wouldn’t want her father to worry.

All Dad’s ramps and jumps and angled steel grind rails made from old I beams have just been sitting out here getting dusty since he gave it all up. Someone has to use them.

Three, two, one … drop!

Whoosh. Wheels. Adrenaline.

One glorious, wind-rushing moment.

I lean. Find that perfect balance point. Hit the landing.

Then my wheels skid sideways, spinning me out. Ow.

Ale runs over. “You did it!” she yells. “Sort of. What’s my name?”

I push up, spitting out a mouthful of the sand that padded my wipeout, and squint at the hand she’s waving in my face. “Um … Ale? Rhymes with sail?” This is how people who don’t know her usually say her nickname. It’s actually pronounced Ah-lay.

“Ha-ha,” she says.

“Just kidding.” I tell Ale to grab a wheel, and we get me rocked upright.

She grins. “That was so cool.”

It totally was, even though I dumped at the end. Now that Dad’s so busy fixing cars all day, and running to night class three times a week, and taking in extra work here at his home shop … what he doesn’t know won’t even worry him.

I will stick that landing.

Then I feel my left handrim wobble. “Crap.”

Correction—I’ll stick that landing if my raggedy wheelchair doesn’t fall apart on me first. I spin the wheel a few times, testing the handrim—yep. Definitely a loose screw and some bent metal.

“You want to try and fix it?” Ale asks. I keep my repair kit right in my top desk drawer, and basic patch jobs are easy enough. I’m tempted. After hitting that air once, I’m totally hungry for more. But Dad won’t be that late.

“Let’s call it for today,” I decide. “Got a few orders backed up, anyway.”

Sidewalks aren’t exactly a thing out where we live, but my yard has more square feet of pavement than anywhere this side of the Dollar General parking lot. Ale’s family owns a paving company, and my dad swapped them two years of free truck maintenance to pour glassy smooth walkways from our house to his shop and a bunch of places in between. One even cuts through the scrubby patch of woods to Ale’s place.

We hurry up the long ramp to my porch and hurtle inside so fast the Spanish moss wreath Nonny made almost falls off the front door. If my grandmother saw me now, she’d make a sour-lemon face and predict I’ll crash across the living room and through the opposite wall one day. It’s a double-wide, Nonny, I giggle under my breath, imagining her right here, not a cardboard box. Nonny would drop her dentures if she’d seen my little sand-eating stunt back there. Especially if she saw how we got me and my chair up that quarter-pipe in the first place. There’s a metal work platform—a set of two portable steps with a railing—that Dad attached to the backside of the quarter-pipe back when we used to ride this ramp together. I can get up it myself, though it goes a lot faster with Ale there to pass up my chair instead of just hauling it up with the cobbled-together pulley system I usually use when I’m doing it solo.

I’ve got my system down, although Nonny—and a whole lot of other folks—would still insist I have no business doing it. But I’m used to dealing with minor freak-outs whenever I do stuff that’s a little risky. Besides, what other people think I can or can’t do doesn’t matter.

These are the things that matter.

I’m Emelyn Ethrige. I’m twelve and a half years old. Alejandra Che is my best friend.

I like Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

And I love speed.


Copyright © 2022 by Monica Roe