Georgia Boys

10. in which quincy skates

I'd allowed myself to be swept up in Quincy Denton that afternoon at the pool. Intrigue has bested me and somehow, a day later, I find myself wandering down to the skate park to catch Quincy in action.

I'm unsure of what to say once I arrive. Typically, Quincy is the one who has always done the chasing. But now, of my own accord, I'm walking into his territory with the intention of seeing him. Perhaps I'm sick.

The skatepark is a thirty minute walk away from home. It's an early Sunday morning. Sun spills over the ramps and the gray flooring. There are a few folks my age or younger sliding down the ramps, kicking up their boards, attempting to pull tricks of some kind.

Quincy, I find almost immediately. 

His locs are unmistakable and he's pushing himself about the park, one foot giving him momentum before he glides. He glides with ease, as though he was born with a skateboard in hand. 

He rolls to a stop at the bottom of a ramp, wiping sweat pooling at the back of his neck. I hold my breath. Do I call out his name? My hand rises to the air, then curls into an awkward fist before I can call out his name properly. 

Quincy's eyes squint and he uses his hand to shadow his face. A grin, slow and sure, spreads across his face. "Silas!"

A couple of the skaters about turn at the mention of my name. Quincy gives one an easy smile and says something to them before rolling over to me. 

"What'd you say?" I ask, by way of greeting.

"Ah," Quincy kicks his board up and hugs it underneath his arm. "Just told him I brought my boyfriend to watch me."

My eyes nearly bulge out of their damn sockets. "You told him what?"

Quincy nearly doubles over laughing. "Geez. Sugar, of course not," he says once he's regained control of himself. Surely, him referring to me as sugar isn't helping his argument.

"Nah," he flips a hand at me. "Just told him I brought my boy over to watch." 

"I'm your boy now?" I ask before fear can latch hold of me. 

"One of 'em," Quincy says, swinging an arm over my shoulder. 

"Do I ought to be offended?" My eyebrows rise.

"You know how I move," Quincy's eyebrows rise to match mine. Then he laughs again, looks up into my eyes, his wide and dark. "But you're my boy, right? Always have been."

I knit both eyebrows together as we walk. "Not too sure about that one, chief."

"Chief?" Quincy asks, lips quirking upward.

"You think you're the only guy with pet names or whatnot?"

"'Chief' is an interesting one."

You're an interesting person. My shoulders fall into a shrug. Quincy's eyes gleam as he drops his skateboard to the ground and jumps onto it.  "Wanna see some tricks?"

"Wouldn't have walked all the way here if I didn't want to," I reply. Finding a bench adjacent to the ramp Quincy's been sliding down, I dig my elbows into my knees and watch him. 

Quincy's in a pair of large denim shorts and an oversized black shirt that just about dwarfs his frame. He pulls a few moves. Quincy knows his way around a skateboard. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration whenever he attempts a move, but as soon as he figures said move out, the crease disappears and a slow, self-satisfied grin rises to his face.

All the sweat and the bruises that he rolls his shorts up to show me seem to just be a part of the thrill for him. I wonder if the relationship between Quincy and skateboarding is somewhat masochistic.