Georgia Boys

13. in which we skate

Once more, Quincy and I are at the skate park. 

We drove down early this morning, only a day or two after Josh's birthday party. Quincy Denton had told me he was going to teach me to skate, and I didn't even bother questioning him. 

Now we stand in the skate park. It's empty of skaters save for the odd one here and there. According to Quincy, if you go to the skate park early in the morning, the space is less likely to be bustling with tweens and other teenagers like it is at noon. 

Quincy does a few demos for me. He's a dancer in this regard; his movements are near effortless and the focus, while present, is subtle. He's a master of his art. My eyes follow him. He kicks his  board up when done and ta das.

I admire it. I admire far too much about the way that he moves, about the way he glides down ramps on his skateboard. And frankly, when he hands the board to me, I can't ignore the pressing fact that I am far more comfortable with doing the admiring than the skating.

But he wants me to do the skating. He wants to show his art to me, and he wants me to enjoy what he enjoys to the same extent. A melodramatic exhale escapes my throat and I grab the board.

I attempt to pull the trick he just did. I attempt to find the balance, but once again, I'm reminded that I'm no Quincy Denton. While I may be magic in the kitchen, I'm useless on the skateboard. The moment I'm on, I've already lost balance.

Quincy steadies me. He jokes, teases me, but he steadies me. His hand rests on my back. He utters advice. I wish I could say I caught what he said, but I am far too preoccupied with the way he holds me.  And surely this isn't good for my balance. 

I try anyway. My balance is worse the next time, then better the third, once the tingling feeling he left on my back has begun to dissipate. I'm still god-awful, don't get me wrong, but I'm less a mess than i was to start which I might have to credit to Quincy. 

"Alright!" He's cheering me on like an overenthusiastic coach. He pumps his fist in the air. His smile appears. His gold locks sway and his chain glints. He looks awfully good, much to my displeasure. He's drowning in his t-shirt and cargos but somehow he manages to pull the outfit together. 

And then he's calling out my name and I only register it at around the second or third time he's called it. 

"Yeah?"

His lips tug upward. "We're going to try something new."

So we do. Quincy has an entire mental list of skateboarding tricks imprinted into his mind, apparently. He's got all sorts of names for them too, but they all melt into each other in my head. The skateboard lingo is totally lost on me, which would be frustrating most times, but Quincy's eyes are bright as he explains it all and I find myself nodding even so.

We try new tricks. Quincy's got this way of explaining everything and he moves his hands around as he does so. When I figure it out, he's all grins. When I don't figure it out, he's all grins. He seems equally as eager to congratulate me on not totally screwing up a trick as he does to guide me toward figuring it out.

I can envision Quincy Denton as a skating teacher or supervisor or anything else of the type. If there's a job like that, it's made for Quincy. 

"How'd you learn how to skate?" I ask, rolling the board over to him. 

"Just taught myself," Quincy shrugs. "I picked up a skateboard from a garage sale as a kid one day and I kept trying to use it. I got multiple scrapes but I got better. When I first came to the skate park, I was shit, but the older kids gave me a few tips. I got a hold of it within a few months."