The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (16 page)

“You were testing me?”

He has the audacity to shrug.

“What the hell?”

Uncle Toby shrugs once more. “Maybe you need a backup?”

“A backup what?”

“Plan.”

The door opens before I can muster a retort worthy of making him regret having hoodwinked me, and likely regret saying it. After all, Uncle Toby doesn’t generally say things to be an asshole. He states the truth and lacks tact; therefore, he
sounds
like an asshole. The world likely needs more people like him, ones who don’t care to follow suit because it’s a social standard—or worse, an obligation.

I’m coming down from the immediate anger he evoked, my breaths slightly labored, when my eyes focus on a young girl pushing a bike that’s a little too big for her. Three boys are ahead of her, all smiling hugely, as they exchange insults and dares, reminding me of Kash, Parker, and King and more so of my past here in this very shop. The girl doesn’t engage with them, though. Her head is bowed, her shoulders slumped. I wonder if she even wants to be here. Parents and their eternal belief that they know what’s best for their children often commit them to participate in sports and activities they loathe.

The boys are raucous, drawing my attention to see small fingers nimbly tightening helmet straps, exposing no one in this group is a beginner.

Two more boys enter, one of them sports a large bandage that covers nearly his entire forearm. He doesn’t flinch or acknowledge it though as he straddles his bike and secures his own helmet in place. That alone makes him stand out to me. It tells me he’s fearless, not concerned that it might scar or be the first of several more. To many, bacon is a trophy—scars that chart your victories and what you’ve learned in this sport.

I watch him blow off another kid’s insult, and smile when a different kid asks if he’ll be crazy enough to try his routine again. I like him instantly.

“Stop yakkin’ and pay attention,” Uncle Toby says, clapping his hands together twice. “I’m kind of sick of your faces, so I brought someone else in here to deal with you all. If you don’t know her, you probably live under a goddamn rock, or you’re still under the belief that your generation is superior. Don’t worry, you’ll grow up and realize it’s not.”

My favorite kid wears a bright red T-shirt, making him easy to spot when he smirks. Uncle Toby jerks his chin up in the direction of where I’m shoving my new art supplies into a bag. I now understand why Lo always carries around her messenger bag; none of this stuff is easy to condense.

“You probably recognize her … or should…” he takes a moment to eye them, “from winning the gold at the X Games.”

Each kid turns their head toward me. Slowly, I meet their stares with a stoic expression.

“She has more talent in her pinky than all of you combined, so don’t try and show off or pretend like you already know something she tells you to do. Listen. Be respectful.” Again, he looks to each student, stopping on the shortest kid in the class who has cheerfully been dealing insults to his peers. “You all know my tolerance for shit is null. Hers is even lower. She’ll toss you out on your ass and not look back, so don’t cross her.”

Uncle Toby turns to face me, his eyebrows raised, and like that, the class is mine.

I stand with my shoulders back and collectively look at them. He never did tell me their levels of experience. The kid in red is my strongest rider; I know it without needing to see it. Still, that doesn’t tell me if they’ve completed air tricks, or if they’ve merely managed to go down banks or railings.

“Want us to start with our names?” a boy wearing a black T-shirt with Kash’s logo on it asks.

My lips press into a thin line, and I shake my head. “Nope.” I wouldn’t remember them if they did. “I want you to line up at the small bank and show me your best ride.”

Goading begins before they’re even moving. I order them to knock it off and move faster. They go to the camel hills, ensuring me they are as least mediocre riders. The shortest kid is at the beginning of the short line. He threads his fingers together and extends his arms in front of him, acting like this will be an easy and noteworthy feat.

I kind of hope he falls.

He mounts his bike and pedals as though his life depends upon it, increasing his speed so the spokes on his tires turn invisible. When he gets to the middle of the bank where the next dip begins, he completes a full rotation, and then makes me cringe when he haphazardly lands at an awkward angle that causes his ride to end.

“You have to focus on the end of the bank when you rotate, not on where you’re going to land, otherwise you’ll get yourself confused and won’t know which way to point your handlebars.”

The kid doesn’t look to me for acknowledgment. Rather, his head hangs as he steers his bike back to the rest of the class. I don’t watch him for long, hoping not to draw attention to him, and I tell the next kid to go.

As expected, the boy in the red shirt is a natural. Everything about him is fluid and confident. I imagine Kash looked the same when he was this age. The boy lands his air trick with precision in nearly every aspect, making it difficult to critique him. So instead, I advise the next in line to go.

The boy is gangly, his hands and feet both too big for his frame. He’s not as fast with his dismount, and his air trick is far more conservative.

“Careful!” I yell. “You need to absorb your landing through your legs or your feet are going to blow off the pedals, and then you won’t be able to go up the rest of the bank.” I don’t mention this will be harder with his clown feet. Maybe I have grown up a little.

The next boy wears a too large T-shirt, too long shorts, and typical skate shoes. His hair, his hat, even his face are fairly nondescript and typical of so many wannabes. The ride he takes is also unremarkable, yet he gloats as he gets back in line since I didn’t offer an evaluation.

Some riders have the potential to make BMX riding a serious career; for others, this will never equate to more than a hobby.

A boy with bright red hair goes next. I want to call him Weasley now that I’ve been to Universal Studios, and have seen what the Weasley family looks like. He’s fun to watch, and clearly well-practiced.

“You cased your landing. You need to make sure you don’t land solely on your back tire or it could buck you off.”

He looks at me with wide blue eyes, his lips pursed with regret. It elicits a small grin from me that I hope tells him to keep trying. Like anything in life, you must be willing to practice constantly but also accept critique; or else, you can kiss your dreams good-bye.

The girl is last. She’s tall for her age, and unlike the others, she doesn’t look at me once as she nears the edge of the bank. She flies. Her moves are graceful and practically perfect. I’m gaping because I’ve never seen anyone act with so little confidence and pull off something so flawless. Her peers aren’t paying attention, none of them that is, except for the boy in the red shirt.

It’d have been Kash and me if we had met at this age. It’s Kash and me when we
did
meet with an additional six years of experience, a boob job, a past worth forgetting, a dead fiancée, and a baby. Like them, we always noticed each other.

My eyes heat with tears that I quickly blink away, and then instruct them to line up again, determined to improve each of their skill sets now that I’ve seen a small window of their abilities.

The hour passes quickly.

I’ve learned each of their names. Lisa is my darkhorse. Chase is the kid in red, who is guaranteed to be a star. Luke is my smartass who only got more annoying. I’m still struggling to remember that Bentley’s name is not Weasley. Austin is the student with clown feet that I pray he will one day grow into, and the kid who will likely only ever be a joy-rider is Johnny, his name as nondescript as his personality.

Parents arrive before my final instructions.

“Don’t only practice on Tuesdays while you’re here. Ride to school. Ride to any practices. Ride to your friends’ houses. The more time you spend on your bikes, the more fluent you’ll be. Jump curbs, ride railings, take a rougher path—all of it will help you familiarize yourself with your balance, reaction, and skill set.”

They nod like zombies, their attention flitting first between each other and then to their parents.

“Riding can be a hobby or a lifestyle. The choice is yours alone.”

Chase looks to me. Even his eyes are similar to Kash’s, large and a deep shade of brown that I’d previously compared to chocolate until Lo recently called them umber while looking through bottles of paint. She had held it up, and sure enough, Kash’s eyes were the exact shade. I notice a small dimple below where Chase’s smile ends. He’s going to be a heartbreaker.

I tilt my head in the direction of the doors where several parents have converged. Times like these, I have to remind myself that I’m an adult and not a kid excelling at the sport. Most of the parents are older than me, but it’s clear many aren’t by far. The kids release the clasps on their helmets, and their energy levels return as they hurry to the exit. Uncle Toby has never allowed classes to hang out afterward, instead offering free times when students can come and practice so as to avoid scheduling conflicts with other classes and his own calendar.

“How was Florida?”

My head jerks up with surprise. Tommy faces me, a familiar smile spread across his face, making his eyes bright.

“What are you doing here?”

“Visiting my sister. She and her husband moved up here a few years ago when they were scouting good coaches for Chase.”

“Chase is your nephew?” My eyes are wide with surprise.

“I would love to be able to teach him myself, but with tours and practices, I don’t always have the time. This was a way to guarantee he would have someone’s attention even if that person never went pro.”

“He trained the Knights,” I say, my voice wavering on defensive.

Tommy’s lips dip with a shrug to show he isn’t impressed. “They had a name and title before they even proved themselves on a bike.”

I know for certain Tommy comes from more money than the Knights. A lot of kids who want to practice indoors and get coaches are upper class.

“I mean, they’re good and all. I’m not saying anything…” his palm stretches, “I mean, they’re … obviously … good.”

I can’t help but laugh. It’s hard and short, coming from mostly shock and disgust with him trying to downplay how good of riders both the Knight brothers are. I know I am biased, but without a single doubt, they are undisputedly among the top contenders in the industry.

“What are you doing here?” Tommy asks quickly, attempting to change the subject.

This time, I shrug. “I thought,
‘What the hell?’
”

“That’s awesome. You have so much experience and skill under your belt. I bet the kids will love having you coach them.”

“Yeah, I’ve worked a lot with Kash’s daughter, Mercedes,” I tell him.

“Really?”

I nod.

“He doesn’t teach her?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, he works with her a ton, but she’s a lefty like I am, so sometimes I’m able to relate more easily.”

“I’m in town for ten days. We should hang out. Grab something to eat, go up and see Hood, take a ride, whatever.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe?” He cocks his eyebrows. Rejection looks crazy good on him. “Are you seeing Kash?”

“We’re friends.” I give my blanket response with a clipped tone.

“Your number hasn’t changed, has it?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. While Chase’s eyes and friendly demeanor remind me so much of Kash, his smile is an exact replica of Tommy’s.

“Saturday. We’ll make a day of it,” Tommy says.

“A day?”

“I’ve known you for more than ten years. I don’t think we need to try coffee in public to ensure I’m not a creeper and you’re not psycho, do you?”

“I’m fairly certain the jury is still out on the creeper part.”

He smiles again, and my heart speeds up.

“See you Saturday, Summer.”

I
’M RESTLESS. I
have colored two pages of bad words, the colors growing as dark as my mood. Lo says she draws images she can’t erase from her mind, I’m coloring my emotions. Doing so isn’t improving my disposition, though, and my hand is cramping.

My phone rings, and my heart races. It feels as though I’ve spent an hour riding, my breathing labored and my pulse noticeable in my head and neck. I am confident it’s Kash. There is no way it can’t be. We haven’t spoken in over twenty-four hours, and that hasn’t happened in years.

Three colored pencils, a pillow, and the TV remote fall to the floor as I lunge for the coffee table to retrieve my phone. I don’t even care that I look and feel both desperate and anxious.

My heart feels like it comes to a complete stop before racing again to make up for the lack of blood flow. Lo wearing a witch’s hat and a gold-and-maroon-striped scarf is on the screen of my phone. I don’t want to answer. Talking to people is at the bottom of my list of things I like to do, especially today. Talking to people who know me isn’t even on the list. Her face vanishes as my phone informs me I have missed a call.