Stoked (2 page)

No.

But it’s nobody’s fault but mine. Wearily, I nod. “I’m such an asshole.”

“You’re just young and volatile,” Mark says. “But you’ve gotta find something to do with your life.”

Again, I nod. I know, I know, I know.

The courtroom is hot. I’m sleepy as the people go ahead of me. Misdemeanors, drugs, all such petty bullshit. Just like mine. Assault while under parole for manslaughter.

Not so petty, I guess, but Rick had tried to rape Jess, and had no business showing up, putting his hands on her. Not on my watch. Not this time.

We’re up. The charges are read.

The judge is a middle aged guy, fit and tan. Everybody in this state spends their lives outside, and he looks like he’s a runner, maybe. Not a cyclist with those solid arms. I stand with my hands behind my back.

“Tyler Smith,” he says, and frowns, looking over his glasses at me. “Not the snowboarder? Headed for the Olympics last round?”

I make a regretful face. I’d been training for 2010 when it all went down with my sister. “That’s me, Your Honor.”

“What happened to you? An injury or something, wasn’t it?”

“Shattered my hip.” I clear my throat. “I was in jail during the last Olympics.”

He purses his lips, staring at me. “The hips is healed now?”

I shrug. “Yeah, of course. It’s been seven years.”

“Are you training for this year’s team?”

“No, sir, I mean Your Honor.”

He stares some more. “Why not?”

“I haven’t been back to the sport, sir.”

“Huh.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“What’s the deal with this assault?”

My lawyer interjects, “The so called victim had been arrested only a few days before on charges of attempted rape on my client’s girlfriend. He broke into her house and tried to rape her. When he showed up at the Musical Spoon, my client was understandably worried and upset.”

The judge read the paper. “There’s a fine line between upset and beating someone half to death.”

I nod uncomfortably.

For long moments, the judge looks the papers over, looks at me, narrows his eyes. Finally he folds his hands. “I’m a snowboarder,” he said at last. “You have more talent than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

“If I send you back to jail, I’ve got a feeling you’ll just keep showing up here over and over and over.”

An ache burns in my gut. I clench my jaw.

“Here’s the deal. Get yourself on the Olympic team and I’ll make this go away.”

I blink. “Sir?”

“You heard me. I’ll lift travel restrictions so you can get the training you need. Is it Mt Hood this time of year? Chile?”

“Sometimes Chile, but mainly Wanaka, Your Honor. Half-pipe.”

“Right, right.” He sniffs. “Whatever.  The deal is you get on the team, I dismiss all charges. You don’t, and I’m sending you back to jail.”

My lawyer is slobbering. “That’s very generous, Your Honor, very generous.”

But he has no idea. “I haven’t trained in years,” I say. “There’s no way I can make the team.”

“You’ve been doing something,” the judge says. “I can tell by looking at you that you’re fit. What is it? Mountain bike? Weights? Skateboard, maybe?”

“That’s not the same as getting ready for the Olympics in six months.”

The judge inclines his head. “You’d rather go to jail?”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry. Thank you for the opportunity, Your Honor.”

He nods, passes off the papers to some clerk.  As my lawyer shepherds me toward the gate, the judge says, “Tyler.”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“I believe in you.”

For a second, my throat closes, as if I might fucking break down in tears. No one has said that to me in a long, long, long time. I don’t trust my voice, so I salute him.

It’s a fucking insane long shot.

But it’s something.

––––––––

I
head home, head buzzing. Outside the courthouse, my lawyer said, “Make it work, man. It’s a good chance.”

More than he knows. Stripping out of my court clothes, I make a sandwich and carry it out to the deck. And for the first time, it really hits me—this judge has ordered me back to something I haven’t done in more than three years. I haven’t been on a snowboard or ski. I couldn’t stand it, avoided the slopes in the wintertime, only heading to the high country when I could take my bike and roar down the slopes in a new way.

Meanwhile, everyone I’ll be competing with has been out there training, year round, working on tricks, figuring out their own signature styles. In addition to the guys I know already, the superstars and the big names, there’s a whole crop of young bucks, all trying to make their mark. I’ve followed it a little, not much, and I guess that’s the place to start.

But I don’t open the computer. Not yet. Maybe it would be worse to see what’s going on before I work out a plan. If I think I’m going to be totally humiliated out there, it’ll be a lot harder to get started. To make the calls I need to make.

Inside, I’m restless with a kind of excitement that makes it hard to sit still. There’s been one major change to the Olympics since my run—they’ve added slopestyle to the half-pipe and slalom medals. I don’t care about slalom, and I would compete in half-pipe, but I freakin’ love slopestyle. The aimless skateboarding I’ve been doing will help.

Standing on the deck, looking out at the summer trees, smelling pine resin and heat, I cross my arms to settle myself.

Think.

You might think that humiliation is a small price to pay if there’s a chance it’ll keep me out of jail, but it’s not. Not when you’ve been a golden child, when the world expected something and you failed so utterly. I failed, went to prison, and everyone knows it. How can I show my face as a loser with no training?

I can’t just show up at Wanaka and tackle the half-pipe with everybody else who’s in training. I have to go somewhere out of the way for awhile first, get my sea legs under me. Then maybe I can find a coach, face the team contenders and all my old buddies.

There’s really only one place that makes sense. I’ll go to Chile, to Valle Nevado. There’s a chance I’ll run into people I know, but not as many.  It’ll be my best shot to get my legs under me. They also have a great slopestyle course.

And if I get my act together, I can leave tomorrow.

It’s enough to send me into action. All my equipment is locked up in a storeroom at the house in Maine, and who knows what it will feel like now, anyway. I’m going to need kit, head to toe, and that’s gonna mean a call to my old man, who administers the trust fund until I’m thirty. It’s not like I’ve been spending a lot the past couple of years, and my gut knows that he’ll be in for this, no matter how much I’ve fucked up.

I call his cell and he answers halfway through the first rung. “Tyler,” he says. No inflection.

“Hey, Dad. I have news.”

“I assumed.”

“It’s good news for once. The judge is deferring sentencing on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“He’s a big snowboarding guy, evidently, and recognized my name. He’ll defer the sentence if I get on the Olympic team.”

My dad, gotta love him, laughed. “Right.”

It burns, I won’t lie. Still. “I know. Fat fucking chance, right? But better than nothing.”

He’s silent. “You’re going to try?”

I have to take a minute. Then, “Yeah. May as well go down in a blaze of glory.”

“They’ve added slopestyle, you know that, right?”

“I do.” I take a breath and blow it out slowly. “I need to go to Chile, see if I can get back to my game before I talk to coaches or anything.”

“Good plan. When are you leaving?”

“As soon as I can get on a flight. I just need you to pour some cash my way so I can gear up.”

“I’ll do it right now.”

“Thanks. Don’t tell anyone, okay? I want to do this my way.”

“Fair enough.” He clears his throat. “Maybe I could make my way down there. You know—“

“Not this time, Dad,” I say. “Thanks, but I have to this on my own.”

“I understand.” In the pause that follows, I can imagine him in his office, all dark paneling and Persian rugs. He’ll be wearing a pale gray suit, tailored to fit every inch of him perfectly, and a red tie. Maybe blue with white stripes. His nails will be groomed, his hair tidy. “Well, let me know how it’s going, will you?”

“Yeah, I will.”

“I’ll make a deposit now.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Good luck.”

––––––––

c
hapter THREE

I book a flight for the next day and then have to get my ass to the ski shop and shell out some serious change. Board, boots, socks, mask, coat, everything. It’s not until I haul it into the house and dump it on my bed that can check for email from Jess. I’m not sure what I’m going to tell her about the snowboarding. I’ll be out of touch for at least 24 hours, maybe longer, depending on how the hours mesh and how long it takes me to get there. Also, the time zone issue is about to get a whole lot worse.

But I don’t want to tell her about the training yet. If I fail, I can’t stand for her to know that I’m the loser I’ve already shown myself to be. Better to see if I have any chance at all first, then let her know.  If I fail, I’ll be back in jail anyway.

There is one thing nagging at me, too—I keep thinking that the right thing to do would be to let her go,
really
let her go to find out what life is all about. She’s still so young, so inexperienced, and to be tethered to some guy back home is a sure way to hold back from experiencing everything that might be waiting.  I’ve known this since she said she was leaving, known it since she said we were not going to be faithful, or at least we weren’t going to promise that.

But I can’t, not yet.  Her email punches me right in the solar plexus.

––––––––

T
o:  [email protected]

From:  [email protected]

Subject: loneliness

Hey Tyler,

Jet lag doesn’t feel the way I always imagined it when people talked about it. I thought it would mean being sleepy, but instead, I’m wide awake. It’s the middle of the night here and I’m up, drinking tea with a cat for company (he’s a really cute cat, a Siamese mix with crossed eyes). I fell asleep right after dinner—just couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. I guess it must be the middle of the night there. You must be fast asleep. I am thinking of you in your bedroom, with a mountain breeze blowing in through the windows. It makes my chest ache to think of it. In the quiet, so far away from everything and everybody I know, I feel lonely. Like this was the dumbest choice I’ve ever made.

It’s not that they’re bad here.  My dad is wonderful. Still all hearty, you know, a little nervous, but when I hugged him at the airport, I remembered his smell, and something in my whole body let go. Like I know him, know he’s
good.
Does that make sense? My little kid self recognized him and recognized him in the right way.

Which leaves me wondering even more why my mom left. Not so much the leaving, but why didn’t I ever come back to visit? It’s probably some simple answer. They were kind of hippies, and maybe they just didn’t care.  But I get the feeling he thought he’d never ever talk to me again, that he didn’t know where I was.

Strange.

Anyway. I thought you’d be relieved to know that my dad is cool. My step-mom, Katy, is super nice, and there are even people here my age. Darcy and Kaleb, Katy’s niece and nephew. The house is all wood and porches and long windows. I have my own room, and it’s about the size of my old house, or at least the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

Huh. Babbling. I can’t wait to Skype with you, see your face and your amazing eyes. I miss you already, and it’s hard to think of you SO FAR away.

Don’t forget me.

Love,

Jess

PS I forgot—these people making a commercial were at the airport and they want me to come test for the part of an elf.  Hahahahaha.  Not sure I’m going, but they made it sound like it could pay a lot for a few days work, so I might. I can always use cash, especially since right this minute I have...um...about $35

It kills me that she’s so broke, but she won’t take anything. Only food. I hope her dad is feeding her well. In the meantime, I can send her some cash. She can’t refuse it if I’m not there.

––––––––

T
o: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: a thousand lifetimes

Dear, sweet, beautiful, sexy, smart, old-soul, Jess.

I could never forget you. Not in a lifetime. Not in a thousand lifetimes. If we parted ways and lived our lives and then we died and reincarnated over and over through the centuries, never meeting again, I would still remember your face. It would haunt me in dreams, drive me to wander the earth to seek your soul, so that I could kiss you, one more time, lie with you in a rainstorm, cozy under the quilts while the storm raged around us.

I hope
you
don’t forget
me.

Or maybe you should. When I saw you at the airport, backpack on your shoulders, dressed for the journey, you had an expression on your face that I haven’t seen before. You
glistened
. With possibility. With hope and excitement. The nerves were there, too, but mostly it was that shine. You, leaving the world that has not been kind to you, for a place that you told me you wanted to visit the very first time we had coffee. Do you remember? You said you’d never been anywhere but you wanted to go back to New Zealand. 

And now you’ve made that happen. I know I said I wished you were starting school, but there’s plenty of time for that, and it took a lot of guts for you to do what you did, make the break, leave everything you know for an adventure. I hope it’s totally epic, Jess. I mean that with all my heart.

So don’t worry too much about me and keeping in touch. Have an adventure. Live the moments that are right in front of you. I’ll wait for you. I’ll be here when you get back.

Love, more than you know,

Tyler

PS A commercial! That’d be pretty epic, right?

PS PS  I am four hours ahead of you. I had a court date today.