Air

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To Raven, my gunpowder girl … and to every other kid determined to do things their way

1

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.