Skateboard Tough (9 page)

“Yeah, go on,” Brett said, a slight bit of anger in his voice. “Ever since I’ve had it… what?”

“You haven’t been the same,” she said, looking directly at him. “You’ve been a different person. You’ve not only become a real whiz on that skateboard, but it seems — I don’t know — it seems to have gone to your head.”

Her eyes were wide now, as if she thought she’d gone too far.

“You
are
crazy Shan,” Brett snapped. “How could I be a different person just because of a new skateboard? That’s movie stuff. Cartoon stuff.” He laughed at her as he held up the postcard. “You don’t really believe this was written by Lance Hawker, do you? The guy’s dead! No dead guy can write a postcard! I know who wrote it, just as well as I know my own name! It was W.E.! He’s the only guy who’d do a rotten thing like this!”

“Why?” she asked. “Why would W.E. do it?”

Brett’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. “Because he thinks it’s hexed, that’s why. Isn’t that stupid?”

She closed the music book and stood up. “I don’t know,” she answered, heading out of the room. “I just know that it’s done
something
to you, that’s all.”

She disappeared down the hallway, and a moment later Brett heard her bedroom door close.

Brett mulled over his sister’s words. Well, maybe he
had
changed.
When you begin performing tricks on a skateboard that you’ve never performed before in your life, you’re bound to change a little, aren’t you?

One thing for certain: he wasn’t going to rebury The Lizard, no matter what she, and that postcard, said.

But there was one thing he was going to do, and he was going to do it now. He went to the telephone, picked up the directory, found W.E.’s number, and dialed it.

“You’re a rat, W.E.,” he said the minute he recognized W.E.’s familiar, high-pitched voice. “You know that? Writing that postcard is the lowest, meanest thing a guy could do, and I…” He was so angry that even the receiver was trembling. “I don’t want to speak to you again.”

He was about to hang up. But W.E. said, “What postcard? What are you talking about, Brett? I didn’t send you any postcard.”

“Don’t lie to me. Only you would’ve written a note like that.”

“You’re way out of line, Brett. I haven’t written a postcard since Christmas. What did it say?”

“You
know what it said.” Again he was about to hang up, but the way W.E. was answering him …

“I don’t, Brett,” W.E. said, his voice soft, sincere. “Honest. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Why are you so sure I wrote it? Is it in my handwriting? Because if it is, somebody forged it. And I don’t know who’d do a dirty, dumb thing like that.”

Brett stared at the wall a minute, suddenly wondering if he was wrong after all. He hadn’t thought about the handwriting. And the writing wasn’t in longhand. It was printed.

No, he wasn’t sure it was W.E.’s handwriting. And, because of the sincerity of W.E.’s voice …

Darn it, he
believed
W.E. Somebody else must have written that postcard. Who? Kyle Robinson?

“I’m sorry, W.E.,” he said, embarrassed and apologetic. “I’m really sorry. I… I don’t know what else to say.”

“That’s okay. What did the card say?” W.E. asked.

“Something about my reburying The Lizard, and it was signed by Lance Hawker.”

“Oh. And because I’ve been telling you about Lance you figured I was the guilty party.”

“I guess that’s it. I’m sorry, W.E.” He was about to hang up for the third time, and thought of something. “Did you say anything about The Lizard to Kyle?”

There was a momentary silence, then W.E. answered. “I don’t know, Brett. I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Why? You think …?”

“I’m not sure what to think,” Brett replied, confused. “Thanks, W.E. See you later.”

This time he hung up.

Had Kyle learned about the background of The Lizard from someone? From W.E.?

Should he call up Kyle and bluntly ask him?
That would be a waste of time,
he decided. Even if Kyle knew about The Lizard, he wouldn’t admit that he had written the postcard. He’d just get a big laugh out of it.

No, he might as well forget about it. Forget the whole thing. Why let the postcard bother him? They were just words. They meant nothing … nothing at all. Someone was just trying to get his goat, that was all.

He tore up the card and tossed the pieces into the kitchen trash can.

Without saying anything to his mother, he went back outside. He had to do something to get that miserable postcard out of his mind, even if the warning on it was stupid. And there was no better way than …

He glanced at the spot where he had left The Lizard. It wasn’t there.

For a minute, surprise and worry clutched his chest like tentacles of steel as his eyes darted around the yard.
Darn! What could’ve…?

He heard a shout, and looked up the street. A window had slipped out of a carpenter’s hands as he was trying to lift it into a building, and it was falling toward the pavement, where a kid was skateboarding!

It didn’t take Brett more than a second to recognize the kid — and the skateboard.

15

C
rash!

If Kyle hadn’t reacted as quickly as he had, and swerved out of the way just in time, the window would have landed right on top of him. It could have killed him.

Brett stood there for a moment, paralyzed with shock — shock over the near-accident and over Kyle’s taking The Lizard. Kyle had lifted it right off Brett’s front yard. If that wasn’t the most brazen, rotten thing anybody could do … And yet, despite his anger, Brett was relieved when Kyle rose to his feet, apparently unhurt.

“You okay?” yelled the guy up on the ladder as he started to make a hasty descent.

“Yeah,” Kyle answered, brushing off his pants. He clutched his own skateboard, as if it were his most prized possession, too.

“Hey, Kyle!” Brett shouted when he could move. “What did you think you were doing?” He dashed into the street to retrieve The Lizard, which had skittered out from under Kyle when he fell.

Kyle got on his own skateboard and started skating away.

“Come back here, Robinson!” Brett called after him. “You’re a real jerk! A thief! Know what? That window should have hit you! Then you wouldn’t be stealing skateboards! You wouldn’t write nasty postcards!”

At the word “postcards,” Kyle paused and looked back at him.

“Postcards?”

“Yes, postcards! And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about!”

“I don’t,” Kyle said. He looked perplexed.

“You didn’t send me that card? You didn’t sign it Lance Hawker?”

“No.”

Brett stared at him. “I don’t believe you. Why should I believe a thief?”

Kyle shrugged. “Believe what you want. I didn’t send you any card. And I didn’t steal your skateboard — I just wanted to try it out for a minute.”

Brett put his hand on his hip. “Sure. And then you were going to bring it right back.”

“Yeah, I was. I couldn’t keep it — everybody knows that board is yours, especially now, after the contest.”

Kyle’s face remained stony, but Brett guessed that Kyle was envious of Brett’s recent win.
He should be!
thought Brett.

“Knowing you, you’d steal The Lizard, paint it so no one could recognize it, and then use it to win the next contest,” Brett accused him.

Kyle’s eyes narrowed into slits, and he replied calmly, “I don’t have to depend on a board to win a contest.”

Kyle spun and pushed off, the trucks and wheels of his skateboard rasping in his wake.

For a while Brett watched him, still unsure about whether to believe him.

“He take your skateboard, kid?” the carpenter asked as he gathered up the shards of glass all over the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” said Brett.

“He almost paid for it,” the carpenter commented. “That was a close call.” He glanced back at the ladder he had been standing on and wiped his brow in relief.

Brett just nodded and then headed for home, this time wondering:
If neither Kyle nor W.E. wrote the postcard, who did?

Another thought began to weigh on his mind, too, a thought that got heavier and heavier every minute.

Wasn’t it funny, or was it just a coincidence, that Kyle had taken The Lizard, and then, only seconds later, was almost struck by a falling window?

Goosebumps popped up on his arms. This time it was harder than ever to erase the grim thought from his mind.

Two Saturdays later, the town sponsored another skateboarding contest at Mrs. Weatherspoon’s arena. This one was advertised in various places, including Cole’s Sporting Goods store, which volunteered to contribute to the awards.

This time there would be three winners in each division, the Beginners and the Advanced, and the contest was designated a streetstyle skateboarding contest.

Brett felt proud. He had started it all, with his letter. He and good ol’ Mrs. Weatherspoon, who had done something about it.

The benches for the Advanced Division contestants were full by the time Brett arrived, so he stood behind the others, holding his skateboard at his side.

One by one he watched the skaters in the Beginners Division do their routines, then clapped when they were finished and the first three winners were announced.

Then came the Advanced Division. He watched his friends perform tricks he had seen dozens of times before and whose difficulty he appreciated, but inwardly he knew he had done them better. Much better.

Both Johnee Kale and Kyle Robinson performed before he did. Each did a great job, and drew resounding cheers.

Finally, “Brett Thyson!” the announcer called over the loudspeaker.

The cheer that rose for him was twice as loud as any other. His body shook. His heart pounded. He stepped around the benches, put down his skateboard, placed a foot on it, and pushed off. He did a Kick Turn, a Shoot the Duck, an Ollie, then went into a twohanded handstand, and
fell.

The crowd groaned.

He restored his balance quickly, did a few other simple tricks, then thought of making up for that goof by doing a Hand Plant, maybe following that up with a launch off the ramp and a complete 360. But a strange feeling washed over him like a flood of ice-cold water.
He couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t, and there was no sense trying. He’d just make a fool of himself and maybe get hurt.

He continued with the simple tricks that he was familiar with, waiting for the whistle to end his unspectacular performance.

Finally, it blew. Relieved, he wheelied to a stop and rushed off to the side. The applause was a tenth of what it had been when he was introduced.

“What happened, Brett?” a voice rose from the disappointed crowd. “What happened to the great tricks you did the last time?”

He didn’t answer.

At last the contest was over and the winners were announced. “First prize winner! A thirty-five-dollar gift certificate to … Kyle Robinson!”

Cheers rose from the crowd.

Brett wasn’t surprised. Kyle was the best. He cheered along with the crowd.

“Second prize winner! A twenty-five- dollar gift certificate to …Johnee Kale!”

Another thunder of applause.

Then, “Third prize winner! A five-dollar gift certificate to … Ellen Brostek!”

More applause.

“That’s it, folks!” the announcer said. “Let’s give a big round of applause this time to Mrs. Rita Weatherspoon for allowing us to use her backyard, and for cosponsoring this skateboard contest!”

He motioned to Mrs. Weatherspoon to stand. Thunderous applause filled the air as she rose from her chair on the porch.

As Brett joined in the applause, a hand gripped his arm.

“Hey, Lizard Boy! What happened? Where is it? What did you do with The Lizard?”

Brett whirled.
Lizard Boy?
His heart jumped.

“It was
you!”
he said, pressing a finger against Johnee Kale’s chest.
“You’re
the one who sent me that postcard!”

Johnee smiled and nodded. “Yeah, it was me,” he admitted.

“Why? Why did you do it? To scare me?”

“To put some sense into you,” Johnee said. “You’re my friend, Brett, and I didn’t want things to go on as they were between us. Ever since you dug up that skateboard you’ve been acting weird, like you were possessed by it or something. I wanted you to come back and join the living again.”

Brett scowled for a moment, then quickly broke into a grin. “You’re a pal, Johnee. I’m sorry if I’ve been a little crazy lately.”

Johnee looked relieved. “So, what
did
you do with The Lizard?”

“I did what you told me to do with it — I put it back where it came from.”

“You reburied it? Really?” Johnee’s eyes sparkled. “That postcard really did the trick.”

“Actually, it was Kyle.” Brett laughed at Johnee’s confused expression. “He got me to thinking that I was relying too much on The Lizard to win for me. I wanted to see if I could doit on my own.”

Johnee cast his eyes down and said in a low voice, “I guess you got your answer today, huh?” He looked up at Brett again. “Do you think The Lizard really
was
hexed, like W.E. said?”

Brett shrugged. “It did seem different out there today, without The Lizard. I wasn’t as sure of myself. But it could be that I just have to get used to my old board again. I’ll know better once I’ve had more time to practice. Maybe I’ll do better next time; maybe I won’t. But there’s one thing I
do
know …”

“What’s that?” Johnee asked.

“I’m glad to be rid of that board!” Brett said. He held out his hand and Johnee slapped it.

“All right!” said Johnee. Then he held out his hand and Brett slapped it.

Slowly, they started to head for the exit when a high, shrill voice called, “Brett! Johnee!”

“Guess Mrs. Weatherspoon wants to see us,” Johnee said.

Maybe she wants to tell me how lousy I performed,
Brett thought.
As if I didn’t know.

They stitched their way through the small crowd to the steps leading up to the porch where Mrs. Weatherspoon was standing, and smiled up at her.