against the shed. I pull it out from the weeds and lay it on the ground. The board is shaped like an arrowhead and painted bright red. It reminds me of a shorty skateboard, but it only has three silver wheels. The wheels aren’t fixed either, so they don’t only go forward or backward, but are able to rotate. Around the edge of the board there’s a lip that curves up like the underside of a Frisbee. The lip is lined with chrome.
I gingerly place one foot onto it and then another.
“Huh … Must be a homemade skateboard or something like that,” I mutter to myself. “Pretty boring, Mal.”
Compared to her other inventions, this one is something a shorty kid could have put together in an afternoon. What can I say? I’m not impressed.
I look down at my feet, and I notice for the first time the small circular hole through the board near the point of the arrowhead. I glance around for the attachment that must stick in the hole when all of a sudden, whoosh ! The board shoots out from underneath my feet. I smack face-first into the dew-covered grass, and then I hear a deafening clang ! The board slams into the tin shed. I’m sure I’ve awoken the entire neighborhood.
I scurry to my feet and hustle back over to the swing. I plop down and try to act as innocent and natural as possible. I peer up at Mal’s house, half expecting one of her parents to be glaring back at me, but nothing. Not a peep.
I watch the house for a few minutes longer, but I haven’t awoken anyone. Pretty soon I’m bored again. I start kicking at a stone that is stuck in the earth at my feet. As I’m trying to pry it free, the image of my dad flying through the air to catch the porcelain raven replays in slow motion. Before last night, the most athletic thing I ever saw my dad do was walk out to the mailbox to get the mail. That leap reminded me of highlight videos I’ve seen of “Black Magic” Murphy, the famous skull ball defender. She could make catches like that. Not my pudgy dad, who has a hard time tying his shoes.
I had always assumed that my extraordinary skull ball skills had come from my mom’s side, but I don’t know anymore. To be honest, I don’t know much about my dad’s past. My dad doesn’t talk about it, and my mom won’t talk about it. Like I said before, all I know is that he is known for one of the greatest screw-ups in hoodie history.
I glance up at the back of Mal’s house, and I see her bedroom curtain move.
“Finally, she’s awake.”
Ever since Mal told me about this new halo girl moving into the neighborhood, I’ve been anxious about practicing my new roll on an actual person a couple of times before the game. If she’s as good as Mal says she is, then I’d better be sure it actually works.
Mal’s back door opens, and she stumbles out with a blanket wrapped around her.
“What are you doing here so early?” she mumbles while wiping sleep from her eyes.
“I need to practice something with you before the game,” I say.
“Night, I was up until 3:00 a.m. writing that computer program for your decoy. I’m tired.”
“It works like a champ too. You should have seen it! Just go get your kicking boot on and grab a couple of skulls. It won’t take long.”
She makes a long noise that sounds like a mix between a sigh, cry, and curse word. She trudges back inside. A few minutes later she walks out, still in her pajamas, with her iron kicking boot over her shoulder and a couple of skulls tucked under her arm.
She tosses the skulls at my feet.
“So what are we doing?” she asks.
“I’ve been practicing a new roll. I want to see how well it works,” I say.
“This couldn’t have waited until we got to the game?”
“No, it’s got to be a surprise. Now stop wasting time and hustle over there so I can roll you a couple.”
She scowls and puts her iron boot over her right foot. What’s with the iron boot you ask? Would you kick a fossilized human skull when the only thing between your toes
I gingerly place one foot onto it and then another.
“Huh … Must be a homemade skateboard or something like that,” I mutter to myself. “Pretty boring, Mal.”
Compared to her other inventions, this one is something a shorty kid could have put together in an afternoon. What can I say? I’m not impressed.
I look down at my feet, and I notice for the first time the small circular hole through the board near the point of the arrowhead. I glance around for the attachment that must stick in the hole when all of a sudden, whoosh ! The board shoots out from underneath my feet. I smack face-first into the dew-covered grass, and then I hear a deafening clang ! The board slams into the tin shed. I’m sure I’ve awoken the entire neighborhood.
I scurry to my feet and hustle back over to the swing. I plop down and try to act as innocent and natural as possible. I peer up at Mal’s house, half expecting one of her parents to be glaring back at me, but nothing. Not a peep.
I watch the house for a few minutes longer, but I haven’t awoken anyone. Pretty soon I’m bored again. I start kicking at a stone that is stuck in the earth at my feet. As I’m trying to pry it free, the image of my dad flying through the air to catch the porcelain raven replays in slow motion. Before last night, the most athletic thing I ever saw my dad do was walk out to the mailbox to get the mail. That leap reminded me of highlight videos I’ve seen of “Black Magic” Murphy, the famous skull ball defender. She could make catches like that. Not my pudgy dad, who has a hard time tying his shoes.
I had always assumed that my extraordinary skull ball skills had come from my mom’s side, but I don’t know anymore. To be honest, I don’t know much about my dad’s past. My dad doesn’t talk about it, and my mom won’t talk about it. Like I said before, all I know is that he is known for one of the greatest screw-ups in hoodie history.
I glance up at the back of Mal’s house, and I see her bedroom curtain move.
“Finally, she’s awake.”
Ever since Mal told me about this new halo girl moving into the neighborhood, I’ve been anxious about practicing my new roll on an actual person a couple of times before the game. If she’s as good as Mal says she is, then I’d better be sure it actually works.
Mal’s back door opens, and she stumbles out with a blanket wrapped around her.
“What are you doing here so early?” she mumbles while wiping sleep from her eyes.
“I need to practice something with you before the game,” I say.
“Night, I was up until 3:00 a.m. writing that computer program for your decoy. I’m tired.”
“It works like a champ too. You should have seen it! Just go get your kicking boot on and grab a couple of skulls. It won’t take long.”
She makes a long noise that sounds like a mix between a sigh, cry, and curse word. She trudges back inside. A few minutes later she walks out, still in her pajamas, with her iron kicking boot over her shoulder and a couple of skulls tucked under her arm.
She tosses the skulls at my feet.
“So what are we doing?” she asks.
“I’ve been practicing a new roll. I want to see how well it works,” I say.
“This couldn’t have waited until we got to the game?”
“No, it’s got to be a surprise. Now stop wasting time and hustle over there so I can roll you a couple.”
She scowls and puts her iron boot over her right foot. What’s with the iron boot you ask? Would you kick a fossilized human skull when the only thing between your toes
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