Learning to Fly

Jackson zips past me on the sidewalk, a blur of electric blue and lime green. As he whooshes by, my mouth falls open.

When did Jackson learn to skateboard?

I dribble my basketball on the blacktop and take a shot at the hoop. Clang! I miss, but it’s because I’m still half-watching Jackson. 

He’s got an audience now, a group of kids hanging around the schoolyard after our first day of school. 

“Watch this, Shayan!” Jackson says to me. “I’m taking that curb.”

“Are you sure?” I warn as I run to pick up my ball. I realize that he’s planning to use the edge of the sidewalk as a little ramp and imagine him flipping through the air and face-planting on the asphalt.

Jackson doesn’t respond and pushes with his foot to gain speed. His tongue is sticking out slightly from concentration. I hold my breath as he flies up, the skateboard still attached to his feet. I only exhale after he lands perfectly. 

“Woo-hoo!” he yells, throwing up a fist. Jackson’s grin is huge, and I smile at him while the kids around us erupt into cheers. 

“Nice,” I say. And I mean it. It was impressive. But then again, this is Jackson. There’s a reason my parents gave my next-door neighbor the nickname “Action Jackson.” Jackson is four months younger than me but he was the first kid on our block to ride a two-wheeled scooter, take the training wheels off his bike, and learn to rollerblade. Now, at the age of 11, he apparently mastered skateboarding while I was on vacation with my family. 

“Want to play a little one-on-one before we go home?” I ask him. Jackson and I usually hoop on the rusty rim in our cul-de-sac. 

“Nah. I’ve been waiting for you to get back so we can skateboard together. Want to try it out?” he offers. I glance at his skateboard, my new scuff-free sneakers, and the kids watching us.

“Um, maybe later,” I say. 

“Cool. You’re going to love it,” Jackson says as he rolls away.

“There goes Action Jackson, at it again!” Baba says from the window when I’m home from school. He whistles under his breath as Jackson rides up and down the street. “Skateboarding now? That kid is fearless.”

“That’s for sure,” Mama says with a laugh as she joins Baba at the window. “I’m glad he’s wearing a helmet.”

My parents bring up the time Jackson broke his collarbone after falling off the swing set in his backyard. He was standing on top of it, where the swings hang from. Jackson didn’t even cry after he fell, but I was bawling. And I was so scared afterward that I didn’t go near those swings for a year.

“I was thinking maybe I could get one,” I say.

“Get what?” Baba turns to me.

“A skateboard.”

My parents exchange a glance, and then my mother sighs.

“Shayan,” she begins. “Not this again.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to try to keep up with Jackson,” she says gently.

“I’m not!” My face warms up. “I can do it.”

My father clears his throat. “I’m sure you could, kiddo. But why don’t you focus on the things you enjoy? Like basketball? And—”

“I like skateboarding too,” I insist. “I want to try it.”

“What about the Rollerblades collecting dust in the garage?” Mama reminds me. “Remember when you wanted those?”

“I used them!” That part’s true. I did use them. Until I fell and scraped up my elbow. Eventually, the Rollerblades ended up under the shelf with the paper towels.

“I’m older now,” I continue. 

“Let’s think about it,” Mama finally says after a pause. “If you really want to skateboard, maybe we can get you lessons. And you can learn properly.”

But I don’t want to take lessons. I just want to fly. Like Action Jackson. 

The next afternoon, Jackson comes out of his garage while I’m shooting hoops. Ben, the kid who lives in the house around the corner with the “Beware of Dog” sign, is behind him.

“Hey, Shayan,” Jackson says. “I’m teaching Ben to skate.”

“Gotcha,” I say.

“Want to learn?” Jackson asks me. 

I take a deep breath and then nod, ignoring the pounding in my chest.

Jackson demonstrates how to get on and off the board. He’s so smooth it looks easy.

“Now you try,” he tells Ben. Ben stands on the board.

“Maybe try the other foot in front,” Jackson suggests.

Ben manages to roll a few feet. 

“Ready?” he asks me.

“Yeah.” I put my ball down.

“Keep your foot straight at first, until you start moving,” Jackson says. 

I gingerly step on the board with my right foot and keep my left foot on the ground. As the skateboard starts to roll away, I’m halfway doing the splits. I jump off. 

“Keep going,” Jackson says. “You got it.”

I get on the board again, but when it wobbles and threatens to throw me off, I offer Ben another turn. My cheeks burn. I avoid looking at Jackson.

Instead, I awkwardly stand there while Ben pushes off the ground and begins to roll away. I wonder if he’s secretly practiced before.

My ball is still lying on the ground. “Want to play two-on-two? We can get Antonio,” I ask. 

“Nah,” Ben says. “I’m just getting the hang of this.” 

I take another turn, but after a few minutes, I nearly wipe out.

“I’ve got homework,” I quickly say, nudging the board back to Jackson. Before he can respond, I dash home, leaving my basketball and my friends behind.

A week later, my doorbell rings. It’s Jackson and Ben, who’s holding a skateboard too. 

Everyone has one now?

“We’re going to the big hill,” Jackson says. “Coming?”

“Um, OK,” I say, before yelling “I’m going outside” to my parents, who are in the kitchen.

While Jackson and Ben skateboard, I ride along on my scooter, trying not to feel like a baby. I brush cobwebs off the handlebars and realize when we’re halfway there that I’ve forgotten my helmet. So have my friends.

The hill looks bigger than I remember. We sled down it during snow days, and it’s perfect for that. But the hard sloping stretch of road makes my stomach clench now.

“I don’t know, guys,” I say. 

“What?” Ben asks. 

“It’s really steep. Maybe we should practice more.”

Jackson starts laughing until he realizes that I’m serious.

“Sheesh.” He shakes his head.

“We’re pretty good now,” Ben says. But I detect doubt in his voice.

“That’s on flat ground,” I argue.

“You shouldn’t do it if you’re scared,” Jackson says.

“I’m scared for you,” I say. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“Again?” Ben scrunches up his nose.

“Remember the swing set, Jackson? When you decided to stand on top and fell off?”

“You did what, dude?” Ben asks. He moved to the neighborhood after the collarbone incident. 

“Yeah, it was bad,” I continue to fill in Ben. “My mom said you were lucky you didn’t get a concussion. Or worse.”

“I was little then. I’ll be fine now,” Jackson says. “I’ll take it slow.”

Before I can say another word, he takes off down the hill. He picks up speed on the curve and is anything but slow. I hear a giant whoop echo as he flies toward the bottom. My eyes are squeezed shut until I hear a honk and pop them wide open, terrified. 

Jackson is standing triumphant at the bottom of the hill, and I whisper a little prayer of thanks. In that moment, though, I decide there’s no way I’m following him, even on my scooter. And when I look at Ben, his face is filled with worry.

“You don’t have to do it, Ben,” I say softly. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Not without a helmet at least.”

Ben picks at a sticker on his skateboard and watches Jackson head back up the steep hill with his skateboard under his arm.

“Yeah,” he finally declares. “My mom said she’d take me to the skate park later, and that’s more fun anyway.”

“My mom said I could maybe take lessons,” I volunteer. It doesn’t sound like such a bad idea anymore.

“That was awesome!” Jackson says. “Who’s next?”

Ben looks at me before mumbling, “Pass. It’s too steep.”

“I forgot my helmet. My mom will totally ground me if she catches me,” I add.

“Seriously? You’re both bailing on me?” Jackson looks back and forth at us like he can’t believe his luck, being stuck with losers like us. 

“Let’s shoot around,” I say.

“That’s so boring,” Jackson protests. “You never want to do anything but basketball.”

“Come on, Jackson,” Ben says. “That’s something we can do together.”

“Fine,” Jackson grumbles. 

Jackson and I pair up against Ben and Antonio. We win the game after Jackson feeds me a sweet no-look pass and I land my jump shot. Best of all, I can tell he’s having fun too.

“We got the after-school program booklet,” Mama says a few days later. “They have lessons at the skate park.”

She hands it to me and points to the page. The course description lists skills like kick-turns, pumping, and ramps. 

I’ve tried Jackson’s skateboard a couple more times after school. Each time I couldn’t wait to stop. It’s just not for me.

I flip through the booklet and find the basketball leagues section.

“I think I want to do this instead,” I say while Mama leans over to look. She smiles and kisses me on the head.

“Good choice.”

I might not love wheels under my feet like Action Jackson—but there’s more than one way to fly.