The Bright Side

Chapter 8 - Part 3

SKY

The sky looks like I've hatched it with a pencil. Irregular shades of grey merge into each other, still light above East Coast Skate Park but gradually getting darker in the distance. It's going to rain. Not right now, but soon. The breeze already has that sharp and fresh quality it always has when it's raining above the sea and I can imagine the waves breaking against the rocks below the lighthouse, foaming up when they hit the air; I can almost feel the storm front tousling my hair. 

After a short break during which we ate sandwiches at my house, Tristan and I headed out again, afraid that once it will start to rain it wouldn't stop again and the lazy summer days at the Skate Park could end. Tristan is trying a Cab and for the moment, I just watch him from the grind box because my privates feel rather sensitive after I messed up my first try to Dark Slide on the rails. Despite the cast, he's good. Brilliant really. It's like his board is an extension of his feet. And he has attitude. And a million things more. I know that I have to take care of my face while watching him or he'll catch me slobbering.

"Tristan!"

A tense voice disconnects me from the fuzzy feeling inside my chest and I turn my head to the sight of Judy hurrying across the skate park, passing me by on the box without even as much as a 'hello' before she comes to stand before Tristan. She's as white as a ghost and the lines on her face seem deeper today. Tristan's whole body goes rigid at the sight of her.

"Mum?"

She takes his hand as she steps up and breathes hard before she starts to speak.

"Your father had another stroke. An hour ago. He's not going to make it."

I'm not sure he heard her; he shows no reaction, just stands there still as a statue, his face blank. The emotional display that is his face is blank. That is not Tristan's face, the face that couldn't hide an emotion to save his life.

"Come. We're going there now. I've already picked up Rory."

I turn my eyes to the street and spot their metallic blue Volvo; Rory is sitting on the passenger seat across from a snot rag covered dashboard that looks like it had been snowed in from the distance.

"No." Tristan takes a step back, shaking his head, clenching his fists.

"Tristan..."

"No, Mum. No!" He takes another step back, his head turning like he's watching a way too fast tennis match. "I'm not going. I've said my goodbyes five years ago. No."

"So you're not coming?" Condemnation, refusal, disapproval saturate her voice, define her features and I can't understand how Tristan can take it without giving in.

"No."

She does not say another word, just turns around and leaves; her heels clicking loudly as she stomps across the concrete until the banging of her car door and the gurgling sound of the motor fades away and leaves a scary, unearthly quiet behind.

Tristan stands silently for a few seconds and then suddenly kicks his board with such force that it flies through the air before it crashes against a box and comes to a halt with the deck and the spinning wheels on top. He kicks it again, makes it slide across the concrete; the fury he radiates makes everything go cold around me.

"Fuck!" he shouts and goes at the board over and over, all over the area. "Fuck!"

I can't make any sense of what just happened. He had told me weeks ago that his Dad had died five years back.

Kicking it doesn't seem to do it for him anymore; at one point he picks it up and smashes it against a pillar, again and again, until it splits in two perfect halves and one piece drops to the ground in defeat. He sends the other one after it. And his base cap, too.