Skater Bees

A Way To Make A Friend

The summer sun beats down on the pale grey concrete without hesitation. The urgent waves of heat bounce against the surface, creating a mirage over the roads. There's a low hum of cicadas and sound of skateboard wheels scrapping against the ground filling the absence of sound in the hot air. The quiet, repetitive and otherwise ignored sounds are being blocked out by the loud roar of Nixon's signature summer playlist.

The teenager is sailing down the streets at record speeds for no reason other than it's fun. The wind against his skin makes goose bumps, and the blur of the tall green trees and houses passing by his peripheral vision gives him a rush. And besides, going slow was  for chumps. 

Nixon's face is painted with a large grin covered by the shade of the helmet his grandparents force him to wear whenever he rides his skateboard. He's happily and loudly singing along to the lyrics of Wannabe by the Spice girls. He's loud enough to catch the attention of the old ladies sitting on their porches, sipping on sweet sun tea, but too in his own little world to care about their peculiar stares.

He isn't paying attention to his surroundings much. His short attention span is focused in on his music as he sings along to Scary Spice's rapping bridge. This leads him to his wheel hitting the small uneven rise of the sidewalk, causing the board to stop abruptly and for Nixon's body to go flying forward.

He's lucky to have quick reflexes. He puts his hands out in front of him so they take the brunt of the fall, leaving his face unscathed. The same can't be said for the his knees and palms though. They sting instantly from the fresh scrap wounds, creating a large amount of discomfort. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, looking at his hands that are covered in red marks and dirt from the ground. His knees are even worse, they're bleeding and definitely won't feel good under the warm water of his shower head.

He pulls out his earbuds, wincing as he folds his hands just lightly. He picked up his phone, eyes scanning over the thankfully uncracked screen for signs of any other damage. There was nothing. And he felt instant relief.

"Are you okay?"

Nixon looks up from inspecting his hands to the keeper of a quiet, soft voice. The voice belongs to a short, presumably teenage boy. He's got a mop of curly, light brown hair on his head with bright blue eyes an a small upturned nose. In his hands he has a now closed book titled "The Secret Life Of Bees" and a plain black backpack on his shoulders.

The brunette gives a smile from down on the hard concrete. "Yeah. Just some scraps." With that Nixon tries to push himself up off the concrete, earning and involuntary wince as he moves and bends the broken skin of his knee.

"You know you're supposed to wear knee pads while doing that, right?"

And Nixon nods giving a light, very short laugh, briefly thinking about how he sounds just like his grandmother.

"I have band-aids in my bag. Let me get a few for you."

The boy slips off his backpack and puts the bright yellow book under his arm as he opens the first small pocket of his bag. He pulls out a few pairs of band-aids of various themes from the pocket before zipping it up and putting it back on his back. Then he looks down at his knees, examining them. He's quiet for a second, thinking.

"Maybe we need a little more than band-aids. My aunt's cafe is just a little ways down the street, we can fix you up there... if you want?" Levi says seeming unsure He makes a side step so his bodies open to the street as he points his thumb down the side walk.

Nixon smiles, "Okay. Lead the way-" His voice trails of, waiting for the newly made acquaintance to fill his name into the vocalized blank.

"Levi. And from you singing I'm assuming you're a Spice Girl?"