He’s bullshitting. The deserted Mexican restaurant is squat, but its roof is much higher than ten stairs. It’s more like a fifteen-set, easy, but Oskar’s jumped that before anyway.

The sun is behind him, stings the back of his neck. Another perfect Sunday. The best time to street-skate; when all the schools are empty, the city buildings deserted. He drops the bow of his skateboard forward, holds the back of it steady under his left foot. The roof tiles are flat, patched together, but his board rumbles as he rolls the wheels back and forth.

It’s weird. When he sees heights on TV, like that time his mum was watching the movie with the two men grappling over an icy crevasse, or when they show a fisheye view of a bungy jumper on one of those survival shows, Oskar’s hands become clammy. He feels a prickling in his fingertips like a Christmas beetle is crawling across them. But when he’s on his board, he’s fine. He’s in control.

He pushes off. He feels his own heft, his feet steadying the board’s wheels as he scoots across the roof. Crouching, his calf muscles tense, ready to spring. It’s just him and his board, movement, the wind cool against sweat. He knows he will fly.

Oskar rolls his shirt sleeve up so it doesn’t brush the graze on his elbow. It took him four goes before he got the roof jump right. The first two times he’d fallen off his board, rolled against the hard ground of the carpark, the bitumen pebbly and glittering up close. The third time he landed, the board slumped in the middle, and he thought the fucking thing was going to snap. Gav had to lend him his flick knife to tighten the deck bolts. But Oskar got it on the fourth go. Lucky. He could tell Gav was getting a bit bored filming him by then.

It was Gav who’d taught Oskar to roll with it when he stacked it; just let the momentum take you, don’t resist. Later, whenever they look through the video footage of Oskar somersaulting off his board, again and again, they always laugh. When Oskar shows these parts to his mum, though, she glances away, like she’s watching a horror movie.

Hitching his backpack onto his shoulder he fist-bumps his mates goodbye. Gav pulls his car keys out from his pocket, walks towards his Milo green ute. As usual, Amadi tries to clack his knuckles against Oskar’s, a sharp crack of pain.

‘Not cool.’

Oskar grins as he turns towards the bus stop.

The sun’s lost its bite by the time he takes a seat on the bench. It’s only him and an old woman. His board rests beneath his right foot and he rolls it gently back and forth across the cement. A slight breeze has picked up, swooshing dirt and a chip packet along the gutter. The music beats loud in his ear, his earphones vibrating with Joey Bada$$, telling him he can’t change the world unless he changes himself. To deal with the cards he’s been dealt. Oskar doesn’t realise the old woman is talking to him until she glares at him and shakes her head. He pulls the left earbud out, says, ‘Sorry?’

‘I asked you to stop moving that thing,’ she says, pointing at his skateboard. ‘I can’t think with that racket.’

Oskar’s brows lift but his foot pauses.

‘Where you from, anyway?’ she asks.

‘I live up the road. In Holland Park.’

She shakes her head, impatient. ‘No. I mean where are you from?’ Her voice stressing the last word. A cloth hat is pulled low on her brow, and the store’s plastic hook is still attached to its brim.

‘I was born here.’

Her eyes, as bleary as a dead mullet’s, flick over his face. ‘If you say so.’

‘I was.’ He smiles politely at her, looks up the road for the bus.

‘Too many foreigners here. Too many.’

He nods, but doesn’t say anything. He thinks of Gav, of how Gav says to just smile along, be polite. Prove to people that skaters aren’t the dicks they think they are.

‘But where are your parents from?’

‘Vietnam.’

‘Well, they should go back, is my opinion.’ She pulls her handbag closer onto her lap. ‘I’ve got nothing against them personally, but youse just don’t fit in.’ Her bony finger points at the pathway. ‘Like you, riding up and down.’

The tips of his ears feel hot, but he just keeps smiling like a fucking idiot. His chest feels like it’s burning, like an army of ants are swarming up from his abdomen. Two girls, older than him, handbags bumping against high-cut shorts, approach the bus stop. He wishes the old cow would shut up. He doesn’t want the girls to hear her, maybe agree, or worse, cast sympathetic eyes over him. He picks up his board, steps to the side of the road, peers along its length, like he’s searching for the bus. Suddenly, he’s aware of the frayed hole on the side of his shoe, of the damp gaminess of his stained shirt. The grime on his brown skin which now feels like a heavy jacket he wants to shrug off.

When he arrives home his grandad is on the back patio, hosing water into a wide bucket. Oskar pauses close by, and gazes down at the bulbous goldfish that bobs in the water.

‘Why don’t you put that thing in an aquarium, Gong?’ he asks.

His grandad grunts. ‘Easier to change water like this. Every day I change water and he grow this big. When your mum got him, he only this big.’ He holds his thumb and forefinger up, about an inch apart. He squats, his knees spread either side of the bucket. Beads of sweat bubble between the sparse strands of hair on his pate and his shins shine like polished chopsticks.

‘You want some noodles? I’m going to cook some,’ Oskar asks, but his grandad just waves his hand, says, ‘You make them wrong anyway. I’ll wait for your mother to get home.’

Oskar shrugs off his backpack in the kitchen, kicks it under the kitchen bench. He props his skateboard against the wall. Filling up the kettle, he plugs it in, then tears open a packet of mi goreng. He drops the noodle cake into a cereal bowl, taps out the spices from the sachet. When the water’s boiled, he pours it over the noodles. He prods the still-firm noodles with a fork, breaking them apart in the steaming broth. In his room, he places the bowl on his desk, and turns on his PS4.

He’s just fighting off a pack of feral ghouls when he hears his mum arrive home.

‘Oskar,’ she calls, one of her shopping bags banging against the sliding door as she struggles through into the kitchen. ‘Oh, there you are. Help me unpack these.’ She leans in to peck a kiss on Oskar’s cheek. She smells of her Beyoncé perfume, cigarette smoke, oven fries.

His grandad watches from the TV room, his eyes blinking slowly. He doesn’t greet her or offer to help.

She plonks three grey plastic bags on the table and drops her handbag to the floor where it slumps against a chair leg.

Oskar peels soggy plastic bag away from a bottle of cold orange juice, unscrewing the lid to pour himself a cup.

‘I said unpack, Oskar, not help yourself.’ She’s smiling, shaking her head at him. ‘You can also take out the recycling.’

He suppresses a groan. It pisses her off when he does that, and he wants to stay on her good side. ‘Don’t forget I’ve got that party tonight,’ he says, as he lobs the bread onto the bench. ‘Can you still give me a lift?’

His mum heaves a loud sigh, her hands resting on her hips. ‘Oskar, it’s Sunday. You know your Uncle Danny is coming over for dinner. And who has a bloody party on a Sunday, anyway?’

‘But Mum…’ He can feel the ants start up again, one or two stinging under his skin. ‘You said I could go.’

Her shoulders drop. ‘Who’s going?’

‘Amadi.’

She nods. ‘Your Sudanese friend?’

‘Ethiopian, Mum. You’re thinking of Abdi. You’re so racist,’ he says, joking.

‘Okay. Who else?’

‘Beck, Laurel, Christopher.’ Actually, he’s not sure if Chris is going, but his mum likes him. It might sway her. ‘And Gav will be there.’

She frowns, causing two neat slivers between her brows that leave their mark even when her face is relaxed. ‘Is it a grown-ups’ party?’

‘No Mum.’ He works hard to keep the exasperated tone from his voice. ‘It’s a girl from school – her birthday. A grade eleven girl. Kat. You don’t know her.’

‘Why’s Gav going then?’

‘I dunno. He’s just one of the guys from the skate park. She’s invited all of us.’

His mum presses her lips together, shakes her head. ‘You have school tomorrow, mate.’

‘Come on, Mum. We’ve had all our assessment. The last week’s always a total waste of time.’

Her tired eyes take him in. Her hair is tied high in a ponytail, but it’s messy, like she’s pulled a sweater over her head. Her coffee-bean eyes are magnified by her glasses, and some of her mascara has smudged the skin beneath her eyes.

They hear a snort from the TV room. ‘What does it matter, Daughter,’ Oskar’s grandad says, in Vietnamese. ‘Your son doesn’t get good marks anyway.’ To Oskar, he says, in his broken English, like the boy can’t understand his mother tongue, ‘You be better stay home and watch news. Learn something. Put something in that head of yours. Not waste time with bum friends.’

Oskar stacks four homebrand cans of tuna in the cupboard. He rolls his eyes at his mum.

As he walks from the kitchen, she tries to rub his back, but he’s moving too swiftly.

‘Okay, Oskar. You can go to the party. But I can’t drive you, sorry. I’ve got to get the chicken on.’

Oskar pushes his hair back before replacing his Yankees cap as he walks to the bus stop on Edward Street. He has to meet Chris and Amadi so they can catch the 579 to the party. On the bus into town he’d thought about his grandad. Living with him was like how Ms Elvery, his geography teacher, described reducing your carbon footprint –  avoid heavy traffic, skip bottled water, lower the thermostat. Except in his case, Oskar avoids irritating his grandad by keeping to his room, by being invisible. He skips TV time with his mum, lowers the volume of his music. Once, a few years ago, when Oskar still slept in his mum’s bed, she told him that Grandad was just cross that Oskar’s dad had run out on them, that he was left to support them. She told him how Gong’s shop had closed down when her mum died, not long after Oskar was born. She insisted that he loved Oskar, that he loved her, but Oskar didn’t see it.

‘Hey, Oskar.’

He looks up from the bus stop bench to see Chris grinning down at him. Chris has diamond studs in each ear, and the sides of his head have been shaved so that his black, curly hair springs tall at the top. He’s wearing his camo pants, too, just like Oskar, but Oskar’s got his Only jacket on, much cooler than Chris’s Nike one.

‘Have we missed the bus?’ asks Amadi, coming up behind Chris. He’s got on the Bape hoodie that’s a hand-me-down from Gav, and a black Supreme cap that doesn’t quite contain his frizzy halo of hair. ‘My mum made me eat before I could come out. Today, when she went to the shops, I asked her to get me something so I can fatten up,’ he holds his hands out, displaying his long, skinny frame, ‘and you know what she gave me? Did she get me ice cream? Or Tim Tams? No. A punnet of cherry tomatoes. Tomatoes! Like that’s gonna get me fat.’

Man, Oskar loves how funny Amadi is. He feels lighter, looser. Like how he wants to feel all the time.

They wait another eight minutes for their bus, and line up to board with their Go cards ready. The driver’s eyes flick over them. ‘No more room.’

Oskar looks down the aisle. The seats are all taken, but the triangle hand-straps dangle, empty. ‘There’s still standing room,’ he says.

‘No more room,’ the driver repeats. ‘Off you get. Wait for the next one if you want.’

‘We’re school students,’ Oskar waves his bus card. ‘You have to take us.’

Amadi murmurs Yeah and Daniel Morcombe behind him.   

The driver just shrugs, shakes his head.

‘Why can’t we get on?’ asks Chris, over Oskar’s shoulder. He points to the aisle. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

The driver gazes straight ahead, through the windscreen. ‘I don’t have to give you a reason. Now, get off my bus.’

Oskar glances at a couple of people seated at the front of the bus. The young man just stares back at him, the woman by his side looks out her window. He glimpses a few people behind them craning a little, to see what’s happening.

He turns, tilts his head at Amadi, indicating to get off.

‘What the fuck, bro,’ says Chris, standing his ground. ‘I’m not getting off until you give us a legitimate reason for not taking us.’

‘Off the bus,’ says the driver, not bothering to answer him.

Oskar grabs Chris’s elbow. Chris resists, whips his arms back. After a few seconds of no response from the driver he too steps from the bus. ‘You’re a fucking joke,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna report you.’ But the bus doors squeal shut on his words, and the bus pulls away, leaving the boys standing in the dusk.

‘We’re going to be so late,’ says Amadi.  

The party is in a two-storey brick house. They’re in a suburb that Oskar has never been to before.

‘My brother says this is such a sketchy area,’ says Chris, as they sidle up to the door.

A faultline of cracks spread across the cement driveway, straggly weeds peeping out from the edges. On either side of the doorway is a pot plant; one holds a sprawling vine of some sort, the other only soil and a gold and purple Turkish Delight wrapper. The door is open, and down a dim corridor they can see the living room, but everyone seems to be out on the back patio. They make their way out, high fiving, shaking hands, fist bumping.

Oskar sees Kat, standing by a trestle table covered with plastic bowls of chips, fruit skewers, mini hotdogs. Perched on the side of the table is a big blue and white drink canteen next to two stacks of white plastic cups.

‘Happy birthday, Kat,’ he says loudly, over the tinny music blaring from the small speakers on the ground. His mum wanted him to bring Kat some chocolates, but he doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea. His eyes scan the crowd for Hayley. He thinks he sees her sitting with her mates in the dark corner of the patio on a day bed. ‘You got a good crowd here. Where’s your parents?’

Kat shrugs. ‘Mum went out with her friends, and Dad’s upstairs watching the footy with my uncle. He doesn’t care what we do.’

Oskar nods, out of things to say. He watches as a kid he doesn’t know lifts the lid of the canteen and pours in half a bottle of vodka. He winks at Oskar and hands him a cup of the spiked orange cordial. Oskar raises the cup to say thanks, then joins Amadi and Chris.

Handing the drink to Chris, he says, ‘Here, you have this. It’s got vodka in it.’

‘Cool. Thanks.’ Chris takes a large gulp of the drink. ‘You not drinking?’

Oskar shakes his head. ‘Nah. Got a trick I want to practice before school tomorrow. Don’t want a cloudy head.’ He thinks of the bigflip he wants so badly. Down a fifteen stair set. Again and again he’s watched the footage of Max Summers hardflip down that thirteen set. Mostly, he watches the end of the footage when the guys, Gav and the others, lift Max onto their shoulders, carry him away like a king or a footy legend or something. Oskar knows if he pulls off the bigflip, the others will raise him up too, embrace him. He will really belong. His heart swells at the thought, banishing all the ants, leaving him feeling hollow and good.

‘Boys.’ A hand claps him on the shoulder. Gav. ‘Been partying?’

He’s brought a few guys from the skate park, who come in behind him, carrying two cartons of beer. The kid who spiked the cordial cheers, and Gav beats his chest like a gorilla. Kat squeals, claps her hands, points them towards the eskies.

In the commotion, Oskar edges to the side of the patio, peers over at the day bed crammed under the kitchen window. By the glow from the fluorescent kitchen light, he can see two girls he doesn’t know sit on the end of it, bare feet swinging, and at the other end is Hayley, lighting a cigarette.

‘Hey, Hayley,’ he says, taking a seat next to her. She’s wearing a black singlet and a denim skirt. She smells nice, and glitter shimmers high on her cheekbones.

‘Hey,’ she says back, closing her eyes as she draws on her cigarette. A slick of eyeliner arcs across the rim of her eyelashes. ‘Can you get me another beer?’

‘Sure.’ Oskar stands again, goes to the esky. Gav makes him take two, won’t listen to him when he says he doesn’t want one. But maybe it’s better that he holds a stubbie, Oskar decides. Less conspicuous. More a part of things.

Hayley pours a neat amount of beer into her mouth, managing to keep her matte lipstick intact. Wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, she offers Oskar a cigarette.

He laughs. ‘No, thanks. Don’t smoke.’

She stares at him, narrows her eyes. ‘Whatever. Think you’re a bit of an athlete, do ya?’ She smiles at him, though, and her teeth are small and straight. Taking another draw on her cigarette, she blows the smoke away from him in one fast, long breath.

‘Okay, give me a drag,’ he says, hand out. If the night goes the way he wants it to, he might as well make sure his breath tastes the same as hers. Sucking in the smoke, he holds it in his chest too long. He tries to blow out smoothly, but the last bit catches in his throat, behind his nose, and he splutters.

She laughs at him, taking the cigarette back. He feels dizzy, like he’s been drinking beer after all. He’s just asking her how she thinks her biology exam went, when tyres screech out on the road, and raised voices can be heard from the front lawn, billowing over the roof. Oskar and Hayley get to their feet, look through the kitchen window.   

The crowd of kids surge from the patio towards the front of the house like an outgoing wave, the ones at the back clogging the corridor. Oskar goes too but hesitates in the patio doorway. Some of the guys are yelling now, a girl screams, glass shatters against cement. Amadi jostles his way back into the house from the front, jogs towards them.

‘There’s a fight,’ he says, eyes wide. The plastic cup in his fist is crushed. ‘Some guys from down the road tried to gatecrash, and …’

Oskar walks towards the front door to see for himself, ignoring his friend’s restraining hand. Gav heads in from the opposite direction, brushes past him into the living room. ‘Where’re my keys?’ he says, but he’s not talking to Oskar.

The crowd in the doorway breaks apart as the tide of kids roll back inside, mouthing the words ‘stabbed’, ‘neck’, ‘never seen so much fucking blood’.

‘Call the police,’ someone shouts. ‘Has anyone called the fucking police?’ Kat runs up the stairs, and her face is crumpled like she’s about to cry.

Hayley grasps his wrist, and her fingers are cold, clammy, and for the first time he notices that her fingernails are short and painted dark blue. ‘What’s going to happen? We’ve been drinking. My dad will fucking kill me.’ Her voice rises, in tune with the police car’s siren.  

‘It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine,’ Oskar says through clenched teeth. His shoulders and neck are so tense it’s painful. ‘Just calm down. Be quiet. It’ll be all right.’ He sounds snappier than he means to, but can’t help himself.

Amadi’s dad drops Oskar home. Oskar stares up at his house, at the double garage, the verandah above. The house is still a shadow against the sky that is lightening to dawn, and his mum’s window is shrouded in darkness. She won’t be awake for at least another hour. He walks around to the back and, taking the spare key from beneath the mat, he slides the door open silently, reaches for his skateboard, closes the door again.

Out on the streets, he just skates. His wheels clatter across the grooves in the pavement, rumble along the uneven road, and he imagines a chasm rips open behind him as he rolls, swallowing up his thoughts, his memories. He has to keep moving or it will swallow him up too.

The police had divided up those at the party, breathalysed the ones under age. That was the last Oskar saw of Hayley. She was bundled into the first of three police vans, along with most of the kids from the party. In the end, there were only six of them left in Kat’s living room.

Oskar presses his hands to his ears, the wind whistling past his elbows, remembering how loud Kat’s dad bellowed, how Kat screamed and cried.  

He passes the Mitsubishi car yard, and thinks about the policeman who questioned him and Amadi. He seemed nice. He reminded Oskar of his mate Alex’s dad. But Oskar’s not a snitch. He knows that dobbing gets you into more trouble than it’s worth. So he’d told the policeman he’d seen nothing. Wasn’t even out the front. Ask Hayley. Ask Amadi. The policeman stared at him, until the ants rose to Oskar’s throat and nearly choked him. But he didn’t say anything. The policeman grunted, sounding just like his grandad did.

Dobbing can get you stabbed. His thoughts snag on the word. Stabbed. Stabbed.

He rolls past Red Rooster, and scrapes to a stop at the foot of Mount Gravatt. He can’t see the top of the mountain for all the trees, but he’s heard there’s a lookout with some good benches to tre flip and grind. He pushes off again, kicks against the ground, glides, kicks against the ground, glides, until the road becomes too steep. Stopping, he lifts his board and walks the rest of the way. Beneath the eucalypts it’s cool and dark, the dawn light just flickering through the leaves, but he’s moving so swiftly up the twisting road he’s soon winded.

The carpark at the top is deserted, the café empty. He skates over to the cement benches. They’re a bit awkward to tre flip. Too much grass on one side. Looking around he sees the toilet block, painted in candy stripes. Its roof is low. Maybe a fifteen set? Skating over to it, he tucks his board under his right arm, and clambers onto the handrail. With a teetering step, he treads onto the top of a metal box that’s attached to the outer wall of the toilets. Holding onto the edge of the roof with his left hand, he tries to fling his board over the top but, for several seconds, his arms are jelly and he thinks he might fall backwards. With a surge of strength, he manages to lift himself and the board onto the rooftop. He holds the board clamped to the roof so it doesn’t slide down the slope, and lies flat on his back, panting. He presses his eyes shut. Just roll with it. Roll with it. He can hear Gav’s words.     

Oskar gazes up at the sky, blue now, but with a shimmer of pink on the horizon that looks like someone has taken a graphite pencil and smeared lines across it. The sky is so wide, it’s like he’s trapped under a snow globe, and he finds he can’t thrust the memory to the back of his mind anymore. He thinks of Gav coming in from the front yard, shoving something into his back pocket. Of Gav’s glazed eyes, as he checks the kitchen counter and scouts around the eskies, looking for his keys, his movements jerky.

In his mind, Oskar tries to rewind the clip, erase it, but no, he sees again the blood smeared on Gav’s right hand, flecked up his forearm, a dark flash as he disappears out the back door, flees to the right.

But Oskar’s no snitch. Could be millions of reasons Gav had blood on him. Millions.

He pulls himself to his feet, and walks to the edge of the roof. At the front it slants upwards, so he knows he can’t tre flip it. Glancing behind, he sees that if he skates down the slope he’ll land amongst shrubbery. He stares down at the road again, clasping the skateboard to his chest. The toes of his Adidas inch closer to the lip of the roofing. His eyes are scratchy, and he feels a bit sick in the stomach from lack of sleep. He thinks he might be swaying, forward, forward, and he’s scared of how drawn he feels to the edge.

His mum’d kill him if she saw him now. Turning, he moves to the back of the toilet block and drops his board onto the grass and then scrambles down himself.

Oskar skates twice around the carpark, trying to shed his thoughts. Stopping at the top of the mountain road, he steps off his board.

The narrow, winding road disappears about fifty metres ahead. He should skate down. Surely longboarders have given it a go before. He thinks of the many bends in the road, the tight corners. Maybe his wheels will get the wobbles, throw him headfirst against a tree. Maybe he’ll pick up so much speed he’ll slam into an incoming car.

Maybe, though, if he films it and makes it to the bottom, he’ll be a star on YouTube. Taking his phone from his pocket, he opens up the video camera, glances down at the moving screen. A text comes through. Hayley. You said it’d be alright.

The ants start up again. He can hear them in his head. He feels like he might fall to his knees, cough them up onto the road.

Oskar places his left foot onto his board, slides it forward a centimetre. He thinks of his grandad. Of the old woman at the bus stop. And he thinks of Gav. Gav, who tells him to roll with it.

‘Fuck it,’ he says.

 

‘Hardflip’ was commended in the 2018 ABR Elizabeth Jolley Short Story Prize.