winding among the park’s trees. Taking long stretches easily on their back wheels. Hopping off their boards, turning in midair, reconnecting soles to fiberglass, flipping into an opposite direction. Showing off for one another and for anyone else who might care to watch.
“Oh man,” Tracy says, and it takes Fern a beat or two to see she’s not referring to their tricks, but rather that she recognizes one of them, who nods in their direction. “Fuck,” she says softly.
“A checker,” Fern guesses, meaning from Tracy’s checkered past.
Fern doesn’t recognize him, but that’s not surprising. For a long while, Tracy was a devotee of the one-night stand. She carried a baggie stuffed with condoms in her backpack, along with an address book of numbers and first names. Fern figures she probably doesn’t know about most of Tracy’s boyfriends. This one is tall and skinny in that flat way some guys have; when he turns to the side there’s hardly anything between the back of him and the front. He has ropey muscles in his arms and legs. He’s wearing long, baggy shorts and black, thick-soled shoes, a karate-style headband, wraparound shades.
Fern waits to see what will happen. More and more when the issue of guys comes up, Fern feels alienated from Tracy, or as though she has been left far behind. Tracy is already worn out, just from the amount of life she has lived so far—the time she put in being a creature of the night, out on Belmont or in Bucktown in black polyester pants and peculiar hats and thrift shop sweaters with politically incorrect fur collars and cuffs. Being politically incorrect is part of her tough act. Fern used to think that underneath all the toughness Tracy was really just a big softie, but lately what’s underneath also seems tough, fibrous, as though she has taken a look at what’s available out there and isn’t terribly impressed. Her facial features, small and pointed, have now also hardened up. What used to be a dry-ice glare, used selectively, has become her default look, and it’s hard to find her inside there. Too often lately, Fern gets embarrassed when her own enthusiasms run head-on into the abutment of Tracy. She has become guarded in revealing excitement, about certain things in particular, but also in her general sense that everything ahead is bursting with possibility. Possibility seems to be one of the things on which Tracy now casts a cold eye.
For a long while, Fern was Tracy’s sidekick on their search for whatever. When she met Cooper, at the rave, she thought Tracy would be happy for her, happy to be a part of the discovery team. And she was, for about a minute. Then Cooper quickly became one of the things Tracy was bored by. While Fern was finding him so original and fascinating, Tracy acted as though she’d already come across a thousand Coopers and he was just one thousand and one.
“He’s nothing,” she told Fern. “He’s vapor.”
Fern didn’t want to have to defend Cooper to Tracy. What she wanted was for Tracy to understand automatically why she was so totally vulnerable to him, why contact with him made her feel exfoliated, like she’d had about six layers of skin sanded off. Understanding this seemed like the kind of thing Tracy should be able to do, but she couldn’t. So she turned out to be right about him, that’s not the point. The point is that she couldn’t come out of her own darkness to be happy in a particular moment for Fern.
The guy who is a problem for Tracy wheels over. He is in a state of extreme sweat, but in an interesting way. His chest is furry, the hairs glistening; the band around his head and the T-shirt he has knotted around his hips are soaked through. He tips gracefully off his board, and, as part of the same fluid motion, crouches down in front of Lucky, who is sitting at attention. The guy is close enough that Fern can smell salt. She can tell that Lucky is making his standard initial assessment of this guy—friend
“Oh man,” Tracy says, and it takes Fern a beat or two to see she’s not referring to their tricks, but rather that she recognizes one of them, who nods in their direction. “Fuck,” she says softly.
“A checker,” Fern guesses, meaning from Tracy’s checkered past.
Fern doesn’t recognize him, but that’s not surprising. For a long while, Tracy was a devotee of the one-night stand. She carried a baggie stuffed with condoms in her backpack, along with an address book of numbers and first names. Fern figures she probably doesn’t know about most of Tracy’s boyfriends. This one is tall and skinny in that flat way some guys have; when he turns to the side there’s hardly anything between the back of him and the front. He has ropey muscles in his arms and legs. He’s wearing long, baggy shorts and black, thick-soled shoes, a karate-style headband, wraparound shades.
Fern waits to see what will happen. More and more when the issue of guys comes up, Fern feels alienated from Tracy, or as though she has been left far behind. Tracy is already worn out, just from the amount of life she has lived so far—the time she put in being a creature of the night, out on Belmont or in Bucktown in black polyester pants and peculiar hats and thrift shop sweaters with politically incorrect fur collars and cuffs. Being politically incorrect is part of her tough act. Fern used to think that underneath all the toughness Tracy was really just a big softie, but lately what’s underneath also seems tough, fibrous, as though she has taken a look at what’s available out there and isn’t terribly impressed. Her facial features, small and pointed, have now also hardened up. What used to be a dry-ice glare, used selectively, has become her default look, and it’s hard to find her inside there. Too often lately, Fern gets embarrassed when her own enthusiasms run head-on into the abutment of Tracy. She has become guarded in revealing excitement, about certain things in particular, but also in her general sense that everything ahead is bursting with possibility. Possibility seems to be one of the things on which Tracy now casts a cold eye.
For a long while, Fern was Tracy’s sidekick on their search for whatever. When she met Cooper, at the rave, she thought Tracy would be happy for her, happy to be a part of the discovery team. And she was, for about a minute. Then Cooper quickly became one of the things Tracy was bored by. While Fern was finding him so original and fascinating, Tracy acted as though she’d already come across a thousand Coopers and he was just one thousand and one.
“He’s nothing,” she told Fern. “He’s vapor.”
Fern didn’t want to have to defend Cooper to Tracy. What she wanted was for Tracy to understand automatically why she was so totally vulnerable to him, why contact with him made her feel exfoliated, like she’d had about six layers of skin sanded off. Understanding this seemed like the kind of thing Tracy should be able to do, but she couldn’t. So she turned out to be right about him, that’s not the point. The point is that she couldn’t come out of her own darkness to be happy in a particular moment for Fern.
The guy who is a problem for Tracy wheels over. He is in a state of extreme sweat, but in an interesting way. His chest is furry, the hairs glistening; the band around his head and the T-shirt he has knotted around his hips are soaked through. He tips gracefully off his board, and, as part of the same fluid motion, crouches down in front of Lucky, who is sitting at attention. The guy is close enough that Fern can smell salt. She can tell that Lucky is making his standard initial assessment of this guy—friend
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