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to Grind City with Rabbit. Or rather, I saw Rabbit at the bus stop, so we ended up going together. Rabbit can do tricks I can’t—he’s been doing gay twists for ages, and he was right on the edge of being able to do a McTwist, which is a 540-degree turn on a ramp.
    When I try to talk to Mum about tricks, she always gets muddled up by the numbers. “Five hundred forty degrees?” she said when I was trying to describe a McTwist. “How the hell do you know when you’ve done five hundred forty degrees?” As if we spend our time counting the degrees one by one. But a 540 is just 360 plus 180—in other words, it’s just a turn and a half. Mum seemed disappointed when I put it like that. I think she hoped that skating was turning me into some kind of mathematical genius, and I was doing calculations in my head that other kids could only do on a computer. TH, by the way, has done a 900. Maybe if I tell you that’s basically impossible, you’ll start to see why he should have a country named after him.
    McTwists are really hard, and I haven’t even begun thinking about them yet, mostly because you end up eating a lot of concrete while you’re practising. You can’t do it without slamming every couple of minutes, but that’s the thing about Rabbit. He’s so thick that he doesn’t mind how much concrete he eats. He’s lost like three hundred teeth skating. I’m surprised the people who run Grind City don’t put his teeth on the tops of walls to stop people getting in at night, the way some people use bits of broken glass.
    I didn’t have a good day, though. I was distracted. I couldn’t stop thinking about the evening at the cinema. I know it sounds stupid, but I didn’t want to turn up with a big fat bloody lip, and statistics show that fat lips tend to happen to me more on a Sunday than on any other day of the week.
    Anyway, Rabbit noticed that I was just messing around with a few ollies, and he came over.
    â€œWhat’s up? Lost your bottle?”
    â€œKind of.”
    â€œWhat’s the worst that can happen? That’s how I think about it. I’ve been to casualty like fifteen times because of skating. The worst bit is on the way to the hospital, because that hurts. You’re lying there all groaning and moaning, and blood everywhere. And you think, Is it worth it? But then they give you something to take the pain away. Unless you’re unconscious. Then you don’t need it. Not for a while.”
    â€œSounds good.”
    â€œIt’s just my philosophy. You know. Pain can’t kill you. Unless it’s really bad.”
    â€œYeah. Thanks. Something to think about there.”
    â€œIs there?” He seemed surprised. I don’t suppose anyone had ever told Rabbit he’d given them something to think about. It was because I wasn’t really listening.
    I wasn’t going to say anything, because what’s the point of talking to Rabbit? But then I realized that it was killing me, not telling anyone about Alicia, and if I didn’t talk to him, I’d have to go home and talk to Mum or to TH. Sometimes it doesn’t matter who you talk to, as long as you talk. That’s why I spend half my life talking to a life-sized poster of a skater. At least Rabbit was a real person.
    â€œI met this girl.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œDoes that matter?” I could see that it was going to be a frustrating conversation.
    â€œI’d like to try and picture the scene,” said Rabbit.
    â€œMy mum’s friend’s party.”
    â€œSo is she like really old?”
    â€œNo. She’s my age.”
    â€œWhat was she doing at the party?”
    â€œShe lives there, “I said. “She—”
    â€œShe lives at a party?” Rabbit said. “How does that work?”
    I was wrong. It was much easier explaining things to a poster.
    â€œShe doesn’t live at a party.