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turn.
    I spent half an hour with my fists wrapped around them, persuading them to give, but even after I used half a can of WD-40, they wouldn’t move.
    In a last-ditch effort, I stole a bottle of Dad’s homemade cooking oil from the kitchen and splashed it on each wheel.
    I left it for two minutes, hoping, begging for it to work, and you know what? After a couple of creaky spins, they started to turn, faster and faster, until I could hear the oil heating up so much I could’ve stir-fried veggies in it.
    I punched the air in celebration. This was it. It had to be the start of something.
    I was so full of confidence that I planted my feet on the board, pushing my back heel onto the tail of it to flick it skyward like the other boys did.
    The board shot from under me and crashed into my dresser, chipping a huge chunk of wood away in the process. I fell backward and landed hard, my head whacking against the bed leg.
Throbbing
doesn’t even come close to describing the pain.
    I groaned loudly but had no time for self-pity as Mom’s footsteps thundered up the stairs.
    “Charlie? Charlie, dear? Are you all right?”
    Without hesitation I leapt to my feet and dived for the board, ramming it under the bed just as she appeared in the room. I must have looked like an idiot, hanging out from under the bed, a lump like a tennis ball swelling on my head.
    “Have you hurt yourself?” she cried.
    “No, no. I’m fine, honest.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Completely.” Although my skull was screaming otherwise.
    She eyed the room suspiciously, looking for whatever had attacked me. Her eyes fell on Dad’s oil.
    “What on earth are you doing in here?” she asked, picking the bottle up.
    My head spun, causing my mouth to spit out the most ridiculous line ever.
    “Dry skin,” I blurted. “On my elbow. Just trying to stop it from itching.”
    “Well, don’t use
this.
”
    And so began a rigorous examination of my elbows, knees, and every other joint on my body. Only after she’d found no evidence of warts, ringworm, eczema, psoriasis, or rickets did she finally leave the room, promising to check up on me in twenty minutes.
    Once her steps had faded on the stairs, I dared to retrieve the board from under the bed, wincing at the first scratch to ever grace its surface. It could’ve been way worse.
    This was going to be harder than I thought. It wasn’t like Mom afforded me any kind of privacy in life. Secrets weren’t really an option. And even if they were, would I ever be able to stand upright on the dang thing, never mind ride it?

S o began the training. The grueling, butt-numbing, top-secret training. The kind of training usually reserved for Navy SEAL recruits and clandestine wings of the FBI. That was how I saw it, at least. Thinking of it that way dulled the pain that my body was in almost hourly.
    I lost count of the number of bruises hidden beneath my clothes. I had so many that I couldn’t count them; they merged into each other in one big, aching mess. My body was the equivalent of David Beckham’s tattooed arms—well, apart from that girls would’ve screamed at me for a very different reason.
    Obviously.
    It was difficult keeping them out of Mom’s sight (the bruises, not the girls), especially when I was changing for bed or getting ready for a bath. She had an annoying habit (one of many) of appearing at these times, asking if I wanted bubbles added to the water or whether I needed a drink beside my bed.
    I mean,
GET OUT, MOM!
    Not that I said that to her, of course; instead, I took more care to lock the bathroom door behind me, jamming anything I could find against it, even spare toilet paper rolls, for that extra, double-quilted security.
    Sometimes I felt guilty that she annoyed me so much. I mean, she’s my mom, and I could see in her eyes that she really was worried and wanted the best for me. Most of the time, though, I couldn’t deal with it and sulkily toed the line like Dad, feeling more and more