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depressed. I began to understand why he said so little in life.
    But as painful as it was, both in my head and for my body, I refused to give up on the skating. In the rare moments that I managed to stay upright, it was the most exciting feeling…even if I wasn’t moving.
    I spent hours at first just standing on the board, allowing myself to lean farther and farther to the side without falling, feeling the wheels threaten to turn under me. I imagined myself at the ramp, the board thundering beneath as we soared skyward, hearing the gasping of the wind and other skaters as we pulled off a trick never before seen on British shores.
    All right, that was a way off—I hadn’t really mastered moving on it yet, never mind flying—but the dream of it excited me, inspired me, pushed me onward.
    Once I was upright and steady, I risked trying to move, staying behind at school once the yard had emptied, rolling slowly across the parking lot where the asphalt was smoothest.
    It was difficult to practice without being seen, or without upsetting Sinus, who couldn’t understand why he now had to walk home on his own every day.
    “Oh,” he’d huff. “Better things to do, huh?”
    I didn’t want to upset him, and practicing at school was far from ideal. I’d had to dive into the bushes in the name of secrecy on more occasions than my body cared to remember.
    Still, getting another bruise was better than being seen before I was ready, which, by my rate of progress, would be the year 2037.
    My problem was simple: I just couldn’t balance once I was moving. No matter how hard I tried. Crouching didn’t work, and neither did sticking my rear end out. How could the others make it look so easy when I was flailing like Bambi on the frickin’ ice?
    The breakthrough came just as I was about to give up. I was delivering on the rhino, feeling very grumpy, when I hit a broken bottle in the road. The tires flattened in a second, leaving me stranded with two bags of takeout for a couple of notorious complainers. The guy at number 59 had threatened to make me wear his food the last time I was late, and as kung pao pants weren’t exactly the trend this season…Well, you get the picture.
    I was panicking. The only option I had was the board stashed in the basket. I’d been trying to practice
between
deliveries, but now? Well, it had to be worth a try. So, with a bag of food in each hand, I rested my left foot on the board and pushed with my right.
    Where the bravery or belief came from I’m not sure, but after a shuddery start I was moving. Moving without falling. Moving without bruising another inch of my body.
    It was amazing. All right, I wasn’t setting a land-speed record or anything, but I was upright. Upright and moving!
    And do you know what made the difference? The bags of food. They acted like stabilizers on a bike, keeping me balanced and on track.
    I can’t even begin to describe the happiness in my gut, but I knew it was growing, seeping through every vein in my body. So this was what adrenaline felt like! Mom had kept me away from it for so long, as long as I could remember, that I wished I could shout out to her now to tell her, show her, that she was wrong to be so worried. No one would die; I could do this and be safe at the same time.
    The journey to number 59 was impossible to describe.
    There was the odd wobble, of course, but I’ll never forget the feeling as I overtook a seven-year-old on his mini-scooter. I had to stop myself from turning around and striking a pose.
    The fat guy at the first delivery looked shocked when I showed up on his doorstep.
    He checked his watch, then checked again, grabbing the bag to find his food hot for once.
    “Move along. No need for a microwave tonight.” He grinned and shoved a ten-dollar bill into my hand. “Keep the change.”
    A dollar fifty tip! Score. The closest I’d ever got to a tip before, after holding my hand out expectantly, was him telling me never to wipe my ass with