21 Cassius
My Turn
Two weeks shifts a lot when she’s not fighting herself.
Zae’s been back in October the way she does it when she’s doing okay, which is full-body, no apology.
Plastic spiders appear in my hoodie pockets.
Fake cobwebs show up on her desk. She ranks Halloween candy in the dining hall with the seriousness of a court verdict and drags me into it with one pointed look that makes it clear I’m participating whether I want to or not.
She laughs loud again. Not that tight little polite version she used during her bad stretch, but the reckless one that tips her head back and makes her snort when she forgets to hold it in.
She hums while she gets ready for class, steals my hoodies and “forgets” to give them back, eats real meals without me hovering, drinks water without being prompted, and she doesn’t apologize for taking up space every time she breathes.
Midterms ended last week, but the tension didn’t leave my body the way it should. It just changed shape. It sits under my skin, waiting for an excuse, and skating feels necessary in the same way sleep is supposed to be, even when I’m too keyed up to actually get any.
The park we hit is close to campus, fifteen minutes if you catch the lights right. It’s raw concrete and noise, a deep bowl tagged to hell, rails with chipped paint, a ledge missing a chunk because somebody smashed it and nobody cared enough to fix it.
The graffiti in the bowl layers over itself, names and symbols and crude drawings, bright paint over faded paint until you can’t tell what the original was, only that a lot of people have needed to leave proof they existed here.
A speaker’s already thumping near the benches when we pull in, and the first thing I hear when I shut my door is the opening of The Kids Aren’t Alright by The Offspring, tinny but confident, bass vibrating through the concrete.
Zae climbs out of my car and stretches, arms overhead. The flannel shirt she has tied on her hips sways with the movement. She wore shorts that I personally think are way too short for this weather. She catches my eyes on the hem and lifts her brows, daring me.
“Don’t start,” she warns, hitting the door shut with her hip.
“I wasn’t starting,” I grumble, but my hand still finds her waist for a second, fingers pressing into the fabric of her long-sleeve shirt as if touching her keeps my head from running ahead of me.
Her mouth pulls into a smug little smile. “You were absolutely starting.”
I pop the trunk and grab our boards. Mine now has ten new stickers over the other hundred, all courtesy of Zae. Meanwhile, hers is sticker free to make sure everyone can see the lick it with the long pink tongue coming out of a painted mouth on the lip of her board.
“They’re here,” I announce. She follows my nod toward the benches where my group’s already posted up.
They’re the first real friend group, outside of Zae, that I’ve had in a while. I’ve been hiding Zae from them, not out of shame, but more because it feels like two worlds colliding, and I don’t know if I can handle my new friends meeting Zae.
Mostly because I’m so damn protective of her. Not that I think they’d do anything to her, more like I’d do something to them if they so much as winked at her. Which is not okay. I know that.
Riot spots me first, tall and broad and built like he was designed to pick fights as a hobby.
Copper hair peeks out from under a beanie and his sleeves are inked all the way down, tattoos disappearing under his cuffs.
Maverick’s perched on the ledge beside him, dark curls pushed back with his fingers, rings flashing when he moves his hands.
Ghost sits half-slouched with his hoodie up, posture relaxed enough to look lazy, except his eyes miss nothing.
Riot hops down and spreads his arms like he’s greeting me after a war. “Well, look who decided to live.”
“Missed you too,” I throw back, and my voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
Maverick’s gaze slides to Zae with open curiosity, expression flicking from interest to amusement when he sees how she stands slightly behind me, polite but not small. “So that’s her.”
Zae steps forward before I can do the whole introduction thing, sticking her hand out with a grin that looks easy until you know her well enough to see the way it’s still measured around new people. “Yup. I’m Zae. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Good things?” Maverick asks, leaning forward a fraction with a smirk.
Zae’s expression goes deadpan. “Absolutely not.”
Riot barks a laugh and takes her hand, squeezing as if he’s testing her grip. “I’m Riot.”
She tilts her head, eyes flicking over his tattooed knuckles and grin. “On purpose?”
“Every day,” he replies, pleased.
Maverick taps his chest with two fingers. “Mav.”
Ghost doesn’t bother with the handshake; he gives her a nod. “Ghost.”
Zae looks back at me, eyebrows raised.
“It’s a thing,” I mutter, shifting my board under my arm. “Don’t poke him too hard.”
“Poke him harder,” Riot counters immediately, elbowing my shoulder. Maverick tips his chin toward Zae’s board. “Regular stance?”
“Regular,” she answers, then shoots him a look. “Are you checking me for entry requirements?”
“Checking if you’re going to eat concrete,” he replies, but his tone stays friendly.
“I only eat concrete when I’m not on a board,” she returns, and Riot laughs again.
Ghost watches her for a second longer, then glances at me. “She actually skates?”
“She skates,” I answer, flat and certain.
Zae’s foot keeps tapping on the concrete, and I know she’s being polite by standing here with us when the bowl is right there.
Her eyes keep tracking the lines, and her shoulders shift as if her body already wants to drop in and let everything else go quiet.
She’s trying, though. She’s hanging back because she knows I haven’t shown her this part of my world yet, not officially, not with all of them in one place.
Riot follows my gaze and smirks. “Your girl’s vibrating.”
“I’m not vibrating,” Zae protests, but she’s already grinning.
“Go,” I tell her, keeping my voice low.
She looks up at me, and the grin softens into something warmer. “You sure?”
“You’re itching,” I answer. “Go show off.”
Her smile spreads slowly, satisfied, and she pushes off with one clean kick.
The guys fall quiet without meaning to as Zae drops into the bowl like she belongs there.
Knees bend low, shoulders loose, board carving the curve with smooth confidence.
She rides up the wall and comes back down clean, then pops a trick at the lip that lands solid enough to draw a sharp whistle from Maverick.
Maverick’s brows lift. “Okay, damn.”
Riot’s grin turns feral. “She’s not playing.”
Ghost sits up, his focus sharp on her. My throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the cold air.
Watching her skate does something to me that’s hard to explain without sounding pathetic.
She looks free. Not performing or forcing herself into a smile for survival. I can't take my eyes off of her.
Maverick’s attention follows mine. “You watch her more than you watch the bowl.”
“She’s in the bowl,” I shoot back.
“That’s not what he means,” Riot sings, and he bumps my shoulder.
Ghost’s eyes narrow a fraction. “You stare so hard I’m surprised you haven’t gone blind.”
“Shut up,” I grind out, but it lands weak because my attention keeps snagging on Zae’s movement.
I track her the way my body tracks danger, the way it tracks anything that matters. Zae circles toward the far side of the bowl. Her shoulders roll as if she’s prepping for something bigger. She glances up at me, quick check-in, then drops lower.
That’s when one of the BMX guys rolls up behind her. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t look, doesn’t check, just drops in from the far lip, momentum eating the space between them fast. I see it before she does.
My lungs seize.
“Zae—”
My voice gets swallowed by the music and the concrete and the world not caring.
Their lines cross. Her board clips his tire.
Her wheels catch wrong. The board shoots out, and she goes down hard, shoulder slamming concrete, then she slides.
It’s not dramatic. It’s fast and ugly and the kind of fall that makes your stomach drop because you can already picture the scrape.
Everything in me changes immediately. My board hits the ground, and I’m moving.
Riot’s voice snaps behind me. “Cass—”
I don’t answer. I don’t look back. My body’s already committed.
I drop into the bowl, shoes skidding slightly, legs pumping.
The music turns distant, the chatter becomes a blur, and the only thing I can see is Zae pushing herself up with her jaw clenched, trying to sit like she didn’t just slam into concrete.
She tries to stand, tests her arm, and her face tightens for a second before she forces it smooth again.
I crouch in front of her, hands hovering because I don’t want to touch wrong. “Look at me.”
“I’m fine,” she insists immediately, voice too quick, because she doesn’t want to be the reason the whole park stops for her.
Her elbow is torn open with blood running down her forearm in a dark line, which only makes my stomach flip.
“Your elbow,” I manage, and my voice comes out too blunt.
She glances down, then shrugs, trying for casual. “It’s a flesh wound.”
“Zae.”
“I’ve had worse.”
"That doesn’t make it okay."
Riot and Maverick drop in behind me, their boards clacking as they hit the slope. Ghost stays up top, watching, posture still casual but eyes sharp.
The BMX guy drags his bike down toward us, annoyance written all over his face. He looks at Zae, then at me, and his mouth twists.
“She cut me off," he scoffs, not even bothering to see if she’s alright when this is entirely his fault.
My head turns toward him slowly as something cold slides down my spine.
“You dropped in on her,” I reply, and my tone is low enough that it makes people pay attention.