Blinking Back the Fear
by Joziah Pollard
“Ah shit!”
The rumble of Vans and skateboards scraping the ground as the group of flannel,
canvas, and piercings hurried to the cries of pain. I ran after them, a couple paces behind in case
a fight had broken out. I liked hanging out with this skate squad, but I wasn’t going to risk juvie
for them.
I peeked over the tall skater’s shoulder and saw a member of their skate circle, Benji,
lying on his back at the bottom of the museum’s steps. His board was gone, probably under a
bush or somewhere down the street, and his arms were scraped up from hitting the concrete.
The worst was when the youngest of them got closer to their suffering friend and gasped at
the large scrape in Benji’s right leg. A new ripped tear in the right pants leg revealed a fresh
and leaking wound, the blood already staining the edges of the tear.
“Damn, is he dying?” the youngest exclaimed.
“Shut up, Lil Nug.” The oldest, Zay, a tall boy with a dirty blonde fro and tan skin
smacked the youngest on the head. Their leader, Dion, pulled out his water bottle and knelt
next to the injured Benji.
“Drink up,” he said. Benji took a gulp from the water bottle, swallowed, and then
winced. “You aight?”
Benji shook his head and said, “But I think I should be okay.”
“What type of trick were you even trying to do?” Dion asked.
Benji rolled his eyes. “A hardflip.”
The squad of skaters burst into an echo of laughter and cackling. Dion sucked his teeth
and mumbled a curse, then looked up and scanned the group.
“Ayo, who’s got the bag?” he said.
Suddenly the sea of skaters parted to reveal me, standing stiff and shocked at the new
display of attention. The group’s main bag had been passed to me to carry back at the park, I’d
guessed since I looked pale enough that if the cops stopped us, anything found in the bag
would be left off with just a warning. Dion locked eyes with me.
“Alright, new girl come over here,” He motioned me closer. “Check in the front pocket
and pull out the first aid,” he said.
My eyebrows jumped and my mouth went dry. “What? I don’t know first aid!”
“I see you stare at us through the fence every time you walk home from school. If you
want to be one of us, you got to learn how to take care of a scrape.” His voice was steady,
almost deadpan, and without a hint of fear. “So grow a pair and pull out the first aid, now.”
Mom always said I blinked three times whenever I was nervous or scared. Although I
never saw her do it, she claimed I got it from her. Blinking back the fear, she had said. We
Vasquez women were strong as they came. We blink back the fear then stare down the task at
hand.
I swallowed my nervousness and knelt next to Benji as I searched through the group’s
bag for first aid. All I found was some wipes, a small vial of clear liquid, and some bandanas. I
tossed the bandanas to Dion across from me, with him passing me the water bottle.
“Pour some water on the wound first, that’ll wash most of the blood,” Dion said.
I pointed to the vial. “Th-this is alcohol, right?” My stutter made a reappearance.
“Should I use some of this? Like don’t they do that stuff in movies and TV and stuff? Or am I
wrong—"
“I think the hell not!” Benji yelled.
Dion shook his head fervently. “Nah, nah that stuff just burns and doesn’t do anything.
Just use the water and wrap it up nice with the bandanas.”
I nodded and clung to every instruction that followed. Once the water had rinsed most
of the blood, I checked to make sure no gravel or debris had gotten into the wound.
“All clear,” I said, trying to search for any sign of fear or uncertainty in Dion’s expression.
None to be found.
Dion had propped Benji’s back on the museum’s steps. “Alright, now we just need to
bandage this thing up.” Together, we bandaged the kid’s leg, with the other skaters being used
as a barrier, hiding our quick procedure from the curious pedestrians bypassing the museum.
After we’d bandaged Benji’s leg, he calmed down and was able to stand. Two of the
skaters, Zay and Ozzy, volunteered to get him back home safe.
“Aight, we’re going to make sure this baby gets back in his cradle,” Zay said, his laugh
covering the group with a blanket of security that things were going to be alright.
I sat on the Museum’s steps, my hands dirty, the edge of my palms stained with dried
blood, and my back drenched in sweat from the July sun. I watched Dion and the band of three
dap and say farewell. As Zay and Benji began to hobble off, I caught Dion handing Ozzy the
vial of alcohol that I was going to use to clean Benji’s wound. It hadn’t occurred to me that the
bottle wasn’t Dion’s. He wasn’t old enough to drink, but neither was Ozzy. Maybe I should’ve
asked first. I tried to read their lips; if they were going to make me be the sole holder of all their
illegal shit, then I would grab my board and skeet out of there quick. The two kept on
whispering, Dion saying something, and “you feel me?” before Ozzy snatched the vial, rolled
her eyes, and ran to meet up with the other two. I shifted my eyes to focus on something else
before Dion could meet my eyes again. The last thing I needed was someone to roast on me for
how awkward I was today. It didn’t work, because the next thing I knew, we’d locked eyes
again, and this time he came bounding up the steps and sat next to me. He let out a long, worn
sigh and looked at me, the nest of hair on his hair moving slightly in the breeze.
“You did good,” he said. “Wren, right?” I nodded.
“Sorry that I was rude, I couldn’t afford us to waste any time, us and cops not mixing
and shit like that.” He held out his fist. “We good?”
I looked at his hand and wondered if I should ask about Ozzy and the alcohol. But from
the heavy eyelids, and our mutual stained hands, I decided to put it off for another day. Instead,
I smiled at him and gave him a fist bump. He smiled back, the creases near his eyes looking like
whiskers and his cheeks red from the summer heat. He told me to meet up at the park
tomorrow after school, the squad was getting boba tea on Canal Street.
I took the train home that day. I had skated in Times Square traffic for the first time, fell
over a fence, and cleaned a kid’s bloody fall. The city whizzed past me, painted a cobalt tint
from the glass and the setting sun. I’d let the squeaks and whines of the train lull into me a
state of calm serenity. I don’t think I remembered seeing the first stars coming out by the time I
woke up at my stop.
The rumble of Vans and skateboards scraping the ground as the group of flannel,
canvas, and piercings hurried to the cries of pain. I ran after them, a couple paces behind in case
a fight had broken out. I liked hanging out with this skate squad, but I wasn’t going to risk juvie
for them.
I peeked over the tall skater’s shoulder and saw a member of their skate circle, Benji,
lying on his back at the bottom of the museum’s steps. His board was gone, probably under a
bush or somewhere down the street, and his arms were scraped up from hitting the concrete.
The worst was when the youngest of them got closer to their suffering friend and gasped at
the large scrape in Benji’s right leg. A new ripped tear in the right pants leg revealed a fresh
and leaking wound, the blood already staining the edges of the tear.
“Damn, is he dying?” the youngest exclaimed.
“Shut up, Lil Nug.” The oldest, Zay, a tall boy with a dirty blonde fro and tan skin
smacked the youngest on the head. Their leader, Dion, pulled out his water bottle and knelt
next to the injured Benji.
“Drink up,” he said. Benji took a gulp from the water bottle, swallowed, and then
winced. “You aight?”
Benji shook his head and said, “But I think I should be okay.”
“What type of trick were you even trying to do?” Dion asked.
Benji rolled his eyes. “A hardflip.”
The squad of skaters burst into an echo of laughter and cackling. Dion sucked his teeth
and mumbled a curse, then looked up and scanned the group.
“Ayo, who’s got the bag?” he said.
Suddenly the sea of skaters parted to reveal me, standing stiff and shocked at the new
display of attention. The group’s main bag had been passed to me to carry back at the park, I’d
guessed since I looked pale enough that if the cops stopped us, anything found in the bag
would be left off with just a warning. Dion locked eyes with me.
“Alright, new girl come over here,” He motioned me closer. “Check in the front pocket
and pull out the first aid,” he said.
My eyebrows jumped and my mouth went dry. “What? I don’t know first aid!”
“I see you stare at us through the fence every time you walk home from school. If you
want to be one of us, you got to learn how to take care of a scrape.” His voice was steady,
almost deadpan, and without a hint of fear. “So grow a pair and pull out the first aid, now.”
Mom always said I blinked three times whenever I was nervous or scared. Although I
never saw her do it, she claimed I got it from her. Blinking back the fear, she had said. We
Vasquez women were strong as they came. We blink back the fear then stare down the task at
hand.
I swallowed my nervousness and knelt next to Benji as I searched through the group’s
bag for first aid. All I found was some wipes, a small vial of clear liquid, and some bandanas. I
tossed the bandanas to Dion across from me, with him passing me the water bottle.
“Pour some water on the wound first, that’ll wash most of the blood,” Dion said.
I pointed to the vial. “Th-this is alcohol, right?” My stutter made a reappearance.
“Should I use some of this? Like don’t they do that stuff in movies and TV and stuff? Or am I
wrong—"
“I think the hell not!” Benji yelled.
Dion shook his head fervently. “Nah, nah that stuff just burns and doesn’t do anything.
Just use the water and wrap it up nice with the bandanas.”
I nodded and clung to every instruction that followed. Once the water had rinsed most
of the blood, I checked to make sure no gravel or debris had gotten into the wound.
“All clear,” I said, trying to search for any sign of fear or uncertainty in Dion’s expression.
None to be found.
Dion had propped Benji’s back on the museum’s steps. “Alright, now we just need to
bandage this thing up.” Together, we bandaged the kid’s leg, with the other skaters being used
as a barrier, hiding our quick procedure from the curious pedestrians bypassing the museum.
After we’d bandaged Benji’s leg, he calmed down and was able to stand. Two of the
skaters, Zay and Ozzy, volunteered to get him back home safe.
“Aight, we’re going to make sure this baby gets back in his cradle,” Zay said, his laugh
covering the group with a blanket of security that things were going to be alright.
I sat on the Museum’s steps, my hands dirty, the edge of my palms stained with dried
blood, and my back drenched in sweat from the July sun. I watched Dion and the band of three
dap and say farewell. As Zay and Benji began to hobble off, I caught Dion handing Ozzy the
vial of alcohol that I was going to use to clean Benji’s wound. It hadn’t occurred to me that the
bottle wasn’t Dion’s. He wasn’t old enough to drink, but neither was Ozzy. Maybe I should’ve
asked first. I tried to read their lips; if they were going to make me be the sole holder of all their
illegal shit, then I would grab my board and skeet out of there quick. The two kept on
whispering, Dion saying something, and “you feel me?” before Ozzy snatched the vial, rolled
her eyes, and ran to meet up with the other two. I shifted my eyes to focus on something else
before Dion could meet my eyes again. The last thing I needed was someone to roast on me for
how awkward I was today. It didn’t work, because the next thing I knew, we’d locked eyes
again, and this time he came bounding up the steps and sat next to me. He let out a long, worn
sigh and looked at me, the nest of hair on his hair moving slightly in the breeze.
“You did good,” he said. “Wren, right?” I nodded.
“Sorry that I was rude, I couldn’t afford us to waste any time, us and cops not mixing
and shit like that.” He held out his fist. “We good?”
I looked at his hand and wondered if I should ask about Ozzy and the alcohol. But from
the heavy eyelids, and our mutual stained hands, I decided to put it off for another day. Instead,
I smiled at him and gave him a fist bump. He smiled back, the creases near his eyes looking like
whiskers and his cheeks red from the summer heat. He told me to meet up at the park
tomorrow after school, the squad was getting boba tea on Canal Street.
I took the train home that day. I had skated in Times Square traffic for the first time, fell
over a fence, and cleaned a kid’s bloody fall. The city whizzed past me, painted a cobalt tint
from the glass and the setting sun. I’d let the squeaks and whines of the train lull into me a
state of calm serenity. I don’t think I remembered seeing the first stars coming out by the time I
woke up at my stop.