Page 23 of Double Trouble

“Yeah, I’ve got the mount.” She hands it to me. “I realize I should’ve done this before, but I really didn’t have time.”

“Well, I don’t exactly want to mess this up, so I’m going to trusty YouTube.” I pull my phone out and look up how to hook a GoPro up to a helmet. Seems easy enough. Clean surface, place where you want the best shot of the board… After watching, I pull back the protective paper from the sticky side of the mount and ask, “Ready?”

She nods. “Get it like… right here.” She jabs a finger to the tip of her forehead, a couple inches down from her crown. Following the twelve-year-old YouTuber’s instructions, I push the mount down with as much pressure as I can to get air bubbles out.

“Um… ow.” Mad laughs, jerking with the movement.

“Probably should’ve done this with the helmet off you,” I say.

“We are so bright.”

I click the extender in and screw the camera on. “There. I think.”

“Did you turn the camera on?”

“Uh…”

“I think there’s a button or something.”

I know where the button is; I’m just now realizing how close we are—without being too close—and enjoying every second of it. There’s a button on the top underneath the plastic protector, so I push too hard—again—and she jerks around with a laugh.

“At least we won’t be doing this every time,” I assure her. “Looks like once the mount’s on the helmet, it’s on for good.”

“Which is why it’s been a year and a half since Candace bought it for me, and it still looks brand new.”

“You never were a fan of the fancy stuff.” I nod to her board and adjust the camera. “This ship’s garbage.”

“Don’t you speak ill of the Millennium Falcon.” She playfully pushes her knuckles against my stomach, but I can hear the hint of appreciation that I know enough Star Wars to quote it to her.

“All right,” I say, fixing the helmet. “I think you’re all set.” I wave to the camera, and her shoulders move in silent laughter.

“Will you record out here with your phone?” she asks. “So I get different angles.”

“If you don’t mind an old IOS doing the job.” I forgot to bring my camcorder. Next time, for sure.

“Nope.” She pushes off the ground and onto her board so fluidly that I fall even more in love with her and she doesn’t even know it.

Before my mind completely sidetracks, I turn on the camera on my phone. “You want to practice a bit first or just start recording?”

“Just go,” she calls back to me. The lights aren’t camera ready yet, but that’s okay. “I need as much footage as possible.”

I click the red button and hop into the trick zone. I got a good angle here of the half-pipe when she gets to it, and for now I can shoot her doing the minor ollies and grinds.

She owns the course, like she always does, gliding smoothly across each surface and clicking up on the tricks with perfect form. If I had my Sony, I’d zoom in on her Vans, catching each grain in her old board. It’d let those judges know just how good she is, given the equipment she’s got. Imagine her on some fancy schmancy sponsored board. Gah, she’d be flying.

“You want me to edit the footage for you?” I offer. Editing is the bane of my existence, and the sole reason I haven’t uploaded any of the videos I have piled up on flash drives. But the way she’s riding tonight has got my creative brain going. I could cut her GoPro footage with this grainy wide shot and put it to some killer music. I can already see it all, hear it all…

“You are a lifesaver!” she calls out to me as she swoops to the top of the half-pipe. Her chest lifts as she fills it with much needed air, her cheeks puffing as she exhales through her circle-formed lips. She nods twice to herself before dropping in, keeping her tricks simple and safe until she’s in a groove.

“Damn,” I whisper, then snap my lips shut. The camera will pick up my awe, but that’s easily removable when I put in the soundtrack. The lights finally flicker to full capacity right as she lands a fakie. There’s only one that’s still struggling. The bulb’s probably about ready to die.

She runs the course after about ten minutes, cooling down. No real tricks other than an ollie here and there. When she’s done, she pushes to the center of the half-pipe, kicks her board into her hands, and plops to her butt right there.

“Whew!” she exhales with a grin as bright as the fluorescents above us. She falls to her back, and her arm flops to her side. Her palm slaps the spot next to her, and I cut the camera and take the hint.

“Incredible,” I say as I lie next to her. The flickering light is right above us now. “I can’t wait to see what this guy caught.” I tap the GoPro sitting on her head, and almost like she forgot it was there, her eyes widen, and she lets out a breathy laugh. She reaches up and wriggles out of the helmet, letting her hair fall onto the half-pipe floor and spread across her shoulders.

Damn, she’s gorgeous.

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