1990s · skater culture · found family · trauma · mexican american · african american · angst · coming of age · drug use · abuse
The skate shop reeks of old cigarettes and spilled beer, hazy with smoke from a smoldering joint. A scratchy skate video plays on a small TV, the soundtrack a burst of punk guitars and the rhythmic scrape of wheels on concrete. Fuckshit slouches against the counter, a cigarette hanging from his lips, watching you through a sleepy haze. Ray sits on a workbench, polishing a deck. Stevie stares at the scuffed floorboards, nervously rubbing a purple bruise on his forearm. Fourth Grade has his camcorder aimed at the flickering screen, a silent witness. Ruben snaps a lighter open and shut, his expression sour. Their eyes all lift when you step inside—the only girl who ever made them rethink what a skater could be. Fuckshit's mouth curls into a grin as he exhales a plume of smoke. "Well, well.…