Chapter 2: Cayde és Vexley ’97

1997 september, Orange County, Costa Mesa

Cayde Hawkins arrived in Costa Mesa in the first week of September. His parents called it a move; he called it exile.

He had nothing against Costa Mesa, just nobody had asked for his opinion.

On the first day at Estancia High School it became pretty clear that the accent was going to cause problems. Not in a bad way – he simply asked the teacher where the bathroom was, and half the hallway turned around to stare at him. One girl asked him to say “water bottle.” He did. The girl nearly melted. By then there were already three people standing around him.

The guys found him just as quickly. “Come to a party with us, man. It’ll be fun.” Cayde went. They were right. He went to the next one. And the one after that. He smiled, said what needed to be said, and went home. But somehow every night ended with the same feeling – like none of it had really been about him. Like he had just been a prop in someone else’s story. He didn’t make a big deal out of it – nobody was mean, nobody wanted to hurt him – it was just that everyone treated him a bit like a curiosity.

“Say that thing again…”

“Do the voice again…”

Cayde smiled and did it, because what else was he supposed to do? At least this way he could feel like he was starting to fit in. But inside it kept pressing on him more and more. Back in England he had known where he stood. He knew who he was. Here they looked at him like some kind of circus act, and he was slowly becoming the school’s attraction.

A few weeks later he found the skatepark.

There was nothing special about it. Just a slab of concrete in one corner of Costa Mesa, a few ramps, and a ledge that had been slid on so many times it was completely worn smooth. It wasn’t a cool place. But you could skate there, and nobody asked you to say anything in English.

He had been trying the same trick for about twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, same spot, same slam. He got up off the ground, looked at his board, then – as if it were the most natural thing in the world – yelled at the clearly guilty and suspiciously evil object lying on the ground.

“Absolute fucking bollocks!”

“Bro.”

He turned around.

A guy was sitting on the railing. Dark, curly messy hair, black rectangular glasses sliding halfway down his nose, a chain with a small pendant around his neck – the kind of guy who looked like he knew exactly where he was and didn’t give a damn about it either. He wasn’t skating. Just watching.

“What language are you trying to swear in?”

He laughed.

And Cayde felt the difference immediately. He couldn’t have explained how – he just felt it. This wasn’t that kind of laugh. He wasn’t laughing at him. It was simply funny to him. Honest, simple, without any hidden intention.

The guy jumped down from the rail, picked up his board, and lined up at the same spot. He pushed forward and tried the same trick. Naturally, he bailed. He got up, stared at the ground for a second, then – copying Cayde – yelled at his board.

“Son of a bitch, you motherfucking piece of shit.”

Cayde burst out laughing.

The guy laughed too, and now he really took a proper look at Cayde. Messy blonde hair going in every direction, rectangular glasses, that kind of thousand-watt smile that seemed too big for his face, a chain with a dog tag around his neck, a studded wristband. He looked a bit like a British version of something the guy didn’t quite have a word for yet.

For months they only knew each other as mate and bro. They met at the park, skated, bailed on the same tricks, then went home. Eventually it turned out they went to the same school – Estancia High – but Estancia wasn’t the kind of place where you ran into the same faces every day. Everyone chose their own classes, walked their own hallways, lived in their own little worlds. They could easily have missed each other forever.

They didn’t.

The day Vexley found out his name was Cayde, he simply said,

“Seriously? Cayde? That’s a name?”

Cayde shrugged.

“Seriously? Vexley? That’s a name?”

Draw.

One day Cayde arrived at the skatepark and sat down on the concrete with his back against the rail. He didn’t even take out his board. He just sat there.

He was tired. Not the kind that disappears after a night of sleep. The kind that comes when you’ve been trying for months to look normal in a place you never wanted to be. School was fine. People were nice. Everyone wanted something from him – a smile, a sentence. But somehow every day ended with him feeling just as empty as the day he had arrived.

Vexley rolled in from the other side of the park. A few tricks, nothing special. Then he spotted Cayde sitting there. He watched for a second, then rolled over, stopped in front of him and stepped off his board. He simply sat down on the ground across from him, legs crossed, pulled a bag of chips out of his backpack, opened it, and placed it on the concrete between them.

Cayde looked at him then the bag and as he started to look into the bag for another bag of chips, Vexley decided it’s the best time to give another bag to Cayde – and they bumped their heads together.

Brooo – Vexley said

Brooo – Cayde said at the same time.

Then they looked at each other with a deeper understanding. – Leaned forward, and bumped their heads together again and said. – Brother – after a time they sat back munching on their chips in silence seeing everything being under new light.

Eventually, they stood up and tucked their boards under their arms while walking out park.

“You know what your problem is?” Vexley said.

“No idea,” Cayde replied.

“Your accent. You talk like a BBC documentary. Every sentence out of your mouth sounds like some English lord personally inviting someone to spend the weekend in his castle. The girls lose their minds over it. And the guys figured out a long time ago that if you’re around, they get to share the attention. So everyone wants to be near you – they just don’t actually want you.”

Cayde processed that.

“Is that… bad?”

“For you? No,” Vexley said. “But everyone in this town is turning you into a clown because they don’t know what to do with it. You’re a spectacle to them.”

Silence.

“I know,” Cayde said.

“Feels like shit?”

“Feels like shit.”

Vexley nodded. He didn’t pity him. He didn’t try to comfort him. He simply nodded.

“Handle it,” he said. “Either you stay the circus act forever, or you learn how to turn it into something badass. Your call.”

Cayde looked at him.

“And which one do you see?”

Vexley laughed and shrugged.

“I just see a guy who can finally swear properly. The rest isn’t my problem.”

They started walking toward the ramp. Then Vexley stopped.

“Try it. That girl by the bench. Go ask her what time it is. But do it like you actually want to take her out sometime.”

Cayde looked at him. Then at the girl. Then he shrugged and walked over.

“Excuse me,” he said naturally. “Do you know what time it is?”

The girl looked up. She was already smiling before she even finished looking at him, and her eyes clearly said yes, right here, right now, on this bench…

Then, after a quiet little sigh, she answered,

“Oh my God… it’s six p.m. Say something else, please.”

“Thank you.”

Cayde walked back to Vexley.

Vexley buried his face in his hands laughing.

“What did I do, mate?” Cayde asked.

“Nothing, bro,” Vexley said. “That’s exactly what you don’t get.”

Cayde stood there for a moment. He looked at the girl, who was still staring at him, gently biting her lower lip. Looked at Vexley. Then slowly, gradually – like someone putting together something that should have been obvious months ago – he smiled.

“Aaaah.”

“Yeah, bro.”

They grinned.

December came, a little colder than usual in Costa Mesa. Vexley was sitting on one of the park benches.

Cayde sat down next to him.

“What’s up, mate? You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”

“I owe someone ten bucks,” Vexley said after a short pause. Not dramatically. Just like someone thinking out loud. “From last month. It’s not a big deal. It just sits on me, you know.”

Cayde nodded.

“But it’s my shit, on my plate” Vexley said. “I’ve gotta eat it.”

Silence.

Then Cayde reached into his pocket. He pulled out what could barely be called a wallet – a worn-out DC canvas velcro thing from his back pocket that looked at least a thousand years old – and took out the last few dollars. He didn’t count them. He didn’t hesitate. He just pressed them into Vexley’s hand.

“You got a fork for that, or are we stuffing it into our mouths with our hands?”

Vexley looked at him. Looked at the dollars. Then back at Cayde.

They bumped their foreheads together and said – Brother.