Room 407, Friday morning
Somewhere, a cellphone was going off. Jude registered it as his own and rolled off the bed into a pile of magazines, slipping a bit in his socked feet and almost colliding with the desk before he managed to grab the phone off the desk and answer.
"'Lo?" he asked, a bit listlessly. Lounging around and moping had a way of doing that to a guy.
"Dude, you have to come home."
Jude blinked at the blunt demand. "Jonesy, bro, not you too."
"Me? What are you talking about?"
"The parents, dude! They're tellin' me to come home. Like, for good."
"Dude, that sucks! Your school is awesome!"
"Yeah, I know. So why do you want me to leave, too?"
"Not for good. But dude, you have to come home for the curbjam."
"What? Nah, I was thinkin' about it, but I don't think -"
"No, dude, you don't understand. The champ announced his retirement. He's starting university, doesn't have time to compete." Jonesy paused and his voice dropped. "Dude - Dint's been sayin' that he's next in line."
Jude's eyes went flat. "That title is mine, bro," he said with uncharacteristic determination. "Mike Dint couldn't catch me with a good tailwind."
"I know that, dude, but he's . . . well, he's talking pretty big. A bunch of stuff about you hiding down at your poncy private school and stuff."
"He is going down," Jude swore, his fist thumping into the desk. "I'll be there, dude. Dint is not winning this curbjam."
"Are you sure, dude? I mean, you've gotta be kinda rusty . . ."
"I have two weeks to train. And trust me, dude, there's no better place for some serious training than here. Tell Dint I'm coming for him."
Jonesy let out a loud whoop. "Dude! You are gonna rock Dint right off his board!"
"I hope so, bro. I hope so."
Jude set the phone down on his desk again. So. Mike Dint thought he could outskate Jude Lizowksi. Mike Dint didn't know what he was in for.
[[Door's open!]]
"'Lo?" he asked, a bit listlessly. Lounging around and moping had a way of doing that to a guy.
"Dude, you have to come home."
Jude blinked at the blunt demand. "Jonesy, bro, not you too."
"Me? What are you talking about?"
"The parents, dude! They're tellin' me to come home. Like, for good."
"Dude, that sucks! Your school is awesome!"
"Yeah, I know. So why do you want me to leave, too?"
"Not for good. But dude, you have to come home for the curbjam."
"What? Nah, I was thinkin' about it, but I don't think -"
"No, dude, you don't understand. The champ announced his retirement. He's starting university, doesn't have time to compete." Jonesy paused and his voice dropped. "Dude - Dint's been sayin' that he's next in line."
Jude's eyes went flat. "That title is mine, bro," he said with uncharacteristic determination. "Mike Dint couldn't catch me with a good tailwind."
"I know that, dude, but he's . . . well, he's talking pretty big. A bunch of stuff about you hiding down at your poncy private school and stuff."
"He is going down," Jude swore, his fist thumping into the desk. "I'll be there, dude. Dint is not winning this curbjam."
"Are you sure, dude? I mean, you've gotta be kinda rusty . . ."
"I have two weeks to train. And trust me, dude, there's no better place for some serious training than here. Tell Dint I'm coming for him."
Jonesy let out a loud whoop. "Dude! You are gonna rock Dint right off his board!"
"I hope so, bro. I hope so."
Jude set the phone down on his desk again. So. Mike Dint thought he could outskate Jude Lizowksi. Mike Dint didn't know what he was in for.
[[Door's open!]]