Dissimulants

A shot came from behind. Parks heard it, which meant the bullet had missed its intended target. His wheels sparked along the Page Street asphalt as his skateboard picked up downhill speed. He'd already seen the car several times that night, but now it was chasing him — fast.

Parks first noticed the car only because it was a Crown Vic, and assumed it was police. On the street, everyone knew that if a Ford Crown Victoria wasn't a taxi, it meant cops — marked or unmarked. For street skaters, avoiding cops is basic instinct — especially for sixteen year-old runaways with authority issues. For Parks, this car was totally worth avoiding.

As it turned out, it wasn't police in the car — not the uniformed kind anyway. Minutes earlier, Parks passed it at the corner of Cole and Haight; he caught a glimpse of the man and woman inside the black Crown Vic. They weren't in uniform, no inspector suits; they were dressed in people clothes — but still, they had that cop look. The man doing the driving locked eyes with Parks. At that moment, Parks knew that whoever they were, they were looking for him. This split-second realization of self-survival gave Parks a precious few minutes for the head start he needed. Quickly, he turned off Haight before the car could turn around to pursue him — zigzagging his way out of the business area. He hoped his dark gray hoodie and black hair would keep him lost under the weaker neighborhood lighting.

In trying to figure out a spot to hide, he ended up here, on Page Street, one block above the lower Haight. It was a stupid mistake. Page Street was dead. There were no witnesses and no one to help. And the space between him and the car had now shrunk to half a block.

His eyes scanned left to right. The gaps between the deathmonsters parked along the curb were tight. Parks would easily wipeout trying to jump through those small spaces. He decided to race it out on the street for as long as he could.

Then, another shot exploded. This time he felt wind as the bullet passed his ear. The Crown Vic was right behind him. In three blocks, the street was turning uphill. This race was going to end if Parks didn't think of something.

The roar from behind grew louder. The car eliminated the distance between them. He knew what was about to happen. As the front of the car made contact with his body, Parks felt himself slip from his deck. The car pulled his feet under — he blacked out for the briefest moment of time — then stumbled from his skateboard as he came to.

Screams — tires trying to grab a piece of asphalt — penetrated the neighborhood. The Crown Vic, now half a block away and across the intersection, plowed into a parked car.

He didn't understand. He didn't know what to think.

The only thing that came to him, the only thing he could imagine, made no sense, not in a real world. Parks knew he wasn't dreaming. But he also couldn't accept that the black Crown Vic had passed through his body.