The McHughs' ramp appeared just days after I had made a pilgrimage to Shaun Mathews, the skateboarding guru of Pitchelman High. When I visited Shaun's place, I spent the afternoon marveling at those riding his twelve-foot-high half-pipe. With the determination of hawks and the grace of swallows, they glided down one slope and into the valley, swooped up the other side, and shot over the lip of the half-pipe toward the heavens.

Shaun greeted me that day in the manner of a longtime pal and said that he intended to travel to my neighborhood sometime. "You've got great hills out there, Mohr," he said. "Killer hills."

He started up the ladder to the deck of the half-pipe and motioned for me to follow. After considerable hesitation, I obeyed. There were two or three other guys at the top, nonchalant, boards tipped up. One of them flashed me the shaka sign. At Shaun's urging, I ventured a run. With a deep breath, I plunged down the ramp, barely keeping my balance. I wobbled across the trough and braced myself for the transition up the other wall. It was a short climb. Halfway up, my kinetic energy expired, and I attempted a kick turn. I spun partway, slipped off the skateboard, and tumbled to the bottom of the half-pipe.

A few of the spectators whistled and cheered. I snatched up my board and shuffled off, even as Shaun shouted down, "Try it again, dude."

The pride of an adolescent male heals quickly, and the humiliation I suffered at Shaun's soon yielded to a strengthening resolve. I had been skating since entering my freshman year at Pitch, nearly a year ago. In that time, I'd attained a basic competency, learned a few tricks, but at Shaun's I was completely out of my element. Before, I had been bound to the street, my wheels never leaving the ground-to reach the next level, I now realized, I needed to explore a new direction. I needed to get airborne, to go vertical, to add another dimension to my skating universe.

And suddenly, miraculously, I had been given a lift. The McHughs' ramp would be my launching pad, my half-pipe-well, my half-half-pipe at any rate. The launch ramp would propel me both up and out. It was my ticket to fly, to rise above mediocrity to the heights of skateboarding greatness.

The day after I spotted the launch ramp, I showed up at the McHugh residence. The McHugh brothers and I were not well acquainted. The older one, Todd, should have been a grade ahead of me, but he was in special ed. He had gained considerable fame when, not too many years ago, he shattered both legs by jumping from the roof of the McHughs' three-story house. The golf umbrella he carried to use as a parachute had inverted during his fall.

Todd's younger brother Billy was about half Todd's size. He was one of the "gifted" kids. Although Billy and I were in some of the same classes, our social spheres, both pathetically small, did not intersect.

Billy was out near the ramp. He did not acknowledge me as I hiked up the driveway. I set my board down beside him. He was surrounded by pieces of colored chalk, and on the asphalt, he had sketched a dragon-more than eight feet across, sapphire blue, with talons and leathery wings-poised in front of a cave along a stream. A cloud of mist swirled at the monster's feet.

"Puff the Magic Dragon?" I asked, trying to sound friendly.

Billy snorted, as if I had said something funny. "The river dragon is one of the few mythical creatures to practice cannibalism," he said. He looked up. "If the mother senses a threat, she will eat her young."

Unable to formulate an appropriate response, I coasted over to the launch ramp and pretended to inspect it. It was obviously homemade, a sheet of half-inch plywood nailed to three curved upright supports. It stood perhaps three feet high, and appeared stable enough. Given my limited experience, I could hardly criticize.

The screen door on the side porch swung open. Todd stepped out and flashed me a goofy grin. "Hi," he said, in a loud voice. He scratched his head, trying to decide what was amiss.

Todd walked into the garage and retrieved a cheap skateboard, the kind one might procure from the sporting goods section of Kmart. He hopped on, feet close together, and spread his arms. A moment later, the skateboard flew out from beneath him. I dodged as it whizzed past me and scooted off the ramp.

Todd landed on his backside, near Billy's picture. He pushed himself up, pressing his hand into the beast's face, and then dusted off. In place of the dragon's mouth, a red handprint now waved brightly.

"Oh, sorry, Billy," said Todd. He scratched his head and loped toward the skateboard.

Billy shrugged. "Guess Mama will leave the babies alone now," he said.

Todd laid the board next to Billy. "What about your bicycle?" said Billy. He let the skateboard roll away. "You'll do less damage."

Todd ducked back into the garage and reemerged riding a BMX-style Huffy. He looked ridiculous as he weaved around us on the miniature bike. I recalled a circus act I had once seen at the town carnival, a bicycle-riding bear. The animal entered the ring looking dazed, but when it mounted the bicycle, its eyes locked onto mine. As the bear pedaled around the ring, staring at me with desperation, I begged my parents to take me outside.

I turned away from Todd. "Okay if I try out the ramp?" I asked Billy.

Todd continued to circle about, clenching the handlebars with one fist, the other hand scratching away. I thought of head lice, and fleas.

"Your request to access the ramp will be routed to the proper authorities," Billy said. "Please stand by."

"Dad!" Todd shouted. He braked hard and sat poised on the bicycle for a moment, motionless and perfectly balanced, before leaping off and letting the bike crash to the ground.

Mr. McHugh's sedan stopped midway up the driveway. As he walked toward us, he winked at me, all grins. "Well, hello there," he said.

"Dad, look, I'm riding my bike," said Todd.

Mr. McHugh glanced at him. "Not without your helmet you're not," he said. He put a hand on Billy's shoulder. "Found a friend?"

"Affirmative, sir."

"Well, what's his name?"

Billy picked up a piece of chalk, and I said, "It's Ernest Mohr, sir."

Todd remounted his bicycle. "Dad, watch me."

"Your helmet, Todd." Mr. McHugh squinted at Billy.

Billy bent over his artwork, touching up the dragon's mouth. Mr. McHugh's smile faded, and he said, "Might storm tonight." Billy didn't answer.

I got on my board, mumbling that my mother was expecting me. Mr. McHugh gave me a little wave. "Come back soon," he said. His eyes fell on Billy again. "At least somebody can ride the ramp."

Emboldened by Mr. McHugh's invitation, I returned the next afternoon. Billy was in the same spot on the pavement. All traces of the river dragon had vanished. In its place, Billy had drawn an archer astride a magnificent winged horse.

"Bellerophon riding Pegasus to peep on the gods," said Billy. He clucked his tongue and wagged his finger. "Such hubris. He will suffer a terrible fall."

I slalomed down the drive and tried a few power slides, leaning back as my wheels scraped across the blacktop. I kept away from the lower section of the driveway, which dropped sharply to the road. Cardinal Street was the main thoroughfare of the development, and cars whizzed down the hill in this section of the neighborhood.

Eventually, I toted my board back up near Billy. I skated past the ramp.

"Go ahead," Billy said. He imitated his father's voice. "At least somebody can ride it."

I pushed the ramp up against the grass and cruised back halfway down the driveway. I pictured Tony Hawk and Tommy Guerrero and other members of the Bones Brigade in front of me, little whooshing sound effects playing as they zipped off the ramp and arched back into method airs and gyrated in midair 360s. With a deep breath, I started forward. Even a generous man would have judged my virgin ride as fumbling at best. My approach was too slow—even then I recognized that. My wheels bumped onto the ramp and crept up the transition. The front axle stalled on the vertex, and the skateboard jerked away from me. I toppled over onto the lawn, somersaulted once, and sprawled on the grass. Billy laughed, and Todd, who had joined him, clapped his hands.

I improved, gradually, and by the end of the month, I had unlocked the combination of timing, nerve, and velocity required for a successful jump. My heart swelled like a balloon as I soared off the ramp, the skateboard beneath my feet bouncing on a cushion of air-a split-second magic carpet ride. I didn't travel far, I didn't travel high, but I had learned to fly.

Every day when I arrived at his house, Billy would come outside. Mostly, we'd keep to ourselves. Once, I asked to use the bathroom, but after I was finished, Mrs. McHugh led us right back out. "It's summer," she said. "Enjoy it while it's here."

Most days, Todd would come too and ride his bike, at least for a little while. His mom watched him like my Aunt Mabel's tabby eyed up her zebra finches, and if Todd forgot his helmet, Mrs. McHugh would beckon for him to come inside. Both she and Mr. McHugh were so adamant about that helmet, I even considered getting one. Whenever Todd removed it, though, his hair would be matted down with sweat, and he'd immediately take up his scratching routine. No wonder he didn't wear it. Helmet or no, Todd was forbidden from approaching the ramp. I had, on three separate occasions, heard Mrs. McHugh describe, in excruciating detail, the potential injuries that Todd might sustain from it.

Nevertheless, a couple of weeks after I cleared my first jump, Todd announced that he was going off the ramp. He asked for the skateboard, which Billy had taken to using as a rolley chair.

Billy shook his head. "Sorry, Bro. Management's orders."

Having firsthand knowledge of Todd's ability with the skateboard, I piped up as well. "It's off limits, Todd," I said, grinning. "The ramp's not for you."

Todd's customary geniality evaporated. "What?" he said, wheeling to face me.

I raised my hands and retreated. "I don't think your parents wouldn't approve, that's all."

"What do you know about that?" he said.

As he glared at me, my surprise gave way to panic. Todd closed the distance between us and, with a shove, forced me to the ground. He pinned me down. His bangs hung away from his forehead as he hunched over me. I noticed a long scar that encircled his scalp. He opened his mouth. Black seeds clung to his teeth, and his breath smelled of peanut butter. Billy's mother rushed from the house, screaming Todd's name. Todd stopped, got up, and backed away. Mrs. McHugh spoke to him softly for a while.

Todd ambled over to me. "I'm sorry," he said, grinning slightly. We shook. He walked back to his mother.

"He just wanted to ride the ramp," I told Mrs. McHugh.

She smiled tightly and patted Todd's arm. "It's a death trap, Todd," she said. "It's just not safe for you." Todd nodded and followed her inside.

I once asked Billy about the ramp's origins. Billy shrugged and said, "My father believes that I should engage in athletic pursuits." He held up his sketch pencil and waved it like a baseball bat. "You know—guy stuff." He went on, "Clearly, organized team sports were out, so he bought me a skateboard and constructed the ramp." Billy's true inclinations were obvious, but I relished his company anyway. I admired his artwork, too. One day I asked to paint the ramp, hoping it would skate more smoothly as a result. We brushed a coat of black paint over its surface, and then Billy added the Bones ripper skeleton, copying off an issue of Thrasher. The painting didn't alter my ride—I still couldn't land an aerial trick—but the graphic looked slick. Later, Billy vandalized the pavement around the ramp as well. He replicated the logos of all the major pro skaters and lettered phrases like "Skateboarding is not a crime" and "No Posers" in graffiti-style print. Even Billy's father seemed impressed. When he resealed the blacktop, Mr. McHugh left that area of the driveway untouched.

The summer sailed off all too soon, leaving in its wake ripples of regret over what I hadn't done during my vacation and angst about the upcoming school year. Nearly every adult I encountered seemed to ask the question: What are you planning to do when you're finished school, Ernest? Adulthood loomed, a dull but unstoppable, inescapable juggernaut under whose path my childhood would soon lay crumpled and forgotten.

But such concerns dissipated when rumors circulated through Pitch that I had possession of a half-decent launch ramp. In the ensuing hullabaloo, I became a minor celebrity, and within a week, Shaun Mathews informed me that he was coming to scout it out. He arrived with his posse the next afternoon.

With various members of his inner circle looking on, Shaun examined the ramp. "I'm surprised this ramp has held up," he said, frowning. "The design's flawed. The surface doesn't have enough support."

"Awesome illustrations, though," Shaun said. I credited Billy. Shaun pointed a finger at him. "I want you to redecorate my place."

Todd appeared. "Hey, fellas," he said, when he noticed the crowd.

"Hey, Tard," one of the posse called. "You coming to ride with us?"

"Might want to bring along an umbrella," said another. "Looks like rain."

"Lay off," I said. "He's all right."

"Okay, let's try this thing out," Shaun said. He nodded to me. "You do the honors, Mohr."

I started to skate down the drive. "Whoa," Shaun called. "Dude, you can't possibly get enough speed going uphill. Move the ramp."

Shaun told me to position the ramp at the bottom of the driveway. Behind him, the gang chortled, murmuring that I didn't even know how to jump my own sorry-ass ramp. I warned Shaun of the traffic on Cardinal Street. My protests only aroused a chorus of clucking noises and wisecracks about poultry. Billy looked exasperated, but remained quiet. Todd had vanished. Shaun suggested posting a lookout near the road, and I finally capitulated. I pulled the launch ramp away from its place. Without its focal point, Billy's art seemed garish and purposeless.

I put the ramp on my skateboard and carted it down. I felt as if I were leaving the McHugh house for the first time. The steep grade of the drive was disconcerting, and I noticed that the shrubs and trees at the mouth of the driveway obscured the view of the road. I placed the ramp at one corner of the blacktop, hoping to give it maximum visibility to cars on the near side of the street.

"Put the ramp in the other corner," Shaun called. "You won't be able make that turn." As a compromise, I moved the ramp to the middle of the driveway. I hiked back up.

Shaun volunteered to patrol the traffic first. He skated down and waited as one automobile after another blew by—fathers returning home from work. At last, he signaled for me to go.

I pushed off, mentally crossing my fingers. As I gathered more and more speed, a rush of exhilaration ran through me. I had done it all wrong before. This would be my first proper jump, my first true run. I imagined myself launching off the ramp, rocketing into the air like a human cannonball while the posse looked on, gawking. My body tensed with anticipation. But then I realized that my angle of approach was too sharp. In vain, I tried to amend my trajectory. I leaned heavily to one side, and my skateboard slid out over the smooth blacktop. I bailed and somehow managed to reach the edge of the grass. A few of the guys whooped. "Let's see it again, Mohr!" one of them yelled.

Shaun trotted over. "I thought that curve was a bit tight," Shaun said. Billy hurried down and asked whether I was okay. The kids at the top of the hill let out another catcall, and Billy's gaze snapped up. Shaun and I turned with him. Todd had reappeared. He was hurtling down the driveway on his bicycle. He pumped his legs furiously, as if pursued by demons. He wore his helmet. In an instant, Todd blazed past us, his eyes bright and his mouth wide open. His mother appeared just as Todd hit the ramp.

Up and up, he climbed. For five, six seconds, he hung in the sky, silent and beaming like some celestial wonder. Below, a sedan squealed to a halt in the street. From behind the windshield, Todd's father stared as his son hovered over him for another moment and then began his descent.

Todd landed in the front yard of the house across the street, his body gently flexing into the bicycle as it met the ground. He skidded into a half circle and stopped, facing us. Todd smiled at each of us in turn—me, Billy, Shaun and his gang, Mr. and Mrs. McHugh. None of us spoke.

Todd pedaled back across the lawn, past his father's car, onto the driveway. When he reached the ramp, he paused. A long crack ran across its surface: the ramp was broken now, useless, merely a vestige of Todd's incredible jump.

"Sorry about that, fellas," Todd said, and then he continued slowly up the drive.