Free Qualify by Vera Nazarian

watching her.
    And then Gracie slowly gets down in a crouch, and places one leg flat down on the charcoal grey hoverboard surface. Then she puts her other leg, knee first. She reaches with both hands and grips the board along the edges on both sides.
    She freezes in this position, her long hair spilling over her face and her back. I hear her trembling voice say, “Go!”
    And the board begins to carry my sister, on her hands and knees, through the air across the auditorium.
    I blink, and I am still not breathing, as I hear her give the other commands.
    Then, Gracie reaches the end. She gets off the hoverboard, pretty much tumbling onto the linoleum floor. And she just remains there for a few seconds before going to the desk in the back.
    Meanwhile, the board is returning, and so is my breath that I can finally exhale and inhale normally.
    Except . . . the board is now here, for me .
    Did it just get brighter in here? I feel like a stage spotlight is shining on me from overhead, and suddenly I am lightheaded.
    Everyone in the world is looking at me.
    I walk up to Principal Marksen and he gives me my token. I pin it onto my purple sweater front with icy cold fingers, since I had taken my outer jacket off and it’s lying on top of my bags somewhere below stage.
    Why am I thinking about my jacket?
    The hoverboard is before me. I take a deep breath and let it out. I then put my right foot on the front of the board, trying to remember the feel of the little orange skateboard I rode as a kid. This one feels more resilient, kind of like stepping onto a water surface.
    This hoverboard is also so much wider than a kiddie skateboard. It’s pretty comfortable actually. I bring up my left foot in the back, and stand, levitating . The rubber soles of my sneakers cling to the surface of the board. And it occurs to me for a moment that I ride “goofy,” or what the boarders refer to as using my right foot to lead in the front instead of my left which is “regular” or “standard.” Yeah, I’m goofy, all right.
    Now the worst part remains. The part that has me eight feet above the ground and in the air. I am terrified of heights. I can easily balance this board, but I just don’t see myself staying up on it mentally , simply because of the height factor. It’s going to mess with me too much, the fear of heights. . . .
    I think of the amazing kid in the wheelchair.
    And then I do a “Gracie.” Sort of. I get down in a crouch and hold the board on both sides with my hands. My fingers grip the cool surface of the hoverboard and I will myself to just hold on for dear life and not let go and not look down .
    The worst part will come once I am high above the floor, so I resolve to look directly ahead as much as possible. I’d probably prefer to squeeze my eyes shut, but I need to see where I’m going.
    “Go!” My voice sounds weird in the silence of the auditorium.
    The board underneath me begins to move forward.
    I focus on looking at it mostly, at my fingers gripping the sides, at the curving oval nose of the board. I also let my eyes spot the back doors, far ahead. There is no sound as I advance past the edge of the stage, and suddenly my brain is telling me I’m falling off a cliff, the edge of the world—screw you, brain—and I am now high up . Out of my peripheral vision, I see student faces staring at me from both sides of the aisle.
    Don’t look down .
    When I am a third of the distance across the auditorium, I make myself speak the next command. “Descend!”
    And then for an instant I feel the floor drop out from under me . . . but it’s only a tiny lurch, kind of what an elevator makes. Which I usually hate.
    The ride itself is smooth and mind-blowing, and as I am descending gradually and approaching the gym mat surface, my fear of heights is also falling away. For the first time I can truly appreciate the amazing alien thing I am riding, this hoverboard. But the feeling lasts only a few