Skater Girl Quotes

Fine," I say. "Dare accepted." Game on, Skater Girl. Game on.

Skateboarding has taught me two things - that symbolise a meaning of life. How to keep a balance and how to pick yourself up when you've fallen.

In winter night Massachusetts Street is dismal, the ground's frozen cold, the ruts and pock holes have ice, thin snow slides over the jagged black cracks. The river is frozen to stolidity, waits; hung on a shore with remnant show-off boughs of June-- Ice skaters, Swedes, Irish girls, yellers and singers--they throng on the white ice beneath the crinkly stars that have no altar moon, no voice, but down heavy tragic space make halyards of Heaven on in deep, to where the figures fantastic amassed by scientists cream in a cold mass; the veil of Heaven on tiaras and diadems of a great Eternity Brunette called night.

I broke my toe playing Olympic figure skater with Allie over winter break.

Jeb smiles—a genuine Jebediah Holt grin, complete with dimples. Such a beautiful distraction. “I love you, skater girl.” The nickname winds through me, comforting and sweet. I smooth my palm across his shoulder. “Say it again.” “I love you.” “No . . . the other part,” I plead. He pulls my body to his, so our mouths come together in a warm, soft kiss. “Skater girl,” he whispers against me, brushing hair from my face.

Jeb moans, wraps my legs around his waist, and holds me tight. He breaks contact just long enough to whisper, "Where'd you learn to kiss like that?" "You taught me." I recover my senses and realize what I said. "In my dreams." "Oh, yeah?" He nudges the indentation on my chin with his nose. "Been dreaming of me, too, huh?" "Ever since the day we met." Finally, the truth. He flashes his dimples. "Guess it's time for us to make some dreams come true, skater girl.

He peered up at the house. “I know you’re finished in there, Blake. May as well come out.” I breathed a silent sigh. Blake strolled onto the deck wearing low-slung skater shorts and flip-flops. Being shirtless must’ve been mandatory in California. I kind of wished they’d get dressed so I could focus properly when I told them about the prophecy. Blake joined us beside the pool. “So . . . ,” said Blake, rocking back on his heels. “Lover’s quarrel over?” “We’re not lovers,” Kaidan and I said together. “What’s stopping you?” Blake smiled. “What’s stopping you and Ginger?” Kaidan asked. “An ocean, man. Fu—” He glanced at me. “Uh . . . eff you.” “Eff me?” Kaidan asked, grinning. “No, eff you, mate.” Blake put a fist over his mouth when he caught what must have been a seething look on my face, and he laughed, punching Kaidan in the arm. “Told you, man! She’s pissed about the cursing thing! Ginger was right.” I shook my head. I wouldn’t look at them. I was too humiliated to deny it. “Girl, all you have to do is say the word, and Mr. Lusty McLust a Lot here will be happy to whisper some dirty nothings in your ear.” Kaidan half grinned, sexuality rolling off him as wild as the Pacific below us. I took a shaky breath. “I don’t appreciate when people are fake with me.” I pointed this statement at Kaidan. Okay, calling him a fake was overboard, especially if he was just being respectful. But my feelings were bruised and battered. If Kai wasn’t going to forgive me or be willing to talk, I couldn’t hang around and deal with his bad attitude. It hurt too much, and the unfairness frustrated me to no end. “If you guys will sit down and shut up for a minute, I’ll tell you what I came here to say, and then I’m out of here. You two can find someone else to make fun of.” They both wiped the smiles from their faces. I pulled a padded lawn chair over and sat. They moved a couple of chairs closer, giving me their attention. 

Some of these kids are just plain trouble.” Grant glanced over at the boys sitting in the glass-walled box. Mac had been like that, all anger and confusion. He’d been in juvie too, arrested for possession after falling into a gang. Grant was gone. Mom was sick. Dad was a mess. Looking back, Grant wondered if dementia was beginning to take hold back then and no one recognized the symptoms. Lee had been the one who’d coped with Mac’s drug and delinquency problems, and Mom’s deathbed talk had snapped her youngest out of it. A program like this might have helped his brother. “Who knows what those boys have had to deal with in their lives.” Corey’s eyes turned somber. “We’re all sorry about Kate.” Reminded of Kate’s death, Grant’s chest deflated. “And thanks for the help,” Corey said. “These boys can be a handful.” “Is your son on the team?” “No.” Corey nodded toward the rink. A pretty blond teenager executed a spinning jump on the ice. Corey beamed. “That’s my daughter, Regan. She’s on the junior figure skating team with Josh’s daughter, the one in black. The hockey team has the next slot of ice time.” “The girls look very talented.” Even with an ex-skater for a sister-in-law, Grant knew next to nothing about figure skating. He should have paid attention. He should have known Kate better. Josh stood taller. “They are. The team went to the sectional championships last fall. Next year, they’ll make nationals, right, Victor?” Josh gestured toward the coach in the black parka, who had deposited the offenders in the penalty box and was walking back to them. “Victor coaches our daughters.” Joining them, Victor offered a hand. He was a head shorter than Grant, maybe fifty years old or so, with a fit body and salt-and-pepper hair cut as short and sharp as his black eyes. “Victor Church.

Skaters, derby girls, rollergirls, whatever you want to call us . . . come in all shapes and sizes, but our love for the sport is identical.

I remember being little and wondering if I smoothed this line away would I be able to see inside you, like it was a door or some kind of opening to your insides. Dumb, huh?” “Sweet,” he said, softly. “Little girl sweet. Never dumb.” Her eyes traveled up to his and locked there. “When I got older I wondered what it would be like to kiss it.

Legions of eight-year-old girls were pursuing both skaters everywhere. Too young to have learned “Thrilled to meet you!” or other adult forms of flattery, the little girls just studied Tara and Michelle with hard dolls’ eyes while waiting for their heroines to sign their autograph books.

At that moment Tianna spied a skateboard. Her hand acted on its own, and before she knew what was happening she had grabbed the board, sent it rolling, and jumped on. Two strokes with her right foot, then she pumped, moving her knees from side to side. She curved down the front sidewalk, bumping over the bricks, and just before reaching the front steps, she turned a high ollie and landed on the thick iron banister. She tail slid down the rail, then bent her knees to cushion her landing and kept going. "Awesome," she breathed, impressed with herself.

We both looked her way. She stepped out in a shorter black dress. This one was sewn by Satan. It was cut like a skater dress with another heart shape front; propping up her bosom. It was unsuccessfully hidden behind a thin veil of mesh. When she turned we found it was open backed in the shape of a long and lace diamond. Black stilettos were the cherry atop this wicked Sunday and in my head I screamed like a teenage girl seeing a spider. That dress was going to be my friggin demise if she wore it out.               Mandy

Stella is a dreamer and looks up to strong women like astronaut Sally Ride (the first American woman in space), prima ballerina Misty Copeland, and pro skater Lizzie Armanto, among others.

Another subculture that freely intermingles past and present: e-girls and e-boys, whose style combines aspects of Japanese kawaii culture, goth, skater, and punk, all remixed in classic bricolage tradition and heavily mediated by internet culture.

Into the center—Queen’s Square. This is the heart of Wolverhampton’s youth scene—our Left Bank, our Haight-Ashbury, our Soho. To the right, five skaters. To the left, three goths, sitting around the Man On ’Is ’Oss—a statue of a man, on his horse.

A girl named Brittany or Ashley would have fallen in love with the spandex costumes and the white skates of a figure skater, but when your name is Joanna and everyone calls you Jo, you grow up in Cleveland watching your older brother play hockey in the shadows of the steel mills and dream of the day when you can wear a jersey and carry a stick, waiting for your chance to slap that puck home.

You’re being sloppy, Stas!” she yells as we fly straight past her. “Sloppy girls don’t get medals!” What did I say about not throwing skates at her? “Come on, Anastasia. Put in some effort for once.” Aaron snickers, poking his tongue out at me when I shoot him a cold glare. Aaron Carlisle is the best male figure skater the University of California, Maple Hills, has to offer. When I was offered a spot at UCMH and my skating partner wasn’t, Aaron was luckily in the same position, and we became