“Are you saying you’re done with me?” Dave asks. The smile is still there, but it looks frozen, covering up something else. He’s hurt, probably a little pissed too. Dave moistens his lips, and for a moment I think maybe I’m making a mistake. Dave was good at making me forget about Chris, if only for a short amount of time.
But I’m not going to be like my dad and take what I want because I want it and not think about how it might affect the other person.
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“That’s too bad.” He sighs. “I liked you, Theo. Despite your bullshit, I really did.” Dave shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me, turns away, and focuses on the road. “Ah well. Adios, Papi.”
I back away from his car just as he peels off down the road, which is kind of juvenile but not that surprising. My first breakup, I reflect. I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the weight of what I’ve just done, hoping Dave gets over it in a day or two and we can go back to being friends. When I come back up the driveway, Chris is bouncing the ball with a little too much force for it to be casual. He also won’t look at me.
“What was that about?” he asks tightly.
“You don’t want to know,” I tell him, which is the truth.
Chris palms the ball in one hand, presses it gently against my chest, gazes up at me with his warm brown eyes. He looks a little sad, or maybe it’s just the way I’m feeling. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
We finish the game, and I end up winning because Chris is distracted and grumpy. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but I’m afraid of what I might uncover. I fantasize about just pinning him against the wall with my bare chest against his and kissing him, not a sweet kiss either, but really jamming my tongue in his mouth and bucking my hips against him to make it real for him and find out once and for all if it’s just my imagination or if he’s feeling it too. There’s a moment where we’re standing in the shade of his house, drinking down our Gatorades, when I have the opportunity, but when I glance over at Chris, he’s lost in thought, which makes me think about all there is to lose, and like a punk, I chicken out.
WTF, Part 2
MY MOMgreets my sister and me on the morning of our birthday with a Puerto Rican birthday cake, which is like a pound cake drenched in rum with a meringue topping, garnished with strawberries. She started making it for us after my dad and her divorced. I suppose living with an alcoholic, she took every precaution.
I tell my sister happy birthday, and she does the same for me. Neither of us apologize or even bring up yesterday’s fight, but I can tell she feels bad about it, and I do too. I tug on her ponytail on her way out the door, and she elbows me in the gut—hard—before running off to catch a ride with her friend Lizbeth.
“You want me to take you down to the DMV after school?” Mom asks. “I can take off early today.”
“I was thinking to just have Chris take me.” I haven’t asked him, but I know he probably would.
“He’s a good friend,” she says with a soft smile. “I’m glad you have each other.”
“Me too.” I didn’t have too many friends before Chris. Other than my sister, I didn’t want to play with anyone else. My mom worried about me always being by myself. Like she was raising a future serial killer. Turns out Iwasdifferent, maybe because I’m gay? I don’t know. More likely I’m just awkward as hell. I should tell my mom I’m gay—she’d be cool about it—but I’m pretty content to keep it to myself for a little while longer.
“You’re getting so big,” she says softly and brushes the hair out of my eyes. I haven’t done much with it lately, and I’m afraid it’s gone feral again.
“Only on the outside,” I assure her, and she laughs.
“On the inside too.” She nods, looking pleased with herself. I’m flattered that she thinks she did an all right job raising me. All my good qualities I attribute to her.
“Have a happy birthday, baby.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I lean down and kiss her cheek, then plop a piece of cake on a paper plate for Chris on my way out. He’s already waiting for me at the top of his driveway. I’m balancing all my stuff, including his slice of cake, so it isn’t until I hand it over that I notice the skateboard resting under his foot. He pops it up so I can see the underside of it.
“Happy birthday, Killer.” His voice is a little husky, like it gets whenever he’s feeling sentimental.
“Is that a Bruce Lee Fury deck?” I ask, astonished and pleased and unworthy all at once. He nods. “For me?” I ask, just to make sure because, wow.
“Yep.”
I drop my stuff and kneel down to inspect it closer. I didn’t think they made this deck anymore. One of my favorite skateboarders, Paul Rodriguez, used to ride one just like it. I’d always thought it looked sick, but I haven’t talked about it in ages. Chris must have remembered.
“Where’d you find it?” I ask him.
“The UK.”
“Must have cost a lot to ship it over.” Not to mention the Tensor trucks and Bones 100 wheels, which are my preferred brands for skateboard hardware.
“I’m sponsoring you.”
“For what?”
