When Everything Is Blue Page 4

  “Yeah, crazy,” I echo.

  “I was just messing around. You know that, right?”

  Messing around is guy speak for it meant nothing. I’ve seen countless guys tell girls that same thing when they come calling Monday morning after a party over the weekend.

  He must regret it, which makes me regret it as well.

  “Yeah, sure,” I mumble, then make my way blindly to the front seat, wishing I could sit in the back instead, because all I want is to curl up into a ball and teleport to literally anywhere else.

  At Monster Hole we surf on opposite sides of the swells. Chris keeps his distance on the beach too. Maybe he’s scared my dick might jump out of my pants and into his hand. He also makes sure to double his quota of flirting with the babes, proving to me or maybe himself his überheterosexuality.

  Nothing says screw you like having a bunch of hot chicks draped all over you like Mardi Gras beads.

  By the end of the day, I just want to go home, crawl into bed, and forget this weekend ever happened. Ryanne tells me about a skateboard competition coming up that I might be interested in going to, either as a spectator or a competitor. I ask her if she wants to check it out together since it was her idea. She says yes, so we exchange numbers.

  On the car ride home, I pretend to be asleep so I won’t sulk the whole way or make it more awkward than it already is. About halfway home, Chris clears his throat. Super loud. Like everything else he does, it commands my attention.

  “Theo,” he says.

  I keep my eyes closed. I’ve already committed to it.

  “Theo,” he says again, louder, and then, “Come on, Theo, I know you’re not sleeping.”

  I sigh and stretch and slowly open my eyes so he might wonder if I was sleeping or not. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say.

  “I don’t want it to be weird between us,” he says.

  He’s already tried blowing me off, so what else is there to talk about? If he wants to pretend like it didn’t happen, I will too.

  “Why would it be weird?” I say like a shit. Maybe I am a bad friend.

  He shoots me a look like Don’t be an ass. Chastened, I sit up a little straighter and stare at my hands.

  “Last night was just a weird mood,” he says with purpose. Like he’s trying to convince himself of it.

  “I think we covered this already,” I say sourly.

  “No, I covered it. You haven’t said a word.”

  I suck in my bottom lip and stare at the dashboard with my arms crossed. Ugh, the feelings. So many goddamned feelings, all swirling inside me like an undertow. None of the things I want to say to him feel safe. Chris has an agenda—he always does—so why is he trying to make me go first?

  “What do you want me to say, Chris?” I finally ask.

  “I want you to say it doesn’t change anything.”

  I glance out the window, at the purple dusk blanketing the water and tucking it in for bed. I’ve relied on Chris for so much over the years. This summer when he was gone, I felt the loss of him deeply. It kind of scared me how much a part of my identity he’s become. How often I look to him for approval, acceptance, and a shoulder to lean on. I love him as a friend and more, but I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship.

  “It doesn’t change anything,” I repeat.

  “You believe that?”

  No, but it seems he wants everything to stay the same, so what choice do I have?

  “I guess so,” I mutter.

  He sighs, frustrated with me. For what, I have no idea. My lines aren’t convincing enough. Once more, with passion….

  “Look, Theo, I’m sorry,” he says.

  Now he’s apologizing? He must think it was a huge fucking mistake.

  “Whatever, Chris. We were horny. I’m sure other dudes have done it before without the world ending.”

  “I’m really—”

  “Don’t apologize,” I cut him off.

  He stares at the road. I’ve been too harsh. He’s trying to make things right between us. Even if it’s having the opposite effect, he’s doing his best.

  “It’s cool,” I say. “It was a stupid mistake. So let’s forget it ever happened.”

  “You think it was a mistake?” He glances over at me. The fear and uncertainty in his eyes look strange on him. My best friend, who would take on ten bullies, tackle a twenty-foot wave without a second thought, punch a shark in the gill, is scared. Whatever his feelings, I’m not about to ruin five years of friendship just to prove a point.

  “Yeah, it was a mistake.”

  He nods slowly, then settles back into driving, visibly relieved.

  He’s off the hook.

  Enter Asshole Dave

  I START my sophomore year with a bad attitude. I blame it on the weather—hot, humid, and overcast, the trifecta of shitty for Florida climate. It’s like being trapped in somebody’s armpit. I meet Chris at the top of his driveway on the first day of school and climb into his Volvo with minimal chit-chat. I’m not a morning person and also, it’s still a little weird after the weekend we just had. On the way to school, Chris tells me about a video he saw online of some kids surfing through the flooded streets of Miami during a king tide while tethered to the back bumper of a jeep.

  “Urban skurfing,” Chris says. “Next time there’s a storm, we’re totally doing it.”

  “It’s a terrible idea,” I say to him. “I’m in.” It’s a running joke between us whenever Chris comes up with one of his crazy stunts. This, at least, coaxes a smile from him. Besides, it does sound like fun.

  “You talk to your dad lately?” Chris asks. He and his dad are pretty tight. Chris usually spends his summers in California, where they surf and camp and climb mountains and do all that father-son bonding you see in Patagonia catalogs—probably even work in a little game of catch here and there.

  “Not since Easter,” I tell him.

  “He hasn’t called?”

  Chris is an only child, the apple of everyone’s eyes, including his stepdad, Jay. Two sets of awesome parents for one kid. And Paloma, who dotes on him as well. Chris doesn’t know what it’s like to have to compete with a bubbly twin sister and younger, cuter models.

  “He talks to me through Tabitha,” I tell him. “There’s another baby on the way. A boy.”

  “Wow. That makes five, huh?”

  I nod. My dad is prolific. I’ll give him that.

  “Still,” Chris says. “He could call you once in a while. Say what’s up and all.”

  “I’d have to get a cavity for that to happen.”

  Chris shakes his head, trying not to smile. “That is so messed up, Theo.”

  “Yeah, especially since he’s not even my dentist anymore.”

  We share a hard, bitter chuckle at that. Kind of feels like ice-cold air on the lungs. My dad’s a real deadbeat, something I’ve gotten used to over the years. I don’t like to dwell on it because then I get pissed off. Or I get sad and start feeling sorry for myself, which is way worse.

  Chris and I arrive at school a few minutes early to claim our lockers, the same ones we had last year in Hibiscus Hall—the four quadrants of our school are named after flowers instead of cardinal directions. Like we can be duped by the naming of things as easily as tourists. For whatever reason Hib Hall, as it’s more commonly known, is where the “popular” kids hang out. I don’t really care about the cool factor, but it is centrally located, which is convenient. Chris’s surfer friends all have lockers there, along with some of the skater punks—my colleagues. Our circles overlap.

  We say what’s up to Corbin, Jake, and Tomás, part of our inner circle who are milling around our section of lockers. Chris finds his locker from last year, and I’m about to claim the one next to his, but there’s someone blocking my way.

  New kid. T-shirt stretched tight over broad shoulders. He’s putting his stuff into my old locker. I’m about to ask him to trade when the new kid stops and stares down the hallway, lets ou
t a wolf whistle. “Hot damn,” he says. I follow his gaze and see that it’s none other than my sister who’s attracted his attention. She’s sporting a dress-code violation short skirt and high heels, doing her swishy walk down the hallway, turning heads and setting loins afire. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

  “That is one hot tamale,” the new kid bellows loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “Wouldn’t mind taking her over one knee.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that,” I say instinctively, getting all up in the kid’s face so I know he hears me. He’s wide like Chris but a little chubby in the gut. Artfully buzzed hair like he just got it cut, and a little bit of acne on his face. He looks amused. I want to knock the smarmy smirk right off his face.

  “That’s his sister,” Corbin says by way of explanation.

  “Aye, Papi,” the new kid says to me, picking up on my ethnicity, I’m guessing. His eyes go wide like he’s testing me to see what I’ll do next.

  “Shut the fuck up and move your shit to another locker,” Chris says before I have the chance to respond.

  “Why?” the new kid says to him. “I don’t see your name on it.”

  Chris doesn’t argue with him, just reaches inside the locker and yanks everything out so it spills onto the floor—books, papers, folders. Chris unhinges the lock, clicks it shut, and bowls it down the hallway. It gets lost in the shuffle of feet. Corbin shakes his head, a knowing little smile on his face. Jake and Tomás pause their conversation to see what will happen next.

  “Welcome to Sabal Palm High, asshole,” Chris says in his deep, scary, man voice. It would intimidate me if I didn’t know him like I do. “Now get the fuck out of our way.”

  The kid looks between Chris and me. His smile widens. He leans down and opens the locker beneath mine.

  “Have it your way,” he says to me. “You can be on top for now.”

  Those words, on top, and the way he says it, the way he looks at me like I’m an easy target. He knows. He knows everything. And he’s putting it right there on display for everyone to hear. Fuck.

  I jam my backpack into my locker, then stuff my skateboard on top of it, thinking to get out of there as quickly as possible. I don’t want to even look at Chris because it will reveal something about me I don’t want him to see. The kid just watches me, arms crossed, like he’s enjoying the show.

  “You skate?” he says to me like we’re friends. I ignore him, fumbling with my lock. I haven’t used it in three months, and I’ve forgotten the hang of it. “I’m new here,” the kid says. “Maybe you could show me where the good skate spots are around town.”

  “Don’t talk to him,” Chris says to the new kid, still staring him down and standing broadside to further intimidate him. Chris hasn’t even bothered to put his stuff away.

  “Why? Is he your bitch?”

  Everyone goes silent for a second, the whole hallway it seems, the whole city of West Palm proper. Then Chris lunges at him, slams him back against the locker with his forearm locked under the kid’s chin, like he could break his windpipe if he felt like it. I jump out of the way. I’ve never seen Chris pull a move like that before. Meanwhile our crew all make ooh and ahh noises, the musical prelude to an ass beating.

  “Watch your mouth,” Chris hisses. Now the kid looks rattled.

  “Everything all right here?” a teacher barks, storming up to us, knowing full well everything is not all right. Chris has a reputation for being a good kid, though, which is why the teacher gives him the chance to back down.

  Chris releases the kid and backs off, but not too far. Chris’s posture tells me he’s ready to fight, itching for it. Chris gets this crazy look in his eyes when he’s about to go off—his nostrils flare and his face flushes, his muscles get all beastly looking. I swear he grows an inch or two. He has that look now. Meanwhile I’m motionless and tense, which is my reaction to conflict—I freeze up and become generally useless.

  The new kid twists his neck as though stretching it. “I was just introducing myself. My name’s Dave.” He holds out his hand to me. I can’t believe the size of this kid’s cojones. I glare at him and finish with my locker, then walk away without another word to that asshole.

  “See you after class, Papi,” Dave calls, and I flip him off, not caring if the teacher’s still there. I hate guys like that. Guys who get off on making other people feel small, like the world isn’t big enough for all of us to fit comfortably. I hate feeling weak and looking weak, especially in front of Chris.

  Of course, Chris didn’t have to go apeshit on him either. Makes me wonder if Chris reacted so strongly because of the insinuation we were gay. I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

  Regardless, I can’t have Chris always sticking his neck out for me. I’ve got to start fighting my own battles. Being more independent. I’m not his bitch or anyone else’s. Maybe I do have something to prove after all.

  Standing up to an asshole like Dave is a good place to start.

  I THOUGHT Asshole Dave would take the hint and move his locker somewhere else, but he seems determined to stick it out. A couple of days into school and he’s practically one of us, telling jokes and talking shit with the best of them. His mouth is foul, and the only good thing I can say about him is that he doesn’t talk to or about my sister again, at least not while I’m around.

  Instead he’s all up in my business, asking me questions about my skateboard, my hair, where I’m from, what’s for lunch in the cafeteria that day, where my next class is, and if he can walk with me there. It’s kind of insane. I try to ignore him, but sometimes his shit is just too much. He only pesters me when Chris isn’t around, which means he thinks I’m an easy mark. Which sucks.

  “The guys say you’re Puerto Rican, but I’ve never seen a boricua with blue eyes,” Dave says to me on Wednesday between second and third period. “You sure you’re not adopted?”

  “Do you know how ignorant you sound right now?” I say, unable to ignore his idiocy any longer and doubly irritated that he’s asking people about me.

  “He speaks,” Dave exclaims and claps his hands together like he’s discovered a new element. “I knew it. So, what’s your name?”

  I don’t answer, and he continues his assholery.

  “Say something to me in Spanish, Papi.”

  “No.”

  “Por favor?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Seriously, man. I’m in Spanish III. I’m practically fluent. Try me.”

  “Eres un gilipollas.”

  “You’re a….”

  “Asshole,” I finish for him.

  He laughs, a real gut shaker. I’m so glad I can amuse him. He slaps my back, and I yank my shoulder away.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Lo siento,” he says, and it almost seems like he means it. I finish trading out my books, go to shut my locker, and Dave reaches up and grabs the door to stop me. “We should hang out sometime. You can help me with my Español.”

  I glance over at him. The smile is gone and he looks sincere, but it’s hard to say either way. I still can’t believe he has the balls to mess with me. I’m being bullied by the fucking new guy.

  “Why are you messing with me, man?” I ask.

  “What?” His eyes widen. “I’m not messing with you.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Tu eres muy guapo, Papi.”

  He knows just what to say to get under my skin. I shove him off my locker, slam it shut, and walk away. I don’t like Dave’s vibe. He reminds me of those kids who held me down and tried to spit in my face because I talked funny. Like he’s trying to push me into revealing something I don’t want to. And why? To have something to hold over my head? To expose me? To fuck with me? I don’t know what to do in this situation. I just want it to stop.

  And what if Asshole Dave says something to Chris? Or goads Chris into a fight just to get at me?

  Better to just avoid my locker altogether.

  “WHERE WERE y
ou at lunch?” Chris asks me that Friday after school on the car ride home. Dave’s been hanging around with our lunch crew, so I took my board down to the abandoned gas station on the corner and practiced my grinds. One good thing to come out of the Great Recession is there are a lot more empty buildings and vacant lots for skaters to shred. That’s what the older generation of skate rats says—sticking it to the man has never been so easy.

  “I had some stuff to make up,” I lie. I don’t want Chris to ask me why I was off on my own. He’s always trying to include me in his social circle, and he takes it personally when I opt out.

  “It’s the first week of school,” Chris argues. He doesn’t believe me. I’m not going to go into it about Dave, so I just stare out the window and hope he’ll give up.

  He turns up the music—a local punk band. Did I mention he has great taste in music too? I glance over to find him bobbing his head along to the beat, and I figure that must be the end of it. Chris pulls into his driveway and shuts off the engine.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I tell him while grabbing my skateboard and backpack.

  “Hold up,” he says before I can bounce. He lays one hand on my arm and leaves it there, like he’s claiming it for his own.

  I freeze but keep my stuff in my hands. He looks upset, and it probably has something to do with the way I’ve been acting. All distant and mopey.

  “You’ve been ditching me all week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  This heart-to-heart is exactly what I wanted to avoid, in avoiding him. Chris has a way of getting at the truth of the matter. I set my backpack and board down at my feet. How do I make him feel better about it without telling him about Dave’s bullshit? And what if he brings up Sebastian?

  “I’ve just been busy,” I say.