by Ryan La Sala
“Like Atlantis?”
“Yes! Like that. But it’s never specified. How much would that blow? To get sucked into a whirlpool and just, like…be pooped out a zillion miles underwater?”
Luca considers this. “You’d be crushed.” He puts down his bottle and swipes the marker from where I left it on the table. I get the hint and take it from him, trading my tracing for sketching atop the duct tape encasing him. I’m sure it can’t be super comfortable being wrapped in plastic. Probably he’s a sweaty mess. Up close, by the light of the sun, I can see every articulated muscle in his forearm. I resist the urge to push him elsewhere in the studio, where the light can’t touch him like that.
“Crushed for sure,” I say. I think for a few minutes longer about the unfathomable depth of the ocean, and past all the darkness, a further, denser darkness of the earth. Always shifting. Always coming together and breaking apart. I think about what sort of mysterious, terrible crack might open in the ocean floor, swallowing everything above it in a roaring and inescapable whirl.
Luca’s fingers pull at my hair, gliding down my cheek and tilting my chin so that I’m looking directly up at him. “Still thinking about all that suction?”
I let out a laugh, but a stifled one. I am careful not to move an inch, desperate to keep the square millimeter of connection between Luca’s knuckle and my chin.
“Come on, keep drawing,” Luca says, pinching me. I do, suddenly bashful. Usually it’s me reminding him to get back to work. The reversal feels awkward and causes me to start rambling.
“I’m almost done. Then we’ll snip this off you, just a single cut before we cut out the individual shapes to make a pattern. I think I’ll probably use neoprene to make the basic shape of the costume, and then we can make the bulkier pieces out of foam. And for the ornamental pieces, we’ll of course use the Worbla, but I’m not sure which Worbla. I kind of want to check out a few Worbla armor tutorials before—”
“Worbla! If I hear one more word about that thermos plastic—”
“Thermoplastic.”
“Whatever. I’m not touching the heat gun.”
Luca hates the gun, and I don’t blame him. There’s a small crescent right in the middle of his (perfect, unfathomably perfect) right butt cheek from a few weeks ago, when he sat on it. Or I guess rolled onto it. We were both rolling. That was at the point in our crafting session when neither of us was wearing much or working that hard. Luca was the one using the heat gun before he started kissing me. He’s also the one who left it out, but he has yet to forgive me for what’s going to be a (cute, unfathomably cute) scar.
“Oh, I meant to ask,” I say with a mischievous grin as I slide the tip of the scissors under the edge of the duct tape, careful not to nick skin. “How’s your ass?”
“I’ve never had any complaints,” he says.
“Shut up. I mean the burn.”
Luca looks down at me, one sly eyebrow raised.
“Ask it yourself,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.
I’m about to go back to cutting when, sensing my fraying focus, Luca goes, “Wait! Wait. Take a break. Look at me.”
I pause, not trusting myself to look away and cut at the same time. I look at him, and now the sun has drawn neon seams upon his shoulders and hair.
He smiles. “You never let me distract you on the first try,” he says.
“I know you won’t get back to work until you get what you want,” I say.
“Ah, so you figure there’s no point in delaying the inevitable?”
“I figure…” I trail off, slowly putting the scissors down. “I figure I might as well give you what you want.”
“What I want?” Luca asks. It’s soft, but because his hand has again wound into my hair, the tug on my scalp suggests un-soft intentions.
I straighten my shoulders, pushing into the tug. “I mean, isn’t that what you want?”
I see a few things flicker in Luca’s eyes. Lust, but also a flitting hesitance. And a dot of fear, too.
“I have condoms,” I say simply. “If you want to wrap other parts of you in plastic, I mean.”
Nothing about Luca’s expression changes. Or maybe the dot of fear grows into a blot.
“Wait, wait,” I backtrack. Did I get this totally wrong? “We don’t have to. Sorry. I thought. I just…you’re always trying to distract me, and I thought…”
In a whirl, Luca is down beside me, strong arms pulling me close so that his own body comes into focus in all of my senses at once. He has a way of filling me up, captivating me completely. Even dressed in tape, he does it now, and we’re kissing. I rise into the kiss, heartbroken when it ends so he can speak.
“Your mom isn’t back until Monday night, right?”
I nod.
“So we have all day?”
“And all night,” I say. “And tomorrow. And tomorrow night, too.”
Luca leans in, and his lips are soft on the ridges of my ear as he whispers, “I could take you to bed right now. We could do whatever you want. Everything, maybe. But your mind would still be in the studio working. So don’t you think it’d be a good idea to get as much done as we can now? And fool around later?”
I blink at him, shocked. He leans closer to whisper something else.
“And besides, you give shitty head when you’re distracted.”
I push him back. He’s laughing as he clumsily stands in the tape corset, adjusting his shorts. I have to do the same, but I’m not as cool about it. I’m blushing, scandalized. Being this close to a guy this often is very new to me. Luca is usually the one pursuing, and I’m the one delaying. But this time, he’s turned it around on me.
Smugly, Luca hands me the scissors, and I resume snipping this stupid pattern off him.
“Told you,” he says.
“Told me what?”
“That I’m serious about this. I’m not just a looker, you know.”
I don’t dignify this with a response. Then, softer, Luca adds, “Though it is good to know you still want to hook up with me.”
“What? Obviously. Are you actually insecure about that?”
“Nah,” he says, but there’s still something there, waiting to be asked. Maybe he’s toying with me? I finally snip to his armpit, and the duct tape encasement hisses open. I help him out of it, and he scratches his chest.
“I guess I do wonder,” he finally admits, and now there’s a distinct uneasiness to him. Just a hint of it, but it’s clear to me he’s been saving up these words for a moment like this. “You’re always working, or you’re wanting to work. It’s nice to know I can still distract you. That sometimes you want me more than you want to work. I know it’s probably annoying, but I can’t help it. You’re cute when you focus.”
I beg myself not to prove him right, but without thinking, my hands have already found their way back to the foam feathers. I freeze, staring at Luca. I have no idea what to say, and maybe he knows that, because he just sits down next to me, takes the pencil from my hand, and resumes tracing.
“We gotta get these done so we can texture them with the Dremel tool,” he says. “And then we should use that wood coat stuff. It takes a long time to dry, but if we do a round now, we can do another round before we fall asleep tonight.” He glances at me. “If that’s what you want, I mean. I can also head home if you think you’d get more done by yourself. I don’t want to stress you out.”
I sit still, looking at Luca until he finally looks back, and I make him watch as I leave my work behind. Working with him is chaotic and slow, but it’s fun and amazing, too. He brings a joy to this whole process that I’ve come to depend on. To love, even. I’m not sure I’ve ever told him that, but I want him to know it now.
A hint of unease wobbles in his stare like a low candle flame. I lean in, and I kiss him with force and full focus. I sense the flame blow out brief
ly as Luca pulls back. “We can keep working,” he reiterates. “I’m serious. I don’t want to make you choose.”
It’s what I need to hear. That I don’t have to choose. With this comes a surge of bliss, of relief. For once, my anxiety lets me relax in the moment.
I lean closer to him, away from the foam and duct tape, the pencils and the blades. My work can wait a few minutes longer, but suddenly I can’t. I push Luca down, easing over him so that we’re bundled together in a jungle of foam and drawings and craft supplies.
I surprise us both when I finally say, “I love you.”
Luca sits up so quickly we nearly knock skulls. Then he’s standing, and because he’s the most athletic guy ever, he pulls me up with him. I’m sitting on the table before I know it.
“You do?”
I’m getting bashful now. “Sorry, that just slipped out.”
Luca spins from me, leaving my legs swinging. He raises his fists in the air and lets out a wild, “WOOO!” like he does at his soccer games. I don’t get what’s happening until I see the relief on his face.
“Raffy, I’ve loved you for, like, months. And I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way. But you do.”
I must look very confused, because he gets close and starts talking in his game-play voice, the one he uses to explain complex anime plots to me.
“Okay, our relationship is like this. First, I basically stalked you, and you caught me, so like, not a great start for me. But then we finally hung out, and it turned out everything about your life is cool. Your mom is famous, and you have this studio and cool art friends, and you go to cool art shows and wear cool clothing that you make yourself. And besides all that, you’re, like, a genius artist. Like, I’ve never seen you do a bad job at anything. And meanwhile, I can barely make, like, macaroni art, but for some reason you don’t care. And then we start making a cosplay together, and I’m sure you’re going to hate it because I’m slow and needy and distract you, but somehow you find a way to teach me stuff and don’t hate it. Instead, suddenly you love me?”
Luca lets out another whoop, and I’m laughing as he pulls me into a bear hug. I finally free myself and clarify.
“It’s not sudden. I just didn’t know when to say it.”
“Well, Jesus, Raff, you had me ready to run. I thought you were, like, barely tolerating me.”
“Nope.” I smile. I can feel the blush on my neck and face. It’s the same feeling I had the night Luca dressed up for Inaya’s show and sang anime theme songs. The feeling of being shown love. The feeling of being so enough for someone that my anxiety can’t convince me otherwise. At least not right this minute.
Luca sits on the table beside me. It’s the same table where we had our first kiss.
“Look at them,” Luca says about our reflections in the glass cabinets.
We make faces at ourselves. Luca bumps me with his shoulder.
“I love them.”
I bump him back.
“I love them, too.”
“Wanna get back to work?” he offers.
“Nah,” I say, impersonating him. “You do shitty crafting when you’re distracted.”
“Okay. Harsh. But true. You have something else in mind, then?” he asks slyly.
“A few things,” I say, my hand gliding up his thigh, into those little soccer shorts.
It’s time for a break, anyway.
Nineteen
Now
May and I sit among the shells of our costumes on her floor. She keeps yawning, and though I’m exhausted, I don’t let myself feel it. A half-eaten pizza sits in its box in front of us. I’m using makeup wipes to get the last traces of red off my skin and out from behind my ears. The various Ion recaps of today’s Controverse antics play from her laptop, but I for one cannot stomach the footage, since it’s mostly us toppling over on repeat with explosion sound effects.
“Raffy, I’ve thought about it, and it’s too big of an opportunity to pass up—”
“Stop.”
“Come on. I’m serious. I’ll do it with you.”
“I know you will, which is why I’m telling you to stop.”
May has offered several times now to participate in the crafting challenge tomorrow. I have said no several times and in several different ways.
“So, what?” she asks. “You’re really giving up?”
I’ve thought about it for a long time. Or, actually, I only thought about it for a few seconds in the breathless moments after Irma’s announcement, and I’ve been rationalizing my decision ever since. I’m not giving up. I’m growing up. Moving on.
“I have to,” I say, shrugging. “I promised I wouldn’t make you do cosplay stuff on Sunday, and I’m keeping my promise. Plus, Evie and I are going to New York to meet with her fashion colleague. She left me like six messages about it while we were on stage.”
Most of Evie’s messages were just her demanding I call her back and tell her my shoe size or shirt size or something else clothing related. Evidently, she doesn’t trust me to dress myself, so she was out shopping. That’s how I know she’s nervous about tomorrow. She never shops for me.
May slides closer to me. “I don’t feel like I’m talking to Raffy. Raffy never gives up.”
I shrug. “We basically lost already, didn’t we? Christina and Inaya make a powerhouse team. There’s no way we can compete against that.”
“Maybe not you and me, but what about you and—”
“Don’t you dare.”
May smirks. She makes a show of starting Luca’s name, but I tackle her. Laughing, we come close to rolling into the pizza box.
“May, I swear to god, if you suggest what you’re about to suggest…”
“Fine. Fiiiiine,” she whines, squirming away. “But I figured if anything could get you two to talk, it’d be the chance to outshine Inaya. I mean, just think of the boost it’d mean for the Crafty Rafty brand.”
I wince at that. I don’t want to think about Luca, sad and abandoned by Inaya in the spotlight. And I certainly don’t want to think about streams or clout or followers. But I’m not quite ready to say goodbye to all those dreams forever. Not my crafting dreams, and maybe not my dreams of fixing things with Luca, either. I don’t know what to do, though, with the flight to NYC only hours away. I just know that I’m feeling tired and cynical and I can’t wait to never wear high heels again.
“I’m sure Irma told Christina and Inaya to team up. She was smirking. It’s just a plot for Craft Club,” I say, going back to scrubbing at my skin. “Just a way for them to make money. The more drama, the more viewers.”
“We should still do it,” May says, curling in on herself. “Or at least you should. I bet they’d let you compete on your own.”
“What?”
May yawns. “You’re better than anyone I know. You could do it on your own, if you wanted to.”
I…haven’t thought of this. I wish May hadn’t said it. The second she does, I feel my old ambition sparkle alive in my bloodstream. Could I do this all on my own? Should I try?
That’s the last thing I think about as I fall asleep next to her on the floor.
* * *
In the morning, May borrows her dad’s car to give me a ride to Controverse, even though it’s so early that all the street lights are still on and the day is only a deep-blue smudge along the black horizon. We don’t talk. It’s too early to talk. It should be too early for the anxiety clattering through me, but I’m nervous about what comes next.
When we arrive at the convention center, there are film crews and coordinators ready to film our entrance. As the sun rises, we park where they tell us to, grab our things, and march into the convention center for the final day of Controverse.
May hugs me goodbye.
“Thank you,” she says, “for not making me make a hard choice. I’m still your rid
e-or-die, number-one fan, though. I’ll be cheering you on the whole way.”
“If they even let me compete,” I add.
“Want me to stay until you know?” May asks.
“It’s better if you don’t.”
The convention center is desolate at this hour; it’s not opening to the general public until eight o’clock. We were told via email that we’d have some prep time, an orientation, and a mic test. Then filming will start right at eight. Alone, I walk up to the coordinators that circle Irma Worthy. She’s giving instructions. When she sees me by myself, she frowns.
“Raphael, welcome back. Where is May? She needs to be here in the next twenty minutes.”
“She’s…” I resist the urge to look out the doors after her. “She’s not coming.”
The corners of Irma’s eyes crinkle.
“She had her opportunity to give up last night onstage. She committed to the challenge. Don’t tell me she got cold feet.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“You know how many people will watch this, right? You can’t really be thinking about giving up now, just as we’re about to begin. Do you understand the preparation that has gone into this? Do you understand the work we’ve put into getting this ready for you? And now you show up with minutes to go and claim you couldn’t convince your friend to want this for herself?”
Irma circles me. Politely, her staff turns away. I can’t look at her. All the warmth I saw in her the other day is gone, replaced by the cool determination of a businesswoman. She notes the way I’m avoiding her eyes and says, “I’m surprised. I thought we were on the same page when I gave you that second chance. I thought you wanted this.”
“I do want this,” I say. “More than anything. I’d be willing to compete by myself.”
Irma shakes her head, causing her massive hair to shake, too.