by Fred Aceves
“Cute girl.”
“I’d better go,” I say, my heart thumping with fear.
14
SO THAT’S the famous Alpha,” Dad says when I walk in.
I mentioned Alpha once, for fuck’s sake. Twice, actually, but still. I don’t know if my dad is sort of psychic or sort of psycho.
I give Karina a quick kiss. Gaby, who smells like chlorine, puts up a hand to get a high five. She still thinks I’m boring lately, but I guess she’s in a good mood after a fun Sunday. Plus her friend Karina is here.
“Yep, that’s Alpha,” I tell Dad, responding in Spanish.
Gaby stands in front of me, blocking my way to the kitchen. “Why does he look like a superhero? I’ve never seen muscles that big.”
Dad sticks his elbows out, pretending he’s super jacked. “I eat much food,” he says, walking around all rigid. “I grow big muscles.”
His biggest fan, Gaby, cracks up. Karina is about to until she looks at me and sees I’m not laughing.
The truth is the stiff movements resemble a robot. Not funny. Especially after what Alpha told me about people treating him like either a big threat or a big joke.
And lately with Dad, everything about my lifestyle is open to ridicule. My daily trips to the gym and my frequent trips to the kitchen. He nearly busted a gut when he walked in on me—forgetting to knock—and saw me “looking at men in underwear,” as he put it. I was actually watching the documentary about pro bodybuilding called Generation Iron.
Now he’s starting on Alpha. Who’s not my friend, as far as Dad is concerned. I gotta remember that. Alpha is not my friend. He’s just the trainer at the gym.
“Chila made you a plate,” he says. “I left it on the stove in case you wanna take a break from your muscle man food.”
“Karina brought brownies!” Gaby announces.
Dad puts a finger over his lips and tells her, “More for us if he doesn’t eat them.”
“I’m going to make my shake,” I say, and tell Karina to give me a minute.
She sits on the carpet in front of Gaby to play hand games.
The kitchen smells of chiles rellenos and tortillas. There’s the plate, covered in aluminum foil. I don’t even wanna look at the brownies, but of course I notice the container.
And there I am in the toaster, my reflection clear in the shiny surface. I take a step toward it. Check out my shoulders from the front and sides.
You’re small. Going down in size just like Crockett. All that work you’ve done is for nothing.
I shake this idea away, and switch on the logical part of my brain. Can I even trust this reflection? It might be slightly curved, giving me the opposite effect of a car window.
The measuring tape is rolled up tight in my pocket. I wanna measure my arms and shoulders to make sure I’m not crazy. But I also need to enter my sets and reps on my latest workout into my data spreadsheet, before I forget. Not to mention I gotta make my post-workout shake and entertain Karina.
I’ll start with my shake, as planned. I grab the tub of protein powder from the top of the fridge.
My two favorite girls slap hands and clap, singing.
The sailor went to sea, sea, sea,
To see what he could see, see, see . . .
Time to feed the muscles. I put a heaping scoop of protein into the blender, along with a teaspoon each of glutamine and creatine, with two cups of water.
I press the last button on the ancient blender and wait, staring at my forearm. I look at both of my forearms. They’ve gotten thicker, I guess, though more vascularity—veins pushing out the skin—would be nice.
Although my forearms are among the least important parts of my body, I’m forever thinking about them because they’re always right there, in my line of vision.
After the shake gets mixed up frothy I shut off the blender. Dad has crept up without me noticing. He picks up the tub of protein, studying the bodybuilder flexing on the label. I’m on guard, ready for whatever he comes at me with.
“Alpha is bigger than this guy.”
“I don’t think so,” I lie.
Alpha is bigger than the guy on this cheap-ass protein powder, which is why he’ll be on a tub like this soon. He recently got a sponsorship deal with the supplement company BeastMax Nutrition. When he gets his fat check, he plans to fix up the gym.
“We used to laugh at those muscle guys,” Dad says. “Remember?”
Why does he gotta be so irritating? Always asking questions he knows the answers to. Yes, I remember. Last year on Clearwater beach we saw a group of bodybuilders with girls, all of them slicked up with lotion, gleaming in the sun.
Sure, I laughed. That was back when I was skinny and stupid and probably jealous. I know better now.
“I remember,” I tell Dad, and guzzle the shake straight from the pitcher.
The quicker I can get it down, the better. If it weren’t brownish and didn’t say chocolate on the label, you’d have no idea what the flavor is supposed to be.
“You want to be like this now?” Dad sets down the tub. “You want muscles like that Alpha guy?”
Yeah, sort of, I think to myself. Definitely bigger than I am and bigger than I planned to be when I started on my goal. Fifty pounds of muscle instead of twenty-five would be nice. I was aiming way too low before.
“Muscles make the man,” I say. “But no, I’m not trying to be a bodybuilder.”
“You think muscles make you a man?”
Even before he shakes his head I know what’s next—he’s about to launch into a lecture. Here comes bullshit wisdom from a guy who never even finished high school. I feel a stirring of anger inside and tell myself to chill.
“Flaco,” he says, “a real man—”
I cut him off. “Is honest, hardworking, and takes care of the people he loves. Does that sum it up?”
I just saved us both about a hundred hours. I swear, Dad should write a book called How to Be an Average Chump because his definition of “man” is way off.
Dad nods slowly. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“Women do those same things,” I point out, and watch his face fall.
Wow. That shut him up quick.
“What distinguishes us from women are muscles,” I emphasize. “And as far as being manly, do you think the jerk from next door moved his car that time because you’re honest and love your family?” I don’t wait for an answer. “No. He saw how big you were and didn’t wanna mess with you.”
“You want to intimidate people? Is that why you go to the gym?”
“I just want respect. And to be left alone.”
Like right now, I feel like adding. I’m sick of being treated like a clueless kid. There’s a deep surge of heat in my chest and I don’t wanna flip out. Alpha says you have to catch the rage before it catches you, and walk away. So it’s time to leave.
I’m about to make my move when Dad lays his thick hand on my shoulder. Ow. The pain from a sensitive zit shoots all the way to the back of my head for a second.
The singing and clapping in the living room is still loud, but Dad lowers his voice to almost a whisper. “Your friend Alpha takes steroids. You know that, right?”
My heart starts beating in my throat. Dad has mentioned the one word I hoped he never would.
I won’t repeat it. Instead, I’ll focus on the friend part. I need to shut down this conversation for good.
“He’s not my friend, Dad,” I say, as if the idea is absurd. “He’s just the trainer at the gym. Remember you told me not to hurt myself? Thanks to him, I know how to work out safely. He makes me use a belt when I squat so I don’t hurt my back.”
Problem averted, thanks to my quick thinking. I hope.
“Why were you in his car?”
“Because the gym is closed on Sunday evenings but he goes there to work out for an hour and invites anybody else who wants to train. I wanted to, so he picked me up.”
I’m on a roll.
Dad squeezes t
he hell outta my shoulder now. It takes all I have not to wince or cry out in pain. It’s actually a light squeeze, but damn do these zits hurt. There must be three dozen dotting the top of my back now.
Dad isn’t trying to make me scream out in pain. The hand on the shoulder means a heart-to-heart talk. It means worry.
“I want you to be honest with me,” he says in a hushed voice. And with a pointed look I feel all over.
Here comes the dreaded question. Looking away will make him more suspicious. But when I’m looking at him it’s hard to lie. The most hardened criminals could fold in Dad’s presence. No need for the good cop/bad cop routine. Just send in my soft-spoken Dad with his penetrating eyes.
“I’m always honest with you,” I say.
“Are you taking steroids?”
“Of course not,” I answer right away.
Too fast? Did I even register shock? I can do that now.
“Wow, Dad,” I say, shaking my head. His hand slips off me when I go put the tub back on the fridge. “What kind of crazy question is that?”
With his hand off me, he can’t feel me breaking out in a nervous sweat.
The girls in the living room crack up. Gaby says, “One more time!”
Dad has followed me. “People don’t wake up one day and decide to do bad things. Sometimes you have a friend who does something and then you think, Why not me?”
I know he’s making it easier for me to come clean. It’s not going to happen. I’m unbreakable.
I force myself to meet Dad’s gaze again.
“Alpha is not my friend and I’m not stupid,” I say, my voice steady.
“I know you’re not stupid, Flaco,” he says, “but if you’re making a mistake, you need to stop and think about—”
He’s going to keep chipping away at me. And I’m going to keep smoldering until I erupt. I’d better get outta here.
I take a step before he says, “Wait,” his hand gripping my shoulder from behind. “I’m not done talking to you.”
I come to a dead stop. Fuck him for pulling me back like a dog on a leash. Fuck him for getting to decide when a conversation ends. I wanna scream, but instead I try to cool my blood by taking a deep pull of air.
I turn to him because I have to. He’s in charge.
“What?” The question comes out harsher than I intended.
Dad moves closer, with a stare so hard it could crack a forty-five-pound plate. “Since when do you talk to me like that?”
I feel so awake right now. Alert to everything. To Dad’s hand on my shoulder again, to his eyes, more penetrating than ever. But I’m not afraid. Dad isn’t a hitter. When I was little Mom would sometimes bust out the chancla to discipline me. Dad only had his concrete stare. He’d call my name and grab ahold of the side of his belt. That one gesture, together with the hard eyes he’s aiming at me now, was enough.
Now his face is inches from mine. The clenched jaw and wild eyes. The physical intimidation after saying size doesn’t matter. What a hypocrite.
Not that I’m gonna point that out, which would only make things worse. I gotta get myself outta this situation.
“Sorry.” I put all the feeling into that word I can muster.
“That Alpha guy is a bad influence on you.” Dad says this with certainty. “From now on, you want to get exercise, you do it here at home or in the park. No more going to that gym.”
“What?!”
The. Fuck.
He’s serious. I watch him walk away, which means the conversation is over.
I’m steaming inside. My fists tighten and my imagination runs wild. How I’d love to punch him right in the back of his stupid head.
Fuck him.
Fuck the idea of some guy bossing me around just because I don’t earn enough to go off and live on my own.
Fuck him for trying to control my life.
I’m going to the gym and there’s nothing he can do to stop me.
“My dad’s such an asshole,” I tell Karina when we’re in my room.
The door has to stay open—another rule my asshole dad made. Luckily, he’s listening to the TV news loud and Gaby is in the shower.
Karina sits on the bed, her face a mask of horror. “Oh my God, David.”
She loves my dad—I get it—and I’ve never said anything even close to that before. I sit on the chair.
“Dad says I’m not allowed to go back to the gym ever again.”
“Why?” Karina asks.
“He was bossing me around and I sort of raised my voice, I guess.”
I won’t give her the details, especially about how he asked me if I’ve taken steroids. No need to put ideas in her head.
I sit in my chair and consider how to change Dad’s stubborn mind. Can’t come up with anything.
“On days Gaby wants to go to work with him, I can slip out to the gym no problem,” I say. “But what about the days Gaby stays home?”
I say it out loud just to think this through, not to get an answer. But a half second later I have the answer. Right in front of me. I’m looking at the answer.
My idea makes me smile.
“No way,” Karina says. “Don’t look at me.”
“You like hanging out with Gaby. Plus whenever you’re hanging out with friends or working, it’s never in the mornings. It would be only for an hour and a half. Two hours tops.”
“You’re crazy.”
“All you gotta do is pop in a movie for her. You know that Gaby takes cares of herself.”
“David, I’m not conspiring with you to deceive your dad. Also, I didn’t tell you, but I’m going to visit some family in Miami for two weeks. Not sure when yet, but my job is going to give me some time off.”
Dammit. All I needed was for Karina to get on board. I can handle Gaby. We’re great at keeping secrets from Dad, and she owes me one. A few weeks ago, she stained the couch cushion with a marker. I got out the stain the best I could, but the ghost of the red marker is still on the gray fabric. We flipped the cushion and kept the accident between us.
For extra-cool points I’ll even buy her Sour Patch Kids or purple Nerds, her two favorite candies.
“I’m going to help you out, David, by being real with you.” She’s sitting stiff as a pole. “You’re the one who’s kind of acting like an asshole.”
“Me?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t yell at your dad and get grounded.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“There are no sides. It’s just that you’ve changed since you started going to the gym.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re different when I’m around, at least. All spacey and looking at your body. Who knows how you are with your dad.”
“Yeah, maybe I’m super into gaining muscle, but it’s just for the summer, you know?”
“Sure, fine. I’m trying to be understanding, but I’m just saying. It’s like the stronger you get the more different you act. That’s all.”
Why didn’t she say bigger instead of stronger? She’s commented on my bigger size before.
She was being nice. That’s why. Didn’t want to make you feel bad. Because you’re that skinny guy that you saw in the reflection of the toaster. No muscle at all.
So I get up to find out for myself. Look into the mirror, stunned by what I see. This morning I was big and now, even with a post-workout pump, I’m somehow smaller.
Except that makes no sense. Why would I be smaller? I flex as I wait for the logical part of my brain to take over. But I think the same thoughts that bum me out.
I’m about to reach into my pocket for the measuring tape when . . .
“Hello? Why are you staring at yourself?”
. . . I remember Karina is here.
Without realizing it, I’ve gotten up from the chair and walked three steps to the mirror. And flexed as if I were alone in this room.
I smile. She got me. “I guess my head is still at the gym.”
She’s standing
close to me, her eyes as big as I’ve ever seen. “Oh my God. You see what I’m talking about? I swear, you’ve become obsessed with your body.”
I take both her hands in mine, determined to change the subject. “Forget the gym, okay? I’m here now. My dad has my brain all jumbled up. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”
“Okay,” she says, all slow. Like she’s giving in but doesn’t want to.
“Just give me one minute. Just one. To enter the weight I’ve lifted today, plus the sets and reps, into my body-tracking chart.”
“I understood maybe half of those words.” She falls back onto the bed. “Do your weird muscle stuff and tell me when you’re done.”
I head back to the computer to enter today’s numbers on the UndergroundMuscle website.
Her phone does that activated jingle, and I hear the popping sounds of messages received.
The numbers from my last back and bicep day are just as I remembered. Great! I went heavier for all my sets today. And if I’m getting stronger it means I’m getting bigger. That’s a fact!
So I lift my arm to flex my bicep, certain that I’ll now see it big—wait. I catch myself being weird and let my arm fall back down.
“I saw that slow-motion wing flap,” Karina says, laughing. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I swivel in the chair to face her again.
Enough already, I decide. No more thinking about my body. Maybe Karina is right. It might be an obsession, and obsessions aren’t good.
I forget my body and consider Karina’s. Those black shorts are hiked up because her beautiful legs are crossed.
“You look so damn good, you know that?”
She drops her phone in her bag and smiles. “Thanks.”
“If I play a reggaeton song,” I joke, “will you shake it like the girls do in the videos?”
“Not going to happen,” she says with a laugh.
“Half a song.”
She’s staring at me while she smiles. At least she’s in a better mood.
“Okay, you drive a hard bargain. One quick booty shake and I’ll never ask again.” I stretch my arm toward her for a handshake. “Deal or no deal?”
She shakes her head slowly and even wags her finger for emphasis.
“Okay, okay,” I say, giving up.