by Fred Aceves
How long have I been riding? Forty minutes? An hour?
I’m crazy far from home now. Stopping at red lights, I take in everything around me, the newish houses and the trees, a short pause before speeding on. I need more. Need something else.
I pass a huge park of gazebos and grills, with a playground and two basketball courts. Three kids are shooting hoops. How easy it would be to start a two-on-two, and balling would feel real good, but no. I gotta keep riding.
The sky looks bluer and brighter, the air smells salty clean, and suddenly I know where I’m going, where I been meaning to go since I left the house.
I’m heading to the water.
All I know is Clearwater Beach, which is a freeway bridge ride away. Last year I went with Ruben’s family. Me and him swam and played Frisbee. Washed down sandwiches and chips with orange soda, seagulls circling overhead. But the water’s what I remember the most.
The swelling waves rushed toward me. I dove through them before they crashed, or else I jumped, the cusps lifting me skyward and slowly setting me down. The water hugged me.
Worn out from swimming I floated, eyes shut, the sun warming my face, the liquid softness wrapped around me like a hug.
I wonder if the waves in Tampa are bigger than at Clearwater Beach.
With each block the yards widen and get greener. Sweat has glued my T-shirt to me.
After seven more blocks I see it, through the bloated heads of trees. The paleness of the clear blue sky blending with the grayish blue of the water.
A strong wind from the Gulf touches me. The branches of the fat trees shiver, and a palm tree reaching into the sky swoons, enormous leaves flapping.
On this side of Bayshore Boulevard stand two-story mansions behind lawns with no fences, like nobody would dare step foot on the grass, much less try to break in.
On the sidewalk, across six lanes of speedy traffic, a woman jogs, steering a three-wheeled stroller. An old man holding a leash follows a big gray dog with a fancy haircut.
When the light goes green I hurry across and let my bike drop on the sidewalk. A cement barrier made up of thousands of tiny columns runs as far left and right as you can see along the boulevard. I take a peek over it. That’s a five-foot drop into the water. Under this sidewalk is a dam. I’m standing on the actual wall where the Gulf of Mexico ends.
A man with music strapped to his bicep is running this way, too focused to notice me. Water slaps against the wall and sprays up, a drop falling on my arm.
“Excuse me,” I say.
The man slows until he’s jogging in place. Pops out an earbud and leaves it there, bouncing with him. “Yes?”
“Where can I go swimming?”
“Well . . .” He’s bobbing up and down, thinking. “There’s a pool at the Y. South Himes, I think it is.”
“No, in the Gulf.” For some reason I point to the water. “Where can I go in?”
He stops jogging. “You can’t go in there, buddy.”
“I know not here.”
I explain that I want the shore, someplace to go in the water. Why’s this taking so long? I wanna swim, dammit. He’s supposed to just point.
He tells me nobody’s allowed to swim in the Gulf. Besides, it’s filthy. I lean over the concrete barrier for another look. Seems fine.
“The bay is for boats,” he says.
He pops the dangling earbud back in and takes off down the curving sidewalk, running even faster now. Probably making up for the time he lost explaining things to dumbass me.
I ask another runner, some pretty college-looking girl who tells me the same.
I can feel a scream building up inside me but I hold it in as she runs off. Then I let it loose, a beast howl that feels like it lasts forever.
I stomp on the barrier again and again, wanting it to crumble into the bay. I scream even more, angry with it, with my mom, with Amy, with myself, still stomping and kicking. It don’t even budge. It’s only when I’m outta breath and when my foot is sore that I stop.
The last of the cars zip down Bayshore Boulevard, specks glinting smaller and smaller. I’m suddenly alone, all silence except for the water lapping. I can’t go home ’cause I don’t got one. Got nobody to talk to either. I ain’t never felt more depressed in my life.
Then I remember my friend.
32
“YOU CAN’T swim naked,” Zach says. “This isn’t Europe.”
He’s holding out two swim shorts, red and blue, the same black stripe along the side.
“Bloods or Crips?” he asks.
“Crips.”
Once we change and are in his backyard, it hits me I’m in a different world and it ain’t just the nice pool and house. It’s that I’m here as a friend, without schoolwork to do. Me and Zach are kicking it together. I’m considering this and admiring the row of bushes studded with violet flowers when he shouts “Bombs away!” and cannonballs into the pool.
I jump in after him in a crazy karate pose, a foot going for his head. He ducks under the surface to dodge it.
My sun-heated skin cools in the water. The chlorine smell tickles my nostrils.
In the deep end I slide down, become a ball, set my heels against the smooth wall and push, skimming the bottom of the ocean, a strange fish. I can hold my breath for one back and forth.
When I burst back into the world of oxygen and light, there’s a whiteboy sailing through the air, feetfirst, one fist up. It’s the elbow drop from wrestling. I curl my body back under the water with a splashy kick.
After messing around some more and tying twice in a swim race, we dry ourselves off. The sun’s crouching behind a gray house. In the late evening light of the red sky, the tall wooden fence seems to be on fire.
In his bedroom, the freezing air makes us shiver in our goose-pimply skin.
Zach teaches me the buttons for the video game and then kicks my ass five times. With all that biking and swimming and now playing Call of Duty—I’ve forgotten Amy and my mom. Until now.
Playing our sixth game, my soldier going into some sorta warehouse, I tell Zach about the day I told Amy how I felt about her and she friend-zoned me. The words unglue inside me and I give him all the weakass details.
I’m trying something new here. I’m trying to talk to another boy about stuff that matters.
“She says we just friends,” I tell him. “Which felt like she ripped my heart out, stomped on it, and then elbow-dropped it.”
In the game I make a wrong turn and come face-to-face with four soldiers. Before any take aim at me I throw a grenade that blows them all to bits.
“Well done.” Zack pauses the game and sets down the game controller. “But you know she didn’t really rip your heart out, right?”
I almost let my head drop, but then I don’t. I wanna see Zach. And I wanna be seen.
“It’s still in there, man, but ya know what I mean.”
“What I mean is that just because you love someone, it doesn’t mean they’ll love you back. I’ve been in your shoes.”
Makes sense. Amy didn’t do nothing to me. I did it to myself. While you expect your mom to love you, I guess it’s sorta dumb to expect automatic love from anybody else.
This whole time Amy’s been my friend and I been hoping for something else. She knew about Brian before anybody else. She looked out for me, brought my homework to the hospital, and together we got our grades up. She always had my back.
Just like Obie and all my other boys.
Feels like my head might explode with that realization.
And it hits me that she never friend zoned me. I was the one who girlfriend zoned her.
I sit up as much as possible in the beanbag that looks like an orangey, half-deflated basketball. Who woulda thought I’d be kicking it here, talking about heartbreak with a whiteboy I met at a course called Future Success?
The beanbag exhales when I shift my weight. “Ya said you been in my shoes. Someone didn’t love ya back? Who was it?”
A long pause and stare. He’s been open about a lot of stuff but some people keep these kind of secrets all their lives. Zach gets up to close the door and sits back down on the bed.
“Yeah. Last summer at camp I liked a person who could never love me back in the same way.” He ain’t dying to talk about this.
Before he changes the subject I ask, “Boy or girl?”
He gets quiet for a few beats. “Are you asking me if I’m gay?”
“Yeah.”
At least he’s okay with me asking. Ask another kid that and you fighting.
“Yeah, I’m gay,” Zach says, like he’s giving up from exhaustion. “It’s not something I announce though. I don’t want to get tormented every day.”
Poor Zach. Not for being gay but for hiding who he is. It’s true he’d get tormented every day. And it don’t end with the last school bell. The online bullying got so bad for eleventh-grader Eric last semester that he ended it with a whole bottle of Tylenol PM.
It hits me that even though I don’t hate gay people I’m sorta part of the hate. I use “gay” like a dis. Used that word like a dis. I ain’t doing that no more. I guess it’s like people calling things “spic” or “nigger” to describe things that ain’t cool.
Zach pretending to be what he ain’t, hearing disses from people of all colors and ages, boys and girls. Could Zach’s life suck more than mine?
“Okay, man,” I say.
“Okay?” Zach’s looking at me like my hair just turned orange. “I tell you I’m gay and that’s all you can say?”
I shrug.
“Really? Some people think I’m gay, but you’re the only person that knows.”
That’s really cool, him making me the first. “Thanks?”
“So . . .” Zach sits there waiting for something. “Say something, at least. What do you think?”
“That you gay?” I ask. After he nods I say, “I don’t care. Like who you want. I don’t get why anybody cares.”
“Me neither.”
I down the rest of my lemonade and set the glass aside. “If anything, all guys should be gay,” I say. “That’d be a perfect world. I’d have a girlfriend for sure, a new one every day.”
When he cracks up, I realize it’s sorta funny and start laughing too.
“Yes!” Zach says, trying to regain his breath. “And it would mean more guys for me!”
I laugh harder and harder, my first laugh in weeks. Laughing with my whole body so that even my arms and legs are trembling.
Riding home through the dark streets I feel a strange peace come over me. I cut across the lit-up field of Hanna High, wondering why the lights come on at night when school is out and if the bugs in the grass can sleep anyway. That’s when I remember the fish. I panic.
Since my idea’s too scary for second thoughts I hurry up and do it. I get to the fence behind the cafeteria and start climbing. This is crazy. Have I lost my mind?
There ain’t no barbed wire up here but a loose wire on the pole snags the back of my jeans. I nearly bust my ass.
I hop down and walk onto the strip of grass. Here, between two rows of classrooms, nobody can spot me checking for an unlocked window.
From inside the rooms you push the window open, but out here there’s nothing to grab on to and pull. I stick the back of my fingers hard against the panes, my nails gripping underneath the metal. I pull hard, ignoring the pain. It takes five classrooms before a window wiggles. With both hands, using all my strength, I get it to budge and then it flies open, almost hits me in the face.
Moonlight comes through the windows, brightening the speckled floor. I can just barely make out the whiteboard and the map of the world. This is Ms. J’s classroom.
I look at my desk. My old desk. That’s where I stood and applauded Ms. J that day she cried. I ain’t so good about that now.
I head to the principal’s office, the weak glow of my cell lighting the way. Though I know I’m doing the right thing, my heart’s beating fast.
As usual, the office blinds are down. Why have a see-through wall if you ain’t never gonna see through it? I press my phone against the glass to light up the office some. I see a corner of Principal Perry’s desk and where the tank . . .
It’s gone. Someone must be taking care of the fish at home for the summer. I look at the emptiness on top of the two-drawer file cabinet.
How stupid to come here and check on them. What was I gonna do? Take them home? Break in every night to feed them? Like they’d still be alive with school shut down for weeks already.
I go back to Ms. J’s classroom. Standing in the front I picture these desks full. I see what the teacher used to see. Students staring back. All the pranks come back to me, especially the last one, Ms. J walking out, her face streaked with tears.
In my own life, dealing with hurt, I sometimes wonder, Why me? But I’ve hurt people. I shoved Zach on the cafeteria floor before I knew how awesome he was. I made Amy cry after the school play ’cause she had a boyfriend. And that’s just the stuff I can remember. And that’s just in the last school year.
When I spot the red whiteboard marker I get an idea. I uncap the marker and start writing.
You’re the nicest teacher in the world and if I could take your class again I’d sit in the front row with my ears wide open and never prank you or make you sad in any other way. Thanks for everything.
A short message but to the point. I set the marker down. Reading it again, I realize something’s missing. Not my name—that’s proof I broke into the school. I pick up the marker again and sign: A Future Success kid.
When I reach the top of the fence on my way out I hear a loud bark. My heart damn near leaps outta my chest and I hang on tighter to the bar between my legs. Down there is the homeless dog. It wasn’t a mean bark. Come to think of it, barks from him ain’t ever been mean, and again I wonder why I’m so scared of dogs.
I ain’t never really met one before him. Maybe that’s why. Nobody has a dog in Maesta and strays don’t ever pass through, as if they know better.
From up here he looks small.
“Be cool,” I tell him, and slowly climb down so I don’t scare him away. That’s right, I don’t wanna scare him.
I hop down and he backs off. When I crouch and snap my fingers he hurries over all amped like a little kid dismissed for recess. He sniffs my hands and circles around me, nose ruffling the longer blades of grass.
I’m petting him and he lets me. His fur’s mostly soft but you can feel dirt in there too. I scratch behind his ears and rub his head. But what shoots his tail into the air is my hand running over his short fur. It’s wagging so much it might fall off. I pet him like that for a while, his eyes blinking slower with each stroke.
I don’t got food but I got love. Got enough love for a zillion dogs.
Wondering where I can find some grub I remember the Burger King nearby, all those trash bins.
The sound of whistling cuts through my thoughts.
The dog barks and takes off. I follow, rounding the gym. I slow down when my eyes meet hers.
Right there, in the middle of the lit field, is Amy. I take my time walking toward her. What should I say? Will she even talk to me?
“Hi,” I say, a little nervous.
“Hey,” she says, in a sorta nice way. “What’re you doing here?”
“Cool. You’re talking to me.” I try not to act like the happiest person alive.
She shrugs. She pulls out a plastic bag from the side pocket of her cargo shorts, opens it wide, and sets it on the grass. The dog attacks the food right away, gobbling up the pasta and bits of chicken, crunching on the bones.
“You been feeding him?”
“Just since school’s been out. The janitor usually feeds him.”
I smile at that. I used to see him feed the dog too.
She plops down on the field, knees pointing to the sky, hands clasped over her shins. I sit down too, the grass moist beneath me. The sprinklers musta been on earlier.
“I get where ya coming from now,” I say. “About us not being together like that, and it’s cool with me.”
She nods.
“Well, it ain’t totally cool yet, but I get it. I really do.”
“So we’re still friends?”
“Of course.”
I tell her I never had a friend who’s a girl before, and that I shoulda appreciated what I had. “I like the idea of a girl who’s a friend. Friends last. Girlfriends, from what I’ve seen, don’t.”
“That’s right.”
“Plus you can help with the new freshman girls in September,” I say. “They gonna try to use me for my hot bod and I’m gonna need advice, from the female point of view.”
She laughs. “I got you.”
Hidden in the grass, something tiny that either flies, jumps, or crawls gets to buzzing at a high pitch.
For now, I skip over my weeks of depression and the shouting at my mom and tell her only about the crazy afternoon, my idea to swim in the bay.
She makes fun of me for that and we laugh. Just what we need, more laughter to push our fight away.
Amy tells me about her soul-searching. No kidding. She actually uses that word. She’s had some sorta boyfriend since sixth grade, says she only felt good about herself when a guy was with her. She’s talking in her super grown-up way.
“Now I gotta do me,” she says. “Isn’t that how you guys say it?”
“Been listening to hip-hop?”
She smiles. “I gotta figure myself out. I’m not totally ready for this stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“The crying over a broken heart, the worrying about the future, and all the grown-up stuff.”
I laugh. I can’t help it.
“What’s so funny?”
“Not ready for grown-up stuff? You, Amy, are the most mature fifteen-year-old in the world.”
“Not by choice. You know, I’ve thought the same about you.”
Crappy lives have matured us, I guess, but I remember being a little kid and loving it. This is something me and Amy got in common, even more important than the Future Success program and our worthless moms and the assholes they love. It’s something I got in common with every teenager and grown-up on the planet. We was all tiny once.