When Everything Is Blue

by Laura Lascarso

  “You’ll be my guest of honor, Christian Mitcham,” she says dramatically.

  Chris waggles his eyebrows at me. “And what about birthday boy over there, is he invited?”

  Tabs turns and lowers her sunglasses, stares at me like I’m the mutant tail she just can’t seem to shake. “I guess so. It’s his birthday too.”

  “I’m not going,” I announce. I hate birthday parties, especially joint ones with Tabs. I’m always on edge because she’s so uptight about me not making her look bad.

  “You have to go, Theo,” Chris whines in a high-pitched voice and splashes me. “It’s your sweet sixteen.”

  A car horn interrupts my everlasting groan.

  “Oh, that’s Lizbeth,” my sister says, climbing up the stairs and quickly toweling off. She dons a slinky sundress over her bikini and grabs her bag. “Going shopping at the Gardens. Want to come with?” She directs the question at Chris, not me. My sister rarely asks me to do things with her and her friends. I’m too weird, she says. I don’t talk enough and when I do, I say strange things.

  “I’ll stay here and catch up with Theo.” Chris smiles warmly at her. He has this amazing quality of making you feel special just with a smile.

  “See ya, Tabs,” I call.

  “Yeah,” she responds and saunters off with this swishy walk she does when she thinks somebody might be watching. She has a nice little body, and she knows it. Her sandals go clack-clack-clack on the concrete, and then she’s gone.

  “Same old Tabs,” Chris says with a chuckle.

  “Yep,” I agree, though I don’t find it at all amusing. She could have at least asked me about her birthday plans before springing it on Chris. I’d have said no—hell, no—which is probably why she didn’t. Maybe too I feel a little possessive over Chris. She has a ton of friends already. Does she have to add Chris to her collection?

  “A party could be fun,” he says, trying to warm me up to it.

  “I’ll be up there.” I point to my bedroom window.

  “Like hell you will. If I have to put up with Tabs’s friends, you do too.”

  I groan again even though I think Chris and Tabitha have both become immune to my resistance. The only thing I want to do on my birthday is go down to the DMV and get my license, then drive down A1A in my mom’s car with the windows down, unless I have my own car by then. I’ve got a few thousand saved up from a lifetime of being cheap, along with my pay from summer work. A car means freedom, independence, and not having to rely on Chris or my mom to cart my ass around town all the time.

  Chris turns on me then with a mischievous grin, crosses the pool in two strides, and upsets my float, dumping me into the cold water. It’s a bit of a shock to the system. Even more so when he wraps one muscular arm around my neck and dunks me under just to show me he still can.

  I come up with a full-body shiver and shake the water from my hair. “Had to get that out, huh?” I ask, hardly even annoyed.

  “Got to make sure you still know who’s boss.” He punches my shoulder lightly.

  Boss is my nickname for him, whenever he’s being pushy or trying hard to get his way, which is most of the time.

  “So, what have you been up to?” Chris asks. “You hardly texted me at all this summer.”

  He’s right about that. Mainly because it just made me miss him more. I did send him a few pictures, mostly of the beach and the waves, since that’s always been his favorite view.

  “Nothing too exciting happened while you were gone. Didn’t seem like much worth mentioning.”

  He scowls like he doesn’t believe me, though he should know nothing fun ever happens when he’s not around.

  “I got a new board. Want to see it?” Chris has a lot of toys, but he gets super excited about his boards.

  “I’m surprised you held out this long.”

  “I figured Tabs wouldn’t be into it. Not the way you would.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  We climb out of the pool and towel off. I follow Chris over to one of their outdoor sheds where he keeps his half-dozen surfboards, all quality-made, on wooden racks. If the boards don’t stand up to the test, Chris trades or sells them, which means his collection is always evolving to suit his style of surfing.

  The floor is a concrete slab and the couple of dusty windows light the shed in a buttery yellow haze. I can’t see the color and design as well as if we were outside, so I run my hand along the edge of the board where it straddles two sawhorses. It’s a shortboard with a slightly upturned nose. The epoxy resin is smooth as glass, not a drop of wax on it. It’s probably never even been floated before.

  “You haven’t used it yet,” I remark. Usually Chris takes them out his first day, or he arranges to test drive them before buying.

  “This weekend. Taking a trip to Sebastian before school starts. You coming?”

  I have nothing planned other than working with my lawn crew, which I can probably get covered for the weekend, but it’s hard enough keeping my junk in check when we’re alone. I don’t want the pressure of being around his ultrahetero friends or watching him make out with his squad of surfer girls.

  “I don’t know, Boss. School starts on Monday.”

  “Whaaat?” he whines and I shrug like What can I do about it? “Come on, T. I really want you to come with me. We haven’t hung out all summer.”

  “I know, but….” I drift off, not knowing how to finish that thought without telling him the real reason—it’s too damn hard to be constantly tempted with something you can’t have.

  “I’ll give you Lady Macbeth.” Chris grins slyly, sweetening the pot. Lady Macbeth is my favorite of his collection, a longboard made by a local guy named Casper. We named her that because we’re convinced she’s suicidal. On good days that board can sail. On bad ones she drops me on my ass. I can relate to her temperament.

  “I always get Lady Macbeth.”

  “To have.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest, accentuating the swell of his biceps and the meat of his pecs.

  Chris is always giving me stuff. Before I got too tall, he used to give me his old clothes. My bike used to be his, too, and a couple of my skateboards. He’s too generous, especially to me.

  “That board’s worth, like, $500. Not including sentimental value.”

  “It’s practically yours anyway. I never ride it.”

  “So you’re telling me you want me to store it in my garage,” I say to mess with him. I don’t want him to think I’m using him for his stuff, part of why I started working this summer. To give back.

  “No,” he says, getting a little flustered. It doesn’t happen often, but I do enjoy seeing Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected squirm. “You can still store it here. You probably should. Don’t want to make the others jealous.”

  “Ha,” I say as my eyes land on the ridgeline of his collarbone and the gold chain that rests there with a shark’s tooth attached. I found it way back when on the beach and gave it to him—biggest tooth we’d ever seen. Chris had it made into a necklace. The tooth belongs to a great white, he always tells people when they ask, the same shark that chomps on surfers up and down the coast. Not us, though. By wearing its tooth, it shows the sharks we’re one of them. Like most surfers, Chris is a bit superstitious.

  I turn away so he won’t see my face and pretend to inspect Lady Macbeth. “She’s pretty dinged up, though.”

  “You little shit.” He shoves me lightly. “You’re the one who dinged her.”

  I smile. He’s so protective of his boards. “If I take her off your hands, she might not answer to you anymore.”

  “She never did. I’d have sold her if it weren’t for you.” He lays his hand on the board’s edge and gives her an affectionate little squeeze. His ruddy golden hand with his sun-bleached nails, next to mine, so close they’re practically touching. Chris is always just an inch too far away.

  “So, you’ll come to Sebastian with me?”

  Is it my imagination, or is there some unspoken plea
in his voice? I don’t know how I’m going to survive the weekend with him, much less my entire sophomore year. Lots of cold showers. But like most things with Chris, I don’t have the willpower to say no.

  “Yeah, I’ll come. But I get shotgun.” I always get shotgun unless there’s a girl in the car, Hopefully he’s not bringing a girl with us.

  “Damn, Theo, I go away for a summer and you’ve turned into a shark.”

  I shake my head and nudge him lightly with my shoulder, my bare skin brushing against his. I glance over, and even though I can’t see them in this light, I know that’s where he collects his freckles, on the tops of his shoulders. I’ve spent way too much time memorizing them, but it’s partly his fault for never wearing a damn shirt.

  “You know you always get what you want in the end,” I tell him. As if there was ever a question.

  He smiles with an arrogance that only adds to his appeal. “Don’t make me work too hard.”

  That deep, gravelly voice gets me every time. Feels like my heart is being rubbed over a cheese grater. I remind myself to breathe, then make up an excuse about something I need to do at home and walk back out of the shed with his fumes still in my nostrils and his voice humming in my head.

  Our summer apart hasn’t changed a thing. If anything, it’s only gotten worse. I’m still hopelessly infatuated with my best friend.

  My straight best friend.

  Am I Being Punked?

  ON SATURDAY we load up Chris’s Volvo station wagon in the purple light of predawn and head north on A1A, which means the trip will take a little longer, but the views are prettier and we can watch the sun come up over the water. Chris has me check Surfline on the way to see what the waves look like. The man-made jetty at Sebastian Inlet creates perfect swells on a good day, great for cutbacks and aerial tricks. When a storm blows through, it’s totally rocking, and all the surf rats congregate in a few tiny pockets of surf. This weekend it shouldn’t be too crowded, though, which is how I prefer it. People, ugh. Exhausting.

  “Three to five feet, rolling. Low tide’s at 7:00 p.m.,” I tell him.

  “Perfect for the longboard.”

  “Yeah, not too shabby.”

  “You surf much this summer?”

  “Eh, mostly skateboarded. You?”

  “Had a couple good days up at this place called Salt Creek. Water’s pretty there, but so cold. Had to wear a wet suit.”

  “Bet you hated that.” Chris would probably surf naked if it was legal.

  “Yeah, couldn’t show off my abs.” He rubs his belly with one hand, lifting his shirt a little to offer me a glimpse. I chuckle at his vanity. His abs are amazing—all grooved and chiseled all the way down to his dips, which he’s always showing off because he wears his board shorts super low on his hips. So tempting. And he doesn’t even have to work at it. Dick.

  “I met a girl,” he says then, a little quieter.

  I go still at the mention of a girl—my fugue state.

  “On the beach,” Chris continues. “We messed around some one night when we were at a party.”

  “Oh yeah?” I manage to choke out like I’m interested, though I’d rather not hear about it. I’ve seen Chris make out with girls before, and it’s not my favorite pastime. I’m not sure if he wants me to ask about her. I usually don’t have to, which is part of the problem.

  “How about you?” he says after a moment. “Hook up with anyone this summer?”

  “Nope.” I’ve never lied to Chris, except for my growing attraction to him. I’ve thought about coming clean, but that would change everything. Not that he’d care if I like guys, but he might care that I like him. Talk about awkward. Things would be way too weird between us. Losing him as a friend would be the absolute worst.

  “No one?” he says. “Seems like girls are always asking me about you.”

  I make some noise in the back of my throat that suggests I don’t believe him.

  “For real. I was talking to Ryanne last night. She asked me if you were coming out today.”

  First question: why was he talking to Ryanne? Second question: why did my name come up at all? I chew on my lower lip and stare out the window, wondering if this can get any more difficult. The silence seems to suck all the air out of the car.

  “Ryanne’s an older woman, you know,” he teases. “You want me to say something to her?”

  “No,” I say too quickly. Ryanne is cool, but as I’ve said, not exactly my type.

  “I know you’re shy and all….” He glances over at me with brotherly affection, eyes searching mine. Being shy is the least of my problems.

  “Don’t say anything,” I say again, and then with a little less intensity, “I’m not looking for a girlfriend.” Technically true. Alone is my default setting. I’m fine with it.

  He shakes his head like he’s disappointed. “Handsome guy like you. The girls wouldn’t know what hit them.”

  I manage a weak smile and mumble something in agreement while thinking The only person I ever want is you.

  Dumbass.

  THERE ARE a few surf rats already out on the beach when we arrive. The sun is still low on the horizon, a melting blob of butter in the sky. The waves are rolling in like a pack of excited puppies, and the beach has a freshness that only a new day can bring. This spot we’re at, Monster Hole, is mostly surfers who know how to take care of the beach, so there’s no litter or trash anywhere. We know some of the people already. Surfers are a tribe of nomads in the sense that they’re usually chasing the same waves up and down the coast. Whenever there’s a hurricane or tropical depression, we end up crowded in the same campsites and cheap hotels, getting drunk on whatever we can get the locals to buy for us. Chris is a favorite among the girls. I bet he’ll have some cute blonde on his lap by the end of the night.

  And I’ll be doing everything I can to ignore it.

  We unload our boards and greet the few surfers who’ve already gathered. After getting an update on the day’s surf report, we paddle out to test the waves. The water’s still a little chilly, but the sun is coming up fast, spreading its warmth like a hug from a fat, happy god. Lady Macbeth gives me a hard time, or maybe it’s me who’s rusty. I spend more time underwater than I do on the board, but after a couple hours, the waves calm down and smooth out so I’m able to catch longer rides.

  Every so often I glance over to see Chris cutting it up on his new board. They’ve become fast friends, which means now he’ll have to name her. He’s a powerful surfer. And fearless. When photographers come out, all the cameras angle toward him to capture his perfect blend of style and charisma. At the moment he’s working on his alley-oop, trying to get as much air as he can while still finishing on his board. His muscular legs pump the board for max speed, and he lifts off the waves like a surf angel before bouncing back down and being swallowed up by whitewater.

  My stomach starts to rumble, so I come out to the shore for a spell. Ryanne is there as promised, and we say hello. Her eyes kind of linger on my chest, and I wonder if she likes what she sees. I never know what to do with that. Should I look at her boobs or something to return the favor? More often than not, I look at my feet.

  “Haven’t seen you around much this summer,” Ryanne says with an easy smile. Not like she’s flirting, just being conversational, which I appreciate. I suck at small talk.

  “Yeah, I got a job. Saving up for a car and all.” I run a hand through my wet hair and try to tame it down a little.

  “What kind of car are you looking for?” She squints up at me, shading her eyes from the sun.

  “Something that’s good on gas and not too expensive. And doesn’t need fixing.” I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I tell her, “I don’t know much about cars.”

  “Me neither. Does it need to fit your board?”

  “Nah, I’ve got Chris for that. Skating’s more my thing anyway.”

  She nods. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” I
glance around, looking for Chris.

  “He’s over there talking to Kelli.” She points. Chris is farther down the beach with one of his groupies, Kelli Keyhoe. Kelli goes to our school and is one of Chris’s regular make-out buddies. She’s a junior like Chris and Ryanne. Blonde and beautiful with what the guys call a banging body, Kelli’s doing all the moves I’ve seen my sister use—hair toss, bared neck, laughing at shit that probably isn’t that funny. Guys like that, I guess.

  What do gay guys like? I have no idea. I’ve never seen two guys flirt with each other before. Do they even flirt? They must, right? I could really use a few gay rom-coms to guide me. Not that it would help much. I couldn’t flirt to save my life.

  I turn back to Ryanne. “I’m going to get some food. You want anything?”

  “I can give you a ride. You can check out my Subaru.”

  “I was just going to take my skateboard.”

  “Oh, okay.” She frowns a little, and I don’t want to be rude, so I add, “But a ride would be great if you’re up for it.”

  She agrees, and we walk over to Chris to get his order. He sees Ryanne with me and raises his eyebrows like this is my big chance to hook up with a real, live girl. I have to suppress a massive eye roll because if he only knew. I put on a shirt and wrap my towel around my waist before climbing into Ryanne’s Subaru, so I won’t drip on her upholstery. She brought a board with her to surf, which is cool. Most of the surfer chicks just come to lay out and flirt with the guys. Ryanne can hold her own out there in the surf. And she’s easy to talk to.

  While we pick up subs, Ryanne vents to me about her sister who graduated last year and thinks she’s hot shit. I’ve seen her around school. Fast crowd, into those expensive drugs. I can relate to Ryanne’s struggle. Tabs has that same desire to be accepted and popular, at whatever cost. I worry about Tabs and her friends getting into pills or coke. Seems like they’d try some stupid shit just to look cool. Addiction runs in our family.