When Everything Is Blue

by Laura Lascarso

  “With what?”

  “I don’t know. School?”

  He sighs and shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me, something I can’t stand, to think that I’ve displeased him. “That’s bullshit, but whatever. You working this weekend?”

  “Yeah. Both days.”

  “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  I mentally review my empty calendar. “Nothing.”

  “Let’s go down to BOA.”

  BOA—Bank of America—is one of our prime skate spots and my favorite. Chris knows it too. I don’t really feel like being forced to act normal in front of him, but if I bail, it will only make him try harder and probably hurt his feelings as well. Making him feel bad is, like, twice the pain for me.

  “Let me change and I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” I say.

  He nods. “See you then.”

  An hour or so later, we ride our skateboards down to BOA since it’s not too far from where we live. The sea breeze is up, and it feels nice in my hair and billowing up my shirt. The Florida heat can make you feel like you’re trapped in a sweaty plastic bubble for, like, six months out of the year, so any breeze is practically Arctic by comparison. When we arrive at the bank, there are a few kids already out. The BOA closed down a while back, and the property has been for sale ever since. Cops hardly ever patrol it, and so long as we don’t break any windows or litter too much, no one seems to mind.

  “Asshole Dave’s here,” Chris says to me. I don’t know which of us came up with the name, but it stuck.

  I scan the parking lot, and at the same time, Dave spots me. He doesn’t give me that trademark smirk, though, just nods and goes back to whatever he was doing. Maybe he won’t give me such a hard time with Chris around. It’s pretty damn annoying that this kid is showing up at my neighborhood skate holes where I’ve been coming for years. Who the hell invited him anyway?

  I grab my board and take to the concrete walkways surrounding the building. It’s a two-story structure with nice, smooth concrete and a good variety of curbs, rails, and stairs. There’s a loading ramp in the back and a wheelchair access out front. The way it’s laid out, you can skate the whole thing without ever getting off your board. I start at the top, sweeping through the drive-thru ATMs and using the curbs to practice my nosegrinds, front tailslides, and a few backside slappies, then up the loading ramp, executing some 360s and kickflips along the way. When I’m warmed up, I do a couple of nightmare flips on the upper level to show off my new trick, then pull off a 50-50 grind down the handicap rail and land that pretty decently.

  A crowd gathers, and the guys start calling out tricks. Some of them I do; some I don’t. A few of them pull out their phones to film me. I’m not much of a show pony, but I’ll try any trick once, even if the bros are all hating on it. And if I like it, I’ll practice until I’ve perfected it.

  I’m having a good day, feeling pretty confident, so I decide to go balls to the wall. I skate around the front of the building to the top floor, where there’s a huge sprawling staircase leading down to the parking lot. Instead of grinding the rail, I do a varial kickflip in the air. I’m airborne for longer than seems humanly possible and stick it on the lower level. It’s the best kind of rush. Fear and adrenaline and relief at not busting my ass in front of everyone. The guys all clap and whistle and list all the ways I murdered that trick. One kid keeps saying “What the fuck” over and over, with more passion each time.

  Okay, maybe I am a bit of a show-off.

  Chris laughs and punches my arm and calls me Killer, one of his nicknames for me. The attention is a little much, so I tell them I’ll be back and ride next door to where there’s a 7-Eleven. I say what’s up to Justin who works there, used to go to our school, and sometimes comes out to skate with us.

  “You’ve gotten pretty good,” Justin says when I lay the drinks on the counter, Gatorade for me and a Mountain Dew for Chris. Even though I told him it shrinks your balls, he still drinks it. I guess he has the ballage to spare.

  “Thanks, man. I had some time on my hands this summer.” I guess Justin was watching us from inside the 7-Eleven.

  “You have a lot of….” He pauses and seems to be searching for the right word. “Grace? You move well on the board. A lot of skaters look like they’re trying to take a shit while skating, but you make it look easy.”

  “Like taking an actual shit,” I joke.

  He smiles and looks a little bashful. It’s kind of cute. “Yeah, if everything’s working right, I guess. You skate pretty, if that makes it any better.”

  “I appreciate it,” I tell him with a smile. I’m always saying weird shit or intending to say one thing when something else slips out, so I cut Justin some slack.

  I pay him for the drinks and return to the parking lot, where Chris is grinding the curbs. Chris skates like he surfs—all power and strength, but the pavement isn’t nearly as flexible or forgiving as a wave. You have to relax your ankles a lot more to maneuver a skateboard, which is hard for him. Sometimes it takes a light touch.

  I watch him for a few minutes, recalling how I was the one to show him how to ollie in middle school, and the only reason he stuck with it was to prove to me that he could do it too. That’s probably the only reason I got so good at skateboarding—to have something I was better at than him. Then I notice his tongue poking out in concentration, and it reminds me of the other night in the tent when his focus was on getting me off.

  Abort, abort, abort.

  “You laid waste to that bank, Papi,” Dave says to me like a bruh. He’s broken away from his group of friends to join me where I stand, apart from the others.

  “Don’t call me that.” Like a cloud passing in front of the sun, my mood instantly sours.

  “Maybe you could tell me your name so I won’t have to.”

  “You know my name.”

  “I want you to tell me.”

  “Theo Wooten.”

  “Dave Ackerman.” He puts out his hand and instead of shaking it, I take a drink of my Gatorade. He gestures like he’s slicking back his hair to play off the rebuff.

  “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he continues. “In my defense, I didn’t know she was your sister.”

  “Is this going to be one of those things where you pick on me until I try to fight you?”

  He backs away, but not very far. “I hope not. I don’t want to fight you. I know you and your friends call me Asshole Dave, but I’m really not trying to be an asshole.”

  “You must be a natural at it, then.”

  That shuts him up. I finish my drink, toss the bottle in a nearby trashcan, and drop my board on the pavement to deliver Chris his Mountain Dew while it’s still cold.

  Dave grabs my arm. “We should hang out,” he says again.

  I shrug him off me, kick up my board and look at him for the first time, thinking up a way to tell him off, but he’s not smirking anymore. His eyes search mine, and his expression looks almost… vulnerable. Why in the world would Asshole Dave want to hang out with me, other than to torment me?

  “Why?” I ask.

  He glances away like he’s nervous or maybe trying to make sure no one’s around, clears his throat, and says all secretively, “Because I think you’re hot?”

  It takes me a few seconds to process, my disbelief registering a beat too late. “You are so full of shit.”

  He grabs my arm again, then seems to realize his misstep and quickly lets go. “I swear I’m not. Pull out your phone. Enter in these seven numbers. They’re next week’s winning Lotto numbers.”

  “There are only six Lotto numbers.”

  “The seventh is for good luck.”

  Now I’m confused. Asshole Dave is really trying to give me his number? He thinks I’m hot? Is he, like, gay or something? Bi? From all the trash he talks in the hallway, it seems like there’s a different honey on his jock every weekend.

  “Are you hitting on me?” I’m more curious than angry.

>   He nods, his face somber as a funeral. “I’ve been hitting on you all week. I guess my Spanish isn’t as good as I thought.”

  That’s a revelation. “I thought you were just being racist. Calling me Papi and shit.”

  “I say stupid shit sometimes. A lot of the time. Anyway, I’m risking a beatdown right now from your boyfriend just to give you my number.”

  I glance over at Chris, who’s taken a break from skating and is watching us with interest.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, trying to hide any feelings I might have about it.

  “Does he know that?”

  Because it’s none of Dave’s damn business and I want to quit this conversation before Chris sniffs us out, I pull out my phone, and Dave gives me his number. I don’t have to call him. I could just let his number sit in there, uncalled, forever. If he is interested in me, that’s one way to mess with him.

  “I’ll be around all weekend,” Dave says. The smirk is back, and even though I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, Asshole Dave is kind of growing on me.

  Or maybe I’m just that desperate.

  “WHAT DID Asshole Dave want?” Chris asks. We’re stopped at a taco truck on our way back home from BOA. Chris is putting back five tacos to my two.

  I’m not really sure what Asshole Dave wants, but I’m curious enough to find out. Whether it’s bogus or not, Chris doesn’t need to know about it.

  “He has some decks he’s trying to sell,” I tell him. That’s two lies I’ve told Chris today, a new record.

  “I didn’t know you were looking for a new deck.”

  “You know how it is. I’m never not looking.”

  “You should let me buy you one for your birthday.”

  I smile at that and also feel a little bad for lying to him. He’s so damn thoughtful. “I’ll let you know if I see something I like.”

  “You were really shredding it out there. You could probably go pro, you know?”

  I shake my head. “I doubt it.”

  “Seriously, Theo.”

  Chris talks to me like a proud parent sometimes. Feels a little dangerous to believe him, like when your mom tells you you’re the most handsome boy ever.

  “Might take all the fun out of it, if it were, like, a job,” I say.

  Chris scowls at that. “Yeah, skateboarding for a living, what a drag. Mowing lawns is so much more fun.”

  “Mowing lawns is just to get my foot in the door. Maybe I’ll take over Lawson’s Lawns one day.” He shakes his head, and I smile. It’s really not the worst job in the world. I like being outside, and there’s a lot of satisfaction in taking a rangy, overgrown lawn and making it look neat and tidy. I don’t even mind the chore of picking all the dead petals from the flowers for our more affluent clientele. I’m kind of a neat freak in that way.

  “You’d better aim higher than that, Killer.” Chris reaches over and messes up my hair so that I have to finger comb it to get it out of my eyes. I pretend to be irritated even though I secretly love it.

  We used to talk all the time about what we were going to do when we grow up. Chris wanted to swim with sharks on camera. Then, for a spell, he wanted to own a resort in Costa Rica that catered to surfers. I told him surfers are broke or else too cheap to pay for a room, and Chris argued that he’d go for the older crowd, surfers with families, and make it an all-inclusive destination vacation. I could never settle on something, so Chris decided I was going to be a pot farmer in California, because I’m the only one of our friends who can resist smoking the product. Chris said he’d run the store, appropriately named Potheads, and we’d recruit some of the other guys to help with harvesting and baked goods—value-added products. Chris practically had a business plan laid out for it.

  But we haven’t talked about it lately, maybe because neither of us wants to grow up. The thought of being an adult is pretty terrifying. I’m still figuring out how to be a teenager.

  “How about you?” I ask him. “You going to be a pro surfer, or is Potheads still the plan?”

  He chuckles. “Maybe. But if Potheads doesn’t work out, I was thinking I’d go into finance like my dad.”

  From what I understand, Chris’s dad shuffles rich people’s cash from one money-making venture to another and makes a killing doing it.

  “Sounds boring.” And not very much in keeping with Chris’s larger-than-life personality.

  “Good money, though. You know how I like nice things.” He smiles his thousand-watt smile, the one I cave to every time.

  I try to imagine it. Corporate Chris in a business suit, closing the deal with his firm handshake. Weekender Chris with his classic good looks, wearing a polo shirt and loafers with no socks, golfing with his colleagues, a blonde wife waiting for him at home with a few towheaded shorties running around. Neckties and minivans and weekend barbecues. The American dream, man.

  Kind of makes me sad as hell. I’m not sure there’s any way I fit in there.

  “Just don’t start wearing Crocs,” I tell him.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

  We finish eating and head back home. There’s this spot on the sidewalk between our driveways where we always say goodbye. I’m about to tell him I had a good time or something even stranger when his phone rings. Chris pulls it out of his pocket and glances at it. “Kelli,” he says simply.

  Kelli Keyhoe, the blonde wife in Corporate Chris’s American dream.

  “Go get her, tiger,” I tell Chris with a fist-bump, the bro-est form of affection I can muster, and one that I secretly hate.

  “Yeah,” he says, distracted, and turns away to go answer it.

  I watch Chris navigate the landscaped path up to his house. There is no hope for Chris and me. We’re friends and that’s all we’ll ever be. I’ve got to get that through my thick skull. I will beat the just friends drum until the feelings have been forced back into that deep, dark cave where they belong. A cave so deep and twisted, a spelunker would get lost and perish before ever discovering those forbidden thoughts.

  Game On

  THAT NIGHT I decide to text Dave. We don’t text for long and it’s nothing scandalous, just a Hey, what’s up, how’s it going? He tries to get me to send a picture of myself, but I politely decline—who knows what he’d do with it. We do make plans to get together over the weekend.

  I work until about three on Saturday, and when I get home to shower and change, I can hear Chris and Tabs out by his pool, likely going over plans for the birthday party I didn’t agree to. I glance out the window to see them deep in discussion. My sister can get pretty serious about party planning. Chris catches me looking down and waves. I lift one hand. He motions for me to come down, and I turn away from the window like I didn’t see him.

  I’m not up for watching my sister flirt with Chris under the guise of planning a birthday party, not that it’s her intention, and not that I blame her for it. It’s actually pretty clever. Still not something I want to take part in.

  I text Dave while I’m changing, just a simple Theo here. He replies almost immediately with an address. I text him back.

  Drug deal?

  My place. Come over.

  Dave doesn’t live too far away, within skating distance. I won’t have to ask my mom for a ride, which makes things a whole lot simpler. Our apartment is set up so the living quarters are upstairs and the downstairs is a big garage. Our landlord is one of the dentists at my mom’s work who gives her a deal on rent. We couldn’t afford this neighborhood otherwise. My mom wanted us to be in a good school zone, and she got used to living in this area after being with my dad. There are more Spanish-speakers in this section of West Palm, and I think it reminds my mom of home.

  I go out through the garage door and cut through the side yard of the main house so Chris won’t see me in the driveway. I hop on my skateboard, zoning out to the steady tick-tick-tick of the wheels rolling over the cracks in the sidewalk.

  One of the th
ings I like about skateboarding is that it’s slow enough to see what’s going on, but fast enough that you don’t have to be drawn into the drama if you don’t want to be. I see so much crazy shit while skateboarding, all the gritty, unpleasant things about living in a city, but also some really great things too—people spontaneously dancing or laughing, lovers wrapped around each other in embrace, a parent holding on to their kid’s hand. It’s such a nice, simple thing to do, grab someone else’s hand and hold on. So many people are content to ride around in their cars with the windows up, air conditioning on, pretending there isn’t a whole needful, lonely world out there. When I get a car, I’ll still skateboard wherever I can. I don’t want to become so indifferent.

  On my way to Dave’s, I pass by Saint Ann’s, where my great-uncle Theo lives. I consider stopping in to visit him, but I haven’t seen him since Easter, and I worry he might not even recognize me. Still, I’m pretty sure my dad isn’t visiting him, which means no one is. And that sucks.

  Next time.

  I hop off at Dave’s address, already sweaty from the ride. He lives in a tiny house behind a slightly bigger house. Both are smaller and shabbier than our gardener’s cottage. The window-unit air conditioner hums with industry, and I question again what the hell I’m doing here outside his door when yesterday afternoon I hated his guts. Seems weird that my opinion of him could shift so rapidly. I sniff inside my shirt and decide it’s not too foul, then lift my hand to knock, but before my knuckles make contact, the door swings open.

  “Theo,” Dave says with a smirk that pulls a little higher on one side, like it’s caught on a fishing line. He’s way too cocky for his own good.

  “Those lotto numbers were bunk,” I tell him. His smile widens along with the door as he gestures grandly for me to enter. The inside looks like a garage that’s been converted into an efficiency apartment. Pretty basic, with unpainted cinderblock walls and a little kitchen area in the same room, a table for eating, and an adjoining bath.

  “You live here by yourself?”

  “Yup.”