When Everything Is Blue

by Laura Lascarso

  In the actual driving of it, I do fine. I like how it handles, not a boat like Chris’s Volvo, where I’m always worried I’m taking the turns too fast and going to clip someone or hit a curb. This car turns on a dime. I reach an empty straightaway where the subdivision butts up against a canal. I floor it and appreciate its get-up-and-go. Not bad for a compact car.

  Back in the driveway, I ask Rob his price. He gives me the same amount listed on Craigslist. Ryanne lowers her glasses to look at him, clears her throat a little. Rob shakes his head at her.

  “Since you’re a friend of Ryanne’s, I’ll knock off $500.”

  Luckily his price is just about what I have. My dad would probably want me to play hardball, but that’s not really my style. I looked the car up already, and it’s a good deal no matter which way you slice it. I pull out my bankroll and count off the cash in hundred-dollar bills and hand it over to him.

  “Sweet,” he says and goes back inside to get the title to transfer over to me, along with the paperwork. The keys are already in my pocket.

  I didn’t even realize my hands were trembling when Ryanne grabs hold and does an excited little dance. “Congratulations!”

  “Yeah, thanks for hooking us up and for the friend-of-a-friend discount.” I’m elated and nervous at the same time. I can’t believe I just dropped my life savings on a car, but damn, it does feel good. My car.

  She smiles. “Don’t forget about our date to Plan Z.”

  “I won’t. But can I drive?”

  “Sure.”

  “And bring Chris? I kind of told him I’d go with him too.”

  Ryanne smiles and shakes her head in mock displeasure. “Two-timing me already, Wooten?”

  I don’t even need to answer her because I’m sure my smile gives me away.

  I DRIVE the car home that same day, pull into our driveway, and decide the first thing I need to do after showing it off to my mom and sister is wash, wax, and detail it. I’m out front vacuuming the inside when Chris gets back from surfing.

  “Nice wheels,” he comments.

  “Thanks, Boss.” I climb out of the back seat and take him in. He’s wearing one of those distressed shirts, so worn through it’s practically see-through, board shorts, and flip-flops, carrying the surfboard he named Baby Blue.

  “Are your parents home?” I ask, kind of hoping they’re not.

  “Yeah, they worked from home today.”

  “Bummer, dude.”

  “I told them. After school.”

  “Yeah? How’d they take it?”

  “Pretty good. There were some lectures about safe sex. My mom wants me to write a five-paragraph essay on the importance of using condoms, including blowjobs. Think that prompt will be on the SAT?”

  “Blowjobs too, huh?” Dave and I were pretty careful, but it never hurts to be 100 percent sure. The risk is low, but it’s still a risk. “I should get tested, just to be safe.”

  Chris nods. “I didn’t tell them about us. I will. I was just hoping to give them some time to adjust.”

  “It’s cool.” I haven’t told my mom or sister about Chris either, but I’m pretty sure my mom has figured it out. She gets a little smile on her face whenever I mention hanging out with him.

  “They’re flying me out to Cali this weekend,” Chris says.

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah, but I wanted to spend the weekend with you, practicing for Plan Z.”

  “I’ll stick to the regimen.”

  Chris did some research online and listed combos he thinks the judges will like. He’s laid out all the tricks I need to master and where the best spots to practice them are, including the skate park where the competition will be held, which is fine, but it almost feels like cheating. I appreciate the thought behind the design, but I find skate parks a little condescending. The curbs are all smooth and rounded, and the concrete is softer with these tire-tread textures in between stations, like we’re toddlers on the playground. Part of the thrill of skateboarding is the fear of getting hurt and pulling off stunts on structures that were never meant to be shredded. Also trespassing.

  “I expect you to slay,” Chris reminds me. He thinks I’m not taking it seriously. I definitely am, even more so than he knows. In a way, it’s my coming out as a skater who shreds—hopefully—and is also gay.

  Chris offers to help me out with the car, and I take him up on it. He shines up the interior while I take a toothbrush to all the cracks and grooves to get out the dirt and dust. Chris makes fun of my OCD and asks if we can do his car next.

  “Your car needs a power washer.”

  Once the inside is gleaming, we get to work on the outside. I “accidentally” spray him with water, hoping he’ll take off his shirt. Predictably, he does, taking his time to stretch his arms and really preen for me. I ask him with a wink if he has wax in his shed, and he catches my drift. We end up making out in there like the horny teenagers we are—all sloppy and frenzied, grabbing at whatever we can with our hands and mouths without completely dropping our drawers, worried one of our moms is going to see the car out there only half-washed and get curious about where we’ve gotten off too. Sure enough, I hear my mom calling my name from my bedroom window, and when Chris and I emerge, him holding the towels and me holding the car wax, she gives me the all-knowing eyebrow and points to the street, where my dad’s Tahoe is parked on the curb.

  “Your dad’s here,” she calls. “He wants to see you.”

  “Shit,” I say to Chris, getting all weak-kneed and jellified thinking he’s here because he finally saw that damn picture and has come to confront me about it.

  Chris lays a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You want backup?”

  I straighten up and steel my resolve. “No, I got this.”

  “I’ll finish washing the car for you.”

  “Rain check on the wax?” I ask.

  Chris just shakes his head and smiles. “You betcha.”

  I put my shirt back on and climb the stairs to our apartment super slow, consider bailing a few times or faking an illness, then chide myself for being such a wiener. When I enter the kitchen, my sister’s handing my dad a Coke and my mom’s making herself busy at the kitchen sink. My dad sits at the kitchen table where we normally eat, looking large and imposing in the small space, kind of like an intruder. I glare at my sister, thinking she’s the one who tipped him off, but she lifts her hand and makes a pointing motion behind it, directed at our mom.

  Et tu, Brute?

  “Your mom says you have something to tell me,” Dad says, confirming the traitor. He looks tired and worn-out, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, or maybe he was out drinking the night before and this is how he looks the day after—he still goes on benders from time to time. His skin is paler than normal and hangs off his face kind of haggard-like. He looks straight-up old. I feel a little bad for him.

  “We have some errands to run,” Mom says and grabs Tabs by the arm. Mom won’t look me in the eye, sealing her guilt.

  “Maybe we should—” Tabs starts to say, and my mom cuts her off with a look. Mom plucks up her purse from the counter and blows me a kiss. They whirl out of the kitchen in five seconds flat, leaving me alone with my father, who looks a little put out by this impromptu visit, like he should be charging by the hour.

  “So?” Dad leans back in the chair, legs spread wide, an expectant look on his face. Something about his posture and his almost bored expression makes me think my mom didn’t clue him in all the way, just arranged this visit in the hopes I’d tell him myself.

  I search for the words to share the news with him in a way that’s not such a shock to the system, the perfect sentiment that will convey it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me, that I’m not just doing this to upset him or rebel. It’s just the way it is.

  I open my mouth. What comes out is, “I bought a car.” I plaster a huge, fake smile on my face.

  Dad’s eyebrows raise, and he frowns a little, like that new
s alone probably didn’t warrant a trip all the way out here. “Yeah? Well… let’s see it.”

  He stands, and I wonder Could it really be this easy? I lead him outside, where there’s more room for the both of us to breathe. Chris is toweling off the car, still shirtless, looking mouthwatering and delicious. My boyfriend is soooo hot. My lower half starts acting up, so I avert my eyes and focus on my dad instead.

  “You remember Chris,” I say.

  Chris comes over and shakes my dad’s hand, looks to me for a sign. I shake my head slightly. My dad nods at Chris like nothing’s amiss.

  “You need me?” Chris asks, code for, do I want him to stay?

  “Nah, I’ll finish up here.”

  “Cool.” He tosses the towel into a pile with the rest, throws his wet shirt over one shoulder, and grabs his board where he set it down in the grass. “Catch you later, Mr. Wooten,” Chris says with an air of cockiness I could never pull off in talking to a friend’s parent.

  My dad circles the car, inspecting the body like he’s looking for a cavity. “How much you pay for it?” he asks. I tell him, and he nods. “Not a bad price. You going to take me for a ride?”

  I grin at that and unlock the doors with my key fob. Dad climbs into the passenger seat and comments on the headroom. “Bigger on the inside than I expected.”

  I back out of the driveway and take him on a tour of the neighborhood. Dad asks more questions about the car—how many miles, who I bought it from, whether it’s had an oil change lately. At one point he turns to me and goes, “Your mother teach you how to drive?”

  I shake my head. “Chris.”

  “Is that legal?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  Dad shakes his head and harrumphs. “I could have taught you, Theo.”

  “It’s cool, Dad. I know you’re busy.” Too little, too late, I guess.

  “Well, all you had to do was ask,” he says with irritation. If I begged and pleaded like my sister, he might have taken me out once or twice, but that’s not my style. It’s better to not need him than risk getting rejected. Maybe that’s my own shortcoming. Pride or whatever.

  “Quite frankly, I’m a little surprised to see you after that stunt you pulled the last time.”

  Of course he’d bring it up when we’re both trapped in the car.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t feeling too great,” I tell him, technically not a lie. “Did you get my text?”

  “I don’t consider texts a legitimate apology. And you could have at least come back to the table to let us know you were leaving.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose. “Sorry, Dad.” I consider telling him about my anxiety and occasional panic attacks, but then he might ask more questions as to why, and I definitely don’t want our conversation to veer into that territory while I’m driving.

  “I figured you’d get the hint I was still angry when I didn’t send any birthday money,” he says.

  I actually hadn’t noticed—the drama of What’s in Wooten’s mouth kind of overshadowed everything else. “I figured it was because I got a job,” I say, making up an excuse on the fly.

  “Mowing lawns makes you financially independent, huh?”

  I clench my jaw so I won’t be tempted to argue with him. I want this to go as smoothly as possible.

  “You know, I hear from your sister pretty regularly,” he says. “I’m assuming your cell phone still works.”

  I nod. “I’ve been busy with work, I guess. And school.”

  “How’s that going?”

  I give him a rundown of my schedule. Dad seems impressed by all the AP classes I’m taking. I also have an above A average thanks to the weighted grades. It kind of goes along with my OCD and perfectionist tendencies.

  “Sounds like you’ll be starting college as a sophomore.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Keep up those grades and you might have a shot at med school. Or dental?” he says hopefully.

  I like working with my hands, but not in a life-or-death way or an in-your-mouth kind of way. “That’s pretty far off, Dad. I don’t really know what I’m into yet. One semester at a time, you know?”

  “And soccer? You change your mind about that. Plenty of colleges recruit, you know.”

  We both know I’m not good enough to get recruited at the collegiate level. “Like I said, I’m more into skateboarding now. There’s a competition coming up that I’m entering.”

  “Oh yeah?” he asks like he’s interested.

  I tell him about it, listing some of the pro skaters who will likely be there, even though he probably wouldn’t know them by name. I explain the different events and what I’ll be competing in. He asks more questions, so I give him a rundown of some of the tricks, using the most basic of terms.

  “And there are people who do this professionally?” he asks.

  “Yeah, they help sell stuff—skateboards, sodas, clothes…. The point, I guess, is to look like a badass while wearing a certain shoe or skating a certain board, drinking whatever energy drink they’re trying to push. Kind of like sports endorsements.”

  “You think you’re good enough to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Chris thinks so, but he’s kind of like my dad sometimes.” I freeze, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way. There’s really no right way to take it, though. “Just in the way he’s always telling me to try harder, reach my potential and all.”

  “I see,” Dad says, not missing the implication. “Pro skateboarding is reaching your potential, huh?”

  I chuckle like he made a joke, even though that’s not quite the tone of his voice. “Anyway, the competition is in a couple weeks. You should come check it out, see what I’ve been up to the past couple years.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.” He rubs his hand over the dashboard of the car. “I remember my first car—an ’84 Camaro, cherry red with pinstriping. Looked amazing, but it was only a four-cylinder. Didn’t have much get-up-and-go. I didn’t know much about cars then.”

  I glance over to see him smiling sheepishly. I appreciate his honesty. My dad hardly ever admits when he was wrong, about anything. “Oops,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, oops.” He chuckles at that, and it’s nice to see a more laid-back version of my dad. I bet he used to be a lot more fun before adulting got him so down.

  When we arrive back at my house, I realize we’ve gone a whole twenty minutes without arguing, and it almost makes me feel hopeful that there might be a space we can both occupy amicably.

  “I don’t know what to do with the Range Rover now,” Dad says when we’re both standing in the driveway. “I guess I’ll have to sell it.”

  “Tabs still wants it. She’ll be getting her license soon, and I’d rather not have to share my car with her.” I don’t say this to him, but Tabs isn’t the best at sharing.

  “You think she can handle it?”

  I don’t know what he means by it, but I nod enthusiastically. “She’s got a few more months to practice, but she’ll be fine when the time comes.”

  “Well, if you think so.” Dad stares at me, and I know I should just tell him—man up and get it over with. But do I really want to ruin this moment by coming out to him right now in my driveway? Maybe we should have a few more visits like this one, and then I can come out.

  While I’m stalling, Dad’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, tells me it’s Susan and that he has to take it. He drifts over toward his Tahoe while their conversation veers into argument territory. My dad pinches the bridge of his nose and talks through his teeth. Been there, done that, I think. Makes me feel a little better that I’m not the only one who can provoke that reaction from him. Meanwhile I inspect the rims on my car, making sure Chris didn’t miss any grease spots.

  Dad calls me over, his hand over the phone. “Was there anything else you needed, Theo?” The irritation is back in his voice, like he has a million patients in the waiting room and I’m taking up more than my allotted time.r />
  “No, Dad, I’m good.”

  “All right, then, see you soon.”

  He walks over to the driver’s side while fussing into the phone. I watch his Tahoe pull away and round the corner, out of sight. I pull out my phone and think about texting him “I’m gay.” Just keep it as simple as that, but knowing how my dad feels about text apologies, that would probably be the worst way to come out to him.

  Instead I text him the details of the Plan Z competition and tell him I hope he can make it.

  Looks like I chickened out again.

  Exit Asshole Dave

  WHEN MY mom and sister get home that evening. I tell them, politely, to butt out.

  “He’s waited sixteen years to hear about it,” I say. “He can wait a little longer.”

  I also tell Chris about punking out with my dad. His response: “It’s cool. You’ll do it when you’re ready.”

  Like, never.

  Over the next few days, Chris and I prowl around town for prime skating terrain, spending a few hours at the skate park to appease him, but significantly more time in places like Tropical Smoothie and BOA and random drainage ditches, where I feel a little freer and more spontaneous, where I can try out crazy combinations without worrying I’ll look stupid in front of my colleagues. Chris films me with his phone and says he’s going to cut up the videos and upload them to YouTube in preparation for my big debut. I’m a little worried What’s in Wooten’s mouth will follow me to a YouTube channel, but there’s only so much I can stress about. My top priority for now is not looking like a total amateur at Plan Z.

  “Homework assignment, Wooten,” Chris says to me Thursday night before we part. He’s heading out to Cali in the morning to visit his dad for a long weekend, leaving me to my own devices for a few days. “That two-story rail outside of BOA—I want you to be able to slide it any which way—front, back, nose, tail, and board.”