“Anyway,” Brian says, “there’s something I wanted to show you.” He heads toward the garage. “I think you’ll like this.” He stoops down and grabs the garage door handle, then pulls it up and gives it a good shove so it opens all the way. With his hands over his head, his shirt rides up and part of his stomach is exposed, but only for a second, which feels a little scandalous. Like I saw something I’m not supposed to see. “Well?” he asks.
I realize I haven’t even glanced at what’s behind the garage door, so I quickly avert my gaze from him and look into the garage—and realize it’s not really a garage at all.
It’s an art studio. There’s an easel with an unfinished painting on it, a table with scattered paints, a pile of sketchbooks and brushes, some shelving with various art supplies—rulers, scissors, charcoal, pencils.
“Wow!” I step inside and take it all in. There are a few finished paintings hanging on one of the walls—a trompe l’oeil of Brian’s hands working on a still life of art supplies; a manga-inspired boy with the top of his head open to reveal the contents of his brain, including a dragon wearing a suit of armor, a pile of tattered textbooks, a road leading nowhere, and a blushing heart; and a poignant piece of a woman’s face illuminated only by the light on her phone. “Did you paint these?” I can tell by the style that he probably did.
Brian’s grinning. “Yeah, I did. Cool space, huh? We just made it.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He nods. “My parents insisted I get an art space so I could have a place to work, but I think it also had a little bit to do with the fact that my supplies were taking over the house.”
“They wouldn’t give up this space unless they appreciated your talent, though,” I say. “They seem pretty great. I mean, one of your moms literally fixed my car.”
“Yeah. They are great, actually,” Brian says, and I can tell he means it.
I walk around the garage a little and touch the pile of sketchbooks. “Can I look?” He nods and I start to flip through the book, which is filled mostly with cartoons that combine angular lines with big, swooping ones, but some print and lettering, too. I look up at Brian. “These are really good.”
Brian’s hands are in his pockets and he shrugs. “They’re all right.”
“No, you’re good. I mean it.”
He shrugs again. “Well, so are you.”
I crinkle my nose and put the sketchbook back in its pile. “Not really. I’m…decent, we’ll say.”
“You appreciate art, Charlie, I know you do. You gave me that really thoughtful critique in art on my triptych way back when. You don’t pull that out of nowhere.”
“I do really enjoy art. But I’ve been working on the same painting in art class for weeks.”
“Yeah, so? Art isn’t a race.”
“True, but it’s not even a great painting. It’s supposed to be a horse in Central Park, yet my ‘horse’ looks more like a dog. Honestly, I don’t even really like horses! I only picked it because I saw a video of a horse nuzzling a rabbit on YouTube and it was adorable and I was inspired,” I say with a laugh, which makes Brian laugh, too. “Anyway, I don’t have to be good at art. I like it, but I know where my strengths are. I’m a lot better at writing. But you knew that. You got me that beautiful notebook.”
He looks pleased when I say that. “Have you used it yet?” he asks.
“Not yet. Don’t laugh, but in really nice notebooks, I sometimes take a while before I write anything. It just feels so permanent! Like, what if I change my mind? If it were a one-dollar scratch pad or something, no problem. But that beautiful leather-bound notebook feels important. I want what I write in it to be important, too.”
“It will be because it’ll be done by you,” Brian says. “I’d actually love to read something sometime. If you’ll let me.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah, really! It’s your favorite thing to do, so of course I’m interested.”
“I don’t know…,” I say. “Maybe.”
“Hey!” Brian protests. “I let you look at my sketchbook!” He’s grinning.
“And for that I’m grateful, but a girl’s gotta keep a little mystery.” I grin back at him. “Actually…someday I’m hoping to write a book about a girl who looks like me.” What I mean is a book specifically about a fat Puerto Rican girl with glasses. I’ve never once read a story about one, and something about that has always made me feel devastatingly alone. But I leave that part out. “A brown, female protagonist. Female protagonists still aren’t the majority, and a woman of color? Even harder to come by.”
“That’s wild to me. It’s not like people of color make up nearly half of the United States population or anything,” Brian says.
“Amelia and I talk about that all the time! It’s so frustrating,” I say. “I’m automatically less interested in media that doesn’t include at least one person of color. They’re not even trying.”
Brian’s emphatically nodding. “I know. Don’t white people get tired of seeing all-white movies?”
“Right?! And don’t get me started on how incredulous some get whenever people of color are added to already-established franchises! Like, okay, I guess living in outer space and cohabitating with a giant fuzzy dude named Chewbacca is realistic, but a Black lead character is somehow out of the realm of possibility?”
We’re both laughing, and it feels good to talk about this stuff with Brian. He’s so easy to talk to, and when I speak, I feel like he’s really listening. It’s enough to make me swoon. Maybe I am a little.
“What about you?” I ask. “What do you want to do?”
Brian groans. “Please, not the what-do-you-want-to-do-with-your-life question. I feel like that’s all people ask me these days.” He puts on a voice. “‘Oh, Brian, you’re going to be a senior soon, and then it’s off to college! Where will you go? What will you do?’ Sorry, Linda, but I have no clue, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to share it with you. I haven’t seen you since I was ten years old!”
“Yikes. I touched a nerve with that one, huh?” I ask.
“Maybe a little. It’s just relentless. You must get that question all the time, too, don’t you?”
“I do. But I just say I want to be a writer. That way I can dash all their hopes of me ever making money or having a solid career, you know? Just get it right out of the way.”
We both laugh. Brian shakes his head. “I hate that. I tried to share with a few people that I was interested in a career in art and you’d have thought I’d said I wanted to run off and be in the circus.”
I shrug. “It’s all the same to some people unless you’re going to become a doctor or go into business.”
“Which I’m not.” Brian sighs. “I think I want to be a graphic designer. It’s a practical art career. That’s the best I can do.”
“I think you’d be great at that.” I’ve seen some of his design work in class and I’m always impressed.
The back door of the house opens and Brian’s mom Susan is there on the porch. “Sorry to bother you two, but I made some food. Just in case you were hungry.”
At the mention of food, I realize I am hungry. I haven’t eaten much because I was too nervous. But I’ll take my cue from Brian.
Brian looks at me and quietly asks, “You hungry?”
“I could eat,” I say.
“Okay, we’re coming!” he shouts to Susan.
She looks pleased. “See you inside.”
We close up the garage and Brian leads the way into the dining room, where the table is set. We sit just as Susan walks in with a roasted chicken and Maura follows with both hands full, one with a bowl of spinach salad, the other holding a casserole dish teeming with macaroni and cheese. She clearly didn’t just make food; she made a feast, and for us. So sweet.
“Wow, this looks and smells amazing!” I say emphatically.
Brian shoots a sheepish glance at his mom. “You didn’t have to do all this, Mom.”
Susan sets the plate in the center of
the table. “Oh, nonsense, Tig. It’s just something I whipped up.”
Maura puts the salad and the macaroni on either side of the chicken, then smiles at me. “Good to see you again, Charlie.”
“Good to see you, too,” I say. “But I’ve got to ask about this nickname. What is Tig?” While his parents settle at either end of the table, Brian looks a little like he wishes he could make a run for it, and for a second I wish I hadn’t said a word. “You don’t have to tell me,” I say.
“No, it’s fine. My darling mothers insist on calling me this mortifying nickname,” Brian says, shooting them both looks.
“What’s not to love about the nickname? It’s so cute!” Susan gushes.
“And a really hard habit to break,” Maura says. “We’ve been calling Brian Tig since he was a baby.”
“Apparently, I was being thoroughly neglected one night,” Brian says dramatically.
Susan gasps. “You were not!”
“Oh, I was! Because—get this—tiny two-year-old me managed to get the basement door open and fall all the way down the stairs. And apparently, I seemed to bounce from one step to the next. Sproing, sproing, sproing.”
“We were devastated, but he was absolutely fine,” Maura assures me. “Susan thought we’d killed him. It was only four steps, but still.”
“Glad to know that my near-death experience was so ‘cute’ to you both!”
“I had to find a way to make your mother laugh,” Maura insists.
“The horrid nickname has stuck,” Brian says, making a face, and I can’t help but laugh.
“That’s…pretty adorable,” I say.
Susan nods. “We think so, too!”
“Can we move on, please?” Brian asks. “At this point, I’d rather talk about school.”
“Fine, fine,” Maura says.
We do talk a little about school, and Maura and Susan ask me about me, too, what I like to do for fun, my family, friends, the basics. Then they tell me all about Brian and his childhood: how he once got stuck in a tree and then cried until Maura came to his rescue; how he used to pretend to be sick on days when his favorite video games were released so he could play them at home the minute they were available; then back to the near-death-by-bouncing story again so Susan can tell it properly.
“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Brian says after they’ve shared that story for a second time, playfully arguing over the details of what really happened. He’s rising from his chair and reaching for my dish when Maura waves him away.
“We got it,” she says. “Go watch your movie.”
“Thank you for the wonderful meal,” I say, looking back and forth between them.
“Susan deserves all the credit,” Maura says, gazing over at her.
“You’re more than welcome, Charlie,” Susan says. “So good to meet you.”
I follow Brian out of the dining room and into the living room.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
“Oh my gosh, don’t be. I enjoyed every minute.”
“You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not lying. Your family is so…normal,” I say. “I think they’re sweet, Tig.”
He shoots me a look. “Don’t you dare!”
“I thought you calling me ‘kid’ was bad, but now I have something even better,” I tease, taking a seat on the couch.
“You’re evil, Charlie,” Brian says, and we laugh as he grabs the remote and sits beside me.
As he turns on the television and navigates to Netflix, I’m suddenly acutely aware of how close we are. Our legs are almost touching. I can feel the warmth from his body on mine. I briefly worry that I’ve missed a spot shaving (it’s so hard to get the knees!), but I tell myself to relax.
Only I can’t. Because we’re basically touching.
“So, Ladybird, yeah?” Brian asks.
I must not answer right away, because he turns to look at me. It’s the closest we’ve ever been and he smells really good. I think about him intentionally putting on cologne for me and smile.
“Yes, great,” I say, trying to ignore the fact that my skin feels like it’s humming. Brian finds the movie on Netflix, puts the remote down, and settles back into the couch. And now our legs are definitely touching.
If he’s nervous, I don’t get that sense at all. I’m nervous. Oh my God. How am I here right now? With Brian? On his couch? Watching a movie? In the dark? He’s looking straight ahead, but I can barely focus on the screen. My hands are resting on my legs and they’re sweating a little. I coyly wipe them on my skirt, hoping Brian doesn’t notice.
I try to focus.
Brian specifically asked if I’d seen this.
He must like it.
And I’m sure I would, too.
So I should really pay attention.
But we’re sitting so close. Who cares about movies when you can sit this close to Brian?!
And then his pinky is touching mine. Is this intentional? I look at him, but he’s looking at the TV. Probably an accident. Although he isn’t moving his hand away.
Stay calm. I look back at the movie. I even pay attention for a little. I need to focus on something, and I’m hoping this film can distract me. It does for a bit.
Until his hand is on mine.
His hand is on my hand.
I jump at his touch, but I don’t pull away. I look at him, and he looks at me, and we both smile.
This? This was definitely intentional.
And that helps put me at ease, even though I can’t stop the thoughts from pinging around in my brain: a cute (!) boy (!) is (!) touching (!) me (!!!).
As the film rolls on, I sneak glances toward him—at his face, his neck, his hand on mine. I take in how small my hand looks in his, the two small freckles on his wrist. His broad shoulders. The curve of his lips. I notice it all as if my senses have been heightened to the next level, laser-focused—on everything except for the movie. In fact, I barely register when the film ends and Brian asks if I want to watch another.
Anything to keep holding his hand.
So we do. We’re quiet, just together, which I’m thankful for; I’m not sure I’d be much of a conversationalist right now. Besides, it gives me time to savor this.
Before I know it, the credits on the second movie are rolling (What was it even about? What were we watching again?), and I feel my phone vibrate. It’s my mom. She’s texting to ask if I’ll be out much longer. I check the time—it’s after midnight. I’m usually home by now.
“Everything okay?” Brian asks.
“Oh, yeah. It’s just my mom.”
Brian checks the time on his phone and frowns. “Yeah. I guess it’s getting late.”
I frown, too. “Yeah.”
He rises from the couch, and I quickly text my mom that I’ll be home soon. When I look up, Brian is reaching out a hand to help me up, and I’m thrilled that the handholding isn’t quite over yet.
By now, the house is dark and quiet; his parents went to bed hours ago. I tell him he doesn’t have to walk me out (even though I want him to), but he insists. So it’s just us walking out to my car.
Outside, the air is cool. The street is so quiet it feels a little like we’re the only two people left awake in the entire world.
“That was fun,” I say, keeping my voice soft.
Brian squeezes my hand but keeps his voice soft, too. “It was. I had an amazing time.”
I smile. “Me too.”
We get to my car and it’s then that we’re supposed to drop each other’s hands. But Brian doesn’t let go, so I turn to face him. Under the moonlight, he looks extra cute. Or maybe I’m just so into him that he’s extra cute all the time now.
“I’d like to hang out again,” he says.
I nod. “Yes. Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow?” I offer.
Brian breaks into a wide grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
My heart is beating so fast, and I know this
is the part of the night where we’re supposed to kiss. But I’ve never done it before. I find myself nervously adjusting my glasses.
I’m terrified, and in my terror, I blurt out, “Are you going to kiss me now?”
I feel mortified as the words leave my mouth, but I can’t stop them. I’ve blown it.
Only, Brian chuckles and surprises me by leaning in. There is a moment of hesitation on his end, but then his lips are on my cheek—sweet and soft and wonderful, and I feel light and warm and delicate.
“Thank you,” I say.
He laughs and squeezes my hand once more before letting it go. “Good night.”
Chapter Thirty-One
How is this my life?
Seriously. How. Is. This. My. Life?
I’m giddy, and giddy is not a word I use often. But that is the only word that perfectly describes how I feel.
I’m giddy when I get home. I’m giddy when I’m getting into my pajamas and Brian texts me Home safe? I’m giddy when I text him back to say yes and good night and see you tomorrow. I’m giddy when I realize I have a boy to see tomorrow. I’m giddy when I try to sleep (so much so that I let out a little squeal directly into my pillow, which I hope my mom doesn’t hear). And I’m giddy when I wake up the next day.
It’s exhausting to be giddy and I’m relieved by the distraction when a text from Amelia comes through.
Miss you! Let’s hang out, she writes.
Miss you back. I can’t. I’m hanging out today with…Brian, I write.
My phone immediately starts to ring. “Hello?” I say, keeping my tone casual.
“WHAT THE FUCK, BITCH?” (If you can’t call your best friend a bitch, is she really even your best friend?) “Were you secretly with Brian yesterday when you said you couldn’t hang out?” Her voice is full of excitement.
I start laughing and everything comes tumbling out of my mouth. The text inviting me over. The stressing. The art studio. The dinner. The movie. The other movie. I leave out the part about the handholding and the cheek-kissing, worried it will seem too immature.
“Ahhh! You like a boy! You like a boy!” Amelia chants.
I feel my cheeks flush, but I can’t stop smiling. “I do not,” I say, even though I very clearly do.
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 20