By eight o'clock my dad has returned with Casey. It took so long for them to get out of traffic that the spaghetti is lukewarm by now. "You can put it in the microwave if you want," I tell James. "I'm good," he retrieves the tepid bowl of spaghetti and sits at the table which has been cleared of all art supplies but for a few specks of glitter. "Well I'm not weird, so I'm going to put my spaghetti in the microwave," Casey flaunts. "Case! Be nice. I don't make fun of your friends."
"Uh-huh." My parents and I sit at the table and wait for Casey to sit down.
We always eat as a family when we can, but Sunday is the only mandatory night. Friday is a rare day for family dinner because everyone 's usually busy, but just my luck, no one has anywhere to be tonight. My dad says a brief prayer in Spanish, "Te damos gracia Señor, por el alimento que vamos a compartir, fruto de tu generosidad a través de Jesucristo tu hijo,"
“Amén.” James just kind of tilts his head at me, and I shrug in response. Once we finish, my dad asks, “So, how are you, James?” trying to suppress his accent, the way he does when he’s talking to American Lawyers and wants to be sure they hear him right. “Estoy bien.”
“¡Qué bueno! Tu español estas muy bien.”
“Well, any Spanish I know, I know from Peyton,” James adds. “I hear you asked Emily to homecoming,” My mom says, “How’d that go?”
“Well, she said yes,” he says, oddly unenthusiastically. “I’m a little nervous, I guess,” he explains. “I’ve never asked a girl out before.” Casey looks at me with a devilish grin, which I choose to ignore. I can tell my family is enjoying this. They’ll probably prod me later about how “Nothing is set in stone,” and how “He’s such a sweet boy!” It’s probably my fault for being so open about my sexuality at home, but aside from my family, no one else knows. Come on, a guy needs an outlet. One small problem with not telling anyone else is that I get stuck with my family for any and all relationship advice. It’s the easiest to talk to John because he just doesn’t care. He tells me about girls, and I tell him about James. He treats me like a normal human. My family teases me, but supportively. You know, the same way that any family would obviously tease their seventeen-year-old son with his first real crush.
“So James, how’s your art coming. You’ve been working on a portfolio, right?” my mom asks. “Oh, uh, yes ma’am. I really want to submit something for the art show in the park next year.”
“So what kind of stuff do you do?” James twirls his pasta around his fork. “It’s something sorta between expressionism and pop art. I like to combine realistic aspects of art with fictitious counterparts.” His ambitious smile turns into a frown, “If that makes any sense,”
“No, don’t worry!” My mamá says, “I took three years of art studies. I needed something to do besides put the law in law school.” He smiles again. My mom talks to James about art while the rest of us finish dinner. This must be what it feels like when I talk in Spanish because I have no idea what they’re talking about. “What about your father, what does he do?”
“He, uh, just works in an office. Nothing special.”
“Where at?”
“Natroils. It’s a natural gas company downtown.”
“Oh, sí. I’ve heard of it.” James is clearly uncomfortable talking about his dad. He taps his fingers on his fork and changes the subject as soon as he can, “So, Mr. Reyes, what do you do?” James already knows what my parents do. I look at him with mild concern, and he smiles back as if to say “It’s all good.”
“Call me Paolo, por favor. I’m an immigration lawyer, just like Carmen.”
“Oh. That’s cool.” He stares at his pasta for a second. “So are you and Emily dating?” Casey asks, breaking the silence. James shakes his head, “No.”
“Do you like her?” I give her a death glare. His face turns the color of a tomato. “She’s a good friend.”
When my family has finished with their barrage of mildly uncomfortable questions, they offer to do the dishes since I have a guest over, though I’m not convinced they won’t be whispering about me behind my back like every supportive family does. Despite my arguing against it, Casey decides to join us. She wants to play Mario Kart against James. James assures me that he doesn't mind, so I slouch back on the couch next to him while Casey syncs up another remote. "I'm gonna kick your butt!" She cackles menacingly. "I don't even doubt that," he laughs, but after a heated race on rainbow road, James somehow ends up in front of her with a mind blowing eleventh place to Casey's twelfth. "I let you win!" Casey says. I defend James, "No you didn't, you just suck at video games."
"My hero, Peyton, saving me from the terrible wrath of twelve-year-old girls." James says. Casey sticks out her tongue, her green eyes laughing in mockery, and leaves us alone. I hear my parents laugh about something, probably me, in the kitchen. "Well congratulations, you officially beat Casey in Mario Kart,” I say to James. "Something tells me that's not very impressive," He says. “Hey, give yourself some credit. Casey can be very scary sometimes.” James rolls his eyes, "Shut up." He lightly jabs me in the shoulder. "If only you could channel all that inner aggression into Mario Kart."
"Shut. Up!" He says again, but he's smiling, and I'm smiling, and all is bliss. This continues for the rest of the night, the gentle banter of teenage friendship. Friendship, you know. That’s all.
By 12:00 we had played about a thousand rounds of Mario Kart, discussed restaurants for prom, sent Emily a picture of our promposal for Marina, watched (despite James’ protest) Cheaper by the Dozen, (which he ended up enjoying), and taking turns showering in my bathroom. I shower first, he showers second. While he’s in the bathroom, I pull out a blow up mattress from the closet in the hallway. He finishes and changes into a t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. His blonde hair is plastered to his face, still dripping with water. I try not to be creepy and stare at him from across the room, but I still sneak the occasional glance. "So you can either sleep in my bed or the mattress, I really don't care." I say. "You didn’t have to go through all that trouble, we could have just shared the bed" He states as-a-matter-of-fact. I shrug "I just figured you’d be more comfortable," I say. He takes off his glasses and folds them neatly on my bedside table. “That’s so dumb isn’t it? Why do guys think it’s, like, gay, to share a bed with someone. I don’t get it.” He falls back onto the blow up mattress. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to get into that rant right now”
“No, no it’s okay. I like listening to what you have to say.”
“What?” he asks. I scratch at the back of my head, “It’s just nice, er, to know that not all boys are assholes.”
“I like to think that there’s a little good in everybody.” Oh my God what does that mean? James is never like this with other people around. He usually keeps his opinions to himself, and it feels like this whole side of him that no one knows but me. Maybe that's not true; maybe he does have people that he rants to, but I want to pretend it's just me. I want to pretend I'm the only that he opens up to. I want to believe I'm in my own little world and James is the sun.
We talk for a while longer, not looking at each other but enjoying each other's presence. I stare at his glasses, and tap my fingers against my wrist. "Do you really like Emily?" I ask. I'm not sure if it's for closure or because I'm genuinely interested. Maybe it’s both. “I mean, you never really answered my parents.”
"I don't know. She makes me feel warm, and if she likes me then it’s probably worth trying, right?"
"I guess."
"What about you? Do you like anyone?"
"Nah. I guess I’m not really in a dating mood right now," I lie, “Besides, none of the girls at Central are really my type.” At least that’s not a lie. "What is your type, then?" He asks. Boys, I think. "Softball players," I say.
"Huh. Central has a softball team though,"
"Yeah, but none of them care that much about softball."
"That's what they say about you guys."
"That’s insane! We’re a state championship winning team. What softball players do you know anyways?"
"Allison Baretta. She's in my Chemistry class and all she does is complain about Kurt."
"Ha ha, well I can’t blame her. I think it’s because she likes him though. He’s going to ask her to prom at the next game."
“Huh, really?”
“Mhm.”
“Isn’t that, like, cutting it really close?”
“Yup.” There’s a brief second of silence, he sighs and stretches his hand to the ceiling. “So the Phillies are definitely your favorite team? Like, you have so much Phillies stuff, but you’ve only lived here for a few months.” I glance down at him to see that he’s looking at the poster on my wall. “Yeah, I dunno, I always kinda liked the Phillies. Moving here was just a huge coincidence. You’d think I’d prefer the Rays or something since I’m from Florida.”
“Hm.” He hums, before asking "Do you ever miss it?" he asks. "Miss what?"
"Orlando, South Carolina? The places you've been before?"
"No,” I say hesitantly, confused as to what this has to do with baseball. “Well, I mean yeah, I had some good friends in Orlando. South Carolina just sucked in general, but I like it here."
"Yeah. Yeah me too. I like Philly too. Sorry, that was really off topic. I was just thinking that, well, the last time I had a friend like you was in Detroit." I’m really happy it's dark because I feel my face instantly fill with blood. He continues, “It’s okay. It’s nice to have real friends, ya know? People you know you’ll always have.”
“You think we’ll always have each other? Us and the girls?”
“More than anything.” And then we just sit there in silence. He falls asleep first, his rhythmic breathing lulling me. Finally I fall asleep with thoughts of the warm Orlando skies and James' wet hair and the glasses on my nightstand and the sun on my mind.
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