Getting It

by Alex Sanchez

  “’S’up?” he now greeted her, prying his headphones off.

  From the bedroom doorway she scanned the chaos of his room and gave a smile of resignation. “Mi amor, how can you work in this mess?”

  Carlos shrugged. At least once a week his ma hassled him to clean his room, but she never actually made him do it. Since the divorce, she’d pretty much stopped making him do anything.

  She pulled the pins from her hair so it cascaded over her shoulders. “How was school today?”

  Although Roxy remained foremost on Carlos’s mind, he felt uneasy telling his ma about her. In contrast to his friends and his pa, who shared guy horniness about females, it felt too weird to think of his own ma feeling anything like that.

  “Um, school was fine, except I need your help with math.”

  Fortunately, his ma worked as the accountant for an auto parts chain. “Let’s go over it after dinner. Remember, Raúl is coming over.”

  Raúl was her boyfriend—actually her third since the divorce—a tall, brawny car mechanic, nothing like Carlos’s short, skinny pa. Twice a week he came over for dinner, bringing dessert, after which he watched TV with Carlos’s ma and stayed the night.

  Tonight he brought over flan, a favorite of both Carlos and his ma. After dinner, his ma helped Carlos with his geometry, sitting close beside him at the dining table.

  Carlos recalled how when he was a boy his ma would drape her arm around him, stroking her fingertips through his hair as she cradled his head into the warm soft cushion of her chest. But since starting high school it made him feel weird to sit so close to her, and he now scooted his chair away.

  After they finished with his math, Carlos returned to IM-ing his friends, playing computer games, and thinking about Roxy. Around nine thirty, his ma knocked on the door to say good night. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

  She kissed him on the back of the neck and Raúl waved. “Sleep well.”

  Carlos waved back. He liked Raúl, except for one thing: Even though his ma closed her bedroom door, Carlos could still hear the faint squeak of bedsprings as she and Raul went at it. It was a little gross. No, it was truly gross. Carlos didn’t want to think about his ma getting it on, especially with someone she wasn’t even married to. But how could he tell her that? Besides, he knew how hurt she’d been by the divorce. He wanted her to be happy. So, he put his headphones on and cranked up the volume.

  Around ten thirty, he went to finish up the flan and watch TV. First he turned on an episode of Cops where they busted some toothless eighty-six-year-old who’d hooked up with a thirteen-year-old girl. Then he switched to a reality show in which eight college guys and girls shared a house, fighting all day but secretly boning each other at night. Was there any program that wouldn’t remind Carlos he was the only person on the planet not getting laid?

  Last he clicked on Queer Eye, a show where five gay dudes gave some grungy straight guy a makeover—plucking his nose hairs, redecorating his apartment, and teaching him to bake a quiche—so he could confidently propose marriage to his girlfriend and she’d tell him “yes.” Which, of course, she did. On TV, the guy always gets the girl.

  As Carlos watched, he recalled Sal, the supposedly gay guy at school. It was then that the idea first popped into his brain: If Sal truly were queer … Could he possibly help Carlos? … Not to propose to Roxy, of course—at least not yet—but to get her to maybe like him?

  Immediately, he chucked the thought. This was real life, not some dumb TV show. Roxy wasn’t his girlfriend. And Sal wasn’t some makeover star.

  Around eleven o’clock, Carlos gave a huge yawn, shut the TV off, and ambled toward his bedroom. After pulling off his sweatshirt, he peered in the mirror again. Squinting, he blurred his vision as though underwater and tried to imagine himself as handsome and confident.

  No luck. Maybe after a super-size makeover. Dismayed by the reflection staring back at him, he draped his sweatshirt over the mirror. Then he kicked aside a plastic soda bottle, stripped to his briefs, and climbed beneath the tangle of bedcovers. But he couldn’t stop thinking about that crazy idea.

  Five

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, while Carlos scrounged through piles of clothes for a clean shirt, he thought again about asking for Sal’s help, but once again discarded the idea.

  A little after noon, his pa picked him up for their weekend visit, along with his wife, Lupita, and their toddler son, Henry.

  Carlos had first met Lupita when he was little, at his pa’s construction office. His pa had often taken him to job sites to show him off, propping a hard hat on Carlos that nearly slid over his eyes. Lupita, the site office secretary, had smiled and taught Carlos how to volley jellybeans and catch them in his mouth. Not until she got pregnant did Carlos realize she and his pa had been having an affair.

  Then Carlos felt painfully torn. He overheard his parents’ arguments and watched his ma cry, yet he didn’t want his pa to leave. The divorce had been wildly confusing. Carlos resolved that his own relationship with a girl would be different—committed and faithful.

  In the meantime, like now at McDonald’s, he politely tried to once again like Lupita. But how could he? She’d broken up his family.

  He also tried to like his little half brother, but he missed having his pa to himself. To make matters worse, today Henry pooped in his diaper, making an awful smell.

  After lunch the four of them drove to the city park. When Carlos was a boy, his pa used to help him catch all types of insects in jars and nets, taught him to preserve them in lighter fluid, and showed him how to carefully pin them to Styrofoam without breaking them apart. Carlos had amassed an awesome collection of butterflies, bees, grasshoppers, and, his prize possession, a female praying mantis.

  After the divorce, the bug collection had gotten lost piece by piece in the ever-mounting mess of Carlos’s room. He now felt too old to chase insects. Instead, he scratched a stick among the initials and dates on a wood bench and wished he could go back in time, as he watched his pa and Lupita push Henry on the merry-go-round.

  In the middle of the playground, amid the brown-skinned Mexican families, Carlos noticed a pair of white adult guys with an Asian toddler girl.

  “I think they’re maricones,” his pa muttered as he sat beside Carlos on the bench.

  His pas Spanish word for “queer” made Carlos recall Sal and the wild idea of asking for his help with Roxy. Maybe he should ask his pa what he thought.

  “Do you, um, know anyone who’s gay?”

  “No.” His pa crossed his arms, giving Carlos a sidelong glance. “Why would I?”

  His pa often got macho that way—like the time his ma had tried to teach Carlos how to resew a loose button on a shirt, causing his pa to protest, “You trying to turn him into a girl?”

  Recalling that, Carlos decided best not to mention Sal. Nonetheless, the makeover idea kept worming its way through his brain.

  Six

  AS THE WEEKEND progressed, Carlos began pondering: If he were to approach Sal, how could he do so without anybody seeing him? After all, probably part of the reason Sal always hung with girls was because no guy wanted to be caught talking to him—at least no straight guy

  At school on Monday, Carlos began tracking Sal’s moves, piecing together his schedule. Sal’s bold-colored shirts—magenta, turquoise, pink—and shiny hoop earrings made him easy to follow down hallways. Every so often, Carlos thought he saw Sal glance over his shoulder and spot him, but Carlos quickly ducked away By week’s end, he had Sal’s schedule down pat, but he still couldn’t pick out a good time or place to talk without someone seeing him.

  He noticed, however, that after last period Sal walked home alone. As Carlos’s bus drove past, he watched Sal turn down a side street only three blocks away from school.

  The following day, when the final bell rang, Carlos told his friends he was staying after school.

  “What for?” Playboy asked, his eyebrows arched in curiosity.

  “I�
�ve got to do something.” Carlos gave an evasive shrug. “That’s all.”

  “Like what?” Pulga extended a bag of caramel popcorn toward Carlos, as if bribing him to tell them.

  “Um, nothing.” Carlos took some popcorn and tried looking away, but his three friends had surrounded him. “Just something for school.”

  “Is it some sort of secret?” Toro dug into Pulga’s bag of popcorn.

  “No, its just—it’s not important.”

  “Then what is it?” Playboy insisted with a burp.

  “Nothing, I told you!” Carlos shifted his feet, worried he’d lose Sal. “You’re going to miss your bus.”

  His buds exchanged confused glances, then Playboy said, “Dude, you’re really getting weird,” before the three of them headed toward their bus.

  Quickly, Carlos hustled in the opposite direction and out the main door, blending into the students walking home.

  He easily trailed Sal’s bright lime-colored shirt. Sal seemed to glance over his shoulder once, but Carlos quickly hid his head inside his hoodie and waited for Sal to turn the corner. Once off the main street, Carlos reasoned, they could talk without anyone from school seeing.

  When Sal turned onto the side street, disappearing behind a tall hedge, Carlos made his move. He sprinted to catch up, but when he turned the corner, Sal was nowhere in sight.

  Carlos stopped and caught his breath. He gazed down the empty street of quiet houses and parked cars. Where could Sal have gone?

  Behind him, the bushes rustled. As Carlos turned, Sal slammed into him, tackling him at the waist. Carlos sprawled onto the grass, the breath knocked out of him.

  Next thing Carlos knew, he was flipped over, his pack jabbing into his back, his arms pinned to the ground. Sal sat astride his chest, shouting, “Tell me why you’re following me!”

  “Let me go!” Carlos gasped, struggling to push Sal off.

  But Sal pressed down harder on his arms. “Tell me!”

  Pain seared through Carlos’s wrists as he strained to get free. “Get off!”

  “No!” Sal refused to loosen his grip. “Not till you tell me!”

  Carlos gazed up at Sal, confused by the situation. If Sal were gay, why wasn’t he acting weak and girly? What if he wasn’t gay? Clearly, Sal could beat the caca out of him.

  Carlos stopped struggling. “I wanted to ask you something,” he muttered.

  “Ask what?” Sal clamped down harder on Carlos’s wrists.

  Carlos groaned. In light of the circumstances, did he dare ask? “Are you really, um …” He hesitated before squeaking out, “gay?”

  Sal stared at Carlos, frowned, and loosened his grip, rolling off Carlos. “Oh, God! Not another one.”

  Carlos took a huge breath as Sal’s weight left his chest. He quickly sat up and peered over at Sal. “Not another what?”

  Sal propped himself up, then stood, dusting off his jeans. “Another so-called straight guy who wants a blow job. You’re the third one this year. I’m not interested, okay? So leave me alone.”

  “Huh?” Carlos scrambled to his feet, pulling his hood onto his head. “That’s not what I want!”

  Sal perched his hands on his hips and gazed at him dead-on. “Then what do you care if I’m gay or not?”

  Carlos shifted his feet. Now that he actually stood face-to-face with Sal, the whole makeover idea seemed not only crazy, but embarrassingly stupid. Yet, given what Sal had thought Carlos wanted, he felt he had to explain himself. “It’s just, um, I wanted to ask … if you could, um”—he cleared his throat—“help me?”

  Sal gave him a long, steady look. Then his brow softened. “Look, dude,” he said gently. “If you think you’re gay, you probably are. I can’t tell you if you are or not. Join the Gay-Straight Alliance we’re starting. That’ll help you figure it out. In the meantime, try visiting some porn sites—gay ones and straight ones. Whichever turns you on more, that’s probably what you are. Okay?”

  “No!” Carlos protested. “That’s not it! I know I’m straight.”

  Sal threw his hands in the air. “Then what the hell do you want?”

  Carlos answered slowly, trying to make his shaky voice sound confident. “Um, I want you to help me with, um … a girl … you know, to get her to like me.”

  Sal gave Carlos a sideways stare, till finally he asked, “Are you for real? You’re straight? And you want me—a gay guy—to help you get a girl?”

  “Yeah.” Carlos shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling foolish.

  Sal rubbed his chin as if doubting. “And you’re straight?”

  “Yes!” Carlos felt like saying, Forget it! Instead he said, “You know, like on that show Queer Guy”

  “You mean Queer Eye?” Sal corrected. “Okay, let’s say you are straight. And I should help you because …?”

  Carlos realized he’d never stopped to consider that. “Um, I guess … because … I need your help.”

  “Right.” Sal smirked. “Just like you helped me last week in the cafeteria when your asshole friends gave me shit.”

  Carlos gazed down at the ground. He didn’t like Sal calling his buds assholes. “They didn’t mean anything by it. They’re good guys. They just act like that sometimes.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sal said. “Well, let me ask you something: Why should a girl like you when you just stand by, watching your friends act like jerks, and even defend them for it? Because you know what? That makes you a jerk too.”

  Carlos stared down at his shoes. Sal was right: Why would any girl like him?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sal turn away down the sidewalk. Then Carlos looked up and shouted, “Please?” He felt pathetic saying it, but if Sal didn’t help him, who would?

  As if reconsidering, Sal stopped in front of a ranch-style house and looked back at Carlos. But then he waved his arms, shooing him away “I told you, no!” He climbed the front steps and disappeared into the house, slamming the door.

  Carlos waited several minutes, hoping Sal would come back out. Then he turned toward home. As he trudged the twenty blocks, squinting into the afternoon sun, he pondered his bleak life ahead, wondering: Was he destined to be a girlfriend-less virgin forever?

  Seven

  THE FOLLOWING DAY at lunch, Playboy bragged about some girl who’d shown him her boobs on web-cam. But the blurry, depth-distorted photo on his cell phone made the breasts look more like a pair of pancakes.

  “Hey,” Pulga commented with a burp, “that looks like my breakfast.”

  “I wish I’d had her for breakfast,” Toro chimed in.

  Abruptly, another boy’s voice intervened: “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Carlos sat up, stiff as a Popsicle. Sal loomed over their table, staring directly at him.

  “On three conditions,” Sal continued. “First …” He held up his index finger. “You tell your creep friends here not to give me shit—ever again.”

  Carlos felt his throat going dry. Didn’t Sal realize this was supposed to be a secret?

  “Second …” Sal added another finger. “It’ll cost you six bucks an hour plus expenses. Believe me, I’m letting you off cheap. Start by bringing twenty bucks tomorrow. And most important”—Sal flicked out a third finger—“you help start our school’s Gay-Straight Alliance.”

  With the word “gay” all eyes turned to Carlos. He cringed, wanting to crawl beneath the lunch table.

  “Now for your first lesson.” Sal dabbed a finger across the corner of his own lips. “When you’re eating, wipe your mouth.”

  Embarrassed, Carlos quickly swabbed his mouth with his sweatshirt sleeve, smearing a mustard-yellow line across the olive green.

  “Dude, not with your sleeve!” Sal groaned and spun around, shaking his head as he walked away.

  When Carlos glanced back at his buds, their eyes were all trained on him.

  “What’s up with that?” Playboy’s face scrunched up as if he’d eaten something sour.

  “What’re you paying him for?”
Pulga scowled.

  Toro leaned forward, whispering, “Are you friends with him?”

  “N-n-no …” Carlos felt like a chicken bone had caught in his throat. “I just, um, asked him to help me with something.”

  His three buds exchanged suspicious glances. “With what?” Pulga asked. “Getting BJs?”

  “Shut up.” Carlos stared down at his tray

  “Dude …” Playboy sounded concerned. “You’re not turning queer on us, are you?”

  “Fags are gross,” Pulga remarked, but then added, “although lesbians are cool.”

  “I’m not turning queer.” Carlos crossed his arms.

  Toro asked, “Then how come you’re going to help start that gay club?”

  “I’m not!” Carlos shot back.

  “Pendejo,” Playboy said solemnly, “you’re holding out about something.”

  For the first time, Carlos saw the hurt in his friends’ eyes, and he couldn’t blame them. The four of them had always known every secret about one another, no matter how personal: how Carlos’s pa had ditched his ma for a younger woman; how Playboy had gotten crabs from a hookup last summer—and how he had to shave all his body hair to get rid of them; how Pulga had secretly tied a condom to the principal’s retractable car antenna so it flapped in the breeze as he pulled in and out of the faculty parking lot for three days before he noticed; how Toro had gotten noticeable wood during a wrestling match. How much more personal could you get?

  Yet, this was different. How could Carlos explain that, when it came to girls, he felt like a hopeless loser compared to them?

  “Look, I asked him to help me with a project, that’s all. I’ll tell you about it later. In the meantime, leave him alone, okay?”

  His three friends looked at one another. No one said any more about the incident. When the boys boarded their bus that afternoon, Sal seemed forgotten. But on the ride home, Playboy sat farther away from Carlos than usual. Pulga didn’t make any of his usual wisecracks about women in passing cars. And even when they pulled beside a convertible, allowing them to see straight down a woman’s sizable cleavage, none of them went the remotest bit crazy.