by Alex Sanchez
Carlos knew what he needed to say and he realized he’d better say it quickly, before he completely lost his nerve. His heart pounded in his chest. He looked straight into her eyes and said it: “I really like you.”
Sweat drenched his collar as he waited for Roxy’s response.
She took a deep breath and let it out. “Carlos …” Her face softened with concern. “It was just hooking up, okay?”
He felt a sting, as if a needle had pierced his heart. How could she say that, especially after he’d held her in his arms, tasted the salt on her skin, listened to her heart beating beneath her breast? He’d allowed her to see him practically naked, like no one else on earth had ever seen him. And by telling her he liked her, he felt as if he’d bared his soul to her too.
“Roxy!” her friends called.
“I’ve got to go,” she told Carlos, and sauntered back to her friends.
“What did he want?” one asked.
“Nothing,” Roxy replied. “Let’s go.” And with that, she strode away, not looking back.
Carlos braced himself against a locker, feeling his world crumbling around him. How could he have been so stupid? As he leaned against the cold metal, he finally got it: Only in his mind had the relationship with Roxy been more than physical.
His eyes went blurry with emotion as he hurriedly weaved through the crowded hallway and traipsed home.
When he arrived at his apartment, he threw himself onto the bed, wishing he’d never said anything to Roxy. Had he seriously imagined that by simply telling her he liked her she might respond in kind? He felt like an idiot for thinking Roxy might want to be his girlfriend. His makeover had been a total waste of time.
On the wall above the painted headboard loomed the dried-up praying mantis framed by Sal. This was all Sal’s fault. He’d encouraged Carlos to believe he stood a chance with Roxy. And he’d planted in Carlos’s brain the dumb idea of telling Roxy he liked her.
Carlos reached up and yanked down the mantis. He hurled the Plexiglas box across the room, where it thudded onto the carpet. Then Carlos lay down again and brought his knees to his chest, wanting to shrivel up and die.
Fifty-Six
CARLOS LAY CURLED in bed when the doorbell startled him. At the front door he found Toro.
“What happened to you?” Toro grinned at him. “You look like caca.”
“Thanks,” Carlos grumbled and led Toro to his room, where he plopped onto the bed again.
From the desk chair, Toro pitched aside a dirty T-shirt and sat down, surveying the once-again disheveled room. “Why didn’t you ride the bus home?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
Toro gave him a long look. “Is this about Roxy?”
Carlos sighed, his chest tight and hurting. “Can I ask you something? How did you do it? How did you keep from getting attached to Leticia?”
Toro glanced down at the carpet and cleared his throat. “I need to, um, come clean to you about something.” He gazed up at Carlos, his eyes wavering. “This is really hard for me. Promise you won’t tell the other guys?”
“Sure.” Carlos leaned forward on the bed. He’d already sort of figured out what Toro was going to say: that he’d never really had sex with Leticia, that he’d made the whole thing up by downloading some chick’s photo off the web. He wasn’t prepared for what Toro actually said.
“I think, um …” Toro gave a nervous cough and shuffled his feet. “I think I’m gay.”
Carlos stared, speechless, disbelieving his ears. Yet hadn’t Sal and Javier told him Toro was gay? Wasn’t Toro always carrying muscle magazines, staring at pics of guys? Hadn’t he gotten noticeable wood during that wrestling match freshman year?
Nevertheless, Toro couldn’t be gay He’d been Carlos’s friend since second grade. They’d slept over at each other’s houses, sharing the same bed sometimes. They’d draped their arms around each others shoulders, drunk out of the same soda can … If Toro was gay, why hadn’t he ever said anything?
“I’ve wanted to tell you,” Toro now explained. “You’re the one person who I figured would understand, since you’re friends with Sal.”
Carlos shook his head. This was all too much: Sal ditching him, Roxy crushing his heart, and now a lifelong best bud telling him he wasn’t who Carlos had thought he’d been.
“You’re not gay” Carlos announced.
Toro peered back at him with a curious look. “Well … I’ve tried not to be, but … I’ve never liked girls that way. There never was a Leticia. I figured since you’re friends with Sal—”
“Would you shut up about that?” Carlos cut him off. “I can’t deal with this right now, okay?”
Toro hung his head. Nearly whispering, he asked, “Do you want me to go?”
“Yeah,” Carlos replied, his temples throbbing.
Toro stood and quietly shuffled out of the room, like a prisoner accepting his sentence.
And Carlos felt like a creep. Why was he being so hard on Toro? After all, he’d accepted Sal as gay. But that was different. Sal had been honest with Carlos; he’d never lied to him. And yet, who was Carlos to judge anyone for lying? Sal had been right about him: He did need an inner makeover—an extreme one.
He sprang from the bed and caught Toro as he was about to open the front door. “Wait!”
Toro turned, wiping his face, and Carlos saw that his eyes were wet.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos told him. “It’s just …” His voice trailed off. He was uncertain what to say. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I wasn’t sure.” Toro’s voice rasped. “I didn’t want people calling me names and talking trash about me. I’m still the same person.”
Carlos gave a weary shrug. “Who cares what other people think?”
“Then you’re okay with it?” Toro’s eyes glimmered.
“I guess.” Carlos scratched his neck, still absorbing the news. Now, along with everything else in his life, he’d have to get used to one of his best buds being gay. “I mean, yeah.”
“You won’t tell anyone?” Toro whispered. “What do you think the guys would say?”
“I don’t know. I won’t tell them. I’ve got enough to deal with. If you want to tell—”
“I’m not telling them!” Toro gave his head a vigorous shake. “The only reason I told you was because you’re friends with …”
Carlos cut him a sharp look.
“Well,” Toro resumed meekly, “you are friends with Sal, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.” Carlos sighed. “He won’t talk to me ’cause I didn’t show for the GSA meeting.”
Toro raised his eyebrows in confusion. “But that was your deal with him, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Carlos frowned. “And I screwed it up.”
“Oh.” Toro sounded let down. “I’d hoped maybe—you know—you could see if—I don’t know—if you could get him to give me some advice.”
Oh, great, Carlos thought, feeling even more like he’d screwed things up royally.
“You ask him,” he told Toro.
Toro shook his head. “I’d feel too weird without you. When does the GSA meet again? I could go with you.”
Carlos dropped onto the sofa, resting his head in his hands. “It’s not going to meet again. Nobody showed up for it.”
“No one?” Toro sounded even more downcast.
“It’s not my fault!” Carlos crossed his arms.
Toro gave a shrug and rested his hand on the doorknob. “I’d better go.” He paused as if thinking about something. Then he removed his palm from the knob and extended his hand toward Carlos, his entire face a question mark.
Carlos shook it immediately, saying, “Pendejo.”
For the first time that afternoon, Toro grinned—and so did Carlos.
Fifty-Seven
THAT NIGHT, CARLOS dreamed about boobs. Nothing unusual about that, except … something felt odd about this particular pair of dream breasts. Still dreaming, he walked to h
is dresser mirror. What he saw made him scream in horror. The breasts belonged to him: He’d turned into a girl.
He woke in a sweat, slamming his hand onto the alarm clock.
“Carlos, wake up!” his ma called from the hall. “You’ll be late for school.”
He caught his breath. The last thing he wanted was to go to school—and see Roxy.
He dragged himself out of bed and peered into the mirror, cringing. Although he hadn’t grown boobs, he looked like crap. His highlights were growing out, making his hair look dorkily streaky, and his face was breaking out again.
He thought back to that fleeting moment during his makeover when he’d felt like an emerging butterfly. He’d not only looked good outside but felt good inside. Now he doubted whether he’d ever really looked good. Or had Sal merely made him think that?
On the bus, Toro greeted him sheepishly, apparently still embarrassed about the day before. “’S’up?”
Carlos replied with his own reassuring “’S’up.”
Playboy gave them a curious look. “What’s up with you two girls?”
Carlos ignored him and gazed out the window, annoyed.
Then Playboy announced, “Last night I dumped BadAssGirl. I didn’t want to be harsh, but I finally told her, ‘Look, when I want to hook up, I’ll let you know.’ So now she says I’m a monster. I am so totally over her. What’s up with these girls who want to get laid and then cry hurt? What do they expect?”
Carlos slid down in his bus seat. He couldn’t help drawing a parallel with his Roxy experience, except that he was in the role of BadAssGirl. He recalled his dream of turning into a girl and wondered, Am I actually becoming one?
At school his stomach churned at the prospect of seeing Roxy. All morning long, he sat at his desk fidgeting, oblivious to his teachers’ lectures, trying to adjust his mindset. Why couldn’t he simply accept that Roxy and he had hooked up, nothing more, and just be happy with that?
But as he jostled through the crowd toward the lunchroom, he unexpectedly found himself directly behind her. He recognized her blonde-streaked hair and slim figure immediately—except that she wasn’t with her girl friends or alone. Her arm was slung around Senior Dude’s waist, with his arm draped across her shoulder.
An explosion occurred in Carlos’s brain, as a thousand nerve cells fired in every direction. Why didn’t Roxy simply rip his heart out and stomp on it with cleats? In the chaos of his feelings, he clenched his fists, wanting to strike Senior Dude, or Roxy, or both of them. And yet his eyes were misting with tears.
“Hey, you okay?” a voice asked beside him. Carlos turned to see Toro, offering a worried smile.
“I don’t know,” Carlos replied. Inside, he felt like he was breaking down, no longer in control of what he felt or said or did.
“Maybe you’d better sit down,” Toro told him. “I’ll get your lunch.”
He guided Carlos toward Playboy and Pulga, but Carlos didn’t feel like eating. He stared across the cafeteria, watching Roxy feed Senior Dude forkfuls of cherry cobbler.
Carlos wanted to shout at her, “You slut!” But his throat felt too clenched to even speak.
For the first time, he thought how he should’ve listened to Sal’s warning about Roxy. He recalled Sal saying he didn’t want to see Carlos get hurt. Now that recollection only made Carlos feel crappier about how he’d ditched and lied to Sal—for a girl who’d only wanted to hook up.
His afternoon blurred past as he stared at his books, unable to focus on the words. On the bus ride home Playboy continued to gripe about BadAssGirl: “She’s gotten full psycho-needy. Today, she called my cell a million times, boo-hoo-ing, ‘Why don’t you like me anymore? Boo-hoo-hoo!’” He screwed his fists into his eye sockets as if wiping away tears.
Carlos bristled in his bus seat. Before, he’d always admired Playboy’s devil-may-care attitude toward life and girls. What had changed? Or had Playboy always been such a jerk?
“Someone needs to tell these chicks that needy is not hot,” Playboy continued. “I never told her I liked her in the first place. What part of ‘It was just a hookup’ doesn’t she get?”
Carlos clenched his fists and roared, “Would you shut the hell up?”
He wanted to punch Playboy. But, instead, he got off at the next stop, and seethed all the way home.
Fifty-Eight
CARLOS WAS STILL feeling cranky that evening when Raúl came over for his usual midweek visit. After dinner, Carlos did some homework.
Once again, he tried to ignore the sound of squeaking bedsprings, except that he couldn’t use his headphones. They remained broken, and his ma hadn’t given him any money for new ones. Now, a wave of anger engulfed him.
He got up and locked his bedroom door, switched on his stereo, and loaded a CD. Then he cranked the volume to the max—louder than he’d ever dared to play it. A blast of Los Lonely Boys shook the walls, obliterating the sound of his ma and Raúl.
An instant later, he heard his ma’s muted shouting beneath the bass beat. “Carlos! Turn that down!” The doorknob jiggled. “Open this door, right now!”
“Carlos!” Raúl echoed, pounding on his door. “What’s the matter with you?”
Carlos’s heartbeat quickened. He knew there was no key, so what could they do besides shout? Break the door down?
He waited, tense and excited, till eventually his ma and Raúl gave up yelling. By then, his ears were ringing. The music was too loud even for him. He turned off the stereo and climbed into bed, exhausted. At least it was quiet now—no more bedsprings.
The following morning, Raúl had already left for work when Carlos walked into the kitchen. His ma sat at the breakfast table, glaring at him. “Sit down,” she ordered.
“I’m hungry,” Carlos protested, pulling the cereal box from the cupboard.
His ma leaped up and yanked the box away. “I said, sit down!” Her voice screeched angrier than ever. “We’re going to talk.”
Carlos dropped into the chair opposite her. “About what?”
“You know what!” His ma crossed her arms. “About last night. What was that all about?”
Carlos slouched down in his chair. “I’d told that you my headphones broke. You didn’t give me any money. I wanted to listen to my music.”
“Carlos!” His ma unfolded her arms, throwing them in the air. “The neighbors nearly called the police. You could hear the music three doors away.”
Carlos pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.
“You think it’s funny?” His ma’s eyebrows shot up.
“Kind of.” It felt good to tell her the truth.
“Well, I don’t,” his ma hissed. “What’s going on, mi’jo?” Her tone softened into one of concern. “This isn’t like you.”
Carlos shifted in his chair, his guard beginning to waver. “My headphones broke. I told you that.”
“So you decided to let the entire neighborhood know?” His ma’s forehead crisscrossed in frustration. “No, there’s more to this. Tell me. I want to know What’s going on?”
Carlos leaned back in his chair. Did he have the nerve to tell her? He gripped the table, took a deep breath, and said in a low voice, “I can hear you.”
His ma stared at Carlos, her eyes blank with confusion. “What?”
Carlos glanced away, his face warming like an oven, as he choked out the words: “When Raúl comes over, I can hear you in your bedroom.”
His ma sat silently, and Carlos gazed up at her. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she whispered, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Carlos whispered back through gritted teeth, “I shouldn’t have to say anything.” As he spoke he felt his chin start quivering, and he had to hold his breath to keep from choking up. “Either marry him or go somewhere else. I don’t like hearing you.”
His eyes clouded with tears that he didn’t want to be there. It made him feel like a kid. But he couldn’t stop them. His chest heaved, and the teardrops rolled down his ch
eeks.
His ma stepped around the table to him. And when she wrapped her arms around him, he let them stay there.
Fifty-Nine
BY TALKING TO his ma about her and Raúl, Carlos felt like a weight the size of a school bus had been hoisted off his shoulders. As he walked to his bus stop, he recalled Sal’s encouraging him to open up. Now, Carlos wished he’d done so earlier.
But the cry also left him feeling exposed, even with his jean jacket on—as though his skin were barely holding him together. When he boarded the bus, he stared out the window, barely speaking to his buds.
“What’s your problem?” Playboy asked. “You still on the rag?”
Carlos ignored him, as Pulga announced to the group, “I went to Carlotta’s last night for dinner—and met her mom.” He gazed at Carlos, a tiny, proud smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Playboy raised his arms in protest. “I thought she’d dumped your sorry little ass.”
Pulga’s expression turned guarded. “I want to get back together … even if it means having to be her boyfriend.”
Toro nodded sympathetically, but Playboy flicked his wrist as if cracking a whip.
“Meow.” He leaned into Pulga. “Pussy-whipped! Pussy-whipped!”
“Up yours!” Pulga aimed a punch at his shoulder, but Playboy grabbed hold of his arms, chanting, “Pussy-whipped! Pussy-whipped!”
“Lay off him,” Carlos said, but Playboy pinned Pulga against the seat, howling, “Pussy-whipped! Pussy-whipped!”
“Leave him alone!” Carlos exploded. He swung out to punch Playboy on the shoulder, like they always did to each other, but his fist slipped—and hit Playboy’s chin.
Playboy whirled around, his eyes burning. He released Pulga. Then his fist slammed into Carlos’s eye.
A bolt of pain seared through Carlos’s face. He lashed back, the blood pounding in his ears.
“Fight! Fight!” the other students shouted.
The next thing Carlos knew, Playboy and he were scuffling on the bus floor, while Toro tried to pry them apart. The engine came to a stop and the driver shoved through the crush of students. A multitude of hands pulled the boys away from each other. The driver grabbed Carlos by the jacket collar and ordered him to sit up front in the seat beside Vicky.
