Getting It

by Alex Sanchez

  “I don’t mind.” Carlos abruptly spritzed him with perfume.

  “Fine with me.” Toro ambushed Pulga from the other side.

  “Hey, cut it out, pendejos!” Pulga grabbed a perfume bottle, spraying them back.

  All afternoon they joked and clowned around, closer than ever. It was like they’d opened up and now knew each other in ways they never had. And Carlos felt happier than he had in the last three years—except for one thing.

  When he got back home, he asked his ma if Sal had called him back from the night before. He hadn’t.

  Sixty-Two

  MONDAY MORNING, CARLOS woke up determined to talk to Sal. He couldn’t take one more day of keeping inside what he wanted to tell him, even if Sal refused to respond.

  After lunch, Carlos scanned the hallway. Among the crowd he spotted a bright magenta shirt and shiny hoop earrings. “Sal!” Carlos ran past the other students to catch up to him. “Can I talk to you a minute? Please?”

  Sal stopped and turned, but his eyes were hard and his mouth was a flat, unsmiling line.

  Carlos wanted to go somewhere the whole school wouldn’t see them and hear what he wished to say. But what if that suggestion made Sal walk away like before? Not wanting to risk it, Carlos took a breath. “Look, I’m sorry I bagged out on the GSA meeting.”

  In response, Sal stared at him, not saying a word.

  Carlos strained against the tightness in his throat. “And that I lied to you about it.”

  Sal gazed away, still not answering, and Carlos began to feel like an idiot. He thought how nothing felt stupider than when someone wouldn’t talk back, making anything you said sound ridiculous—especially in front of other people.

  “Are you ever going to talk to me?” Carlos pleaded.

  Sal flashed him the briefest glance. It was only for a second, but at least it confirmed he was listening.

  Encouraged, Carlos pressed on. “It’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done. I wish I could undo it, but I can’t. So, can we at least be friends?”

  He waited, no longer caring that almost every student in school was walking past, seeing him practically begging Sal.

  Sal must’ve been aware of what Carlos was feeling. He watched the passing crowd, gave a long, thoughtful sigh, and returned his gaze to Carlos. “I don’t know if being friends can work.”

  That was all he said. And without another word, he turned and walked away.

  Carlos stood amid the stream of students, his thoughts swirling, and shouted, “Can’t we at least try?”

  He thought he saw Sal pause for a moment, as though reconsidering, but then Sal kept walking, fading into the crowd. The bell rang, and Carlos turned slowly toward class, not caring if he were late.

  That afternoon, Carlos’s English class went to the library. He sat at the same table where the GSA group had made their posters.

  And for the first time since the afternoon he’d ditched the meeting, he let himself fully imagine what it must’ve felt like for Sal that day: eager and excited to hold the school’s first-ever GSA, and then not a single other student from the entire school showed up. Not one.

  Sal must’ve felt totally depressed, like nobody cared. And Carlos recalled Sal’s telling him how lonely it had been growing up gay—and no one wanting to be his friend.

  Carlos thought about how Sal had helped him, even after Carlos stopped paying him. How Sal had given up his Saturdays for him and encouraged him to speak up to his ma and pa. How Sal had really been the first person in Carlos’s life he’d truly opened up to. He thought about all the stuff Sal had taught him and given him, and how, after everything Sal had done for him, Carlos had ditched him, on the faint chance of getting laid.

  Carlos’s heart wrenched with shame. He cradled his head on the table and closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear. But he couldn’t escape from the glaring truth of what he was: selfish, superficial, and immature, having been more interested in getting his rocks off than keeping his bargain with a friend.

  Could he really blame Sal for not wanting to be his friend? Why would anyone want to be his friend?

  He raised his head off the table and opened his eyes again, hoping to shake off the shame. Staring back from a bookshelf was one of Mr. Quiñones’s famous dead-guy quotes:

  Life contains but two tragedies: one is not to get your heart’s desire; the other is to get it.

  —Socrates

  To Carlos, it sounded like, either way, you were screwed in life. Given his recent experience, that seemed accurate: He’d nearly gotten Roxy, but he hadn’t. And what if he had? She’d turned out to be so very different from what he’d imagined.

  Carlos reread the quote, still trying to make sense of it. Something Sal had once said came to mind: Maybe life isn’t about what you get, it’s about what you give.

  Carlos wished he could give Sal something, to win his friendship back. But what could he give him? Carlos was broke. Besides, Sal didn’t even want to speak to him.

  The bell rang and Carlos rose from the library table, still wondering what old Socrates had meant. He collected his books and glanced at the words one last time. Abruptly, he froze. A chill ran through his entire body. Suddenly, he got it.

  The tragedies were because life was neither about getting, nor about giving to get something back. Life was simply about giving, even though you might never get anything back. That’s what Sal had meant!

  And with that realization, Carlos knew the greatest gift he could give Sal.

  Sixty-Three

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING when Carlos boarded the bus, he asked Vicky, “Can, I, um, sit with you?”

  Her brow furrowed with skepticism. “Why?”

  The bus lurched forward, bouncing Carlos into the vacant seat. “Look, I want to say I’m sorry about middle school … That I stopped being your friend.”

  “Why did you ditch me like some leper?” Vicky’s voice cracked with hurt. “What did I do to you?”

  Carlos grew warm beneath his jean jacket. Could he tell Vicky the truth—that he’d ditched her because she’d started dressing weird and he feared being seen with her?

  “It was me,” he simply said. “I was stupid, okay? I’ve changed now.”

  “Oh, really?” Vicky’s cheeks sank into a smirk. “Then why’d you ditch Sal and the GSA meeting?”

  Carlos flushed red, realizing he’d set himself up. “Because I was stupid—again. But now I really have changed, and I want to prove it.”

  Vicky rolled her eyes doubtfully. “How?”

  Carlos lowered his voice and ventured his idea. “I want us to organize another GSA meeting.”

  He’d figured Vicky would be thrilled about it, but instead, she shook her head. “Sal told me he’s not doing it. He was really hurt that none of us showed for the meeting—including me.” Her mouth drooped, brooding. “We really let him down.”

  “I know!” Carlos insisted. “That’s why we need to do this—even if he doesn’t come—to show him we believe it’s important.”

  Vicky cocked her head, eyeing Carlos skeptically. “Since when did you get crowned Mr. Social Justice? Besides, what’s the point if no one else shows up?”

  Carlos gazed out the bus window. “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe part of the problem was having the meeting after school, when people have too much other stuff to do—you know, sports, other clubs—”

  “Detention?” Vicky needled him.

  Carlos ignored her barb. “The GSA websites say that some groups meet at lunchtime to boost attendance. Why not try that?”

  Vicky gave him a hard look. “Will you actually show up this time?”

  “Yes!” Carlos said testily. “Come on! Please? I need your help.”

  “Okay, but …” Vicky clenched her fingers into a fist. “If you don’t show up this time, I swear, I’ll smack you a bigger black eye than Playboy ever could.”

  Carlos grinned nervously, unsure if she was merely teasing.

  As he got of
f the bus, his sitting with Vicky predictably caused comment from his buds—at least from Playboy. “Pendejo, you must really be hard up to get laid!”

  Carlos shoved his fists into his pockets, refusing to be goaded into another fight. Over the past few days, he and Playboy had begun speaking to each other again. Neither had apologized, but Carlos was trying to get along, even though it felt awkward.

  As Carlos arrived at lunch that day, he was relieved to see a new face sitting at his group’s table. Next to Pulga, in Playboy’s usual place, sat Carlotta.

  Playboy now sat on the opposite side of the table, looking crankily displaced.

  “Hi, Carlos!” Carlotta waved cheerfully. “Thanks for helping Pulga choose the perfume. I love it!”

  “Sure,” Carlos replied, sitting beside Toro.

  As the boys ate lunch, it became apparent how much the presence of a girl changed the tone. No one burped or mentioned boobs. In fact, none of the guys seemed sure what to say.

  But Carlotta spoke up. “Vicky says you want to try starting the GSA again,” she told Carlos. “Count me in!”

  “Okay.” Carlos smiled back, pretending not to notice Playboy’s scowl.

  Carlotta turned to Pulga. “I want you to come too.”

  Playboy redirected his frown at Pulga and uttered a single word: “Meow.”

  Carlotta flashed a glance at Playboy “What’s ‘meow’ mean?”

  Playboy grinned diabolically “Ask Pulga.”

  Pulga squirmed in his chair, glaring at Playboy, and turned to face Carlotta. He seemed so tiny compared to her. “Why should I go to the GSA? I’m not gay.”

  “Yes, you’ve proven that.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a Gay-Straight Alliance. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

  Toro abruptly cleared his throat and announced, “Um, I’ll go.”

  “What’s this turning into?” Playboy sputtered in disgust. “The fag-lover table?”

  Everyone turned silent. Carlos noticed a thin band of perspiration beading on Toro’s forehead.

  “The word is ‘gay.’” Toro turned to Playboy. “Not ‘fag.’”

  “Oh, yeah?” Playboy picked up his burger. “Well, go to that meeting and people will think you’re one.”

  Toro sat up calmly, his muscled frame filling the chair, as though he’d anticipated this moment. “And what if I am?”

  Playboy dropped his burger as if thunderstruck. Then his gaze shifted left and right, staring at the others. It was the first time that Carlos recalled ever seeing him taken aback by anything. His face seemed to say, Didn’t you guys hear what Toro said? Why are you staring at me and not at him? Then his jaw clenched, as if he’d realized he was the only one troubled by Toro’s announcement.

  An instant later, Playboy wordlessly picked up his tray. Without anyone’s protesting, he abandoned the group and crossed the cafeteria to sit at another table.

  Toro murmured, “I was afraid of that.”

  “Should I go talk to him?” Pulga asked, but when no one answered him, he stayed seated.

  Although the group remained a little somber for the remainder of lunch, Carlos thought how, all things considered, everything was actually turning out pretty well: Toro had come out, Pulga and Carlotta were back together, and everybody in the GSA had agreed to reattempt getting it started—almost everyone.

  As Carlos exited the cafeteria, he searched for the orange hoodie of one other person he still needed to talk to.

  Sixty-Four

  ACROSS THE SCHOOL hallway, Carlos called out to Espie, “‘S’up?”

  She spun around, smiling from beneath her orange sweatshirt. “Oh, hi.”

  “Um, hi,” Carlos said, breaking into an instant sweat.

  “Hi,” Espie repeated, making Carlos wonder: Is she nervous too?

  Carlos took a deep breath, trying to bolster his courage. “Um, listen, we’re going to try to start the GSA again. You interested?”

  “Sure!” Espie beamed, her smile more beautiful than he’d remembered. In fact, the whole rest of her—even in the baggie orange hoodie—looked cuter too.

  “Are we going to make posters again?” she asked.

  Carlos hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Um, I guess so.”

  Even though their previous posters had gotten defaced and torn down, the group still needed some way to get the word out.

  “Okay,” Espie said merrily. “I’m there! Got to get to class. See you later!”

  And with that, she vanished from sight, but not from Carlos’s mind. All afternoon, he thought of her, even forgetting what had happened at lunch—Toro coming out and Playboy ditching the group’s table—until it came time to ride home.

  Carlos had completed his after-school detention sentence and was back to riding his regular bus. But when he boarded, he found that Playboy had invited some other guys into the last row. Pulga and Toro had switched to those guys’ seats halfway toward the front.

  “They were already back there when Toro and I got on,” Pulga whispered to Carlos.

  “What should we do?” Toro asked.

  “Nothing,” Carlos said thoughtfully. In a way, it seemed like a pretty fair tradeoff: Playboy got the back row of the bus, while Carlos, Pulga, and Toro kept their regular lunch table. In another way, it sucked, reminding him of his parents’ divorce.

  Arriving home, Carlos gazed at the mirror photo of “Los Horny Boys” standing beside the roller coaster on his thirteenth birthday. Apart from his family, the guys had been the people closest to him for nearly half his life. Their ringleader, Playboy, had been one of their best friends.

  Why couldn’t Playboy now accept how Pulga, Toro, and Carlos had changed—and change along with them?

  Yet, Carlos realized that, for whatever reason, Playboy wouldn’t. Turning away from the photo, his chest felt empty with grief, as he slowly let out a breath.

  That evening at dinner, his ma passed him a serving dish full of green beans. “I want to discuss something,” she announced. “Raúl and I have been talking. How would you feel about him and me getting married?”

  The question shouldn’t have surprised Carlos: he’d asked her about it before. But this time she’d brought it up. It took a moment for him to sort his feelings. What would it feel like to have Raúl as his stepdad? He’d have to ask his ma to get a quieter bed. But, apart from that, there wasn’t anything that majorly annoyed Carlos about the guy—and he wanted his ma to be happy.

  Raising his glass of water, he told her, “It’s about time!”

  Later that week, Carlos, Pulga, Toro, and Carlotta met in the library during lunch to make the GSA posters, together with Vicky and Espie.

  “This time,” Espie suggested, “why don’t we try targeting straight students? Maybe that way, the signs won’t get torn down so fast.”

  “Good idea,” everyone agreed, and Vicky came up with a poster that read:

  STRAIGHT BUT NOT NARROW?

  JOIN THE GAY-STRAIGHT ALLIANCE

  Carlotta wrote another:

  IT’S NOT A GAY CLUB,

  IT’S A PLACE FOR ALL STUDENTS

  And Carlos thought up one that said:

  HOMOPHOBIA HURTS STRAIGHT PEOPLE TOO

  FIND OUT WHAT YOU CAN DO

  When the group split up to post the signs, Pulga naturally went with Carlotta, and Toro volunteered to go with Vicky. That left Espie with Carlos.

  His legs wobbled nervously as they walked down the quiet hallway Sweat burst from his pores, prickling his skin. He racked his brain for something to say, but he came up blank. When they stopped to put up their first poster, Carlos lifted the sign while Espie handed him the tape, smiling at him from beneath her sweatshirt hood.

  “You’re really cute,” he blurted without thinking. “You shouldn’t hide beneath your hoodie.”

  The color sprang into his cheeks and Espie gave a nervous giggle. “Thanks. My mom is always telling me that. But without it, I feel sort of—you know—naked?”

  Carlos wished she hadn’t said “
naked.” The word set off a pair of boobs dancing through his brain. “Here.” He pulled off his denim jacket. “Wear this instead.”

  “Your jacket?”

  “Yeah.” He held it out to her, hardly believing his boldness. But he also felt weirdly like he didn’t need the jacket anymore.

  Espie gave him a curious grin. Then she pulled off her sweatshirt, handed it to him, and slipped into the jacket. “How’s it look?”

  “Good.” Even though the jacket was a little big, Carlos liked seeing her in it.

  They resumed walking down the hall, and he realized he was no longer sweating or forgetting how to speak. He found himself telling her about his bug collection, music, and anything else that popped into his mind. Espie listened as though truly interested. At this rate, who knew what could happen in the future? At some point he might actually work up the nerve to ask her out—not for a hookup, but for a real date. And maybe, he’d even someday, finally, have a girlfriend.

  Later that week at lunch, Carlos got the uneasy feeling that someone was staring at him. He gazed across the cafeteria toward the table where Roxy sat—just in time to see her glance away.

  It was the first time in days she’d looked anywhere near his direction. And Carlos noticed, too, that Senior Dude was missing from her group.

  What had happened? Had Roxy chewed up the dude and spit him out like she had Carlos? Or had the guy dumped her? And in spite of everything, a little voice in Carlos asked. Does that mean I stand another chance with her?

  The response came that evening, when an IM arrived from GlitterGirl: U wanna hook up? I promise my mom won’t be home till late???. Wanna?

  Carlos sat up in his chair. Did Roxy’s message mean she still liked him—or whatever it was she’d felt toward him?

  His mind flashed to images of making out on her sofa. Inside his pants, he stirred with excitement, ready to bolt out the door. And yet he stopped himself. Did he really want to hook up again with a girl who had crushed his heart and pretty much totaled him?

  His fingers sprang onto the keyboard and typed, Yes.