Chris shakes his head and laughs. “Yeah, no. I throw like a girl.”
Oh thank Zeus!
“Right,” Jack says, making no attempt to ridicule him, and I wonder if he even knows that his best buddy is gay.
Back at the bleachers I walk up to Zoey and look over at Philip who’s still standing there under his umbrella.
“So what’s with the freaky kid?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Zoey says. “Sandy went over to him and asked if he’s all right …”
“And?”
“… and he said he’s waiting for his dad to pick him up.”
As if on cue, a run-down, twenty-year-old old clunker pulls up and stops next to Philip. Thick, white smoke is swelling from under the hood, and the car sounds even worse than its looks. As Philip closes his umbrella, opens the door and slumps into the passenger seat, a small man in his forties gets out of the car.
He’s wearing a grubby jacket and a trilby hat.
The same hat he was wearing when he was standing behind me in the queue on the first day of school.
Now he uses it to fan the smoke away.
“Just look at that!” Jack says.
While everyone is looking, my gaze finds its way half a block down the street where a shiny black Tesla Model S is parked. Sales really must be picking up for Tesla. Unless it’s the same one I’ve seen the other day. I didn’t get a proper look at the driver the first time around, but the person I’m looking at right now has shoulder-length dark hair and is wearing sunglasses and a white tank top. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that she’s sitting in her car in the middle of the day on a relatively boring street with not much to look at.
Like a freaking federal agent or something.
Special Agent Nicole Tesla.
On assignment to surveil closeted high school freshmen.
When the smoke has cleared, Mr. Thongrivong finally gets back into the car, but now the engine won’t start. He gets out and opens the hood again, stooping over the motor compartment to figure out what’s wrong.
Alfonso rises to his feet. “Do you need any help, sir?”
“No, no,” Mr. Thongrivong says and waves his hand dismissively. “Is fine, is fine.”
“Good luck, Mr. Thongrivong!” Sandy calls out to him. Mr. Thongrivong waves at her and smiles awkwardly.
Meanwhile, Philip is sinking deeper and deeper into his seat, and it’s obvious he’d rather we left him and his dad alone. Which is exactly what I’m doing. I’m up for my 100-meter heat, along with Chris, Jack, and three sophomores. As we make our way to the starting line, I hear giggles and emphatic moans from the bleachers. When I turn to look I see Mr. Thongrivong jumping up and down with a painful look on his face, shaking his right hand. Apparently, he burnt himself when he touched the hot engine.
“On your marks,” Coach Gutierrez’s voice sounds from the loudspeakers at the end of the starting blocks. We get into position. I’m running to the right of Chris, Jack to his left. The three sophomores are on the outer lanes.
“Get set!”
As we all lift our butts into the air, there are more giggles from the bleachers, and I hear Sandy cheering Mr. Thongrivong on again, so I assume he’s had another mishap. My heart pounding in my chest, I push all distracting thoughts aside. Endless seconds trickle by, and then, all of a sudden, I see Chris moving forward at almost exactly the same time I hear the starting signal.
We’re off and running. After a few strides, Chris is already several meters ahead of me. His powerful legs keep pumping heavily, and subconsciously, my own legs synchronize their movements with Chris’s.
Left, right, left right.
My eyes focus on the soles of Chris’s running shoes.
They’re red.
I don’t see anything else around me, most notably I don’t see any of the other runners which must be a good sign, because it means they’re not getting ahead of me. My legs keep pumping and I almost forget to breathe. Chris keeps pulling ahead, and I do my best to keep up. By the time he passes Coach Gutierrez by the finish line he has a lead of at least five or six meters. When I cross the finish line moments later, a quick look to the left and right makes me think that all the other runners must have stumbled and fallen, because I can’t see any of them. We run out, and I finally allow myself to breathe again. Ahead of me, Chris slows down and stops. He turns around and smiles as he walks up to me. I stop as well, and he high fives me with a big, bright smile on his face.
“Awesome,” he says hardly out of breath.
I just nod, stoop over and prop my hands against my knees, panting heavily.
The other runners have reached the finish line as well. Now they’re putting their hands on their hips or behind their necks, catching their breaths. Coach Gutierrez walks up to us and we all gather around him as he looks at his tablet computer.
“All right, gentlemen,” he says. He looks at Chris. “You! What’s your name again?”
“Chris Larsen.”
“Right, Mr. Larsen. This is the moment where in a proper competition you’d be disqualified due to a false start. You got out of the starting block five hundredths of a second before the signal. Which would make you …” He turns to me, “… the official winner.”
Now that’s an unexpected turn of events.
Before the race, my biggest hope was to not come in last.
I need some time to process this, so I just nod, trying to conceal a smug grin. At the same time I hear cheers from the bleachers a hundred meters away, and I feel immensely proud, but when I look back at Zoey and the others, they’re not even looking in my direction. They all have their heads turned towards the street where Mr. Thongrivong is taking a bow, waves awkwardly, and finally gets into his car and takes off.
“However,” the coach continues, turning back to Chris, “this was not an official race, so you’re first, Mr. Larsen. Good time too, 12:21.”
“Thanks,” Chris says.
“As for the rest of you, gentlemen, great race. Photo finish for third place, although I think it was probably you, Mr. …”
“Jack Antonelli.”
“Right, Mr. Antonelli.”
Chris walks up to Jack and high fives him. I’m tempted to do the same, but Jack would probably find it patronizing and offensive, so I don’t.
“All right,” the coach says, “those of you who want to do the 800 or 1500 meters, stick around. The rest of you get out of here!”
Chris walks around high-fiving the rest of the runners, and being the good sportsmen that we are, Jack and I follow suit. Then we walk back to the bleachers. When we get there, Zoey and Alfonso come walking toward me. At first it seems they’re excited about my excellent result, but it turns out they completely missed it.
“So how did it go?” Zoey asks, “Were you any good?”
I’m struggling to maintain my smile. This was probably one of the proudest and most exciting moments in my school career, and my sister and my best friend completely missed it because they were watching some stupid Asian driver fix his stupid car.
“All right,” I say. “I came in second after Chris.”
“That’s awesome,” Alfonso says and pats my shoulder as Zoey flings her arms around my neck. I’m trying to appreciate their joy, but it has a stale taste to it. They shouldn’t even have to ask me how it went. They could have seen it if only they’d bothered to look.
This is so not fair.
Just like it’s probably not fair that I truly hate Philip, his ugly face, and his stupid dad’s stupid car from the bottom of my heart for taking this moment away from me.
Screw fairness, though.
And Screw you, Philip Thongrivong.
* * *
The afternoon drags on with more tryout heats and endless breaks in between. Chris, Jack, and I try for the 800 meters. I come in third in my heat, after Chris and Jack. It’s another unexpected success for me, and it comes with a special treat. Right after we cross the finish line, Chris turns around and f
lings his arms around Jack. It’s one of those extremely buff, sportsmanly hugs that male athletes around the world can get away with without raising any suspicions about their sexual orientation and that even someone like Jack can engage in with no reserve and no sense of irony. I’m standing right next to them as they hug, and after three powerful pats on Jack’s back, Chris turns to me and throws himself around my neck. It feels extremely awkward and yet at the same time so exciting. Chris’s body is hot, literally hot, and he smells of deodorant and fresh sweat. I enjoy his embrace a lot more than I probably should, so I make sure to break away from it after a quick pat on his back before my body starts reacting in an embarrassing way. Jack is standing right next to us, and I don’t even know what I’m thinking when I turn to him with my arms stretched out. It’s probably just a reflex, fed by an adrenaline overdose mixed with some strange desire to belong, but before the heat of the moment gets to carry me away, Jack takes a step back, scowls at me and says, “Don’t you dare touch me, faggot!”
Heads immediately turn our way, and I walk away, pretending that I wasn’t involved in whatever prompted Jack’s outburst, but it’s pointless because everyone around us has witnessed the situation. Angry, embarrassed, and confused, I just want to get out of here so I start walking back toward the bleachers, but Coach Gutierrez stops me. He grabs my wrist and drags me along as he walks up to Jack in the biggest strides his short legs can muster.
“You!” he shouts at Jack who is walking away, but he doesn’t get far. “Hey! You! Antonelli! Get back here!”
Jack stops and turns towards us. When we reach him, Coach Gutierrez rises on his tiptoes and looks down on Jack. I don’t know how he does it because he barely reaches Jack’s size, but it almost looks as though he’s towering over him.
“All right, listen to me, Mr. Antonelli! I will not tolerate any bullying, taunting, or aggressive behavior, homophobic or otherwise, on my watch. If I ever hear anything like that again you can go and find something else to do, knitting or ballet or whatever else, I don’t care. Have I made myself clear?”
He’s still clasping my wrist so hard it hurts.
“Yes,” Jack says.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good! Now apologize to Mr. Dunstan!”
The coach yanks up my hand and offers it to Jack.
Meanwhile, I wish I were elsewhere. The far side of the moon seems like a lovely place. I appreciate the coach taking a stand against bullying and name calling, but apparently he doesn’t realize that he isn’t exactly doing me a favor by pointing out the homophobic nature of Jack’s outburst, because honestly, this is more likely to make people think I’m gay than Jack calling me a faggot.
Jack reluctantly shakes my hand, giving it a strong, painful squeeze, and mumbles, “Sorry,” without even looking at me.
“No, no, no!” the coach says. “Louder, and at least have the decency to look Mr. Dunstan in the eyes and say it like you mean it!”
“I’m sorry, Matt,” Jack says with the darkest, most intimidating look in his eyes I have ever seen, and I’ve seen a few.
The coach finally lets go of my wrist. “Good,” he says. “Now let’s move on. Those in the 1500 meters stick around. The rest of you get the hell out of here!”
I don’t need to be told twice.
* * *
I don’t shower. I just rub my sweaty hair dry with my towel, quickly get changed and hurry out of the locker room. Just before I’m out of the door I hear Chris calling after me as he’s coming in from the track.
“Matt! Wait!”
I decide I’ve had enough social interaction for the day, so I pull the door open and leave. In the hallway, Jason, who also didn’t take a shower, is waiting and checking his phone.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and switch it on. I want to text Zoey and Alfonso and tell them not to wait for me because I’m going straight home, but I’m distracted by an incoming Wattpad notification. 2-b-pretty finally sent another message! Excited, I’m about to open it when I hear Zoey’s voice behind me.
“Matt!”
I turn around and see Zoey, Alfonso, Sandy coming down the hallway. I switch off my phone and slide it back into my pocket.
“Hey,” I say, trying to act casually.
“What happened?” Zoey asks as they approach me. “What was going on there with Jack and the coach?”
I wave my hand dismissively and force a smile. “Nah, nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing to me, to be honest,” Zoey keeps prying.
“It was nothing. Never mind.”
Behind me I hear the door to the locker room open. When I look over my shoulder I see Chris walking toward us. He’s taken off his sweaty shirt, but he’s still wearing his track shorts and running shoes.
“Matt,” he says.
I’m so sick and tired of hearing that name! Why can’t everybody just leave me alone?
“Jack and I are going to the Korova for a milkshake or something, and I wanted to ask you if you want to join us.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to stare at his erect nipples, “but …”
“The Korova?” Zoey asks. “What’s that?”
“It’s a milk bar up on Madison, across from the mall. They have great milkshakes and pastries. Scones and cupcakes and stuff.”
“Oh,” Zoey says with a scheming smile and puts her hand on my shoulders. “Sounds great. Matt loves cupcakes. Don’t you, Matt?”
I glare at her.
“Awesome,” Chris says as if it’s a done deal. “By the way, you guys wanna join us too? The more, the merrier.”
Glances are being exchanged and shoulders are being shrugged, and in the end everyone is like, “Yeah, sure, why not.”
I don’t have an exit strategy. If everyone is tagging along, there is no way for me to drop out. Chris or not, if it weren’t for the others, there would be no way I’d voluntarily spend more time with Jack this afternoon. Then again, with my friends in the majority, I hope I can avoid further confrontations.
“Awesome,” Chris says again. He quickly pats me on the back and says, “Jack and I will right out, just give us a minute.”
“All right,” I say with little enthusiasm.
When Chris disappears back in the locker room, Zoey turns to me. “So?”
“So what?”
“So are you gonna tell us what happened out there? Because it wasn’t nothing.”
I sigh. I wish Zoey would make use of her privileged position as my sister by asking me intimate questions like that in a private conversation and not in front of the whole world, but apparently her curiosity is getting the best of her.
“Look,” I say before I even know it, “Jack called me a faggot, okay? The coach called him out on it and made him apologize to me. The end. Can we move on now?”
“Oh,” Zoey says, finally realizing why I was reluctant to come forward with these details. But the cat is out of the bag now. I still can’t believe I used the words me and faggot in the same sentence, or that I used the word faggot at all.
Sandy throws herself around my neck and hugs me. “Don’t worry about it. Jack says all sorts of silly things all the time. We know you’re not a faggot.”
Alfonso chuckles at her naïveté. “Oh boy.”
“What?” she says innocently. “He isn’t, is he?”
“I think,” Jason jumps in, “what he means is that you probably shouldn’t be using that word. It’s kind of … offensive.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t call anyone a faggot, did I? I was merely quoting Jack.”
“Right,” Zoey says, “and if someone used the n-word and you were quoting them, would you spell it out too?”
“Hell no!”
Zoey nods and raises an eyebrow at Sandy. “Think about that.”
“Well, with faggot it’s different, isn’t it? If I were to say F-word instead of faggot, it w
ould be confusing. Some people would think that instead of faggot I might refer to … you know, the other F-word.”
“Oh what the fuck!” Zoey says and throws her arms up in the air.
Sandy nods. “Exactly.”
“Guys, guys!” I say. “Can we all stop saying all these words for eff’s sake? I mean, Jesus Christ!”
“Right on!” Jason says, and everyone nods approvingly. Well, almost everyone. Sandy looks at me with big, sad eyes and says, “Don’t use the name of the Lord in vain, Matthew.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a deep and desperate sigh.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Korova’s interior is modernistic but simple. Plastic and glass surfaces are refracting the bright lights from the rainbow-colored ceiling and making the room distinctly colorful. In contrast, the walls are decorated with larger than life black-and-white photographs, very artistic photographs of couples kissing or looking at each other with longing eyes.
Nothing wrong with that, but it’s worth pointing out they’re all gay couples.
Nothing wrong with that either, obviously, but it takes me by surprise. After the way my day has been going so far, I wasn’t expecting to be taken to a gay bar—a gay milk bar but technically a gay bar nonetheless. Apparently I’m not the only person who’s taken aback.
“Whoa,” Zoey says as she looks around.
Alfonso looks at a particularly sexy photograph of two girls making out. Then he nudges me with his elbow and flicks his head at the picture. “How about that, huh?”
“Uh,” I say, too stunned to come up with a more refined response.
Sandy and Jason glance around, their eyes the size of saucers. The only person who doesn’t seem surprised, apart from Chris, is Jack.
Which, ironically, is very surprising.
The patrons are a colorful mix, both in age and gender. By the window, a lesbian couple is having milkshakes with their two pre-k kids, a boy and a girl. Back in the corner, two guys in their late twenties are looking at us, sipping coffee. In the next booth, two younger dudes are holding hands and looking at a music video on their laptop, sharing one pair of earbuds between them.
Cupid Painted Blind Page 7
