by Adam Silvera
I step into this corner store, Sherman’s Deli, and pick up a little something for her since it feels like a dick move to take a girl’s virginity without some kind of present. Skinny-Dave says flowers are the perfect deflowering gift, so if that’s what he thinks, it’s gotta be the wrong move.
As I approach Genevieve’s door and knock, I look down at my crotch and say, “You better do what you were made to do. So help me God, I will ruin you if you don’t. I will absolutely massacre you. Okay, Aaron, stop talking to your dick. And yourself.”
Genevieve opens the door in a sleeveless yellow shirt and bedroom eyes. “Good conversation with your dick?”
“Not nearly as deep as I would’ve liked it to be.” I lean forward and kiss her. “I’m a little early so if you need a few more minutes with your other boyfriend I can wait out here.”
“Get in here before we break up again.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
She starts closing the door.
“Wait, wait.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a pack of Skittles.
“You’re the best.”
I shrug. “It seemed weird to come empty-handed.”
Genevieve grabs my hand and drags me inside. The apartment smells of the huckleberry candles her mother gave her and also of hot paint, probably Genevieve mixing up a shade she couldn’t find inside of a Home Depot.
After my dad passed, I spent a lot of time on that living room couch crying into Genevieve’s lap. She promised things would eventually be okay. Her promise actually carried weight since she lost a parent too—versus my friends, who consoled me with pats on the back and awkward glances.
Genevieve is the reason things got better.
Colorful paintings line the hallway walls. There are canvases of alive gardens, circuses where clowns watch ordinary people do tricks, glowing cities below a deep black sea, clay towers melting underneath a harsh sun, and so much more. Her father doesn’t say much about her art, but her mother always bragged about how Genevieve painted rainbows in their proper order before she was old enough to spell her own name.
Creepy china dolls crowd a mail-littered table with a dish for keys. A brochure with Genevieve’s name catches my eye. “What’s this?” I ask, looking at the cabin on the cover.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is nothing, Gen.” I open the booklet. “An art resort in New Orleans?”
“Yeah. It’s a three-week stay out in the woods working on art with zero distractions. I thought it could be a good space for me to maybe finally finish something but . . .” Genevieve gives me this sad smile and I hate myself.
“But you couldn’t trust your dumb-idiot boyfriend to be alone.” I hand her the brochure. “I’m done holding you back. If you don’t go, make sure it’s because you want to have sex all summer.”
Genevieve flings the brochure back on the table. “I should probably make sure it’s worth staying for first, right?” She winks and walks deeper down the hall, vanishing into the living room.
This apartment was so confusing my first time here that I walked in on her father comparing blueprints for a new mall he’s assisting with. Yeah, he has an office in his apartment, and meanwhile I share a living room with my brother and am limited to masturbating in my bathroom. Life sucks that way.
The scent of huckleberry grows stronger as I step inside her bedroom. I see the two candles sitting on top of her bureau, the only source of light in a room dark with unfinished paintings and two sixteen-year-olds about to grow up. Her bed is made with deep blue covers. Genevieve looks like she’s sitting in the middle of the ocean. I drop my bag and push the door closed behind me.
This is it.
“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Genevieve says. Seems very role-reversal based on all the bad TV I’ve watched, but sweet of her to offer. Or not offer.
The last time we tried having sex I got sick from movie popcorn. It was some romantic comedy thing—we were on a double date with our classmates Collin and Nicole (who are expecting a kid now, crazy)—but I’m ready to do this. I’m not backing out.
“Are you sure you want to?”
“Get over here, Aaron Soto.”
I imagine myself tearing my shirt off and charging toward her for awesome sex, but I’m more likely to get tangled in my shirt, tripping over my feet, and making this everything but awesome. So I just walk over, managing not to trip, and sit down beside her, nice and simple. “So. You, uh, come around here often?”
“Yes, I come around my house often, dumb-idiot.”
She hugs my neck and squeezes. I choke for a second, collapse backward on her, and play dead. Genevieve smacks my chest, and between giggles says, “No one suffocates . . . that quickly! You suck . . . at dying! You are the . . . worst dead guy ever!”
Confidence floods through me in this little moment where I poorly played dead and she called me out on it, and it’s a joke that will remain between us because it happened in our personal space where we were about to do a very personal thing and I know I want this with her without a doubt. I break free from her not-quite-tight grip, slide up on her, and kiss her lips and neck, and everything else I instinctively feel is right. She pulls my shirt off and it sails over my shoulder.
“Remember that time you were half naked in my bed?” Genevieve asks, looking up at me.
I take off her shirt and leave her in a bra.
She unzips my jeans and I kick them off with much awkward difficulty while she laughs. If I thought there was any chance Genevieve would’ve laughed seeing me in my boxers, I would’ve faked a reason to get out of this. But I can’t recall a time where I felt more exposed and comfortable in my life. I care for her so hard, whether Dad would’ve advised that for my first time or not, and my happiness and her happiness will be one of my greatest hits.
4
MANHUNT ON FAMILY DAY
It’s Family Day. While everyone’s setting up outside, I’m manning the counter at Good Food’s because the owner, Mohad, had to pick up his older brother from the airport. The work doesn’t bother me, especially after the night I had. I handled the morning shipment without bitching. I even upsold all the honeybuns that are expiring tomorrow so we wouldn’t have any waste. Throughout the morning, my friends popped in so I would spill all the details. It’s probably bad form to tell your boys all about your deeds the day after it happens, but there’s just no way you can’t not talk about it.
Brendan grilled me for very personal details about Genevieve—who isn’t due to show up until later—but eventually backed off after a line was forming behind him. Skinny-Dave wanted to know how many times we did it (twice!) and how long I lasted (not long but I lied). Baby Freddy wanted to compare first-time tales, except his sounds like bullshit, and to this day, Tiffany denies ever doing anything with him. Lastly, Nolan asked me if I actually went through with it. This, when he came in to buy baby wipes for his two girls; he always uses condoms, but he must be wearing them really wrong. That’s more than can be said for Collin, who didn’t bother using a condom with Nicole.
On our block, there are guys and girls in their late twenties who we’ve grown up calling “the Big Kids.” We’ve watched them kick each other’s asses, date, and hook up with each other’s exes. Some have even gone to college and stayed away. Others, like Devon Ortiz, are still around. Devon comes in to buy panty hose for his mother and congratulates me. This concerns me because it means word is getting around quickly, but also makes me feel kind of proud, like I’m finally one of the Big Kids myself.
By the time Mohad gets back, Brendan has also returned, crowding the counter with Nolan and Skinny-Dave. “When do you get off? We want to get a game of manhunt going.”
“Mohad asked me to stay until one,” I answer.
From across the store, Mohad shouts in his thick Arabic accent, “Soto! You’re good to go now if you a
nd your smelly friends clear out of here.”
They all cheer. We bounce.
The energy out here is different from when I started work at 8:00. Nearby, my brother is shuffling cards with his gaming friends: there’s Ronny, who always talks shit online but hasn’t ever won a fight in real life; Stevie, who met his girlfriend, Tricia, on a dating website for video game fanatics (except he hasn’t actually met her-met her yet); and Chinese Simon, who is actually Japanese but didn’t speak up until a year too late.
My mom is handing out hot dogs to Fat-Dave and his younger healthy-sized brother. She made them on her neighbor Carrie’s grill and I hope they’re not waterlogged like they were on my twelfth birthday. Brendan and I spat them out behind her back and went to Joey’s to split a meatball sub.
Skinny-Dave’s mother, Kaci, pushes a shopping cart of blue shirts toward us. The shirts are all paid for months in advance, but I know Mom couldn’t afford them for us this year so we’ll look like oddballs in any pictures taken for our community center. Kaci hands Fat-Dave his extra-large shirt, which is great since there are now mustard stains on the white shirt he’s wearing. Kaci hands her own son his shirt before approaching Brendan and me. “You two are both mediums, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think my mom ordered one for me,” I say.
“I didn’t order one either,” Brendan says.
Kaci hands us shirts. “Your family has taken care of you, boys. Have fun today and let any of us know if you need anything.”
We thank her and slip our shirts over the ones we’re already wearing. The shirts are sort of lame. You’ll rarely see them worn after tonight except maybe when you’re doing laundry or when sleeping over at a friend’s house. But I do kind of, sort of, definitely like the sense of unity they bring. They really make this four-building complex feel less like a shitty place where we happen to live and more like a home.
My mom calls me over. She hasn’t looked happy in so long, but she looks especially not happy with me right now. Whatever she’s talking to Baby Freddy’s mother about—a conversation I can’t make out because she rarely uses Spanish at home—she cuts herself off and snaps, “I’m very proud of myself for not storming into your place of work after I learned you weren’t at Brendan’s last night.”
Not really sure why Baby Freddy’s mother is hanging around since gossip is pointless when everyone already knows what’s going on.
“Who told you?”
“Your brother.”
I was hoping it was just word of mouth. “Judas.”
“You are under our watch, Aaron, and you don’t have the same freedom your father and I once allowed you, not anymore. If you’re going anywhere, I know about it and I have to speak with the adult who’s going to be there.”
“Okay, yeah. Fine. Can I go?”
“Were you safe?”
“Yes, Mom.” Fucking kill me. The smell of burnt hot dogs catches her attention and I head back to my friends. Brendan, Skinny-Dave, and Baby Freddy all give me the yo-you-just-got-in-trouble-like-some-little-kid look. “Fucking Eric snitched on where I spent my night.” I flip him off even though his back is turned to me. “Let’s just get a game going, okay?”
How to Play Manhunt: One person is designated as the hunter and everyone else has two minutes to hide somewhere inside our block. Once the hunter catches you, you’re on his team and you have to help him capture other players until everyone’s caught or the hour is up.
It’s sort of like tag, except way more intense.
Baby Freddy asks for any volunteers to be the hunter. He’s automatically out because the last time he was hunter, his mother called him upstairs for his 9:00 curfew and left us all hiding for an hour before we realized he was home. Both Daves hate hunting. Deon bites the bullet and counts down.
Brendan and I try keeping up with Me-Crazy as he storms into the garage where we’re sure we’ll see Skinny-Dave any minute. He always hides underneath cars (which almost ended badly . . . twice). Me-Crazy is our resident manhunt fanatic, and we’re pretty sure he will become a threat to society the next time he’s really bored. But for now, he’s a bit of a pioneer when it comes to the best hiding spots. He was the first to discover the third-floor hallway window of Building 135 opens up to the connecting rooftop—where we throw all our deflating handballs and empty Top Pop bottles and Arizona cans from ground level. He’s also the only player to this day to ever hop a ride on top of a moving Nissan to get away from six hunters. No joke, but his name is also Dave. He nicknamed himself Me-Crazy after all these not-so-sane stunts, and because of that one time he clipped the wings of a wounded bird for a laugh. We’re lucky he likes us.
Me-Crazy’s Timberland boots don’t slow him down, but his footsteps are so loud I’m surprised they never give him away. “Stop following Me-Crazy,” Me-Crazy says. “Yah going to get Me-Crazy caught.”
“Not if we all hide together,” I gasp. Brendan is lagging behind.
Me-Crazy halts, and it’s not so he can point out his next hiding space. He rolls his eyes back until all we see is white. He punches his own face and jogs in place.
Oh shit: Crazy Train Mode. When he’s like this, he lifts people up onto his shoulders and bangs them against walls and cars and whatever the fuck else is around.
“We’ll stop following you, goddamn it,” I tell him.
We jet around him while he stands still, not turning back; he knows we know better.
“Fucking psycho,” Brendan says as we reach the far end of the garage and run into Building 155. We sneak into the unoccupied maintenance office and catch our breath. It smells like dirty mop water and toilet plungers. Brendan spits inside this sink that’s filled to the brim with yellowed water. “You have to tell me about Genevieve’s tits now.”
“No way.”
We hear footsteps and crouch, keeping our backs against a broken-down table.
“Punk,” Brendan whispers, peeking over the table for Deon or custodians. “Props to you, A. I thought for sure you were going to pull some fag shit and not go through with it.”
“You wish,” I whisper back. “It was pretty fucking incredible.”
“I bet. No homo, but I would watch that sex tape to see your girl in action. Not you.”
“I’m really uncomfortable right now,” I joke.
“FUCK.”
I turn to see what’s got Brendan wilding out. Deon is coming toward us. We both hop up and separate so he’ll have to choose. I don’t like my odds. Deon is fit from years of being on the football team and once he grapples me, I’m done. (Yeah, you gotta basically bear-hug someone for three beats of “Manhunt one, two, three. Manhunt one, two, three . . .” to capture them.) Deon fakes coming for me and grabs Brendan, setting me up for escape.
I bolt, my heart pumping hard. I skip stairs, slamming open the door. I’m running out of breath but I can’t get caught now, not unless I want to spend the rest of the game figuring out where the fuck Me-Crazy is. We’d all have a better chance finding Bigfoot playing with the Holy Grail. I head to the little alleyway where I can hide inside a Dumpster—hell no, scratch that—hide behind a Dumpster. But the gate is locked.
Upside: I’m skinny enough to squeeze my way through if I can pry the gate open.
Downside: I’m too skinny and lacking the muscle needed to pull this off.
Someone behind me whistles. I almost jet down the block toward Dead Man’s Corner, named so because it’s easy to get cornered if you’re up against two hunters. But it’s not Deon or Brendan. Some stranger-guy with light brown skin and thick eyebrows is standing at the curb. He’s with a short girl with dyed red hair who looks frustrated or sad or both.
“You okay?” he asks me.
“Yeah, playing manhunt,” I manage. “And it’s going to be game over in a sec.” I keep pulling and pulling, trying to squeeze in but am just going to get stuck. “Fuck y
ou, gate!” Eyebrows Guy says something to the girl, turns his back on her, and walks over to me. She looks fucking murderous and finally walks away while he nudges me to the side. He pulls open the gate. “Get in there.”
“Awesome, thanks.” I slide in and take cover behind some cinder blocks since the Dumpster chokes me with its stench of hot garbage. I hear footsteps stampeding our way and I lie flat on the ground, the concrete warming my face and smelling like baked tar.
I hear Eyebrows ask, “You looking for some tall kid?” I can only assume Deon and Brendan nod because he then says, “He went that way.” The footsteps continue on toward Dead Man’s Corner. “Coast is clear, Stretch.”
I get up and approach him, wrapping my fingers around the chinks of the fence dividing us. “Thanks, yo.”
“Happy to help,” he says with a smile that probably bags him a lot of girls. “I’m Thomas, by the way.”
“Aaron,” I say, extending my hand to shake his, but we’re still on opposite sides of the gate. He laughs a little. “So what was going on with that girl?”
“I was breaking up with her.”
“Yikes. Why?”
“She’s not really right for me anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“Nothing you would care about.”
I’m half nervous Brendan and Deon will sneak up from behind me, but I’m also half curious to know why this stranger-guy named Thomas broke up with his girlfriend. “So our one-year anniversary is today,” he says breaking the silence. “I went to the mall to buy Sara’s favorite perfume. I didn’t remember what it was called, and I know I knew it before. I didn’t think it was a big deal, I knew what it smelled like and I could figure it out from there.” He pulls out a couple movie tickets from his wallet. “Then I saw these ticket stubs. I couldn’t remember if I saw these movies with Sara or my cousins.”
“Okay . . .” I wonder when this story will take a crazy twist, like he slept with her sister or something.
