On Rotation(10)

“That’s amazing,” I said. “He should’ve just taught you to do this! Why even bother with law?”

Ricky shrugged.

“Pretty sure he just likes the billboards.” He smirked. “You know. Gutiérrez and Sons. ‘We bring the hammer!’”

“Didn’t work on your dad?” I asked.

“My dad,” Ricky said without skipping a beat, “is a piece of shit. So . . . no.”

He sounded bored as he said it, not impassioned or even angry but weary, the way you’d get over rain that never stopped or a drain that never completely came unclogged.

“That was very un-feminist of you, by the way,” he said, chugging along as if he hadn’t just dropped the Daddy Issues bomb on me. “Jumped straight to Dad. Why can’t Mom be the potential lawyer parent?”

I scrunched my nose.

“How’d you know that that wasn’t my next question?”

Ricky squinted one eye at me.

“Because it wasn’t.”

“You’re right. I’m problematic.” I watched a striped caterpillar inch its way up one of the bench’s legs. “So you decided to be an artist even though your grandpa was pushing for the J.D. because your dad is, what, unworthy?”

“First of all, I’m a graphic designer,” he said. “I illustrate on the side. But yeah, pretty much. So, what do you do?”

“Ricky uses evade,” I said, smirking. “It’s not very effective.”

If Ricky was offended by my nosiness, he didn’t show it. Instead, he laughed and shook his head in disbelief.

“And now a Pokémon reference.” He grabbed my hand, sandwiching it between his. “Jesus. Who are you? I mean, other than perfect.”

My heart seized in my chest at his touch. Oh my god, Angie, you are insane, I thought. Not even one day had passed since I’d been dumped by Frederick, and I was trying to catch feelings for a complete stranger. And an artsy boy, no less: the most likely subtype to ruin my life and destroy my credit.

I slid my hand out from between his and nestled it between my thighs. I watched Ricky’s eyes track the movement. Then they ticked back up to mine, his lips curling into a smile.

“Charming me will get you nowhere,” I said, even though it was getting him everywhere.

Ricky tapped his foot. I followed his gaze over the garden, out onto the sidewalk at the entrance, where people still passed, walking in their troupes, not sparing the spill of nature in the middle of their city even the slightest glance.

“I’m starting to think you’re a bit strange,” Ricky said without malice. “I think a normal person would know that they’re just supposed to awkwardly pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” I said, chuckling. “Regardless, you did say something, so I’m not going to ignore it. Unless you don’t want to talk about it. We can make fun of pedestrians instead.” A young man with a most unfortunate hairline walked in front of the gate. “For example, someone who loves homie over there really should tell him to just give up, shave his head, and grow a beard like everyone else—”

Ricky held his hands up. The tension hadn’t left his shoulders.

“Okay, okay. Can’t let you go off attacking people because of me,” he said. “And don’t think I’m letting you off the hook. Law of equivalent exchange, right?”

I shrugged, but I was smiling. “Let’s see what you’ve got first.”

*

“My dad isn’t really in my life,” Ricky said. He scraped the ground with the heel of his shoe. “Grandparents did all the raising. He only used to really show up to ask for money. He was fine when I was younger, I guess, but now . . . Now I’m competition. So he just tries to piss me off.”

I whistled. “Ah.” Then: “Does it work?”

*

Ricky and I talked for two hours. I didn’t realize how long we’d been sitting there, on a creaky aluminum bench in the middle of a tiny block garden, until our secluded space began to fill with people. Despite the heat, we were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, fingers touching but not overlapping, breathing in tandem. The conversation had started out about his dad, who I agreed sounded like trouble, then about his grandparents, who, in direct contrast, sounded incredible. I told him about my Step score, about how, after years of watching my hard work translate into success, I suddenly had to contend with failure. (I didn’t tell him about Frederick, because, well, he’d already seen me crying. No use making myself look even more pathetic by letting him know that it was over some guy.) We talked about art, with the vague promise of going to the Art Institute together sometime soon, then politics. I talked about how disappointed I had been in my classmates’ silence about unarmed Black people being executed by police when they could be so loud about unjust exam questions. He talked about how, over the years, the friends he had grown up with in Logan Square had been pushed out of their homes by rental hikes, only to be replaced by wealthier, whiter families who repainted their brightly colored sidings with palatable, neutral tones. (“My grandparents were lucky. They own their house but . . . the neighborhood doesn’t quite feel like home anymore.”)

I felt like I knew him, even though I didn’t. I remembered Tabatha’s advice, given years ago after a failed situationship. Don’t think too hard about things. Just live in the moment.