When Everything Is Blue(12)

“He talks to me through Tabitha,” I tell him. “There’s another baby on the way. A boy.”

“Wow. That makes five, huh?”

I nod. My dad is prolific. I’ll give him that.

“Still,” Chris says. “He could call you once in a while. Say what’s up and all.”

“I’d have to get a cavity for that to happen.”

Chris shakes his head, trying not to smile. “That is so messed up, Theo.”

“Yeah, especially since he’s not even my dentist anymore.”

We share a hard, bitter chuckle at that. Kind of feels like ice-cold air on the lungs. My dad’s a real deadbeat, something I’ve gotten used to over the years. I don’t like to dwell on it because then I get pissed off. Or I get sad and start feeling sorry for myself, which is way worse.

Chris and I arrive at school a few minutes early to claim our lockers, the same ones we had last year in Hibiscus Hall—the four quadrants of our school are named after flowers instead of cardinal directions. Like we can be duped by the naming of things as easily as tourists. For whatever reason Hib Hall, as it’s more commonly known, is where the “popular” kids hang out. I don’t really care about the cool factor, but it is centrally located, which is convenient. Chris’s surfer friends all have lockers there, along with some of the skater punks—my colleagues. Our circles overlap.

We say what’s up to Corbin, Jake, and Tomás, part of our inner circle who are milling around our section of lockers. Chris finds his locker from last year, and I’m about to claim the one next to his, but there’s someone blocking my way.

New kid. T-shirt stretched tight over broad shoulders. He’s putting his stuff into my old locker. I’m about to ask him to trade when the new kid stops and stares down the hallway, lets out a wolf whistle. “Hot damn,” he says. I follow his gaze and see that it’s none other than my sister who’s attracted his attention. She’s sporting a dress-code violation short skirt and high heels, doing her swishy walk down the hallway, turning heads and setting loins afire. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“That is one hot tamale,” the new kid bellows loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “Wouldn’t mind taking her over one knee.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say instinctively, getting all up in the kid’s face so I know he hears me. He’s wide like Chris but a little chubby in the gut. Artfully buzzed hair like he just got it cut, and a little bit of acne on his face. He looks amused. I want to knock the smarmy smirk right off his face.

“That’s his sister,” Corbin says by way of explanation.

“Aye, Papi,” the new kid says to me, picking up on my ethnicity, I’m guessing. His eyes go wide like he’s testing me to see what I’ll do next.

“Shut the fuck up and move your shit to another locker,” Chris says before I have the chance to respond.

“Why?” the new kid says to him. “I don’t see your name on it.”

Chris doesn’t argue with him, just reaches inside the locker and yanks everything out so it spills onto the floor—books, papers, folders. Chris unhinges the lock, clicks it shut, and bowls it down the hallway. It gets lost in the shuffle of feet. Corbin shakes his head, a knowing little smile on his face. Jake and Tomás pause their conversation to see what will happen next.

“Welcome to Sabal Palm High, asshole,” Chris says in his deep, scary, man voice. It would intimidate me if I didn’t know him like I do. “Now get the fuck out of our way.”

The kid looks between Chris and me. His smile widens. He leans down and opens the locker beneath mine.

“Have it your way,” he says to me. “You can be on top for now.”

Those words, on top, and the way he says it, the way he looks at me like I’m an easy target. He knows. He knows everything. And he’s putting it right there on display for everyone to hear. Fuck.

I jam my backpack into my locker, then stuff my skateboard on top of it, thinking to get out of there as quickly as possible. I don’t want to even look at Chris because it will reveal something about me I don’t want him to see. The kid just watches me, arms crossed, like he’s enjoying the show.

“You skate?” he says to me like we’re friends. I ignore him, fumbling with my lock. I haven’t used it in three months, and I’ve forgotten the hang of it. “I’m new here,” the kid says. “Maybe you could show me where the good skate spots are around town.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Chris says to the new kid, still staring him down and standing broadside to further intimidate him. Chris hasn’t even bothered to put his stuff away.

“Why? Is he your bitch?”

Everyone goes silent for a second, the whole hallway it seems, the whole city of West Palm proper. Then Chris lunges at him, slams him back against the locker with his forearm locked under the kid’s chin, like he could break his windpipe if he felt like it. I jump out of the way. I’ve never seen Chris pull a move like that before. Meanwhile our crew all make ooh and ahh noises, the musical prelude to an ass beating.

“Watch your mouth,” Chris hisses. Now the kid looks rattled.

“Everything all right here?” a teacher barks, storming up to us, knowing full well everything is not all right. Chris has a reputation for being a good kid, though, which is why the teacher gives him the chance to back down.