When Everything Is Blue(15)

“Like taking an actual shit,” I joke.

He smiles and looks a little bashful. It’s kind of cute. “Yeah, if everything’s working right, I guess. You skate pretty, if that makes it any better.”

“I appreciate it,” I tell him with a smile. I’m always saying weird shit or intending to say one thing when something else slips out, so I cut Justin some slack.

I pay him for the drinks and return to the parking lot, where Chris is grinding the curbs. Chris skates like he surfs—all power and strength, but the pavement isn’t nearly as flexible or forgiving as a wave. You have to relax your ankles a lot more to maneuver a skateboard, which is hard for him. Sometimes it takes a light touch.

I watch him for a few minutes, recalling how I was the one to show him how to ollie in middle school, and the only reason he stuck with it was to prove to me that he could do it too. That’s probably the only reason I got so good at skateboarding—to have something I was better at than him. Then I notice his tongue poking out in concentration, and it reminds me of the other night in the tent when his focus was on getting me off.

Abort, abort, abort.

“You laid waste to that bank, Papi,” Dave says to me like a bruh. He’s broken away from his group of friends to join me where I stand, apart from the others.

“Don’t call me that.” Like a cloud passing in front of the sun, my mood instantly sours.

“Maybe you could tell me your name so I won’t have to.”

“You know my name.”

“I want you to tell me.”

“Theo Wooten.”

“Dave Ackerman.” He puts out his hand and instead of shaking it, I take a drink of my Gatorade. He gestures like he’s slicking back his hair to play off the rebuff.

“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he continues. “In my defense, I didn’t know she was your sister.”

“Is this going to be one of those things where you pick on me until I try to fight you?”

He backs away, but not very far. “I hope not. I don’t want to fight you. I know you and your friends call me Asshole Dave, but I’m really not trying to be an asshole.”

“You must be a natural at it, then.”

That shuts him up. I finish my drink, toss the bottle in a nearby trashcan, and drop my board on the pavement to deliver Chris his Mountain Dew while it’s still cold.

Dave grabs my arm. “We should hang out,” he says again.

I shrug him off me, kick up my board and look at him for the first time, thinking up a way to tell him off, but he’s not smirking anymore. His eyes search mine, and his expression looks almost… vulnerable. Why in the world would Asshole Dave want to hang out with me, other than to torment me?

“Why?” I ask.

He glances away like he’s nervous or maybe trying to make sure no one’s around, clears his throat, and says all secretively, “Because I think you’re hot?”

It takes me a few seconds to process, my disbelief registering a beat too late. “You are so full of shit.”

He grabs my arm again, then seems to realize his misstep and quickly lets go. “I swear I’m not. Pull out your phone. Enter in these seven numbers. They’re next week’s winning Lotto numbers.”

“There are only six Lotto numbers.”

“The seventh is for good luck.”

Now I’m confused. Asshole Dave is really trying to give me his number? He thinks I’m hot? Is he, like, gay or something? Bi? From all the trash he talks in the hallway, it seems like there’s a different honey on his jock every weekend.

“Are you hitting on me?” I’m more curious than angry.

He nods, his face somber as a funeral. “I’ve been hitting on you all week. I guess my Spanish isn’t as good as I thought.”

That’s a revelation. “I thought you were just being racist. Calling me Papi and shit.”

“I say stupid shit sometimes. A lot of the time. Anyway, I’m risking a beatdown right now from your boyfriend just to give you my number.”

I glance over at Chris, who’s taken a break from skating and is watching us with interest.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, trying to hide any feelings I might have about it.

“Does he know that?”

Because it’s none of Dave’s damn business and I want to quit this conversation before Chris sniffs us out, I pull out my phone, and Dave gives me his number. I don’t have to call him. I could just let his number sit in there, uncalled, forever. If he is interested in me, that’s one way to mess with him.

“I’ll be around all weekend,” Dave says. The smirk is back, and even though I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, Asshole Dave is kind of growing on me.

Or maybe I’m just that desperate.




“WHAT DID Asshole Dave want?” Chris asks. We’re stopped at a taco truck on our way back home from BOA. Chris is putting back five tacos to my two.

I’m not really sure what Asshole Dave wants, but I’m curious enough to find out. Whether it’s bogus or not, Chris doesn’t need to know about it.

“He has some decks he’s trying to sell,” I tell him. That’s two lies I’ve told Chris today, a new record.

“I didn’t know you were looking for a new deck.”