When Everything Is Blue(17)

I text Dave while I’m changing, just a simple Theo here. He replies almost immediately with an address. I text him back.

Drug deal?

My place. Come over.

Dave doesn’t live too far away, within skating distance. I won’t have to ask my mom for a ride, which makes things a whole lot simpler. Our apartment is set up so the living quarters are upstairs and the downstairs is a big garage. Our landlord is one of the dentists at my mom’s work who gives her a deal on rent. We couldn’t afford this neighborhood otherwise. My mom wanted us to be in a good school zone, and she got used to living in this area after being with my dad. There are more Spanish-speakers in this section of West Palm, and I think it reminds my mom of home.

I go out through the garage door and cut through the side yard of the main house so Chris won’t see me in the driveway. I hop on my skateboard, zoning out to the steady tick-tick-tick of the wheels rolling over the cracks in the sidewalk.

One of the things I like about skateboarding is that it’s slow enough to see what’s going on, but fast enough that you don’t have to be drawn into the drama if you don’t want to be. I see so much crazy shit while skateboarding, all the gritty, unpleasant things about living in a city, but also some really great things too—people spontaneously dancing or laughing, lovers wrapped around each other in embrace, a parent holding on to their kid’s hand. It’s such a nice, simple thing to do, grab someone else’s hand and hold on. So many people are content to ride around in their cars with the windows up, air conditioning on, pretending there isn’t a whole needful, lonely world out there. When I get a car, I’ll still skateboard wherever I can. I don’t want to become so indifferent.

On my way to Dave’s, I pass by Saint Ann’s, where my great-uncle Theo lives. I consider stopping in to visit him, but I haven’t seen him since Easter, and I worry he might not even recognize me. Still, I’m pretty sure my dad isn’t visiting him, which means no one is. And that sucks.

Next time.

I hop off at Dave’s address, already sweaty from the ride. He lives in a tiny house behind a slightly bigger house. Both are smaller and shabbier than our gardener’s cottage. The window-unit air conditioner hums with industry, and I question again what the hell I’m doing here outside his door when yesterday afternoon I hated his guts. Seems weird that my opinion of him could shift so rapidly. I sniff inside my shirt and decide it’s not too foul, then lift my hand to knock, but before my knuckles make contact, the door swings open.

“Theo,” Dave says with a smirk that pulls a little higher on one side, like it’s caught on a fishing line. He’s way too cocky for his own good.

“Those lotto numbers were bunk,” I tell him. His smile widens along with the door as he gestures grandly for me to enter. The inside looks like a garage that’s been converted into an efficiency apartment. Pretty basic, with unpainted cinderblock walls and a little kitchen area in the same room, a table for eating, and an adjoining bath.

“You live here by yourself?”

“Yup.”

In one way it’s pretty awesome. In another way, it seems lonely as hell.

“Where are your parents?”

“Charlotte. I was getting too hard to handle, so they sent me here.” He makes air quotes around the too hard to handle part.

“That sucks.” I frown, feeling bad for him that he’s basically been banished to Florida, probably not the worst place to be sent, but still.

He shrugs. “My aunt hasn’t started charging me rent yet. Could be a lot worse.”

I glance around his bachelor pad. It’s kind of dark and dank, a slight funk in the air, though it does look like he tried to clean up before I arrived. The floor is a mishmash of old carpets laid over the concrete, still bare in some places. One window has the air conditioning unit balanced in it, and on the other, instead of a curtain, has a sheet tacked up rather sloppily. There’s also a beat-up leather couch situated in front of an old flat-screen TV and game controls.

“You want to play FIFA?” he asks. It looks like he has a game on pause.

“Yeah, sure.”

We do that for a while, and it’s not too weird. Dave does most of the talking, telling me about his parents, who weren’t too keen on him dating guys and didn’t want his “deviant lifestyle” to influence his little brothers. He doesn’t say it outright, but they basically kicked him out for being gay, which is shitty.

“So, what are you, like, bi?” I ask.

“Eh, I’m pretty gay. I’ve only messed around with one girl, and it didn’t really do it for me.”

That seems weird, considering all the smack talk around our lockers. “What about all those stories you tell?”

“All true.” He tilts his head and scores a goal on me because I’m not really paying attention to the game. “Just, it was dudes, not chicks.”

That kind of blows my mind as I recall some of his stories. He’s done all that with dudes?

“You must have been really popular in Charlotte.”

He chuckles at that. “With a certain crowd.”

“Why don’t you just come out with it?” I ask, though I probably shouldn’t judge because I’m not exactly out with it myself.

“New school. New people. Just trying to fit in, you know? Who wants to be the fat gay kid right out of the gates?”