When Everything Is Blue(48)

I rub my head, which still hasn’t completely cleared from last night. “I think I did that already.”

“We don’t have to drink. What do you want to do? Anything at all. Magic cards?”

I laugh, because all I ever wanted to do in middle school was play Magic cards. God, I was such a geek. Maybe I’m simple or unimaginative, but all I want to do now is go down to the BOA and skate to get my mind off everything. I tell Chris and he’s down. An hour later we arrive to where there’s a small crowd of skaters we all know. It’s unfortunate, but Dave’s also there, looking pretty torn up from his beatdown from Chris. A flare of anger courses through me, mostly because this is my skate spot, and I hate feeling like it’s not my home anymore because there’s an intruder.

“I’ll tell him to leave,” Chris says.

“Don’t. I don’t want a scene. He’s not going to try anything anyway. He’s afraid of you.”

As I predicted, Dave hardly even looks at us and keeps to the center of his cluster of friends, perhaps afraid of Chris getting him alone. I ignore the rest of them and do my circuit of the BOA. Perhaps because I know there’s a competition coming up, I take it a little more seriously this time, thinking about which combinations I’ll do and in what sequence. I have this combination, which is a series of 180s in quick succession that makes it look like that old-school dance, the twist. I skate goofy-footed—right foot forward—but I’m pretty ambidextrous. When I add a few backside kickflips to the combo, it looks pretty slick.

I gauge the crew’s reactions, trying to determine which of my repertoire are crowd pleasers. It’s hard to know, though, because as soon as a trick becomes popular or makes a comeback, it’s chow time for the haters and the trick is no longer deemed worthy. I used to care more, but now I don’t really give a shit what’s considered cool, just try to make my tricks look smooth and effortless. I know it’s not anything like ballet in terms of an art form, but there is some definite artistry to the different combinations.

After my third run, I’m thirsty and I’ve sweated through my T-shirt. I tell Chris I’m heading next door for drinks, and he asks me if I want him to come with me. “I got this, bro,” I tell him and skate over to the 7-Eleven. While in there, I say what’s up to Justin, who’s working the night shift. I hang out in front of the drink cooler with the door open to cool off a bit, lifting my shirt to evaporate the sweat from my stomach and chest. As I’m paying, Justin is super slow to ring up my drinks, to the point that I wonder if he’s on drugs or something.

He gives me my total and I hand him a five-dollar bill. He stares at me, holding the bill in midair, and looks so frozen I finally ask him if he’s all right.

“I saw that picture of you.” He says it so quietly that I almost don’t hear him.

I take a deep breath and think Shit, here we go. “And?” My wall goes up straight away, preparing for whatever ill he’s about to lay on me.

“I thought it was really hot.” He smiles like he can’t help it.

Not what I was expecting. At all. Also, precisely what is the reach of this damn photo? It’s already spread outside of Sabal Palm High. Will my mom end up seeing it, or Christ, my dad? Am I going to Google myself and find that goddamned photo? Is it going to haunt me in ten years? Shit.

And just when I’m in the middle of this mini existential crisis at the 7-Eleven counter, Justin slides a scrap of paper over toward me. I stare at it—his phone number.

“I’m, um, into that sort of thing. So if you ever get bored, or, you know, want to, um, you know, just… give me a call.”

I stare at him, stunned silent, while he hands me my change. I stuff the money in my pocket along with his number and grab the drinks, backing out of there blindly, overcome by the unintended consequences. Who does that? I think. Sees a picture on the internet and then makes a move. When I get back to BOA, Chris notices something is up and asks me what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” I tell him, glancing around at all the guys milling about, wondering how many of them have seen the picture, who they’ve shown it to, and what’s been said. The panic hits me, this spiral of anxiety and fear. Will I ever be able to get past this, or will I always be that kid who sucks cock? What if I’m going in for a job interview and they Google me? Or applying for a scholarship. Shit, have I just screwed up my entire future? My vision constricts into a pea-sized view of the concrete, and I realize I’m leaned over and having trouble catching my breath. Chris is shouting, kind of panicked, asking if he should call 911 and I tell him I’m fine, only I don’t feel the words come out of my mouth, only hear them bouncing around my head like a distant echo, and for some reason I think of the expression bats in the belfry and then batshit crazy while wondering what the hell did bats ever do to be associated with insanity?

And then I’m in the back seat of someone’s car with my head between my knees. Chris is rubbing my back and barking directions on how to get us home. “I’m fine,” I keep hearing me say, but I’m having my doubts.

Chris leads me up his stairs, and I sit down on the edge of the bed, still dizzy and nauseous, sweating, and short of breath. He sits across from me on the carpet, knees up, back against his dresser, and waits patiently while I pull it together. I focus on the texture of his comforter under my fingers, a loose thread I twine around my finger, the color of his walls—blue—and then his face. His face is just as it has always been. Kind eyes, square jaw, stubborn chin. Eventually everything stops shrinking and expanding, my ears stop ringing, my heart returns to normal volume and slinks down from my throat back into my chest, and it’s just Chris and me alone in his room.