Here the Whole Time(2)
Or maybe I’m not that good at interpreting sympathetic looks and she really is just wishing me a great vacation after all.
When I get to the hallway, I see some girls saying goodbye to each other and (believe it or not) crying. As if winter break didn’t last only twenty-two days. As if we didn’t live in a small town where all you have to do is poke your head out a window to see half the school right there on the sidewalk. As if the internet didn’t exist.
If my life were a musical, now would be the moment when I’d cross the school gates, singing a song about freedom, and people in the streets would dance in a tightly synchronized choreography behind me. But my life is not a musical, and when I walk through the gate, I hear someone yell, “Butterbaaaall!” I just lower my head and keep walking.
My apartment building is close to school. It’s only a fifteen-minute walk, and I like to do it every day so I’ll have something to say when my doctor asks if I exercise regularly.
The only problem is all the sweating. After my obvious self-esteem issues and my absolutely lovely classmates, I think sweat is the thing I hate the most in life.
By the time I get home, I’m melting like a wax figure. My mom is in the same spot as when I left her. Except now she has a lot more paint stains on her clothes, and her painting is almost done. Today she painted a lot of blue circles (she’s been in a blue phase for the past few months) that, if you look at them from just the right angle, appear to be two dolphins kissing. I think.
Besides the usual mess, there are pans on the stove, and the apartment smells like lunch. Actual lunch, not yakisoba leftovers from last night’s takeout. The idea of starting the break with a proper lunch excites me.
“Hello, boys. How was school?” she asks, without lifting her eyes from the painting.
“Last time I checked, you only have one son, Mom.”
“Ah, I thought you’d come home together. You and Caio, from 57.” She turns around and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
I’m confused, but my mom doesn’t seem to notice, because she doesn’t add anything else. I go to my room to put down my backpack, and I’m startled when I realize it’s been cleaned. My mom changed the sheets, organized my shelf, and picked up the crumpled socks from under the bed.
“Mom! What did you do to my room? Where are my socks?!” I shout.
“In the drawer! Imagine how embarrassing it would be if the neighbors’ son came into your room to find eleven pairs of socks all over the place!” she yells back.
Eleven? Whoa. Impressive.
I go back to the kitchen so I won’t have to scream. “What was that about the neighbors’ son?”
“I told you, didn’t I? He’s coming today. He’s staying with us for fifteen days. His parents are going to a conference on penguins. Or a second honeymoon. Who knows. Anyway, Sandra asked me to keep an eye on Caio while they’re away. I was a little surprised because he’s old enough to stay by himself, no? But it’s not a big deal, and he’s a good kid.”
The more my mom talks, the more shocked I become.
“You didn’t tell me! I can’t have a houseguest right now, not during winter break—and for fifteen days! I have plans!”
“Internet and bingeing Netflix?” She rolls her eyes. “Really big plans you have, Felipe.”
She knows me well.
“But … but … doesn’t he have any relatives? Can’t he stay by himself? You and his mom aren’t even friends! What kind of a person doesn’t trust her own teenage son to stay home alone but trusts a complete stranger?”
“Well, no, we’re not exactly friends-friends. We chat in the hallway sometimes. She always holds the elevator door for me. And we used to talk a lot when you and Caio played in the pool when you were younger. Good times, those. But that’s beside the point. Help me organize the kitchen and set the table. He’ll be here any minute!”
I just stand there in disbelief. My face is sweaty, terrified, immobile. Like a painting my mom would make on a bad day.
You’re probably thinking, Calm down, dude, it’s just the neighbor kid! Maybe it’s time I told you about Caio, the neighbor kid from apartment 57.
Our apartment complex has a large recreation area with a tennis court that no one ever uses (because, honestly, who plays tennis?), a little playground that’s falling apart, and a pool that’s neither big nor small but is always crowded on hot days.
When I was a kid, that pool was my very own private ocean. I spent hours swimming from one end to the other and recreating scenes from The Little Mermaid. And it was in that pool that I met Caio. I can’t quite recall the day, or how we started talking. We were pool buddies, and I can’t remember what my childhood was like before that.
If you’re a fat eight-year-old boy, no one calls you Butterball. Everyone thinks you’re cute, pinches your cheeks, and always makes it very clear how much they want to eat you up. In a sweet way. Weird, but still sweet.
When I was eight, I didn’t feel embarrassed about running around wearing nothing but a Speedo, or jumping into the pool and splashing water everywhere. Because when you’re eight, it’s okay. And that’s how Caio and I became friends. We never went to the same school (Caio goes to a private school on the other side of town). But when we were younger and it was a hot day, I knew all I had to do was go downstairs to the pool, and Caio would be there, ready to swim with me. Rainy days were the worst.