Here the Whole Time(33)

I should have anticipated Caio would ask the question back, but I’m caught by surprise. I don’t have a best friend. Even when I was a kid and didn’t have all the issues I have today, I didn’t have a best friend. Classmates, maybe. Some cousins who would come to visit once in a while. But never a friend who would listen to all I had to say.

Caio is the first one to do that.

But of course I’m not about to say, “You, Caio. You are my best friend,” because I don’t want to sound desperate. I also can’t say, “Friends? I have none,” because that would be even worse. So I do what anyone else in my situation would.

“My best friend moved to Canada last year. For school. We still talk, but not as much,” I lie.

“That’s sad. What’s his name?” Caio asks.

“Jake.” I blurt out the first name that comes to mind, which, by the way, is the worst name I could have picked.

“A Brazilian Jake? That’s fun!” says Caio, and I can hear the suspicion in his voice.

“His mom is American. He was born in Michigan and moved here when he was three. His family is always moving around because his dad sells … airplanes,” I say.

“Oh, I see,” says Caio in the voice of someone who has just heard the most unabashed lie in history.

“Jake doesn’t exist,” I admit with a sigh.

Caio laughs and I feel like an idiot.

“Lipé, it’s fine,” he says. “We can be each other’s best friends. That way, you don’t have to lie when people ask.”

After hearing something like that, I’d normally go into a never-ending spiral about how Caio wants to be my friend and tweet something about being friend-zoned or something. But today there’s no crisis. Because that was exactly what I needed to hear.

But since I’m addicted to bringing myself down, I don’t miss this chance. “I’ve never been anyone’s best friend, so I might not be the right guy for the job.”

“You’re doing great,” Caio says. “Sitting around under the sun the whole day so I can go to the pool when you’d rather be anywhere else? That’s a best-friend move.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t go in the water.”

“Thanks for being there, anyway.”





WHEN YOU’RE ON VACATION, every day is a Saturday. But when I wake up to the sweet smell of cake, I realize it’s officially Saturday.

“I baked the cake a little earlier today,” my mom says when I get to the kitchen.

The table is half-set. On one side, I can see a checkered tablecloth, a freshly baked orange cake, coffee, and milk. On the other, my mom’s painting supplies, messy as ever.

“Where did Caio go?” I ask, trying to sound casual. When I left the bedroom, his bed was already empty.

“He went out. He’s in the hallway, outside. His mom called, and I think he was embarrassed to talk to her in front of me,” my mom says while serving me a slice of cake and a glass of milk.

“His mom is a lot,” I say in a whisper.

“All moms are, Felipe. It’s in our genes. It’s hard not to be after a human being pops out of your body,” she says, and it makes me laugh.

My mouth is full, and I spit out some cake crumbs by accident. Right then, Caio walks in, breath ragged, trying to keep his calm.

“My mom is unbearable,” he says.

I give my mom my best “I told you so” look.

“What happened this time?” I ask, my mouth still full of cake.

“She’s still going on about Becky,” Caio says, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“What about her?” my mom asks curiously.

“My mom hates Becky.”

“But she’s such a good egg,” my mom says. Good egg is her favorite description.

“It’s because she’s a lesbian,” I explain, since I know it makes Caio uncomfortable to talk about lesbians in front of my mom.

My mom rolls her eyes so hard that it surprises me. I know how much she hates bigots, but I also know that she wouldn’t say or do anything to offend Caio’s mom.

“One day she’ll come around, I’m sure,” she says, placing a hand on Caio’s shoulder.

“I hope so, Ms. Rita.”

“For god’s sake, no calling me Ms. Just Rita is fine.”

“Just Rita sounds so serious,” he says.

“I think it’s cute when the kids at the community center call you Ms. Rita,” I interject.

My mom cracks a smile. “I like Ms. Rita.”

“Soooo, Ms. Rita,” says Caio, making his words longer than necessary. “Tonight we’re seeing Becky again, and if my mom asks, would you mind telling her you don’t know anything about it?”

My mom looks up at the ceiling, considering what to say. “Let’s pretend that I really don’t know any of it, okay? You two can go out, come back whenever you want, but I beg you, Caio, please don’t die in an accident. And don’t get any tattoos. And don’t lose any visible limbs. I don’t want to have to explain any of that to your mother later.”

“You got it,” Caio say, kissing her on the cheek gratefully. “I just can’t make any promises about the tattoo.”