Getting It (5 page)

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
Carlos woke as soon as his alarm sounded. His head felt unusually clear as he gazed around his newly organized room. After showering, he put on a clean shirt, underwear, and socks, feeling like a new man. But as he walked toward his bus stop, he filled with dread. Now he had to face his friends, whom he'd ditched the day before.

“'S'up?” Carlos greeted them as he climbed into the back row.

The boys gazed silently at him till Playboy finally spoke: “So, did you hook up with your butt-monkey?”

“Shut up. I told you, he's helping me with something.”

“Lending you a hand?” Pulga made a jacking-off gesture.

“Did he try anything funny?” Toro asked.

“Would you guys grow up?” Carlos snapped. Fortunately, they shut up.

In between second and third period, Carlos shuffled down the hallway. Turning the corner, he stopped cold. Roxy was marching straight in his direction, her strut seamless and carefree. Her beautiful boobs bounced beneath her tight red top, in sync with the clip of her shiny black boots, as she talked and giggled with her friends.

“Who has time for a boyfriend?” one girl was saying.

“I know,” Roxy replied. “Between cheerleading, choreography class, and chorus, I barely have time to breathe.”

In his freshly laundered clothes, Carlos felt braver than he'd ever felt near her. Quickly, he pulled the folded notepaper with his screen name from his sweatshirt pocket, his breath quickening as the girls approached. Summoning all his nerve, he stretched out his hand toward her, holding the notepaper. “'S'up, Roxy? Here's my screen …”

But Roxy didn't even turn her head. Her eyes remained focused on her girl friends, as they sauntered past.

Carlos's heart crumpled like the paper he shoved back into his pocket.
I may as well not even exist,
he thought, pulling his sweatshirt hood low over his forehead.

When the lunch bell rang, he waited for Sal at the water fountain alcove. “Here!” He handed Sal the twenty his ma had given him. “How long is this going to take?”

“I don't know.” Sal casually inserted the twenty into his wallet. “As long as necessary. I've got to get some stuff for your room. I'll let you know how much it costs.”

“Huh?” Did he think Carlos was made of money? “What kind of stuff?”

“I haven't decided yet.” Sal turned toward the lunchroom. “I'll go with you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Wait!” Carlos shuffled his feet, recalling the previous day's experience with his buds and Freaky Vicky. “I don't want to take the bus.”

Sal turned to stare at him. “Why? You scared to be seen with me?”

“No,” Carlos lied. “It's just … I don't want everyone at school finding out what I'm doing.”

Sal's gaze softened slightly. “Okay. Then I'll come over Saturday.”

“But, um …” Carlos shuffled his feet some more. “That's my day with my pa. How about Sunday?”

“Nope,” Sal replied. “Can't do Sunday. I'm in choir at church. After that I hang out with my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend?
Had Sal really said “boyfriend”? Carlos glanced over his shoulder, desperate to end this conversation
fast.

“So,” Sal went on, “it's either after school or Saturday. Take your pick. Hurry up, I want to eat lunch.”

“Okay. How about Saturday morning?” His pa wouldn't come over till noon.

“All right.” Sal nodded. “I'll be over at eight.”

“Eight?”
Carlos groaned. He usually slept till eleven on weekends. But before he could say any more, Sal had slipped away.

A
T LEAST WITH
Sal coming over on Saturday, Carlos was able to avoid his friends' finding out. He also forgot to tell his ma. Saturday morning she woke him, nudging his arm. “Carlitos, a boy named Sal is here. He brought a can of paint—and some bamboo. What's this about?”

Carlos's brain slowly cleared from sleep as his eyes blinked open. “Um …” He sat up, rubbing his face. He felt too embarrassed to tell her the full extent of his plan with Sal, so he simply said, “Remember I told you I was going to fix up my room?”

His ma gazed around the bedroom. It was getting messy again, with video games and dirty clothes piling up on the floor.

“So, is it okay to paint?” Carlos asked, even though he wasn't sure what they'd paint.

His ma glanced up at the posters of megababes in bikinis that lined his wall. It only took a second for her to reply, “Sure.”

Carlos pulled some clothes on, stopped by the bathroom, and headed to the kitchen. His ma sat at the breakfast table with Sal, sipping coffee. She was laughing—not something she usually did with his friends. In fact, she didn't really laugh much at all since the divorce.

“'S'up?” Carlos told Sal and grabbed some Sugar Puffs from the cupboard. Sal glanced at the cereal box and slid the sugar bowl across the table to Carlos. “Why don't you just spoon out the sugar bowl for breakfast?”

“That's what I've told him!” Carlos's ma nodded agreement. “He had two cavities his last checkup.”

“Ma …” Carlos frowned. “That was three years ago.”

“That long?” she replied, just as the doorbell rang. “I'll have to make you another appointment.”

She left the boys to tend to a client for her home sewing business, and Sal commented, “Your mom's pretty. You've got her eyes, you know that? They're, like, honey-colored—really nice.”

As Sal gazed at him, Carlos chomped on his Sugar Puffs. No one except his ma had ever told him he had nice eyes before. Sal better not be planning to try anything funny.

Carlos quickly wolfed down his cereal, eager to forget Sal's compliment and get to work. He helped Sal carry the gallon of paint, brushes, some bamboo stalks, and a Plexiglas box-frame to the bedroom.

“Hey!” Sal shouted at the sight of the unmade bed and crap accumulating on Carlos's floor. “I didn't spend all that time helping you clean up just for you to slob the place up again. It only takes fifteen minutes a day to keep it neat, okay? That includes making the bed. A messy bed means a messy head.”

Carlos clenched his jaw. He didn't like being chewed out. But how could he argue? Besides, Sal was already making the bed. “Get the other side,” he ordered Carlos. In fifteen minutes, the room was tidy again.

“Now, first we're going to paint an accent wall,” Sal announced.

“Huh? What's that?”

“It's when you paint one wall a different color. I got auburn to go with the beige carpet. Tell me you don't hate auburn.”

Carlos didn't know what the hell auburn was, but glanced at the color on the paint can. “It looks okay. But how come we're only painting one wall? Won't that look weird, like we ran out of paint?”

“No. It'll look stylish.” Sal scanned the walls, focusing his gaze on the big-boobed babes. “Hey, you haven't told me: Who's the girl you're so hot for?”

Carlos bit the inside of his lip, hesitating. What if Sal revealed to Roxy what they were doing? Carlos would surely be the laughing stock of school. “Um, I'd rather not say.”

Sal stared at Carlos, his brown eyes clouding. “Then I guess I'm out of here.” In an instant, he'd gathered the paint supplies and bamboo, heading toward the door.

“Hey, wait!” Carlos blocked his path. “What …? Why do you need to know who she is?”

“I don't.” Sal glared at him. “But if we're going to do this, you've got to trust me.”

Carlos took a breath. Could he really trust Sal? Only Carlos's closest friends knew about his crush on Roxy. Slowly, he let out his breath. “Promise you won't tell her what we're doing?”

Sal's brow arched in confusion. “Why would I tell her?”

“I don't know.” Carlos shrugged, feeling foolish for being so paranoid. “It's, um …” He cleared his throat. “Roxy Rodriguez.”

“Roxy?” Sal's voice rose in surprise. “Are you serious?” He gave a wild laugh. “Dude! She's, like, totally not your type.”

Carlos cringed, edging back. Did Sal think Roxy was out of his league? Or that Carlos wasn't good enough? That he was a loser? He suddenly didn't like Sal at all. “You don't know my type!”

“Oh, come on!” Sal retorted. “Roxy is, like, Miss Plastic—with all that makeup she wears? Her eyes aren't even really green. Those are contacts. And those crotch-high skirts? She's, like, totally wrong for you.”

Carlos tried to remain calm, but inside he felt ready to blow a gasket. Makeovers weren't supposed to work this way. The TV queer guys never tried to talk the straight guy out of liking the girl—nor made her sound like a slut.

“What do you know about girls?” Carlos shot back. “You're a fag!”

Sal winced, his face hardening. “Whoa, man. Stop right there. Number one, I don't like being called fag, or ‘homo,' or ‘perv,' or anything else besides gay. Number two, whether I'm gay or not, I just think …” His face softened with concern, his eyes gentle with compassion. “You deserve better than her.”

Yeah, right,
Carlos thought. Any guy at school would give his left nut for Roxy—any straight guy. “I want to ask you something.” Carlos stared defiantly back at Sal. “Why are you really doing this—helping me?”

“I told you,” Sal said, his voice unwavering. “So you'll help with our GSA.”

But Carlos sensed there was more to it. He waited, arms crossed, till Sal came forth: “You're right. There's another reason. All through school, almost every straight guy I've known has called me ‘fag' and treated me like shit. I'm curious to see: Are you really any different?”

Carlos glanced away, confused. Was he different from other straight guys? In what way? Was he “turning queer,” like Playboy had said?

Carlos squared his shoulders. “I'm not gay, if that's what you're thinking.”

Sal rolled his eyes. “I think your room has proven that!” He gave a gentle sigh. “Look, I'm sorry I said Roxy was plastic. If you like her, you like her. And it's none of my business. I was out of line, okay? I agreed to help you and I will. But don't call me names, all right?”

Carlos wished he hadn't called Sal a fag. It made him uneasy the way Sal now looked at him—trusting and tender—like his ma sometimes looked at him after he'd messed up and felt sorry.

“Do you think I'm a loser?” Carlos blurted out, without even thinking. “My friends think I'm a loser for not just hooking up with someone and getting it over with.”

“It?”
Sal's eyebrows rose up. “Getting
what
over with?”

“You know—getting laid.”

Sal peered at him. “Is that what this is about? I thought you wanted a girlfriend.”

“Well, I do, but—” Carlos plopped down on the bed, his thoughts spinning. “I get confused. Sometimes I don't know what I want.”

“Maybe….” Sal shrugged. “That's because life isn't about what you
get,
it's about what you
give.”

Carlos peered up, not exactly sure what Sal meant. After all, you didn't give laid, you get laid. And you
get
a girlfriend.

“Look,” Sal said softly, “you're not a loser. A slob maybe, but not a loser.” He cracked a smile. “If you want a girlfriend, then I think you should have one. Just don't settle for less, okay?”

Nobody had ever talked to Carlos this way. He really didn't know what to make of Sal, but he suddenly liked him more than ever. “Okay.”

Sal glanced at his watch. “Let's get to work.”

Carlos happily returned to the project at hand. He asked his ma for an old sheet to use as a drop cloth and the boys painted an “accent wall” surrounding the window.

When they'd finished, Sal announced, “Next comes your faux headboard. ‘Faux' means ‘false.' Let's move your bed out.”

They painted an auburn rectangle onto the wall behind the bed. Carlos liked how the color matched the window wall. And it did look like a headboard, like he'd always wanted.

Next, Sal returned his attention to the bikinied babes. “Can we please take down those posters?”

Carlos blushed, but he didn't want to take down the girls. They'd become almost real, doing all sorts of cool stuff with him inside his brain.

“Come on,” Sal coaxed. “I'm sure you've got plenty of other photos on your computer.”

Carlos turned even redder. Grudgingly, he pried out the pushpins and rolled up the babes, carefully storing them in his closet. Meanwhile, Sal delicately arranged Carlos's praying mantis in the Plexiglas box-frame he'd brought. Then he centered a hook above the painted headboard and nailed it up.

Framed on the wall, the bright green insect no longer looked like some kid's bug, but like a masterpiece of art. Next, Sal put the bamboo stalks in a metal can and stood them in the corner. The place truly looked like something the TV guys would've done.

“How did you learn to do all this stuff?” Carlos asked.

“I don't know …” Sal hesitated. “I guess maybe growing up gay you spend more time by yourself. Hardly anyone wants to be your friend. None of the guys will come near you—and you try to figure out why. So you notice things—how people dress, wear their hair, decorate their room …” Sal shrugged. “Maybe that's how I learned it.”

Carlos tried to imagine what it would've been like to grow up without his buds. He felt kind of sorry for Sal.

“Here are the receipts for the paint and display box,” Sal said as the boys cleaned up the paint stuff. “I already had the roller and pan, so no charge for those. I cut the bamboo from my yard.”

Carlos stared at the receipts, totaling more than eighteen dollars. How did Sal expect him to keep getting so much money? “I'll have to give you the money next time. Do you think we'll finish by then?”