The Long Run, page 12
Matty scoffed. “No, asshole. But I told him we stomped those fuckers. Hear me?”
I got it. The record shows that we won the fight that day. Even the Cinnaminson crew would cop to that. But we didn’t exactly come out clean. My sore gums and round of antibiotics would prove that and Matty got it even worse. Those guys busted his nose and kicked the shit out of his ribs before I even joined the fight. But I guess that’s not the story Matty told Anthony Lewis. Because, to guys like Ant, it’s not good enough to win a fight. You need to make it look easy. Tough guys like that don’t want wins, they want war stories. Domination. If Matty and the Flash were gonna be Matty and the Flash, they needed to be untouchable.
“So, if he asks—”
“Sure. We stomped those fuckers.”
“That’s right. ’Cause we’re not the guys who get punched.”
“Sure.”
“And if those Cinnaminson fucks say otherwise—”
“We’ll stomp them again. Sure.”
Matty smiled. He patted my shoulder and we joined the herd. We ran as a group, a cluster moving as one. Seven people keeping each other’s pace, matching each other’s speed, and hugging each other’s turns. I ran at the head of the group, slower than I would on my own, and my team followed my every move. It got to the point where I could swear our breathing aligned. The sounds of our shoes hitting the ground seemed to sync up and in just two laps, we’d become one runner. One cluster. One person.
Around lap eight, I lost track of who was saying what. I tried my best to ignore them but they just wouldn’t stop.
“You hear Bruvik got his dick puked on?”
“Fucking foul. Who?”
“Syd DeStefano. At Ronny’s house, last weekend.”
“Syd the Stuffin’ Ho.”
“You’re fucking corny.”
“Was she drunk?”
“Bitch is always blackout, she just can’t give head. Gags and pukes and shit.”
“Not what I heard.”
“Yeah, I heard Syd does anal.”
“The Stuffin’ Ho.”
“Nah, girls don’t take it up the ass.”
“Well, Syd does.”
“Yeah. ’Cause her dad left.”
“Dude, shut up.”
“What, he did. She told me at CCD.”
“That she takes it up the ass?”
“That her dad left, dumbass.”
“Daddy issues.”
“Gag reflex issues.”
“It’s Bruvik’s fucking fault. What do you expect?”
“Slut.”
“Dude.”
“Sorry. Devil’s advocate, you fuck with a girl like that, expect to get your dick puked on. Sorry.”
“Like you get girls.”
“Eat shit. Pepperoni nips.”
“Lard ass.”
“You got a confusing dick.”
“Your balls look like an old woman’s neck.”
“Your facial hair doesn’t connect.”
“Your pubes look like a ten-year-old boy’s.”
“How you know what a ten-year-old’s pubes look like, faggot?”
“’Cause I was one, cocksucker, were you?”
How boring. All of it. How stupid and small and boring this all was. These jokes. These people. This existence. Running in the same circles, with the same guys, with the same conversations. This track. This closed loop of a life. The same beginnings, the same endings, over and over again. I was so tired.
When I slowed down, no one seemed to notice. When I ended up at the back of the pack, the conversation never stuttered. And when I stood completely still, the group kept on without me. I’d been spending so much time trying to match their pace, trying to stay in step, because I thought the cluster would crumble without me. Their captain. I’d been holding myself back, running how I thought they would run, because I thought that’s what was expected of me. I made myself slow for them. For years. I made myself so much worse for these fucking people and they won’t even miss me when I’m gone.
And I was gone.
I cut through the side of the track and took the shortcut to the locker room. It was empty when I got in and I checked my phone before changing. I had two missed calls from Sandro. Weird. He texted too.
S: so sorry. Can u grab my booik out of Birdie? I left it there this morning.
S: supes cool if not, im just bored in Guitar
I smiled and figured I might as well. My free period had suddenly opened up.
B: Be right there.
I decided I’d shower and change after getting the book to Dro. I headed out the side entrance to the parking lot and found Sandro’s copy of Daniel: Last Forever under Birdie’s passenger seat. I used the faculty entrance since it’s closer to the music hall. Students aren’t allowed to use that entrance but there isn’t a teacher in Moorestown High School who doesn’t love my ass. Lucy’s deemed me a Teacher’s Pet but I can’t help it if I’m “an enthusiastic learner” and “a delight to have in class.” Luce can call me a brownnoser all she wants, I’m allowed in the teachers’ lounge and she isn’t. Sorry I’m a delight.
When I turned down into the music hall, I could hear the orchestra messing around with some warm-up tunes. I thought I heard the one about the bumblebee but didn’t stick around to confirm. At the end of the hall, the big double doors were propped open and I heard guitar. Not a class’s worth though. Just one. Some pretty strumming. And some decidedly unpretty yelling.
“THIS IS NICE! THIS IS GOOD MUSIC!”
I popped my head into an empty practice room and saw Sandro playing an acoustic guitar, screaming down at Phil Reyno at his drum set. And Phil was screaming right back.
“THE SMITHS ARE ’80s SHIT! WE ONLY PLAY ’90s SHIT!”
“IT’S THE SAME SHIT! THEY’RE ALL THROWBACKS!”
“IT’S A DECADE OF DIFFERENCE, YOU BIG FUCK!”
Ronny DiSario was sitting at a keyboard, sipping a Slurpee and checking Twitter. She noticed my presence and played a loud, dissonant chord. The boys shut up and Ronny smiled at me. “Bash the Flash? As I live and breathe.”
Phil scoffed at me. “Oh, now this. Hey, this is our practice room, bro, we reserved it. Find a locker room to hotbox.”
Sandro looked embarrassed. I shrugged off Phil Reyno’s glare and held up Dro’s book. “It was under the seat. Sorry to interrupt.”
Sandro put his guitar down and walked my way. “He’s cool, guys, I invited him.”
Phil stood behind Ronny, arms all crossed. “Oh! Well, if Sandro says he’s cool...”
Ronny gave Phil a pat on the butt and cooed, “Come on, Philly. Bash the Flash is just passing through, huh? I’m sure he’s got better things to do with an afternoon. Babies to kiss. Ribbons to cut.”
“Yeah, Flashy, don’t you have a trophy case to jack off to?”
Sandro closed his eyes, instantly regretting putting me in these particular crosshairs. I don’t know what I’d done to incur the wrath of Hot Topic’s own Phil Reyno and Ronny DiSario but if I’ve learned anything from my time with Sandro, it’s that I don’t have a great sense of how I’ve been coming off these past few years. Especially to people who could not give an iota of a rat’s ass about track, field, or Bash the goddamn Flash. These two, with their black nails and pink gauges and fuck you glares, saw me as part of the herd. Another track jerk with his head up his ass and his mind on his dick. Who called a girl a slut because her dad left her. Who called each other faggots for any reason they felt like. They saw me as Bash the Flash. Moorestown’s Golden Boy. And why wouldn’t they? I was still wearing his clothes.
I put the book on a chair and gave the room a nod. “The music sounded good. Sorry.”
And I left.
“Bash.” Sandro followed me out. I was halfway up the hall when he put a hand on my shoulder. I ducked it.
“It’s fine, man. I get it.”
“Bash, c’mon. They’re just dicks.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”
Sandro sighed. “You’re not upset?”
I just shrugged. “Not worth getting upset over. Are you upset?”
“What? Oh, the screaming? No. That’s just...how they talk. It’s a whole thing.”
“Sounded lively.”
“It was. It’s been...” Dro smiled. “It’s been really fun, actually. Like...we argue a lot and it’s a lot of yelling sometimes but, I don’t know. It’s like the right kind of yelling, y’know? It’s actually about something I can get passionate about, not some fucking football game or who the best Flyers coach is.”
“That’s good, man. That’s really good. I’m glad you’re making friends.”
“I don’t know if I’d say friends but...” He considered it. “Yeah. We could be friends. I could make friends.”
I watched Sandro smile. And I wanted to tell him about my friends. My run. What those boys said and how it made me feel. What Matty said and how it made me mad. And tired. And bored. I wanted to tell Sandro how much better my afternoon would’ve been if I just could’ve spent it with him. Talking in our ditch. Driving in my truck. Moving at our pace. I wanted to tell him how much better I felt just standing in that hallway with him. With two punks staring holes in the back of my head and my running clothes starting to stink. I wanted to tell Sandro that I knew why he didn’t want to talk about his family but I wished he would. I wanted to thank him for taking care of me after my surgery and I wanted to tell him how much better my year has been now that he’s in it.
The bell rang. Free period was over. The day was done. My classmates flooded into the hallway and I had a choice. I could go with the flood or I could find a life raft. A buoy. Something to anchor me from floating away. But I felt eyes on me. Ronny DiSario. Phil Reyno. Anthony Lewis. Matty Silva. Lucy Jordan. Sandro Miceli. I felt all of their eyes on me and I didn’t know who to be right then. Which Bash. What to say. So, I let the eyes make my choice for me. I took a step back from Sandro’s smile and just shrugged.
“...Anywho.”
The eyes had it.
sandro
OCTOBER 15
SOLVING FOR WHY:
THE POINT OF YOU AND ME
So, we were in the weight room and I was about to shove my size thirteens up his smug ass.
Wait.
This is a disingenuous place to start.
Let’s roll back to tenth period.
So, we were skipping study hall in the senior parking lot, Birdie’s seats in full recline, and we were breaking down Bash’s different Bashes. It was sort of like Pokémon cards, the way we were tossing his different moods around. We’d discussed the Flash, his cocky streak around his trackolytes, we’d covered the Ex, his mellower side around Lucy Jordan, but there was one Bash in particular that I’d been dying to unpack.
“How ’bout the Stepson?”
“What do you mean?”
“How you act around Del.”
His smile slowed down. “How do I act around Del?”
“I mean...”
While annoying and way too aggro for my liking, at least Bash can have some fun with the Flash. At least he’s talking. Engaging. But he gets so weird around Del. I’ve met his stepdad a few times now and he’s a really nice guy. A little mopey and always tired but he’s made me feel very welcome in their home. I even helped him fix up Birdie when a cracked coolant tank turned her into a ticking time bomb. We made a whole day of it. Grilled on the lawn, played music, he even “forgot” to put away a case of beer. And it’s not like Bash was brooding in the corner but I don’t think they said more than three words to each other all afternoon. They would talk to me or through me. I can’t imagine what they’re like when I’m not there.
Personally, I think the Stepson is the worst version of Bash. It’s the only one I don’t feel him putting on. It just comes naturally.
“Come on, man. You’re not exactly your best around Del.”
Bash fiddled with his prayer bracelet and shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? It’s kind of obvious, dude.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Dude.”
Okay, bitch.
I’m glad his eyes were glued to the roof because I made quite the face. I seriously thought he might kick me out of the truck for a second. I considered backtracking or explaining myself but decided better of it. Best to just abandon ship. Keep things easy-breezy.
“Anywho. Wanna work out?”
Bash considered it then smiled. Exercise always refocused him. It’s one of his few character flaws. We’d been working out together pretty regularly since the top of the school year and found it to be an excellent smoke screen for our sudden friendship. Sports people don’t question the pair-up because they wouldn’t dare question their king. Nonsports people don’t question the pair-up because they wouldn’t dare ask about the boring world of sports. Suffice it to say, Sandro & Bash: Workout Buds is a far easier pill for people to swallow than Sandro & Bash: Kissed Twice in the Woods and Now Awkwardly Half Flirt at Each Other over Sandwiches.
I was sitting on the locker room bench, undoing my laces, and Bash was changing out of his school clothes. We were about ten minutes into my latest hypothetical when Bash nodded, decision finally made. “I think I’d rather...yeah, I’d rather eat my arms.”
“That’s ridiculous, Bash.”
“It’s less to eat. I’d be over with it sooner.”
“That’s not the point, man.”
“Yeah, it is. Would you rather eat your arms or your legs? My arms, asked and answered.”
I laughed. “It’s not about the action, dude. It’s about the aftermath.”
“The aftermath?! This is a bad hypothetical, Dro. One of your worst.”
“It’s not about the eating, it’s—”
Bash slid his jeans down and they took a bit of boxer with them. I caught about an inch of curliness peeking over his waistband before shooting my eyes to the tile.
I swallowed. “It’s, uh...it’s about the result. Dealing with it. The after.”
I kept my head down because I thought I’d gotten flush. Bash chuckled. “So, would I rather live without arms or legs? Yeah?”
I looked back up. He was just in boxers then. I nodded, doing my best to keep a casual face. Not look anywhere I shouldn’t. Not think about this guy I’m simply friends with or his astonishingly thick set of pubes.
“Yeah. Which would you rather?”
Bash looked up at the ceiling and scratched his stomach hair, really considering my question. I realized I was getting hard and decided I’d change in the bathroom stall. But before I could hide myself and before Bash could answer, Anthony Lewis strolled into the locker room.
“Dios míos, it’s Sebastian el Flash!”
My nose twitched. This fucking guy. The last time I saw Ant Lewis, he was chucking a full Solo cup at my chest for contesting his win at the Beer Olympics. He told me he’d tripped which might have been the first time the snooty douche ever spoke to me with eye contact. Anthony is one of the biggest believers in this bullshit track vs field rivalry. He once tried to get a petition going that the track team shouldn’t have to share a bus with us Fieldies because we were “two different breeds.” Personally, I think Anthony’s an insecure closet racist who’s just mad his daddy couldn’t buy him a captain’s spot.
I looked up at Bash but he wasn’t where I left him. I’d been so preoccupied on not watching him change clothes, I didn’t catch him change people. Bash the Flash’s booming laugh echoed around the locker room and the two track bros high-fived. Suddenly, my workout buddy looked a lot less cute in his Joe Boxers.
“Sup, Ant? How’s your girl?”
“Good question. Which one?”
“All right, you fucking dog.”
It’s truly unsettling to watch Bash turn it on for people. All the new words he uses. The intricate handshakes everyone seems to know. This Anthony run-in wasn’t as bad as I’ve seen it, not “Heckling Long Jumpers at an Away Meet” level, but it was still weird. Didn’t help that Ant never so much as looked at me the entire exchange. Neither did Bash.
After, when Ant was gone and we were alone again, we finished dressing and stretched out on the benches. But the whole time, I could tell Bash was thinking about it. That I saw him change like that.
He laughed a little. “I hate that fucking guy. LAX bro asshole.”
I grunted. I didn’t feel like commenting on a conversation I wasn’t invited into. I think Bash got that. His eyes were trained to the floor. He felt bad. He wasn’t hiding it. He took another second then looked at me, still a little sheepish.
“I mean... I guess I’d rather live without my legs. I like my hands and the leg prosthetics look easier to manage.”
I looked back at him. Bash wanted to move on. Ignore that he just ignored me. Get back to our rhythm. Our pace. Whatever this thing we’re doing is.
So, I nodded. “Oh. Right. Yeah, and you could get those blade legs.”
“Exactly. Like a superhero. Also, I put a lot of work into my legs and... I don’t know. I think they’d probably taste better.”
“Logical. How would you cook them?”
“Just a bit of Lawry’s. Finish on the grill.”
“Nice. It’s simple but it’s good.”
Bash smiled but I knew he wasn’t letting himself off the hook for Ant that easy. It’s not a simple thing to shake for him. This need to put on and impress. And while I might find it annoying and super unflattering, I really do get it. It’s no different than how I am in my house. Sandro Miceli and Sandro Sandro are two different dudes. It’s just how I survive my family. Bash is just surviving. Only he has more dudes to worry about. Some garbage fucking dudes.
So, after hours the school gym is open to all students but the weight room is only available to captains of pre-or in-season sports. As luck would have it, that was us. As luck wouldn’t have it, that was also Matty Silva. As soon as we entered the room, Bash’s spine went all limp like a pool noodle. His eyelids drooped and his head bobbled around on a spring. I sighed. Twice in under an hour. A new record, perhaps. At least he was consistent. Bash nodded a “Sup” at Matty, busy with leg presses. Matty nodded his “Sup” back to Bash and only Bash. Before the BFFs could “sup” themselves to death, I dragged my workout buddy away to the free weights.
I got it. The record shows that we won the fight that day. Even the Cinnaminson crew would cop to that. But we didn’t exactly come out clean. My sore gums and round of antibiotics would prove that and Matty got it even worse. Those guys busted his nose and kicked the shit out of his ribs before I even joined the fight. But I guess that’s not the story Matty told Anthony Lewis. Because, to guys like Ant, it’s not good enough to win a fight. You need to make it look easy. Tough guys like that don’t want wins, they want war stories. Domination. If Matty and the Flash were gonna be Matty and the Flash, they needed to be untouchable.
“So, if he asks—”
“Sure. We stomped those fuckers.”
“That’s right. ’Cause we’re not the guys who get punched.”
“Sure.”
“And if those Cinnaminson fucks say otherwise—”
“We’ll stomp them again. Sure.”
Matty smiled. He patted my shoulder and we joined the herd. We ran as a group, a cluster moving as one. Seven people keeping each other’s pace, matching each other’s speed, and hugging each other’s turns. I ran at the head of the group, slower than I would on my own, and my team followed my every move. It got to the point where I could swear our breathing aligned. The sounds of our shoes hitting the ground seemed to sync up and in just two laps, we’d become one runner. One cluster. One person.
Around lap eight, I lost track of who was saying what. I tried my best to ignore them but they just wouldn’t stop.
“You hear Bruvik got his dick puked on?”
“Fucking foul. Who?”
“Syd DeStefano. At Ronny’s house, last weekend.”
“Syd the Stuffin’ Ho.”
“You’re fucking corny.”
“Was she drunk?”
“Bitch is always blackout, she just can’t give head. Gags and pukes and shit.”
“Not what I heard.”
“Yeah, I heard Syd does anal.”
“The Stuffin’ Ho.”
“Nah, girls don’t take it up the ass.”
“Well, Syd does.”
“Yeah. ’Cause her dad left.”
“Dude, shut up.”
“What, he did. She told me at CCD.”
“That she takes it up the ass?”
“That her dad left, dumbass.”
“Daddy issues.”
“Gag reflex issues.”
“It’s Bruvik’s fucking fault. What do you expect?”
“Slut.”
“Dude.”
“Sorry. Devil’s advocate, you fuck with a girl like that, expect to get your dick puked on. Sorry.”
“Like you get girls.”
“Eat shit. Pepperoni nips.”
“Lard ass.”
“You got a confusing dick.”
“Your balls look like an old woman’s neck.”
“Your facial hair doesn’t connect.”
“Your pubes look like a ten-year-old boy’s.”
“How you know what a ten-year-old’s pubes look like, faggot?”
“’Cause I was one, cocksucker, were you?”
How boring. All of it. How stupid and small and boring this all was. These jokes. These people. This existence. Running in the same circles, with the same guys, with the same conversations. This track. This closed loop of a life. The same beginnings, the same endings, over and over again. I was so tired.
When I slowed down, no one seemed to notice. When I ended up at the back of the pack, the conversation never stuttered. And when I stood completely still, the group kept on without me. I’d been spending so much time trying to match their pace, trying to stay in step, because I thought the cluster would crumble without me. Their captain. I’d been holding myself back, running how I thought they would run, because I thought that’s what was expected of me. I made myself slow for them. For years. I made myself so much worse for these fucking people and they won’t even miss me when I’m gone.
And I was gone.
I cut through the side of the track and took the shortcut to the locker room. It was empty when I got in and I checked my phone before changing. I had two missed calls from Sandro. Weird. He texted too.
S: so sorry. Can u grab my booik out of Birdie? I left it there this morning.
S: supes cool if not, im just bored in Guitar
I smiled and figured I might as well. My free period had suddenly opened up.
B: Be right there.
I decided I’d shower and change after getting the book to Dro. I headed out the side entrance to the parking lot and found Sandro’s copy of Daniel: Last Forever under Birdie’s passenger seat. I used the faculty entrance since it’s closer to the music hall. Students aren’t allowed to use that entrance but there isn’t a teacher in Moorestown High School who doesn’t love my ass. Lucy’s deemed me a Teacher’s Pet but I can’t help it if I’m “an enthusiastic learner” and “a delight to have in class.” Luce can call me a brownnoser all she wants, I’m allowed in the teachers’ lounge and she isn’t. Sorry I’m a delight.
When I turned down into the music hall, I could hear the orchestra messing around with some warm-up tunes. I thought I heard the one about the bumblebee but didn’t stick around to confirm. At the end of the hall, the big double doors were propped open and I heard guitar. Not a class’s worth though. Just one. Some pretty strumming. And some decidedly unpretty yelling.
“THIS IS NICE! THIS IS GOOD MUSIC!”
I popped my head into an empty practice room and saw Sandro playing an acoustic guitar, screaming down at Phil Reyno at his drum set. And Phil was screaming right back.
“THE SMITHS ARE ’80s SHIT! WE ONLY PLAY ’90s SHIT!”
“IT’S THE SAME SHIT! THEY’RE ALL THROWBACKS!”
“IT’S A DECADE OF DIFFERENCE, YOU BIG FUCK!”
Ronny DiSario was sitting at a keyboard, sipping a Slurpee and checking Twitter. She noticed my presence and played a loud, dissonant chord. The boys shut up and Ronny smiled at me. “Bash the Flash? As I live and breathe.”
Phil scoffed at me. “Oh, now this. Hey, this is our practice room, bro, we reserved it. Find a locker room to hotbox.”
Sandro looked embarrassed. I shrugged off Phil Reyno’s glare and held up Dro’s book. “It was under the seat. Sorry to interrupt.”
Sandro put his guitar down and walked my way. “He’s cool, guys, I invited him.”
Phil stood behind Ronny, arms all crossed. “Oh! Well, if Sandro says he’s cool...”
Ronny gave Phil a pat on the butt and cooed, “Come on, Philly. Bash the Flash is just passing through, huh? I’m sure he’s got better things to do with an afternoon. Babies to kiss. Ribbons to cut.”
“Yeah, Flashy, don’t you have a trophy case to jack off to?”
Sandro closed his eyes, instantly regretting putting me in these particular crosshairs. I don’t know what I’d done to incur the wrath of Hot Topic’s own Phil Reyno and Ronny DiSario but if I’ve learned anything from my time with Sandro, it’s that I don’t have a great sense of how I’ve been coming off these past few years. Especially to people who could not give an iota of a rat’s ass about track, field, or Bash the goddamn Flash. These two, with their black nails and pink gauges and fuck you glares, saw me as part of the herd. Another track jerk with his head up his ass and his mind on his dick. Who called a girl a slut because her dad left her. Who called each other faggots for any reason they felt like. They saw me as Bash the Flash. Moorestown’s Golden Boy. And why wouldn’t they? I was still wearing his clothes.
I put the book on a chair and gave the room a nod. “The music sounded good. Sorry.”
And I left.
“Bash.” Sandro followed me out. I was halfway up the hall when he put a hand on my shoulder. I ducked it.
“It’s fine, man. I get it.”
“Bash, c’mon. They’re just dicks.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”
Sandro sighed. “You’re not upset?”
I just shrugged. “Not worth getting upset over. Are you upset?”
“What? Oh, the screaming? No. That’s just...how they talk. It’s a whole thing.”
“Sounded lively.”
“It was. It’s been...” Dro smiled. “It’s been really fun, actually. Like...we argue a lot and it’s a lot of yelling sometimes but, I don’t know. It’s like the right kind of yelling, y’know? It’s actually about something I can get passionate about, not some fucking football game or who the best Flyers coach is.”
“That’s good, man. That’s really good. I’m glad you’re making friends.”
“I don’t know if I’d say friends but...” He considered it. “Yeah. We could be friends. I could make friends.”
I watched Sandro smile. And I wanted to tell him about my friends. My run. What those boys said and how it made me feel. What Matty said and how it made me mad. And tired. And bored. I wanted to tell Sandro how much better my afternoon would’ve been if I just could’ve spent it with him. Talking in our ditch. Driving in my truck. Moving at our pace. I wanted to tell him how much better I felt just standing in that hallway with him. With two punks staring holes in the back of my head and my running clothes starting to stink. I wanted to tell Sandro that I knew why he didn’t want to talk about his family but I wished he would. I wanted to thank him for taking care of me after my surgery and I wanted to tell him how much better my year has been now that he’s in it.
The bell rang. Free period was over. The day was done. My classmates flooded into the hallway and I had a choice. I could go with the flood or I could find a life raft. A buoy. Something to anchor me from floating away. But I felt eyes on me. Ronny DiSario. Phil Reyno. Anthony Lewis. Matty Silva. Lucy Jordan. Sandro Miceli. I felt all of their eyes on me and I didn’t know who to be right then. Which Bash. What to say. So, I let the eyes make my choice for me. I took a step back from Sandro’s smile and just shrugged.
“...Anywho.”
The eyes had it.
sandro
OCTOBER 15
SOLVING FOR WHY:
THE POINT OF YOU AND ME
So, we were in the weight room and I was about to shove my size thirteens up his smug ass.
Wait.
This is a disingenuous place to start.
Let’s roll back to tenth period.
So, we were skipping study hall in the senior parking lot, Birdie’s seats in full recline, and we were breaking down Bash’s different Bashes. It was sort of like Pokémon cards, the way we were tossing his different moods around. We’d discussed the Flash, his cocky streak around his trackolytes, we’d covered the Ex, his mellower side around Lucy Jordan, but there was one Bash in particular that I’d been dying to unpack.
“How ’bout the Stepson?”
“What do you mean?”
“How you act around Del.”
His smile slowed down. “How do I act around Del?”
“I mean...”
While annoying and way too aggro for my liking, at least Bash can have some fun with the Flash. At least he’s talking. Engaging. But he gets so weird around Del. I’ve met his stepdad a few times now and he’s a really nice guy. A little mopey and always tired but he’s made me feel very welcome in their home. I even helped him fix up Birdie when a cracked coolant tank turned her into a ticking time bomb. We made a whole day of it. Grilled on the lawn, played music, he even “forgot” to put away a case of beer. And it’s not like Bash was brooding in the corner but I don’t think they said more than three words to each other all afternoon. They would talk to me or through me. I can’t imagine what they’re like when I’m not there.
Personally, I think the Stepson is the worst version of Bash. It’s the only one I don’t feel him putting on. It just comes naturally.
“Come on, man. You’re not exactly your best around Del.”
Bash fiddled with his prayer bracelet and shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? It’s kind of obvious, dude.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Dude.”
Okay, bitch.
I’m glad his eyes were glued to the roof because I made quite the face. I seriously thought he might kick me out of the truck for a second. I considered backtracking or explaining myself but decided better of it. Best to just abandon ship. Keep things easy-breezy.
“Anywho. Wanna work out?”
Bash considered it then smiled. Exercise always refocused him. It’s one of his few character flaws. We’d been working out together pretty regularly since the top of the school year and found it to be an excellent smoke screen for our sudden friendship. Sports people don’t question the pair-up because they wouldn’t dare question their king. Nonsports people don’t question the pair-up because they wouldn’t dare ask about the boring world of sports. Suffice it to say, Sandro & Bash: Workout Buds is a far easier pill for people to swallow than Sandro & Bash: Kissed Twice in the Woods and Now Awkwardly Half Flirt at Each Other over Sandwiches.
I was sitting on the locker room bench, undoing my laces, and Bash was changing out of his school clothes. We were about ten minutes into my latest hypothetical when Bash nodded, decision finally made. “I think I’d rather...yeah, I’d rather eat my arms.”
“That’s ridiculous, Bash.”
“It’s less to eat. I’d be over with it sooner.”
“That’s not the point, man.”
“Yeah, it is. Would you rather eat your arms or your legs? My arms, asked and answered.”
I laughed. “It’s not about the action, dude. It’s about the aftermath.”
“The aftermath?! This is a bad hypothetical, Dro. One of your worst.”
“It’s not about the eating, it’s—”
Bash slid his jeans down and they took a bit of boxer with them. I caught about an inch of curliness peeking over his waistband before shooting my eyes to the tile.
I swallowed. “It’s, uh...it’s about the result. Dealing with it. The after.”
I kept my head down because I thought I’d gotten flush. Bash chuckled. “So, would I rather live without arms or legs? Yeah?”
I looked back up. He was just in boxers then. I nodded, doing my best to keep a casual face. Not look anywhere I shouldn’t. Not think about this guy I’m simply friends with or his astonishingly thick set of pubes.
“Yeah. Which would you rather?”
Bash looked up at the ceiling and scratched his stomach hair, really considering my question. I realized I was getting hard and decided I’d change in the bathroom stall. But before I could hide myself and before Bash could answer, Anthony Lewis strolled into the locker room.
“Dios míos, it’s Sebastian el Flash!”
My nose twitched. This fucking guy. The last time I saw Ant Lewis, he was chucking a full Solo cup at my chest for contesting his win at the Beer Olympics. He told me he’d tripped which might have been the first time the snooty douche ever spoke to me with eye contact. Anthony is one of the biggest believers in this bullshit track vs field rivalry. He once tried to get a petition going that the track team shouldn’t have to share a bus with us Fieldies because we were “two different breeds.” Personally, I think Anthony’s an insecure closet racist who’s just mad his daddy couldn’t buy him a captain’s spot.
I looked up at Bash but he wasn’t where I left him. I’d been so preoccupied on not watching him change clothes, I didn’t catch him change people. Bash the Flash’s booming laugh echoed around the locker room and the two track bros high-fived. Suddenly, my workout buddy looked a lot less cute in his Joe Boxers.
“Sup, Ant? How’s your girl?”
“Good question. Which one?”
“All right, you fucking dog.”
It’s truly unsettling to watch Bash turn it on for people. All the new words he uses. The intricate handshakes everyone seems to know. This Anthony run-in wasn’t as bad as I’ve seen it, not “Heckling Long Jumpers at an Away Meet” level, but it was still weird. Didn’t help that Ant never so much as looked at me the entire exchange. Neither did Bash.
After, when Ant was gone and we were alone again, we finished dressing and stretched out on the benches. But the whole time, I could tell Bash was thinking about it. That I saw him change like that.
He laughed a little. “I hate that fucking guy. LAX bro asshole.”
I grunted. I didn’t feel like commenting on a conversation I wasn’t invited into. I think Bash got that. His eyes were trained to the floor. He felt bad. He wasn’t hiding it. He took another second then looked at me, still a little sheepish.
“I mean... I guess I’d rather live without my legs. I like my hands and the leg prosthetics look easier to manage.”
I looked back at him. Bash wanted to move on. Ignore that he just ignored me. Get back to our rhythm. Our pace. Whatever this thing we’re doing is.
So, I nodded. “Oh. Right. Yeah, and you could get those blade legs.”
“Exactly. Like a superhero. Also, I put a lot of work into my legs and... I don’t know. I think they’d probably taste better.”
“Logical. How would you cook them?”
“Just a bit of Lawry’s. Finish on the grill.”
“Nice. It’s simple but it’s good.”
Bash smiled but I knew he wasn’t letting himself off the hook for Ant that easy. It’s not a simple thing to shake for him. This need to put on and impress. And while I might find it annoying and super unflattering, I really do get it. It’s no different than how I am in my house. Sandro Miceli and Sandro Sandro are two different dudes. It’s just how I survive my family. Bash is just surviving. Only he has more dudes to worry about. Some garbage fucking dudes.
So, after hours the school gym is open to all students but the weight room is only available to captains of pre-or in-season sports. As luck would have it, that was us. As luck wouldn’t have it, that was also Matty Silva. As soon as we entered the room, Bash’s spine went all limp like a pool noodle. His eyelids drooped and his head bobbled around on a spring. I sighed. Twice in under an hour. A new record, perhaps. At least he was consistent. Bash nodded a “Sup” at Matty, busy with leg presses. Matty nodded his “Sup” back to Bash and only Bash. Before the BFFs could “sup” themselves to death, I dragged my workout buddy away to the free weights.
