The Long Run, page 15
“Meh.”
I didn’t want to wake Sandro up so I settled for watching him sleep. You know, like a creep. I thought about napping too but I can’t do it like him. In nature. In class. In public. If I don’t feel safe when I’m trying to sleep, that’s all I’ll think about.
I watched Sandro’s chest rise and fall and rise and I thought about putting my head there. Maybe his chest was comfortable. I thought I might be able to sleep there and I wondered why I might think something like that.
I let Sandro hold my hand a couple nights ago and I’m regretting it. I mean, he held my wrist and it was more a sign of support than interest but still. Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of it than it is. He was essentially just taking my pulse, and it probably didn’t mean much to him. But still. I keep thinking about it. How he was so quick to reach out after I said all that about my mom. Even though I was mad at him for the shit with Matty, he knew what was more important. It’s like he could tell how badly I was hurting. It made me wonder if I’d know when he was hurting. If I’d take his pulse.
Sandro had some dirt on his cheek and I thought it would be pretty harmless to flick it off. I ran through my list to see what number “Touching Sandro’s Cheek” would be.
times i touched dro:
1. When he drew the MEXICO on my shirt. (Hand on Back)
2. Feeling his beer-soaked tank at the Olympics. (Hand on Chest)
3. Holding him up running through the Sticks. (Arm over Shoulder)
4. When he thought I was making fun of Bumpin’ Grinders. (Pat on Shoulder)
5. The Kiss. (Lips on Lips, Lips on Neck, Hands on Hips)
6. The Kiss: Part 2. (Lips on Lips, Teeth on Teeth, Hands pushing Chest)
7. Slap-fight over radio outside B-Town. (Hands on Various)
8. Living room couch during The Ring Two. (Knee on Knee)
9. Carrying my high ass up the stairs. (Chest on Back)
10. High-five after he fixed Birdie’s coolant tank. (Palm on Palm)
11. Hitting him when he picked up Matty. (Palm on Back)
12. When he calmed me down. (Hand on Wrist)
Number 13. Unlucky. But interesting. With Sandro’s thing about touching, I guess I thought it would be less. Look at me, respecting personal spaces. I flicked the dirt off his cheek and he smiled, eyes still closed. “Can I help you?”
“I finished.”
“On my face?”
That cracked both of us up. He sat up and thumbed through his book. “Please tell me Daniel gets swallowed by a whale at the end.”
“That sailor lady finds him and he returns to school.”
“That’s all?”
“Completely unchanged.”
Sandro Frisbee-flung his book across the ditch. It hit a tree. “Fuck you, Daniel.”
“Oh, and you know that light in the sky? In chapter three?”
“The mirage?”
“Not a mirage. Lighthouse.”
“Oh, my God. So—”
“He could’ve been saved right away if he wasn’t stubborn trash? Yup.”
Sandro groaned and turned on his belly. He took my readers and tried them on, letting out this big yawn. “How long was I asleep?”
“Not long. I can’t do that. Fall asleep in public. Well, in places that aren’t my bed.”
“I do it anywhere. Here, school, bleachers. It’s how I fell off my roof actually.”
“Fuck, Dro. You were sleeping on your roof?”
“I didn’t mean to. There was all this screaming in my house one night and it was lasting longer than usual so I went up there with my old guitar and...yeah. Woke up on the ground with a broken foot. I felt so...so stupid.”
“God. You and that word. You’re not stupid.”
Sandro took off my glasses. “I don’t know.”
“You’re in AP trigonometry, Dro. I can barely spell trigonometry.”
“It’s not a school thing. I just feel stupid sometimes. A lot of times. Like any time I mess up or forget something, my family’ll be like What a Sandro thing to do. Get the wrong milk? Classic Sandro. Spill paint in the garage? That’s Sandro. Break my foot?”
“Talking about you like you’re not there.”
“Yeah. It’s just a lot. Everything. All the time.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
I don’t know how someone so decent came from such a miserable group of people. Sandro’s not like me. He’s not so confused about the things that hurt him. He knows every wound on his body. But just because you know what’s hurting you doesn’t make it hurt any less. I wished I could do more for him than sucks and sorry.
He shrugged and gave me back my glasses. “Anywho. Them’s the breaks. Here’s hoping I’m not too stupid for Northwestern.”
“That’s your top choice?”
“Yuppo. Just gotta get in, get out, and restart. Get a nickname, maybe some tattoos. An apartment all to myself.”
“Right above Bumpin’ Grinders?”
“Hell yeah.”
He smiled and we just stared at the sky. It was silent. The birds, the wind, everything decided to take a moment. Silence.
This connection I feel to Sandro is something else. I thought it was just the communication thing but I feel just as heard in silence. I think he feels it too. So maybe I am doing more. More than sucks and sorry. Because our lives are loud. I thought I needed the noise. Because silence never felt right before Sandro.
I got a text.
M: gotta pick costumes dude
Matty. God. I took a moment to scroll up our texts together. I’d gone a few days not texting him back and he still hadn’t noticed. My last genuine response was last weekend. Matty hit me up all hyped ’cause his older brother got us a hookup for fake IDs. All we had to do was fill out some forms and send in a picture and we’d have the IDs by January. We’d been talking about doing it for years, but it took me forever to agree to a time. Because other than work and the occasional run, I haven’t been hanging out with Matty much lately. I just don’t know what to say to him anymore. I don’t know who to be around him now. Some part of me is growing, I can feel it, and that part doesn’t speak Matty’s language. Hanging out with him, sitting on his couch, listening to his bullshit, it feels like one of those bad dreams where I’m in a play and I can’t remember any of my lines. I’ve been getting stage fright around my best friend and I want more than that. After the weight room, after how we treated Sandro, I wanted more.
That’s why last weekend, when I finally agreed to a time for our fake ID photoshoot, I invited my good ol’ workout bud.
It had been mostly funny but somewhat jarring to see Dro sitting on my milk crates behind the diner that day. Using my dumpster to fill out his ID form. He had officially, irrevocably invaded my bubble, the only place that felt truly mine, and I didn’t care.
“How about Gino Natoli? I wanna stay Italian but maybe more subtle than Alessandro Miceli.”
“Dominic Natoli. I feel like Gino’s half a step away from Luigi Pizza-Pie.”
“Fair. I got a cousin Dominic, down by the shore.”
“Wow. What a New Jersey sentence.”
“Garden State, baby. How ’bout you, whatchu feeling?”
I wrote out my freshly chosen name, all pretty in pen. “I’m thinking Daniel. Daniel Branch.”
“Daniel like the book?”
“And Branch like my mom.”
“Hm. Doesn’t feel very Latino.”
“I guess I don’t feel very Latino.”
Sandro gave me a nod so I committed. At the end of the day, it didn’t really matter much. These were for the sole use of purchasing booze, maybe getting into concerts. But I liked the idea of Daniel. And I really liked the idea of Branch.
I never felt like a Villeda. How could I? My dad gave me his name, some eyebrows, then bounced. I barely remember the guy. But it was my legal name and by the time I even considered dropping it, my mom was Mrs. Branch. I liked Daniel too. The character in the book is a jerk but I sort of identified with him. He’s a lonely guy. Pissed. More angry that no one notices he’s missing than he is about being lost. All these misplaced emotions when really he’s just mad at himself. All he needed to do was trust the lighthouse. No one should want to be alone.
Matty wasn’t happy that I brought along the guy who made him look like a Tickle Me Elmo in front of the field team. Sandro did the honorable thing and apologized but even after they shook hands, I knew the memory was still eating Matty up. He stomped out of the diner with his mom’s camera and a rejected Beer Olympics poster board.
“Let’s make this quick. Miceli first.”
The picture needed a white backdrop, so I held up the blank side of the poster board and Sandro stood against it. He smiled. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Just his normal, earnest smile.
But Matty grumbled. “No dumb faces. They gotta look legit.”
“This is just how I smile.”
“Well, fix it.”
Sandro’s smile dropped. Faded away into something passive and stung.
What a fucking asshole.
I don’t think there’s a worse thing you can tell someone—that their smile is “dumb.” Or their laugh is “weird.” ’Cause smiles are smiles. Laughs are laughs. We don’t plan them. They happen when we’re too surprised or happy to care about what we look like. And to make someone question that? I think that’s a really cruel thing to do.
I was up next and didn’t try smiling. I just wanted to get Dro away from my dick coworker. Back to the ditch. Get him smiling again. But I had the rest of my shift and Sandro had to pick up GJ at karate. We still had lives outside of our talks and I’d have to wait. Hope something else got him smiling.
Dro finished up and started off on his crutches.
“Text you later, Bash. Thanks a bunch, Matt.”
I stifled a laugh. Matty despises “Matt.” Says “Matt” is a boring-ass white guy who drinks LaCroix and Frisbee golfs. I couldn’t remember if I’d told Dro that but it was the perfect dig for the situation. We watched Dro go and, once he had some distance, Matty huffed. “Some guys can’t take the fucking hint, eh?”
“Whatchu mean?”
He ignored my question. “Hey, you get a costume for Spooktacular yet? I’m thinking we do this Greek gods thing. Really show off the abs.”
Spooktacular. His Halloween party. I tried bringing him back to what he meant about “the fucking hint” but he had moved on. “I heard Ronny DiSario’s doing some haunted house shit at her place and, honestly, it feels like an attack. Our party’s gotta kick ass. I got kegs, got us E, we’re going hard. I’m only inviting track guys and soccer girls. Maybe basketball girls.”
“Oh. No field guys?”
I knew what Matty was doing. Matty knew what he was doing. He had this look I recognized but couldn’t place right away. “Bashy. You got your friends, then you got your teammates. That’s what went wrong with the Olympics. Too many guys we didn’t know. Not really.”
It took a twitch of his brow for me to place his look. It was the same one I saw in my rearview that night. When I drove Dro home from the Olympics and did everything I could to keep the emotion off my face. Matty was thinking loud about something and trying not to show it. I wanted to figure it out but Avi barked at us to get back to work.
We didn’t talk about it again and I spent the rest of the week avoiding him. But even in the ditch, with Sandro snoring beside me, Matty’s texts could still find me.
M: gotta pick costumes dude
My fingers moved to respond but none of the letters looked right. I didn’t know what to say. Stage fright. The wrong kind of silence.
I’ve known for a long time that I didn’t love hanging out with Matty anymore, but it’s new that I can’t stand being around him at all. He’s this cackling reminder that I’ve spent the last four years being a dick to people. Being a loud, showy asshole so people wouldn’t notice what I was really feeling. How much I was feeling.
I heard Sandro clear his throat then he sat up with me. “Sup?”
I guess nap time was over. I showed him my phone. “Matty’s big Halloween party’s this weekend.”
“Mm. Mateo Silva Presents: Spooktacular?”
“Mateo Silva Presents: Spooktacular 3: Son of Spooktacular.”
“Ah. My secretary musta lost my invite.”
“I was thinking about skipping it.”
Sandro rubbed the crap out of his eyes and stretched out like a cat. “Really? Bash the Flash skipping a classic Matty S. throwdown?”
“Yeah. Thought we could hang out.”
“We’re hanging out right now.”
“But we could be hanging out in costumes. With a full liquor cabinet. In my empty house. Real spooky shit.”
“I do like spooky. But no Ouija boards. I got a functions exam coming up and really can’t afford gettin’ possessed right now.”
“Deal.”
I extended a hand. He looked at it and made a face. Like he was acknowledging my unspoken rule. This rule about touching that I thought I made for his sake but was maybe always more for me. I guess Sandro knew. But he shook my hand anyway.
14. When we shook on it. (Palm on Palm)
We shook for a good long while. Maybe too long. It was funny. Because we were getting so close. I felt close to this person. Yet I was still kicking up all this sand about touching him. Something as simple as a handshake. Or his hand on my wrist. He laughed and pulled his hand away and I felt like Daniel again. Lost at sea. Ignoring the lighthouse. Too stubborn to accept a helping hand.
And I decided it was time to come in from the sea.
sandro
OCTOBER 31
THEY DID THE MASH
Ronny, Phil, and me were sitting in a circle on the floor of the practice room. Mr. D had started letting us three use the free play half of class to jam down the hall and today’s session had quickly devolved into a very important conversation.
“Exit 40.”
“McFist.”
“Bathtub Screaming.”
“Panic, Panic.”
“Kiss By a Fist.”
“Jersey Devils.”
“There Might Be Fists.”
“Why all the fists?”
“Oh, that’s a good one.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Philip, that was a question.”
“I dunno. Fists are punk.”
“Fist Patrol.”
“I just don’t like the fist thing.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if I want a band named Fist.”
“A Band Named Fist.”
“Oh, actually, y’know, that’s nice.”
“Bloody Knuckles.”
“No, we’re getting further from it.”
Ronny was braiding Phil’s hair. She looked over at my foot. “Hey. Can I sign your boot?”
“What? No.”
“Someone else did.”
I turned my brace over and looked at the tiny Wite-Out handwriting along the side. “He had specific permission.”
Ronny made a face. “Oho. Was this the Running Man’s handiwork?”
I shrugged. Phil perked up. “Oh, right. I always forget you hang out with Bash the Trash. Such a random pairing. Like if Michael Jordan was buddies with Clifford the Big Red Dog.”
Ronny yanked on Phil’s braid. “Hey, that reminds me. I’m having this Halloween thing tonight. My parents are gone all week, we’re gonna tear the place to the ground.”
I picked up the bass Ronny loaned me to help with her demo and checked the tuning. “Neato. That’s fun.”
“It is fun, thank you. And costumes are very mandatory. I’m going as a sexy lamp. Phil’s going as Seasonal Depression.”
After some dead air, Phil and Ronny fixed their black-eyelined gazes on me. I was supposed to respond. I never knew when I was supposed to join in with them. With their constant shit-talk and terrible attitudes, the line between bandmate and friend was frustratingly vague and I never knew which side they wanted me on.
“Oh. I don’t... I haven’t picked a costume this year. Don’t think I’m dressing up.”
Ronny tsked. “Well, you have to, Sandro. Costumes are mandatory. And don’t show up in some football jersey saying you’re David Akers or some jock cop-out. Don’t let my cool vibe fool you, little boy. I expect investment.”
I wasn’t getting something. Why would Ronny be expecting me at all? “Wait, did you want to play music? Like, a set?”
“God, no. We can’t even land on a name, we’re not even close to playing for people.”
“Okay. Then, why would I need a costume?”
Ronny squinted at me, matching my confusion. “Sandro, Jesus Christ, I’m inviting you to my party. As a guest. Guests wear costumes.”
Phil swooned. “Noooo. Sandro, do you not get invited to parties? Tragique.”
I let my embarrassment roll off my back and focused on my bass plucking. It’s not my fault I didn’t expect someone like Ronny DiSario to want me over at her home. Harshing her party vibe. Tainting all her cool. “I actually get invited to everything. I just never go.”
Ronny laughed and stood up. “Yeah, Phil. Ask around. Our bassist here isn’t like us. Everyone in school can get on board with Mr. Miceli. He’s universally approved.”
Phil smiled at me, disdain on his lips. “Aww. Like tap water.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sorry I’m likable.”
“Thank God, someone finally apologizes for it.”
I guess I laughed at that. Ronny sat at her keyboard and started playing “Chopsticks.” “So, you coming? Will you bless our jaded asses with your likable presence?”
To be honest, I thought Ronny didn’t like me. I assumed Phil hated me. That was just the pair’s general demeanor. They’re always screaming about something or someone and they couldn’t give less of a rip about my “jock shit.” I thought this arrangement, any time we were spending together, was all contingent on me playing a passable bass guitar. Because I was used to getting invited to parties I had no business attending. Only I wasn’t used to people caring if I showed.
