The Long Run, page 16
“I just...didn’t think y’all would wanna hang out after practice.”
Ronny and Phil shared an overly sympathetic look.
“Aww. He’s so sweet.”
“A proper good lad.”
“If we’re gonna be a band, Sandro, we should probably start to enjoy each other, no? Why wouldn’t we want to hang out with you?”
I shrugged. “’Cause. You two are dicks.”
Phil and Ronny burst out laughing. Phil flipped me off and moved to his drum set. “We’re all dicks, Miceli. I see you. You’re just better at hiding it. Got that Good Boy face.”
“Hey, I am a good boy, you fuck.”
“Then come to the goddamn party!”
Ronny smiled and picked up her tempo. I sighed. “It sounds really fun, Ron. Really. I appreciate the invite.”
“Boo. This sounds like a no.”
Phil groaned and picked up his drumsticks. “Told you. You’re probably going to Matty Silva’s thing, right? Sounds like a rad occasion, Bro-Bot, good choice. I’m sure it’ll be a hella hetero time.”
Phil joined in with Ronny’s “Chopsticks,” drumming along to the rhythm. Now, I was expressly not invited to Matty Silva’s Spooktacular (something about a weight room if I recall?) and Ronny’s invite did have potential. Ever since Beer Olympics went so tits up, she’s been slowly chipping away at Matty’s party supremacy with a series of counterprogramming and I really respected her hustle. But I had plans for my night. Very set, very important plans. Plans I guess I needed to lie about.
“I was gonna stay in. Babysit my little nieces.”
Ronny gave me a genuinely sympathetic look. “You could always bring them. Do they party?”
I laughed and joined in with their impromptu “Chopsticks” jam. Bass was a lot easier than I thought it would be. Once you have your guitar basics down, it’s really just a matter of reverse engineering your brain into the bass mindset. A supporting instrument. A part of the band.
Ronny was looking at my boot again, at the words Bash painted on me a few days ago in the back of Birdie. A phrase I groaned after a particularly heated session of venting about my family and my mother and my life.
“How about that? For the band name?”
Phil looked at my boot and read. “‘Everything All the Time.’”
We mulled it over as a group. Phil and Ronny nodded.
“Evocative. Very moody.”
“Very pop punk.”
“And we didn’t even need a fist.”
Ronny smiled. “Everything. All the Time. That’ll look good on a demo. I like it.”
I smiled at my boot. Bash’s neat, white handwriting. “I like it too.”
We all repeated our new band name out loud and in our heads a little while longer, never letting our pointless jam session go quiet.
It was actually killing me that I couldn’t tell Panic! or The Disco about my real plans for the holiday or my costume for the night. Because little did my bandmates know, I fucking LOVE Halloween. I just do. I love everything about it. The bats, the black cats. That decoration where it looks like a witch crashed her broom into your garage. I love the chocolate (Rolos at the top, Kit Kats at the bottom), the candy (Skittles at the top, Sour Skittles at the bottom). It’s just a magical time of year.
Any other Halloween, I would’ve been over the moon to get an invite to a surefire rager like Ronny’s party. Her place is huge, her parents are never home, and the nights always end with some big scandal that rocks the school come Monday. But tonight I had better, spookier plans.
Bash’s house. Bash’s empty house. Bash’s empty house with alcohol and costumes.
Our costume idea started as a joke but, as it often does with Bash, became a competition. Who could do the other better? I’d dress like him and he’d dress like me. Since we weren’t planning on seeing anyone, we figured we might as well go all out.
I knew I wanted to do his running getup. It’s his signature look. Like if they were making Sandro and Bash action figures, the Bash dude would have a white V-neck, shorts over compression pants, and a kung-fu grip.
I hit up Target after school and found most of Bash’s ensemble in the workout section. The compression pants were a challenge to find in a size that wouldn’t cut off circulation. I finally tracked down an XXL in clearance that technically fit around my waist but I was bulging out pretty hard and they made my legs appear even ganglier. Overall, I looked pretty hilarious in them. They probably would’ve won me the contest flat out. But I didn’t want to look hilarious. Bash invited me to his house. It would just be us. And I knew all about his unspoken rules and limits. He wasn’t just respecting my space; I knew that he was holding back. But ever since that night in Birdie when he let me touch him, something felt different. We’d moved past something. I didn’t want to look hilarious. I wanted to look good for him.
I opted to go bare legged for the costume. But I wasn’t trying to lose this competition so when I got home, I had GJ spray me with the hose. On the mist setting, to make me look all sweaty. I was going for Bash: Hangover Edition. To really clinch the gold, I sprinkled some drops of SunnyD around my collar to simulate barf.
GJ asked where I was going and I told him the truth. He knew about Bash. Well, he knew Uncle Dro had a new friend and he asked if he could come with. I hate saying no to GJ. He’s my little guy. The only thing I like about my house other than my roof. But I had big plans for the night and they hopefully wouldn’t be kid friendly. So, I told him it was Adults Only and he told me to go fuck myself.
I biked over to Bash’s, avoiding all the mini ghosts and goblins on the sidewalk, and knocked on the duplex door. Bash answered, landline in one hand, bowl of candy in the other. He was mid-convo but burst out laughing. He dropped the receiver on the porch and I had to take the bowl from him. That’s when I got a full look.
My God.
I have no fucking clue how he tracked them down but Bash found the EXACT shorts I wore to Beer Olympics. My Italian flag boys with the criminally short inseam. They’re not something you could pick up at any old Target and I truly believed that he’d drive all the way to AC just to win our competition. He had a homemade ITALY tank on and he’d drawn fake curlicue hairs all over his chest in marker.
Fuck.
FUCK.
I was half mad that I was bound to lose the competition, half wildly turned on by how much chest he was showing. Legs too. Those shorts really are too short.
He picked up the receiver and wrapped up his convo. “Yeah, he’s spot-on. Really. I mean I think I’m still gonna win but I’ll send you a pic. Sure thing. No, it rained yesterday so I put the toolbox in your room.”
Based on how he was talking, I never would’ve guessed it was Del on the other end. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bash look so casual talking to him.
“Yeah, I handed it in Friday. I think so. Ms. Morgan likes me. How’s Maine? Nice.”
Then he turned away from me. Went into the kitchen nook. I wish I’d gotten there five minutes later so he could’ve finished the call in peace. ’Cause it was really nice seeing him talk like that.
I could still hear him from the kitchen. He sounded smaller. Like a kid. “I’m sorry. That I didn’t come. I... Yeah. I know. Okay.”
There was a short silence. I thought he might’ve hung up on Del but then I heard a quieter voice. “...Love you too.”
I felt intrusive. But it was interesting. Interesting, interesting, interesting. The Stepson loves the Stepdad. And he’s telling him now. Very interesting.
Since that night in his truck, Bash has been trying to tell me more. Bigger stuff. Heavier stuff. Lately he’s been letting me in on his unique situation with Del. Del married his mom when Bash was ten. Things were fine then. Got on well. He wasn’t calling the guy Dad or anything, but they could talk. Then, five years later, his mom died. It was sudden and neither of them handled it well. It’s gotta be weird. This guy you only know so well becoming your only family? But apparently, it was never a question that Del would raise Bash. It’s what his mom wanted. He told me all this in the ditch. We’d just finished a particularly frustrating chapter of Daniel: Dickhead at Sea and it got us talking about family.
“The last real talk we had was about family. What we owe to family. She told me to keep him close. We’d need each other. I hate that I can’t just do that for her.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t know. I want to. I do. But something just stops me. When he’s around, I just feel bad. Like I’m not grateful. Wanted.”
I watched him test his own water. See how much he could say about himself before he closed up again.
And, from what I heard on this phone call, he was only getting better. I munched on a Milky Way, annoyed that it wasn’t a Snickers, and added it all to my data.
Bash hung up the phone and leaned into the living room. “Yo. Bash the Flash.”
I laughed and gave him my best bro nod. “Sup, brah.”
We couldn’t keep a straight face for long and pretty soon we were cracking up loud enough to completely miss the trick-or-treaters ringing the doorbell.
After a few rounds of giving out candy, Bash declared that he wanted to start drinking so we put some of the candy on the front porch and brought the rest up with us to his room.
Now.
I’ve been spending the past two months both overanalyzing and trying to ignore signs. What does it mean that Bash wanted a copy of my yearbook photo? Why did he invite me to get fake IDs with him? To say nothing of the Wisdom Tooth Saga. Well, when we got to Bash’s bedroom, there was no need for analysis. Because that room was fucking spotless. The bed was made. Laundry done. I could see vacuum marks in the carpet. The only other time I’d been in there, it looked like an unwashed gym bag had given birth. Boxers, jeans, socks, shirts, I could barely see the floor. But that All Hollows’ Eve? There was a concerted effort to make that bedroom presentable to visitors.
Visitor.
Bash was looking through his closet so I sat on his bed. This wasn’t a move, my foot just hurt. It also wasn’t a move for me to sprawl out as immediately as I did. His bed was comfy as shit. Memory foam, down comforter, the man slept well. Though I’d been sleeping in an attic for the past two years so maybe I was just starved for comfort.
Before I got too comfortable, I sat up. “Del coming back tonight?”
“Nah. His uncle died so he’s up in Maine for the weekend.”
“Well, damn, Bash. And you stayed?”
“I don’t really know his family. And we’re...you know. It would’ve been weirder to go, honestly.”
“You sounded good. On the phone. You were talking well.”
“Really? Huh. Cool.”
He sorta smiled to himself and reached up for a high shelf. He moved some towels around, trying to unearth something. His Team Italy tank was a little short on him and when he reached up, I could see his stomach. That V around his hips. All hairy and shit. Ugh.
“You’ve got a hairy stomach.”
“I know. It’s a bitch sometimes with running.”
“It’s good. Nice. Off the record.”
He gave me a look and went back to his search. He pulled out a bottle of Jack and a half-drunk two liter of Coke. “This is from the Fourth so it might be flat. Unless you wanna take it straight.”
I was fine either way. I’d never drunk much liquor, but I really wanted to start. He poured the rest of the Jack into the Coke bottle, nearly filling it back up, and shook the mix together. He hopped over me and we sat across from each other on his bedspread. He nodded at my V-neck. “...Lemme see yours.”
“You tryna get my shirt off?”
“Nah. Just lift your arms. That’s the sweet spot.”
I laughed and did it. My stomach’s thicker than his, in hair and fat, but he didn’t seem to mind. We laughed.
“I always clock it. The fuzz.”
“Same.”
He unscrewed the Jack & Coke cap slowly, expecting an explosion. Nothing. “Wow. Super flat. This actually might be older than the Fourth.”
We both took some pulls and shook off the bite. It was mostly Jack, but the flat Coke was hard to swallow. Like lukewarm syrup. I winced and tried to stay on topic. “Bolu Olowe’s got a great one. Super dark happy trail.”
“Oh, I’m aware. We had gym last year. Looked like he was wearing a fur tie in the locker room.”
“Matty’s got an oddly pronounced one too.”
“Yeah. He’s weirdly proud of it.”
I took another pull and decided to just ask it. “He hates me, right?”
“He’s never said that. But yeah. He hates you.”
“Weird. I assume a bunch of people don’t like me, but I’ve never actually gotten a confirmation.”
“Don’t let it knock you. Matty’s not worth the time.”
“Why do you hang out with him, then?”
Bash took a drink. I think he hated it but was definitely determined to get it down. “I don’t know for sure. After my mom... Matty was there. Around. He didn’t expect much out of me. I think I needed that. Low expectations. Simple shit. Bash the Flash. Hard to let that go.”
“Haven’t seen the Flash in a minute.”
“Dude’s benched. Don’t need him. Half my conversations with Matty consist of me shitting on someone so he won’t shit on me. You don’t make me nervous. Not like that.”
He passed me the bottle and I could tell he was getting himself ready for more. Like that night in Birdie. I could feel him getting ready for wherever this road seemed to be going. The signs were there. But I decided not to rush anything. To let whatever would happen happen.
But something was eating at me. Something that’d been stuck in my craw for months. And I figured, if Bash was in an open mood, I might as well probe. “Was Matty the one who keyed FAG into Jackson Pasternak’s locker?”
Bash winced. “They never caught the guy. But, off the record, yes.”
“That was fucked.”
“Yeah.”
“Weird word.”
“Fag?”
“Yeah. Always feels weird out loud.”
Bash smirked and opened his mouth wide. Really enunciated. “Faaaaaaaag. Yeah.”
“Fags. Faggot. Faggots.”
“Faggy. Faggier.”
“Faggiest?”
Bash threw up his hand like he was hailing a cab. “Ayo, FAG!”
“What it do, my faggot?”
We started cracking up at that. Not for long though. Something kind of fell over us and we got quiet. When you say a word enough it gets funny. Starts to lose all meaning. But that one always kept its meaning for me. Even when it was a joke, I was always so scared of that word. When I might see it, where I might see it, who might be saying it. And I wondered what it meant to Bash. “Anyone ever call you one?”
“Nah. Not, like...for real.”
“Same. Not for real.”
That was technically true.
My dad called all three of us fags at various points throughout our lives, but it was never an actual accusation. I know this because, whenever it’d happen, I would spend the next four days dissecting every element and circumstance of how and why he’d use that particular word in that particular scenario. If only for peace of mind. And it was usually ’cause we were goofing off. Nothing gay about goofing off.
“You ever call anyone one?”
Bash had to think about it. I guess that’s good. I was ready to accept he had. Not that I’d ever heard him, it’s just the kind of thing I expected from Matty and the Flash.
“Like bad drivers. Or friends. Just kidding around. Mostly.” Mostly. Couldn’t fault him for that. I was right there with him. The shame of mostly. Not all the time but not never. Stuck somewhere in mostly. “You?”
“...I called Joey Tan a fag in sixth grade because he had one of those folders with the cartoon bunny on it.”
“Oh, yeah. Those. Weren’t they more for girls though?”
“I mean, yeah, that’s why I called him it. I was just joking around but he must’ve thrown the thing out. I don’t think I ever saw him with it again.”
Bash isn’t the type to make me feel bad about sharing something shameful, but I instantly regretted telling him that. That memory made me feel like shit to this day.
“What’s up?”
I guess I was too quiet. I shook my head. “I just think about that a lot. Like, a lot a lot.”
“You were a kid.”
I shrugged. “I knew better.”
I still remember how fake the word sounded coming out of me. How put on. And then I remember who my brothers are. How my family is. Who I become when I’m not careful. “It just makes me feel bad.”
Bash nodded. “...Good.”
I socked him with a pillow. He laughed. “It’s better than the alternative, right? Most guys just drop it without thinking. At least it means something to you. You’re allowed to change.”
Bash handed me the bottle and lay down on the bed. I took a sip and tried not to stare at his sliver of stomach showing.
He wiped his mouth. “I got called into the principal’s office ’cause Pete Frey told the teachers I called him a faggot. It was fourth or fifth grade, I think.”
“Oh, damn. I forgot about him. Freckles? Asshole?”
“Yeah, that was Pete. They were like ‘Peter says you called him a mean word.’ But then they said ‘Faggot’ and I was like ‘Who?’ It’s how I learned the word.”
