The Long Run, page 4
But that’s all there is to us. If we’re talking, the conversation’s one-way. If we’re laughing, it’s at someone’s expense. But before I can wonder if I even like my best friend, I snap back to my body and remember how Matty was there for me after my mom died. How he’s had my back in fight after fight. How at least I know which Bash I have to be around him.
So, I guess we’re friends. He’s still a pain in my ass though. Like this morning. It was a standard opening shift of wiping down tables and eavesdropping on customers. I was busing a corner booth and dropped in on this little boy and his mom. They were sitting a few booths back, finishing up sharing a short stack. I didn’t catch the context, but I could hear the mom pretty well.
“You gotta get good grades to be an astronaut.”
The little boy was quieter so I had to move closer to make him out.
“Aliens don’t have to go to school.”
“Little man. Do you wanna be an alien or an astronaut?”
“I wanna live on the moon.”
I don’t know why exactly but that made me smile. Then Matty did what he always does. The second my guard was down, he popped up behind me, yanked out my headphones, and gave me a quick slap in the face.
“Caught you sleepin’, bitch.”
And I did what I always do and stomached it. Laughed it off. He slid into my unbused booth and I swallowed my urge to put his face through the table.
“So-ho-ho. You get shit for tonight, Bashy Boy?”
Matty’s jaw always looked particularly punchable whenever he gave me new nicknames. They were different from Lucy’s. Hers were funny. A running joke. Matty’s always felt like a rewrite. Like Sebastian just didn’t cut it. But I’d been on my feet for three hours and had five more to go and I didn’t want to be annoyed. Because what’s the point?
So I let my chill take over. “Yeah, man. We’re golden.”
My whole body loosened and I felt better with every shrug. It’s like the monkey on my back took a smoke break and I could be cool for a little.
Matty gave me a fist bump. “That’s what I like to hear. Liquor store give you any trouble?”
“Nah, they love my ass there. Got that top-shelf shit.”
But that wasn’t good enough for Matty. Not much was. He scoffed.
“Fucko. We don’t want top-shelf shit. We want Mexican shit. Corona. Tecate. Corona Light. We’re repping our whole country tonight, Villeda.”
He was referring to the Beer Olympics. Sorry, The Mateo Silva Third Annual Beer Olympics. It’s this end-of-summer thing he’s been throwing since freshman year. The track squad pairs up, picks a country to rep, and drinks to excess in the woods on the edge of town, known as the Sticks. Technically, it’s a beer pong tournament but so far it’s always fallen apart before the semifinals. Matty and I are favorited to sweep again as Mexico but apparently now my alcohol selection wasn’t to his liking. It’s not like I had a lot of options. I had to Hey, Mister outside Delran Spirits for an hour before some college kid took pity on me, and I had limited options with my wad of ones.
But what I said was, “Yeah. I can nab more. No prob.”
“Just get it to the Sticks before people show. Amanda’s bringing the girls’ lacrosse team and they expect to see Matty and the Flash in the finals.”
“Oh. I thought this was just a track thing.”
“Bashley. The Mateo Silva Third Annual Beer Olympics is about bringing people together. Plus, we need girls. Last year was one sweaty meathead away from a circle-jerk.”
He said that a bit too loud. I checked to make sure the mom and her little boy didn’t hear and moved my busing tub a booth over just to be sure.
“Field guys invited?”
“Maybe. Haven’t decided.”
“They’re part of the team.”
“They’re part of a team.”
“Coach might like it. You bridging the gap like that. Real captain-like.”
I couldn’t tell you why I was fighting for the Fieldies to join the party. I don’t really know them like that. I think I just wanted to beat Matty at something and it was an argument I could win. Because the last three years of this track vs. field bullshit has always been just that. Bullshit.
Matty scratched his chin, inspired.
“Diplomacy. Very interesting.”
“Just a thought. And some field guys are aight.”
“Don’t know about all that. But they’ll bitch if I don’t invite ’em again. And it’s not like they’ll be hard to beat. They’re fat but they’re lightweights. Tragic, really.”
I sighed internally. We couldn’t just talk about the field guys, we had to trash on them. We couldn’t just talk about beer, we had to complain about it. Exhausting. Against my better judgment, I tried to pivot toward something less negative.
“Saw Sandro Miceli the other day. He seems okay.”
“The Italian Yeti? Speak of the double-stuffed devil. Where?”
“Out back. Strip mall. I think he broke his leg.”
“Probably tripped over himself, dumb fuck.”
I gave up. It was pointless. But I did feel a responsibility to put as much space as possible between Matty’s mouth and that little boy’s ears so I moved to the center tables. Matty followed, right on my feet, like a shadow wearing too much body spray. He spread out on the table next to mine and inspected his neatly coifed hair in the napkin holder. After making sure each strand was in place, he zeroed in on my hair.
“You cutting that shit or what?”
“Nah, man. Girls like it long.”
“Coach’ll kick your ass if you roll up like that. This season’s all about aerodynamics, bro.”
I shrugged. “Then I’ll put it in a bun.”
I was so focused on not focusing on Matty, I barely noticed when I bumped into a customer. But before I could apologize, I saw her little boy. Swinging on his mom’s hand, face a little messy from the pancakes. They looked just as sweet and smiley up close as they did in their booth. But before I could smile back, I heard Matty’s laugh.
“Buns are faggy as fuck, man.”
The monkey came in from his smoke break and found its spot on my back. Because the look on that mother’s face. How quickly she got her boy away from us.
I spent a long time in the walk-in after that. A long fucking time.
I ran the tips of my fingernails across my newly bald head, avoiding making eye contact with my reflection in the rearview. Matty was a little right. Coach would be happy. And who knows? I could be more aerodynamic. And a buzz cut is a classic. A staple. It’s less work than all that hair, that’s for sure. Less faggy too.
I rolled my eyes at myself. Faggy. Like hair length has anything to do with that stuff. Faggy is just Matty’s go-to descriptor for anything cheesy or abnormal. Like sandals or bracelets or, apparently, wanting to put your hair into a bun. He didn’t mean anything about it, he was just talking shit. Matty talks shit. That’s just Matty. The guy pisses me off sometimes but that’s become expected. And oddly enough, I’m not pissed off right now. I wish I was pissed. I can sprint that shit off. Get in a fight or something. Nice and simple. This thing in my chest, it’s something else. I don’t know if it’s one of my usual thorns. I think it might be something new.
I finally started the truck, hoping the AC would clear out some of these thoughts, and blared some nice nondescript house music to get me in the “I guess I’m going to a party” mood. I kind of got lost in the beat and was about thirty over the limit by the time I entered the Orchard. Where the rich folks live. The neighborhood’s essentially thirty or so identically ugly McMansions built on the remains of what used to be a really nice apple orchard and it’s the best way to get to the Sticks. It’s also a war zone of running toddlers, hidden cop cars, and bored housewives just dying to report boys who look like me for speeding or noise or existing. So, I turned down my music and responsibly cruised.
I was hyperaware of my driving but still nearly rolled through a stop sign. I saw it in time but Birdie’s brakes aren’t what they used to be. She’s an old blue pickup that’s been through it. My mom bought her used at sixteen and dubbed her Birdie, short for bluebird, because of her color and speed.
To be safe, I sat Birdie at the stop sign for a beat. Took in our surroundings. There were these two boys playing basketball in a driveway. The house wasn’t as ostentatious as its neighbors and the kids looked like they were having fun. Actual fun. Summer fun. They looked like kids I might’ve been friends with. Back when I made friends. Whatever they were playing, it wasn’t basketball. Not really. It looked like a game they’d made up. Something that was just theirs. And I remembered how beautiful that could be. Finding something that’s just yours. Something that could only exist in the summer. Something simple and silly and the right kind of exhausting. No thorns. Just summer. And I felt a little sorry that I pulled the plug on summer so early.
I was so deep in that thought, I didn’t even notice the knock on my window. The second one made me jump though. I turned to find the Italian Yeti standing at my window. Sandro Miceli. Smiling at me like a straight-up murderer. He motioned for me to roll my window down and I almost sped away. It was maybe the second time in a week this giraffe had derailed my train of thought.
But for some reason, I rolled the window down.
“Hey, Bash.”
He just smiled. I didn’t know what to say. “Uh... Sup, man?”
I mean, what else was I supposed to say? The guy cocked his head down the road. Toward the Sticks. “You going to this Matty thing?”
He had this tank top on that just read ITALY. I’d seen him wear it at practice but today it was coupled with some very short Italian-flag shorts. Three things dawned on me. First, a Fieldie was on his way to the Olympics so Matty must’ve taken my bait. Second, I’d completely blanked on wearing anything remotely Mexican for the third year in a row. And, lastly, Sandro Miceli had the hairiest legs I’d seen outside of a zoo. He was about an inch away from showing brain in those shorts and I had to respect the balls it took to wear them in public. So, I complimented them. The shorts, not his balls.
“...Nice shorts.”
“Thanks. Nice plain white shirt.”
I guess I laughed a bit at that.
He pointed at my beer cases and told me I should cover them better but I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t stop staring at his crutches. He had a fresh boot on but his crutches looked like they were nearing five hundred miles. The rubber ends were eaten up like he’d been walking all over the place, which wasn’t smart. He’d graduate in that boot if he kept that up. I realized that I’d zoned out again, the fifteenth time today, only to find that he’d done the exact same thing. Only he was looking at those kids playing their own kind of basketball. And he was smiling. And I got this feeling that he had the same thought as me. At least summer wasn’t dead for those boys. It was that kind of smile.
“...You wanna ride?”
sandro
AUGUST 25
LOOK AT THE BALLS ON DRO
When I got into Bash Villeda’s truck, all I could think about were my balls. I love my Italy shorts dearly but, in the two years since I bought them on the Atlantic City boardwalk, both my legs and balls have grown. Before I left, my little nephew GJ told me I was one high kick away from showing the world my goods and I didn’t heed his warning. But sitting shotgun in that pickup, the shitty polyester of those ten-dollar shorts riding up the upholstery, I feared my junk was a ticking time bomb.
“Windows down?”
Bash’s question shook me out of my ball-fog and I nodded.
“Oh. Uh...sure.”
He rolled the windows down and we both went back to staring silently ahead.
I wasn’t surprised when I got the invite to the Beer Olympics. I wasn’t stoked that Matty Silva was the one extending the last-minute offer but I’ve grown to expect the random invite here and there. See, people love to invite me to shit. Seriously. I’m constantly getting invited to parties I have no business attending. I nearly got shin splints last year after all the sweet sixteens I stomped my way through.
Someone once told me that I’m a “party essential.” At first, I thought it was high praise. That people really enjoyed my presence. Then Syd DeStefano had this rager to celebrate getting over mono and it was the talk of homeroom come Monday. People were chatting me up, saying how wild it was and how fucked-up we all got and I just laughed and nodded along, apparently the only one who knew I was not in attendance. I’d bailed last minute due to some gas station hot dog–related food poisoning, yet Syd still thanked me for making an appearance.
It was then I realized that people liked inviting me to things but didn’t really give a shit if I went. I guess because I’m quasi-friendly with everyone and because I’m loud and overall a fun guy, people considered me “essential.” Like a queso fountain. Or a bouncy house. A fun thing to have but not necessarily make-or-break for your night’s overall success.
That cooled me off parties this summer. I only agreed to go to the Olympics for field solidarity. Dr. Kizer’s new foot prison was almost enough to keep me inside for the night, but something bigger made me follow through. Fieldies had been openly excluded from some track parties in the past, and I figured accepting a Silva olive branch was the captainly thing to do. Or maybe I just wanted to show off my favorite shorts. Maybe I’d spent enough time wallowing in my room for one summer. Or maybe I just didn’t want to let the fucking boot win.
“Can you put your seat belt on?”
“What?”
I snapped back out of my stare. Bash nodded at my waist. “Your belt. People get pulled over here. And...the beer.”
“Oh. Right. Click it or ticket.”
“Mm.”
I adjusted my sitting carefully, very mindful of my shorts, and clicked it. I waited a responsible amount of time to see if the guy’s sentence fragments were going to progress into any form of polite conversation but, ten mailboxes later, decided it was a lost cause. So be it. I despise awkward silences to my core but they beat walking any further in that heat.
For the umpteenth time, my brother Raph was nowhere to be found when it came time to drive me to the party. It wasn’t some great shock but, more than a ride, I guess I just wanted my family to know I had plans for the night. That I was leaving for the night to get wasted in the woods and wouldn’t be doing my chores in the morning. That I might even throw up if I felt like it. That, if offered, I’d smoke weed. That, if offered, I’d have anonymous sex on the Rotary Club Nature Trail. I would’ve loved to tell my parents that their youngest son, Sandro, was going out for the night and he was ready to burn this town to the motherfucking ground.
But they were both at work so I just left a Post-it on the microwave. Out late. I guess I’m glad Raph didn’t drive me. If he had, I never would’ve discovered how shit Bash Villeda was at small talk.
Moorestown’s premiere track captain is a well-known, well-liked luminary in our small town. He’s our school’s current athletic prodigy and I’m told he has a lot of top-tier scouting interest. He is biracial, has a strong jawline, and (usually) has good hair. And that’s about all I know about him. If I had to guess, I met him in elementary school and in that time we’ve carried less than five conversations. It’s not that I don’t like the guy. I just don’t know him. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I know Bash the Flash. Everyone does.
Bash the Flash is the guy who did shrooms on the away bus and got us disqualified from the Camden Kids Fun Run. Bash the Flash is who I saw give that Cinnaminson dude some serious cauliflower ear behind a diner. The Flash is best friends with Matty Silva, noted cock, and apparently tied to his hip. I know that guy well enough. But I’d never seen him alone before. Maybe that’s why I knocked on his truck window. Probably why I waved at him outside the Rte. 130 Diner too. I mean, the only reason I bothered waving was that look on his face. Same look he had sitting at that stop sign. In his truck, by the dumpster, he looked lost. Alone, the guy looked really lost.
“Love the truck.”
Bash kept his eyes on the road but grunted. I couldn’t tell if it was an acknowledging or a “Whatchu say?” kind of grunt so I turned the music down.
“I said I love your truck.”
“...I heard you.”
His eyes peeked at the volume knob. I think he was peeved that a stranger had touched his knob. I suppose it was poor passenger etiquette.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Even at the low volume, Bash never stopped nodding along to the beat.
“So. Whatchu do?” Bash glanced at my boot. I perked up. Finally. A topic.
“Oh. I broke it.”
“Yeah, no shit. How?”
“Fell off my roof.”
Bash had been bobbing his head to the music all drive but he went very still there. I didn’t get it.
“...What?”
He just shook his head.
“Nothing.”
I could see it then. In the corners of his mouth, he was trying not to laugh. I didn’t know if it was at me or with me so I didn’t push. He took a right at a stop sign and his big eyebrows bunched up.
“Didn’t you have a green one? Like a... I don’t know. A hard cast?”
I smiled. Got him.
“HA! You DID see me waving at you.”
Bash rolled his eyes and actually smiled. “I was on my break, man, I’m not tryna talk to anyone.”
“Hey, I get it. Saved me the trouble of thinking up small talk.”
“See? You’re welcome.”
I laughed and readjusted the Velcro on my boot. “I had places to be anyway. Sorry I didn’t help.”
“What?”
