“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.
Twelve
AT 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?”
“I doubt it. Next we’ve got to tackle your clothes. You’ll need to get some more money.”
Oh, great, Carlos thought. Money from where?
As they crossed the living room, Sal waved. “Good-bye, Mrs. Amoroso.”
“Bye!” She glanced up from her sewing and gave him a big smile. “Come back anytime!”
Carlos didn’t get why females were so charmed by gay guys, but he was glad his ma liked Sal. And as he returned to his room to pack his overnight bag for his pa’s, he found himself kind of wishing he could’ve spent more time with Sal.
Thirteen
AS USUAL, CARLOS’S pa arrived late. And, as always, he cell-phoned from the parking lot, to avoid coming upstairs. It annoyed Carlos how his pa and ma had gotten so weird about each other.
Carlos said good-bye to his ma and carried his overnight bag down to the car. Lupita sat in front arguing with his pa about Henry’s binky bottle. Henry was strapped into a kid seat in back, crying. Carlos climbed in beside him and put his music player headphones on.
Like every Saturday they drove to McDonald’s. Over lunch, Carlos told his pa and Lupita, “A friend helped me paint an accent wall in my room.”
“What’s an accent wall?” his pa asked.
It surprised Carlos that his pa, a construction foreman, didn’t know “It’s when you paint one wall a different color.”
His pa raised an eyebrow. “Only one wall?”
“That sounds pretty,” Lupita commented, and fed Henry a French fry.
“It looks cool,” Carlos said. “Then we painted a headboard onto the wall.”
“That’s clever!” Lupita beamed.
His pa frowned. “Where did your mother get the money for a headboard?”
“She didn’t” Carlos muttered. “I said, my friend and I painted it on.”
Carlos didn’t say any more after that, not mentioning the framed praying mantis or the bamboo stalks.
After lunch, they went to the park, where his pa and Lupita played with Henry. Carlos sat on a bench, bored, and wondered why he’d even bothered to come along.
After the park, they went to the mall to buy new clothes and shoes for Henry.
“He’s growing so fast!” Lupita exclaimed, fitting Henry into a new pair of pants.
“Yeah, too fast,” his pa griped.
“I need some new stuff too,” Carlos told his pa. “Can I have some money?”
His pa pressed his lips together, unsmiling. “Look, mi’jo, at the rate Henry is going through clothes, I can’t right now. Why don’t you ask your ma? I already sent her the check for this month.”
Carlos turned away from his pa, his face burning. He understood Henry needed clothes, but what about him? “I’m going to the car,” he announced and walked out.
On the way home, they stopped for a DVD rental. Carlos wanted an action movie, but instead his pa got a crappy “family” film that Henry could watch.
For the rest of the evening, Carlos kept to himself, bored out of his mind. When it came time to sleep, he lay restless on the bed beside Henry’s crib. The nightlight illuminated the gazillion brightly colored toys that filled Henry’s room. It wasn’t fair that Henry should get so much stuff while Carlos couldn’t even get some clothes money.
Next morning, he slept late and woke up feeling too cranky to say much.
His pa watched him warily. When he dropped Carlos off at home, he handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Here. I’m sorry it can’t be more.”
Wow, ten whole dollars? Carlos thought sarcastically. Big whoop. But he took the money anyway.
When he got to his room, he went to his computer, eager to catch up with his friends and take his mind off his turdy life.
Fourteen
CARLOS KNEW his friends were still pissed at him for not telling them what was going on with Sal. Although they’d stopped hassling Sal, they still gave Carlos crap, telling him, “Hey, there goes your Hoover,” or, “I think you’re starting to lithp.”
Although the comments irritated Carlos, he also felt a little guilty for not being honest about what he was doing. Sunday afternoon he invited the group over to hang out. When they reached his bedroom doorway, the boys gazed in awe around the clean, redecorated room.
“Holy crap!” Playboy gasped. “What happened?”
“I decided to fix it up
.”
“How come you painted only one wall?” Pulga asked. “You run out of paint?”
“It looks cool,” Toro said. “Can you help me paint my room like this?”
“Sure.” Carlos smiled. “That’s called an accent wall, to match the faux headboard.”
His three friends stared at him as if he were an alien.
As the boys hung out, the discussion turned to Playboy and the Internet profile he’d set up—which so far hadn’t turned out so good. He’d placed it on Hot-or-Snot.com, a teen hookup site where your photo could be rated on a scale of one to ten by anyone who saw it. Anything over five meant you were hot. But under five, you may as well crawl beneath a rock and die.
Since Playboy had posted his photo/profile, his rating had slipped steadily from its opening to 8.5, and the only e-mail response he’d received was from a hugely overweight woman in her late thirties who lived fifty miles away—but she was willing to travel.
“Dude, look at her!” Playboy showed Carlos her J-peg. “She looks ready to give birth to a Sumo wrestler.”
Pulga countered. “Maybe she is a Sumo wrestler.”
“Let me see your profile,” Carlos said to Playboy.
All the boys leaned over the computer as Playboy clicked to his profile. Below his face pic it read:
USER NAME: HornyBoy0001.
DESCRIPTION: Male, 16 …
Toro remarked, “You’re not sixteen yet.”
“I will be in a year.” Playboy grinned as Carlos kept reading in a low voice: “… six feet tall…”
Playboy wasn’t actually that tall, either. He was about an inch shorter than Carlos.
“… sexy, VGL …” Carlos asked, “What’s VGL mean?”
Toro replied, “Volunteers to get laid?”
“That too.” Playboy grinned. “It means ‘Very Good-Looking.’”
“Better take your photo down,” Pulga remarked. “Or they’ll see you’re lying.”
Playboy punched his arm. Carlos continued reading: “… hot bod … great personality … into music (hip hop, house, Los Lonely Boys) …”