Getting It (19 page)

“Yeah.” Carlos frowned. “And I screwed it up.”

“Oh.” Toro sounded let down. “I'd hoped maybe—you know—you could see if—I don't know—if you could get him to give me some advice.”

Oh, great,
Carlos thought, feeling even more like he'd screwed things up royally.

“You
ask him,” he told Toro.

Toro shook his head. “I'd feel too weird without you. When does the GSA meet again? I could go with you.”

Carlos dropped onto the sofa, resting his head in his hands. “It's not going to meet again. Nobody showed up for it.”

“No one?” Toro sounded even more downcast.

“It's not my fault!” Carlos crossed his arms.

Toro gave a shrug and rested his hand on the doorknob. “I'd better go.” He paused as if thinking about something. Then he removed his palm from the knob and extended his hand toward Carlos, his entire face a question mark.

Carlos shook it immediately, saying,
“Pendejo.”

For the first time that afternoon, Toro grinned—and so did Carlos.

T
HAT NIGHT,
C
ARLOS
dreamed about boobs. Nothing unusual about that, except … something felt odd about this particular pair of dream breasts. Still dreaming, he walked to his dresser mirror. What he saw made him scream in horror. The breasts belonged to him: He'd turned into a girl.

He woke in a sweat, slamming his hand onto the alarm clock.

“Carlos, wake up!” his ma called from the hall. “You'll be late for school.”

He caught his breath. The last thing he wanted was to go to school—and see Roxy.

He dragged himself out of bed and peered into the mirror, cringing. Although he hadn't grown boobs, he looked like crap. His highlights were growing out, making his hair look dorkily streaky, and his face was breaking out again.

He thought back to that fleeting moment during his makeover when he'd felt like an emerging butterfly. He'd not only looked good outside but felt good inside. Now he doubted whether he'd ever really looked good. Or had Sal merely made him think that?

On the bus, Toro greeted him sheepishly, apparently still embarrassed about the day before. “'S'up?”

Carlos replied with his own reassuring “'S'up.”

Playboy gave them a curious look. “What's up with you two girls?”

Carlos ignored him and gazed out the window, annoyed.

Then Playboy announced, “Last night I dumped BadAssGirl. I
didn't want to be harsh, but I finally told her, ‘Look, when I want to hook up, I'll let you know.' So now she says I'm a monster. I am so totally over her. What's up with these girls who want to get laid and then cry hurt? What do they expect?”

Carlos slid down in his bus seat. He couldn't help drawing a parallel with his Roxy experience, except that he was in the role of BadAssGirl. He recalled his dream of turning into a girl and wondered,
Am I actually becoming one?

At school his stomach churned at the prospect of seeing Roxy. All morning long, he sat at his desk fidgeting, oblivious to his teachers' lectures, trying to adjust his mindset. Why couldn't he simply accept that Roxy and he had hooked up, nothing more, and just be happy with that?

But as he jostled through the crowd toward the lunchroom, he unexpectedly found himself directly behind her. He recognized her blonde-streaked hair and slim figure immediately—except that she wasn't with her girl friends or alone. Her arm was slung around Senior Dude's waist, with his arm draped across her shoulder.

An explosion occurred in Carlos's brain, as a thousand nerve cells fired in every direction. Why didn't Roxy simply rip his heart out and stomp on it with cleats? In the chaos of his feelings, he clenched his fists, wanting to strike Senior Dude, or Roxy, or both of them. And yet his eyes were misting with tears.

“Hey, you okay?” a voice asked beside him. Carlos turned to see Toro, offering a worried smile.

“I don't know,” Carlos replied. Inside, he felt like he was breaking down, no longer in control of what he felt or said or did.

“Maybe you'd better sit down,” Toro told him. “I'll get your lunch.”

He guided Carlos toward Playboy and Pulga, but Carlos didn't feel like eating. He stared across the cafeteria, watching Roxy feed Senior Dude forkfuls of cherry cobbler.

Carlos wanted to shout at her, “You slut!” But his throat felt too clenched to even speak.

For the first time, he thought how he should've listened to Sal's warning about Roxy. He recalled Sal saying he didn't want to see Carlos get hurt. Now that recollection only made Carlos feel crappier about how he'd ditched and lied to Sal—for a girl who'd only wanted to hook up.

His afternoon blurred past as he stared at his books, unable to focus on the words. On the bus ride home Playboy continued to gripe about BadAssGirl: “She's gotten full psycho-needy. Today, she called my cell a million times, boo-hoo-ing, ‘Why don't you like me anymore? Boo-hoo-hoo!'” He screwed his fists into his eye sockets as if wiping away tears.

Carlos bristled in his bus seat. Before, he'd always admired Playboy's devil-may-care attitude toward life and girls. What had changed? Or had Playboy always been such a jerk?

“Someone needs to tell these chicks that needy is
not
hot,” Playboy continued. “I never told her I liked her in the first place. What part of ‘It was just a hookup' doesn't she get?”

Carlos clenched his fists and roared, “Would you shut the hell up?”

He wanted to punch Playboy. But, instead, he got off at the next stop, and seethed all the way home.

C
ARLOS WAS STILL
feeling cranky that evening when Raúl came over for his usual midweek visit. After dinner, Carlos did some homework.

Once again, he tried to ignore the sound of squeaking bedsprings, except that he couldn't use his headphones. They remained broken, and his ma hadn't given him any money for new ones. Now, a wave of anger engulfed him.

He got up and locked his bedroom door, switched on his stereo, and loaded a CD. Then he cranked the volume to the max—louder than he'd ever dared to play it. A blast of Los Lonely Boys shook the walls, obliterating the sound of his ma and Raúl.

An instant later, he heard his ma's muted shouting beneath the bass beat. “Carlos! Turn that down!” The doorknob jiggled. “Open this door, right now!”

“Carlos!” Raúl echoed, pounding on his door. “What's the matter with you?”

Carlos's heartbeat quickened. He knew there was no key, so what could they do besides shout? Break the door down?

He waited, tense and excited, till eventually his ma and Raúl gave up yelling. By then, his ears were ringing. The music was too loud even for him. He turned off the stereo and climbed into bed, exhausted. At least it was quiet now—no more bedsprings.

The following morning, Raúl had already left for work when Carlos walked into the kitchen. His ma sat at the breakfast table, glaring at him. “Sit down,” she ordered.

“I'm hungry,” Carlos protested, pulling the cereal box from the cupboard.

His ma leaped up and yanked the box away. “I said, sit down!” Her voice screeched angrier than ever. “We're going to talk.”

Carlos dropped into the chair opposite her. “About what?”

“You know what!” His ma crossed her arms. “About last night. What was that all about?”

Carlos slouched down in his chair. “I'd told that you my headphones broke. You didn't give me any money. I wanted to listen to my music.”

“Carlos!” His ma unfolded her arms, throwing them in the air. “The neighbors nearly called the police. You could hear the music three doors away.”

Carlos pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.

“You think it's funny?” His ma's eyebrows shot up.

“Kind of.” It felt good to tell her the truth.

“Well, I don't,” his ma hissed. “What's going on,
mi'jo?”
Her tone softened into one of concern. “This isn't like you.”

Carlos shifted in his chair, his guard beginning to waver. “My headphones broke. I told you that.”

“So you decided to let the entire neighborhood know?” His ma's forehead crisscrossed in frustration. “No, there's more to this. Tell me. I want to know What's going on?”

Carlos leaned back in his chair. Did he have the nerve to tell her? He gripped the table, took a deep breath, and said in a low voice, “I can hear you.”

His ma stared at Carlos, her eyes blank with confusion. “What?”

Carlos glanced away, his face warming like an oven, as he choked out the words: “When Raúl comes over, I can hear you in your bedroom.”

His ma sat silently, and Carlos gazed up at her. Her cheeks flushed
with embarrassment as she whispered, “Why didn't you say anything?”

Carlos whispered back through gritted teeth, “I shouldn't
have
to say anything.” As he spoke he felt his chin start quivering, and he had to hold his breath to keep from choking up. “Either marry him or go somewhere else. I don't like hearing you.”

His eyes clouded with tears that he didn't want to be there. It made him feel like a kid. But he couldn't stop them. His chest heaved, and the teardrops rolled down his cheeks.

His ma stepped around the table to him. And when she wrapped her arms around him, he let them stay there.

B
Y TALKING TO
his ma about her and Raúl, Carlos felt like a weight the size of a school bus had been hoisted off his shoulders. As he walked to his bus stop, he recalled Sal's encouraging him to open up. Now, Carlos wished he'd done so earlier.

But the cry also left him feeling exposed, even with his jean jacket on—as though his skin were barely holding him together. When he boarded the bus, he stared out the window, barely speaking to his buds.

“What's your problem?” Playboy asked. “You still on the rag?”

Carlos ignored him, as Pulga announced to the group, “I went to Carlotta's last night for dinner—and met her mom.” He gazed at Carlos, a tiny, proud smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Playboy raised his arms in protest. “I thought she'd dumped your sorry little ass.”

Pulga's expression turned guarded. “I want to get back together … even if it means having to be her boyfriend.”

Toro nodded sympathetically, but Playboy flicked his wrist as if cracking a whip.

“Meow.” He leaned into Pulga. “Pussy-whipped! Pussy-whipped!”

“Up yours!” Pulga aimed a punch at his shoulder, but Playboy grabbed hold of his arms, chanting, “Pussy-whipped! Pussy-whipped!”

“Lay off him,” Carlos said, but Playboy pinned Pulga against the seat, howling, “Pussy-whipped! Pussy-whipped!”

“Leave him alone!” Carlos exploded. He swung out to punch Playboy on the shoulder, like they always did to each other, but his fist slipped—and hit Playboy's chin.

Playboy whirled around, his eyes burning. He released Pulga. Then his fist slammed into Carlos's eye.

A bolt of pain seared through Carlos's face. He lashed back, the blood pounding in his ears.

“Fight! Fight!” the other students shouted.

The next thing Carlos knew, Playboy and he were scuffling on the bus floor, while Toro tried to pry them apart. The engine came to a stop and the driver shoved through the crush of students. A multitude of hands pulled the boys away from each other. The driver grabbed Carlos by the jacket collar and ordered him to sit up front in the seat beside Vicky.

“But he's the one who went crazy!” Carlos jabbed a finger toward Playboy.

The driver plopped Carlos into an empty seat. His eye throbbed with pain.

Vicky cringed at the sight of him. “Here!” She handed Carlos a tissue from her backpack. “You'd better put some ice on that when we get to school.”

He dabbed his eye and watched the tissue smear red with blood. It seemed unreal how fast everything had happened. Had one of his best friends actually pounded him? They'd never hurt each other like that before.

The driver radioed the school about the fight. When they arrived, the school police officer was waiting.

She escorted Carlos and Playboy through the hallway toward the main office. Students gaped and winced at Carlos's face, making him wonder how bad he must look. Meanwhile, Playboy, largely unscathed, grinned proudly.

Carlos felt stupid for his part in starting the fight, but at least he'd gotten Playboy to shut up and leave Pulga alone.

The vice principal for discipline was at some meeting, so, once again, Carlos had to face Hard-Ass Harris.

“I didn't mean to hit him,” Carlos explained. “My hand slipped.”

“Yeah, my hand slipped too,” Playboy's voice echoed with sarcasm.

“I won't tolerate fighting.” Harris scowled. “Especially on a bus.” He made a long speech about how disappointed he was in both of them, and how he hoped this was an “aberration,” blah, blah, blah … After sentencing them both to a week of after-school detention, to start the following day, he dismissed both boys, ordering Carlos to the infirmary.

When he saw his reflection in the nurse's mirror, Carlos cringed. The white part of his left eye was streaked red. Below the eyelid, his cheek was swollen like a puffy black mushroom, oozing blood. No wonder it hurt so much.

The nurse dabbed on some disinfectant, which made the wound smart even more. Then she made him phone his ma. When he told her about the fight and his detention, she sort of had a nuclear meltdown.

“You've never acted like this!” she screamed into the phone. “What is happening to you?”

Carlos remained silent, unable to explain.

Later, at home, she continued her rant as she prepared an ice pack for him. “This weekend, you're seeing your father, whether you want to or not.”