Getting It (7 page)

“Oh,” Sal said gently, laying his hand on Carlos's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

Carlos was keenly aware that it was the first time Sal had touched him. He wasn't sure how he felt about a gay guy touching him. To complicate matters, abruptly and without warning, he felt himself uncontrollably choking up, about to lose it. But why? He'd never cried about his parents' divorce before. His ma had done the crying; he'd struggled to be strong for her.

Now, he swallowed the knot in his throat. “Don't tell anyone what I told you, okay?”

“I won't.” Sal gazed at Carlos with that annoying tender look again. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” Carlos squirmed out from under Sal's hand. “Can we just go?” He started walking again, before Sal could get a chance to notice the tears brimming in his eyes.

C
ARLOS HURRIED TOWARD
the bus stop ahead of Sal, fighting back his unexpected tears from telling about his pa and Lupita. He struggled to get a grip by focusing on the project at hand—going clothes shopping. “What mall do you want to go to?”

“No mall,” Sal called from behind. “We're going downtown to the thrift stores.”

“Huh?” Carlos stopped short. “Aren't those stores for poor people? I'm not wearing somebody's smelly rejects.”

“Oh, right.” Sal caught up alongside him. “I forgot.” He gazed down at Carlos's tennis shoes. “You
never
wear anything smelly.”

Carlos bristled at the sarcasm, his stifled tears turning to annoyance. “Look, forget it. I don't feel like going shopping anymore. I don't have enough money anyway.” He dug into his pocket. “Here.” He shoved the crumpled bills toward Sal. “That's what I owe you, plus money for today. I'm going home.”

Sal stared at the cash but refused to take it. “What's up with you? Forget the money. You don't have to pay me for today, okay?”

Carlos held the wad of bills in front of him. Why was Sal suddenly letting him off for free? Was it because of what Carlos had told him about the divorce? Carlos didn't want anyone to feel sorry for him. “You said the deal was I had to pay for your time and expenses.”

“I know.” Sal shook his head. “But you're a friend now. Aren't you?”

Carlos shifted his gaze from Sal to the money and back to Sal. “I've only got seventy bucks. That's all I could get.”

“That's plenty!” Sal gestured to his own jeans. “You know how much I paid for these? Ten bucks!”

Carlos eyed the jeans. Earlier, he'd noticed their patchwork of different shades of denim, like something from a designer store—where he could never afford to shop. “Only ten bucks? You sure?”

Sal nodded proudly. “You can borrow them sometime. What size do you wear?”

As they talked, it turned out Carlos and Sal were the same size in everything—waist, inseam, shirts, shoes. Carlos thought:
Freaky.

“Okay, let's go,” he told Sal as the bus pulled up and they climbed on board. “But are you sure they wash the clothes before selling them?”

T
HEY GOT OFF
the bus downtown, in an area Sal called “up-and-coming,” though to Carlos it looked down-and-dumpy. Pawnshops, boarded-up storefronts, and iron-grated liquor stores lined the cracked and stained sidewalk. But in between the winos and panhandlers, college students worked on laptops at coffee shops and parents wheeling strollers passed by.

Sal led Carlos into the Sweet Hereafter Thrift Shop. “Let's start with a belt.”

“I already have a belt.” Carlos lifted his sweatshirt to show Sal.

“I noticed—too blah. Your crotch should communicate intrigue, not boredom.”

Intrigue?
Carlos wondered.
What the hell does that mean?

From the rack, Sal pulled a belt with a shiny chrome buckle, emblazoned with one word: SEXY.

Carlos felt the color creep into his cheeks. He could never wear that. Surely everyone would laugh at him. “I'm not wearing that.”

“Come on,” Sal insisted. “You
are
sexy.”

Carlos shifted his feet, wishing Sal wouldn't say stuff like that. “It's the wrong size,” he argued.

“Doesn't matter,” Sal said, dismantling the
SEXY
belt. “We're buying it for the buckle. Give me your belt.”

Reluctantly, Carlos handed it over. After Sal attached the SEXY buckle, Carlos slid the belt back on and gazed in the mirror. The brazen buckle definitely drew attention toward his crotch—a little
too much. Carlos tugged his hoodie hem down over it.

Next they searched for jeans. “They're too picked over,” Sal complained. “Let's just switch. Try mine on.”

“Are you serious?” Carlos cocked his head.

Sal pressed him toward the side-by-side dressing rooms and passed the jeans over the partition. Carlos shuffled out and peered cautiously into the mirror. Between the
SEXY
buckle and stylish jeans, he
did
look kind of sexy—at least from the waist down.

“You're definitely keeping those.” Sal pointed to the jeans. “They give you an awesome bubble butt and a great package.”

Carlos's cheeks flared hot. Did Sal have to keep saying crap like that?

“Now, what's with this green hoodie you always wear?” Sal asked.“Are you trying to blend into the school lockers? It's no wonder girls don't notice you.”

Carlos had never thought of it that way. All he knew was the sweatshirt made him feel … safe.

“I like wearing it.”

“It makes you look like a lurker.” Sal frowned. “Take it off for a sec.”

“I'm not taking it off.” Carlos shoved his fists into the hoodie's pockets. But Sal glared back at him, unyielding. “Oh, screw it!” Carlos yanked down his hood, tore open the zipper, and peeled out of the sleeves. “Satisfied?”

He rammed his hands into his jean pockets while Sal commented, “I don't know why you hide beneath that sweat rag. You've got a nice frame—and great nips.”

Carlos finally exploded. “Would you stop saying that crap?” He reached for his sweatshirt again, but Sal snatched it out of reach.

“Easy, boy. I told you, I already have a boyfriend, so relax. Now, come on, let's find you a shirt.”

Grudgingly, Carlos followed, crossing his arms. Without his hoodie he felt naked, exposed.

“They're two for fifteen bucks,” Sal announced, plunging his hand into a rack of shirts and pulling out a black polo. Carlos actually liked the shirt, but then Sal also yanked out a pink one. “Here, try this on.”

“I'm not wearing pink. What's wrong with the black one?”

“First try this. Girls
love
guys in pink. It makes you look sensitive.”

“It'll make me look like a—” He started to say something but changed his mind. “Like a wimp.”

Sal held the shirt out. “You
are
a wimp, or you'd try it on.”

Carlos clenched his jaw. There seemed to be no winning against Sal. He took the pink shirt into the dressing room, giving it a precautionary sniff. When he stepped out to the mirror, he thought the shirt looked totally gay.

“It makes you look sure of yourself,” Sal nodded approvingly. “Leave it on.”

“Whatever.” Carlos rolled his eyes, going along, but, heading out of the thrift shop, he pulled his hoodie back on.

“Hey, what're you doing?” Sal protested.

“I feel naked without it!”

“Okay” Sal studied him as they walked. “I've got an idea. Let's try this store.”

Inside the shop, Sal headed straight for the denim section. From a rack, he pulled out a jean jacket. “Here!” He held it up for Carlos and spoke like a British butler. “Classic Levi's, sir. Please kindly try it on.”

Carlos sighed, unzipped his hoodie, and slid his arms into the soft denim jacket.

“Whoa, studly!” Sal gave a long whistle. “It gives you megashoulders.”

“Shut up,” Carlos said under his breath. But as he peered in the mirror, he couldn't deny that the jacket made his shoulders look bigger. Plus, it helped hide the pink shirt. Altogether, he did look kind of … studly

“You really think I should get it?”

Sal gave a sly grin. “You're not walking out of here without it.”

At the register, Carlos found that even after buying the jacket, he still had cash left. “Hey,” he told Sal. “Why don't we get
you
something?”

Sal stared at him, his face taking on that annoying tender look again. “Thanks, but no. This is your day. Besides, we still need to get you a wallet, remember?”

They found a really nice black leather one, with chrome studs at the corners, for only five bucks. Carlos couldn't get over how cheap everything was—and how none of it smelled. He felt happy about his new used clothes, with little thanks to his stingy pa.

“Crap!” He checked Sal's watch: almost noon. “I forgot about my pa!”

He'd never forgotten his pa before. Granted, he was usually home on Saturday mornings, so he couldn't forget. Would his pa now go up to the apartment for him—and actually talk to Carlos's ma face-to-face?

Quickly, Carlos yanked Sal out of the store. It was only after they'd boarded the bus that Carlos realized he'd inadvertently left his hoodie behind. But it was too late to go back.

A
S
C
ARLOS RACED
across his apartment parking lot, he spotted his pa leaning on his car's hood, while Lupita and Henry waited inside the car.

“Glad you finally decided to show up.” His pa glanced up from his watch at Carlos's pink shirt and jean jacket. “What're you wearing? You look like a
maricón.”

Carlos cringed—not so much because his pa had called him a
maricón,
but because beside him stood Sal.

“Hurry up and get your stuff,” his pa ordered. “If you're not back in five minutes, I leave without you.”

Carlos hurried up the building staircase, even though he half-wished his pa
would
leave without him.

“Hmm,” Sal murmured. “I wonder which side of the family you get your homophobia from.”

Inside the apartment, Carlos's ma was fitting a sewing client in the living room. “Carlos, your pa phoned so angry. What happened?”

“I forgot!” Carlos grumbled, rushing past.

“Wait!” his ma called. “Let me look at you.” Her gaze glided from shoulders to toes. “Very nice!” She beamed at Sal. “You're a good influence on him.”

“Thanks.” Sal grinned.

Inside his bedroom, Carlos grabbed clean underwear, a school-book, and his toothbrush, stuffing them into his backpack. Outside, his pa's horn blared.

“Shut up,” Carlos muttered, and turned to Sal. “Hey, thanks for your help today.”

“No problema.
Sorry I wasn't watching the time.”

“I don't care,” Carlos replied, leading Sal from the bedroom. “He's always late. Now, suddenly he's Mister Punctuality.”

As they bounded down the staircase, Sal asked, “Same time next Saturday? We'll work on your grooming.”

“Huh?” Carlos stopped at the bottom landing. “What's ‘grooming' mean?”

Sal rolled his eyes. “You are so not gay.”

After saying “laters,” Carlos climbed into the car's backseat next to Henry.

“Next time I'm not waiting,” his pa groused, starting the engine.

“Don't wait,” Carlos muttered. “I don't give a shit.”

His pa shot Carlos a sharp look in the rearview mirror but didn't say anything. Apparently, he hadn't heard Carlos, or he was pretending he hadn't. Carlos kind of hoped he
had
heard him. He was sick of the same stupid routine each weekend. Why did he put himself through it? Only to remind himself how much his life had changed—for the worse? He was starting to accept that it was never going back to like it used to be.

That evening, they all sat around the TV in his pa's apartment, watching some dumb G-rated movie, with Henry sitting on his pa's lap. Carlos didn't want to waste his weekends this way anymore. But how could he tell his pa that?

M
ONDAY MORNING,
C
ARLOS
pulled his new clothes on and examined his reflection in the dresser mirror. The SEXY buckle definitely drew attention to what Sal had called his “package.” He turned sideways and glanced over his shoulder at his butt. Before, he'd believed it was too flat. But not in these jeans. Beneath the black polo shirt, he noticed the bumps of his nipples. He'd always thought they poked out too much, but, given Sal's reaction, he wondered: Might girls actually be attracted by them? More to the point, would Roxy be?

He felt like the proverbial butterfly, about to burst from its cocoon. He wondered, though, what his caterpillar friends would say.

He stepped onto the school bus and braced himself. Toro was first to notice. “Where's your hoodie?”

“Sexy?” Playboy smirked at Carlos's buckle. “Where's the
‘not'
part?”

Pulga reached up and tweaked Carlos's nipple. “Got milk?”

The guys brayed like jackasses while Carlos gazed out the window, waiting for them to get over it. At last, Playboy moaned, “I'm down to a six on Hot-or-Snot. Can someone please tell me how that's possible?”

“Because you're a
pendejo?”
Pulga offered.

Playboy kicked Pulga's bus seat. “I bet some chick I rejected is trying to snot me. I mean, I've got good abs, don't I?”

“Yeah, you do,” Toro reassured him.

But Playboy slouched down in his seat, folding his arms. “That site is for losers who get off on giving people ‘ones.'”

“Then why are you on it?” Carlos asked.

Playboy stared at him like he was crazy. “You realize how many millions of babes visit that site? I've got to get lucky
sometime.”