Getting It, Page 5

  “You should put that you’re a good dancer,” Carlos told him.

  “You think so?” Playboy said, then decided, “Nah, that’s too gay.”

  Beneath the description, Carlos read the heading LIKES: “Chicks who’ve got a sexy bod … I mean seriously hot! … who can get wild and are willing to go out of their way for me.”

  “Sumo mama is willing to go out of her way,” Pulga commented.

  “Shut up,” Playboy ordered. “She obviously didn’t read my ‘dislikes.’”

  Under the heading DISLIKES, Carlos read: “Fatties and/or freakishly tall chicks (no offense, Pulga) …”

  “You jerk!” Pulga socked Playboy’s shoulder.

  Carlos continued reading: “… uglies (don’t pretend you’re not) … stinky chicks … stuck-up bitches … Internet sluts … prudes … girls who won’t shut up … and needy twits.”

  Carlos finished reading the profile and said, “Hmm.”

  “What do you mean, ‘hmm’?” Playboy asked. “What’s wrong with it? Why aren’t the hot babes answering?”

  “Maybe you should change your picture,” Toro suggested.

  Playboy frowned, leaning closer to examine his photo. “I look needy, don’t I?”

  “You look like you need to take a dump,” Pulga told him.

  “Yeah, on you!” Playboy swung out to punch him again, but Pulga ducked.

  “Maybe you should use a pic showing your abs,” Toro suggested. “That’s what a lot of guys do.”

  He quickly clicked through other boy profiles. About half the guys either had their shirts off or at least pulled up to show their abs.

  “You think I should?” Playboy asked Carlos.

  “Sure, why not?” Carlos shrugged. “We can use my camera.” The digital had been a Christmas present from his ma.

  “Here, stand like in this guy’s pic.” Toro posed Playboy with his shirt lifted up, and his jeans and boxers pulled down to the edge of his pubes.

  “You sure this doesn’t look gay?” Playboy protested. “I don’t want fags e-mailing me.”

  Carlos peered through the camera screen and recalled Sal scolding him. He now told Playboy, “You shouldn’t use the word ‘fag.’”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Playboy said sarcastically. “I forgot you’re now bi.”

  “You’re bi?” Toro asked. “For real?”

  “Shut up,” Carlos told Playboy “I’m not bi.”

  “Whatever.” Playboy rolled his eyes,” Just take the picture, pendejo.”

  Carlos took a couple of shots and everyone crowded around to look at them.

  “You don’t think I look too skinny?” Playboy asked.

  “Maybe that’ll discourage any more hippos,” Pulga suggested.

  That idea seemed to satisfy Playboy. After uploading his new photo onto the site, the boys searched through the girl profiles and Playboy e-mailed three chicks he thought were hot.

  Carlos felt great spending time with his buds, in spite of the jabs about his turning gay. They’d always teased each other like that anyway. Except now there was a difference: He actually had a gay friend.

  Fifteen

  CARLOS WAITED TILL Friday, his ma’s payday, to tell her, “I need some money for clothes.”

  She’d just come home from food shopping and he’d quickly offered to put the groceries away.

  “I just bought you those sneakers,” she replied. “What more clothes do you need?”

  Carlos resented having to justify what he wanted money for. It made him feel like one of those needy kids on a “Save the Children” ad. But he recalled how his ma liked Sal, so he told her, “Sals helping me with my image.”

  “Your … image?” His ma smiled at Carlos, her eyes sparkling with interest. “This boy is having quite an influence on you. First your room, now your clothes …”

  “Yeah,” Carlos agreed. Although he’d originally planned to ask his ma for a hundred dollars, her obvious approval of Sal now emboldened him. “I probably need about two hundred bucks.”

  His ma’s eyes suddenly lost their sparkle. “Oh, really? Well, let me just turn the faucet on and see how much money comes out.”

  That was one of her most annoying expressions.

  “I can give you fifty,” she countered.

  “Fifty?” Carlos stopped putting away groceries. “You can hardly buy a pair of underwear for fifty.” Besides, Carlos still had to pay Sal his hourly rate and the eighteen dollars he owed him.

  “Sorry.” His ma resumed putting away groceries.

  Carlos reverted to his original target. “Okay, how about a hundred?”

  But his ma wouldn’t budge. “Fifty.”

  “Ma, stop being so stingy,” Carlos insisted. “How about eighty?”

  “I’m not being stingy. I told you what we can afford: fifty.”

  “Seventy?” Carlos pleaded, helping store a box of macaroni on the top shelf.

  “No.” His ma’s tone grew irritated. “I told you fifty.”

  Carlos wrapped his arms around her. “Sixty, Ma. Come on, please?”

  He felt her body relax beneath his embrace. “Okay. Sixty.”

  Carlos let his arms drop and finished putting away the groceries. Although he’d gotten less money than he’d wanted, at least it was more than his drive-by pa had given him.

  Sixteen

  SATURDAY MORNING, Sal arrived at eight, but this time Carlos had remembered to set his alarm. In the kitchen over coffee, Sal flirted with Carlos’s ma, telling her, “That blouse looks really good on you. It totally highlights your eyes.”

  “Gracias.” Mrs. Amoroso beamed. “It’s one of my own creations.”

  “No way!” Sal exclaimed. “You made that? You’re really good.”

  Carlos felt a little weird watching Sal interact with his ma. It didn’t give him the creeps like the time Playboy stared at his ma’s butt as she bent over the dishwasher. And his ma’s liking Sal didn’t feel like she was betraying Carlos’s pa, like when she got cozy with Raúl. But it did make Carlos feel a little insecure. Was his ma starting to like Sal better than him? Even though Carlos felt silly thinking that, it made him eager to get going that morning.

  “Come on,” he told Sal as he finished wolfing down his cereal. “Let’s go!”

  “Your mom’s really nice,” Sal commented, following Carlos downstairs from the apartment. “So why did your parents split up?”

  Carlos gave an evasive shrug. The only people whom he’d told about the reason for the divorce were his buds.

  But Sal persisted. “You don’t know why your parents broke up?”

  Carlos ignored the question, continuing to resist Sal’s intrusion. Why did Sal always have to try prying him open? As soon as this makeover is over, Carlos thought, it’s really over.

  “Hey, lookit!” Sal stopped walking. “If you want girls to like you, you’re going to have to learn to open up and trust people.”

  Carlos folded his arms, balking. He saw that Sal’s face had the same stern look as when Carlos hadn’t wanted to reveal his crush on Roxy. If Carlos didn’t open up now, Sal would probably threaten to bail again.

  Carlos glanced down at the sidewalk and said in a low voice, “My pa … got involved with someone else … his secretary … and they had a kid.” He lifted his eyes to gaze defiantly at Sal. “Now you know. Satisfied?”

  “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 rig
ht?”

  “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.

  Seventeen

  CARLOS 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?”

  Eighteen

  THEY 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 t
he 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.

  Nineteen

  AS CARLOS 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.”