“Hello, boys. How was school?” she asks, without lifting her eyes from the painting.
“Last time I checked, you only have one son, Mom.”
“Ah, I thought you’d come home together. You and Caio, from 57.” She turns around and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
I’m confused, but my mom doesn’t seem to notice, because she doesn’t add anything else. I go to my room to put down my backpack, and I’m startled when I realize it’s been cleaned. My mom changed the sheets, organized my shelf, and picked up the crumpled socks from under the bed.
“Mom! What did you do to my room? Where are my socks?!” I shout.
“In the drawer! Imagine how embarrassing it would be if the neighbors’ son came into your room to find eleven pairs of socks all over the place!” she yells back.
Eleven? Whoa. Impressive.
I go back to the kitchen so I won’t have to scream. “What was that about the neighbors’ son?”
“I told you, didn’t I? He’s coming today. He’s staying with us for fifteen days. His parents are going to a conference on penguins. Or a second honeymoon. Who knows. Anyway, Sandra asked me to keep an eye on Caio while they’re away. I was a little surprised because he’s old enough to stay by himself, no? But it’s not a big deal, and he’s a good kid.”
The more my mom talks, the more shocked I become.
“You didn’t tell me! I can’t have a houseguest right now, not during winter break—and for fifteen days! I have plans!”
“Internet and bingeing Netflix?” She rolls her eyes. “Really big plans you have, Felipe.”
She knows me well.
“But … but … doesn’t he have any relatives? Can’t he stay by himself? You and his mom aren’t even friends! What kind of a person doesn’t trust her own teenage son to stay home alone but trusts a complete stranger?”
“Well, no, we’re not exactly friends-friends. We chat in the hallway sometimes. She always holds the elevator door for me. And we used to talk a lot when you and Caio played in the pool when you were younger. Good times, those. But that’s beside the point. Help me organize the kitchen and set the table. He’ll be here any minute!”
I just stand there in disbelief. My face is sweaty, terrified, immobile. Like a painting my mom would make on a bad day.
You’re probably thinking, Calm down, dude, it’s just the neighbor kid! Maybe it’s time I told you about Caio, the neighbor kid from apartment 57.
Our apartment complex has a large recreation area with a tennis court that no one ever uses (because, honestly, who plays tennis?), a little playground that’s falling apart, and a pool that’s neither big nor small but is always crowded on hot days.
When I was a kid, that pool was my very own private ocean. I spent hours swimming from one end to the other and re-creating scenes from The Little Mermaid. And it was in that pool that I met Caio. I can’t quite recall the day, or how we started talking. We were pool buddies, and I can’t remember what my childhood was like before that.
If you’re a fat eight-year-old boy, no one calls you Butterball. Everyone thinks you’re cute, pinches your cheeks, and always makes it very clear how much they want to eat you up. In a sweet way. Weird, but still sweet.
When I was eight, I didn’t feel embarrassed about running around wearing nothing but a Speedo, or jumping into the pool and splashing water everywhere. Because when you’re eight, it’s okay. And that’s how Caio and I became friends. We never went to the same school (Caio goes to a private school on the other side of town). But when we were younger and it was a hot day, I knew all I had to do was go downstairs to the pool, and Caio would be there, ready to swim with me. Rainy days were the worst.
We never talked. Kids don’t really talk when they’re at the pool. We would scream and dive and compete to see who could stay underwater the longest. We didn’t have time to talk because, at any moment, Caio’s mom could stick her head out the window, yelling his name, and the fun would be over just like that. His mom was always that type. The type who yells.
Somewhere in the middle of all the fun and no talking, I had a day I’ve never forgotten. I must have been around eleven, and after almost an entire afternoon playing sharks and pirates (I was the pirate, Caio the shark), I suggested without an ounce of fear, “Do you wanna play mermaids?”
None of the other kids in the building knew that I loved to play mermaids. It was something I did just for me. I was afraid of what the other boys might think of me if they found out that when I went underwater, in my head I was Ariel. And that deep at the bottom of the pool, I kept my imaginary collection of forks, mirrors, and thingamabobs.
Caio just smiled, crossed his legs to form a tail, and dove underwater. He didn’t care to know how to play. He didn’t say he’d play only if he could be a merman. He merely went along with my silly fantasy and we swam like mermaids until dusk. It was the best day ever.
After that, everything went by in a blur. As I grew up, the shame of wearing a Speedo in front of Caio grew with me. I didn’t quite understand what I felt, exactly, but I know that when I was twelve, I started wearing a shirt whenever I went to the pool. And after I turned thirteen, I never set foot in the pool again.
At thirteen my body began to change, hair started growing everywhere, and I had this urge to kiss someone on the lips. And I wanted that first person to be Caio.
It was ridiculous how hard I had fallen for Caio. But he’s way out of my league. It’s like being in love with the lead singer of your favorite boy band: All you can do is watch from afar and dream.
Now do you understand my despair? Fat, gay, and in love with a boy who won’t even acknowledge my Good morning in the elevator. Everything could go wrong. Everything will go wrong. And I don’t even have time to come up with an exit strategy, because the doorbell is ringing. And my mom is opening the door. And I, of course, am covered in sweat.
So it begins.
“COME IN, COME IN!” my mom says, pulling Caio inside while fixing his bangs.
Boundaries, Mom. Boundaries.
I was expecting him to arrive with his mom and a laundry list of instructions. But here he is, all by himself.
“My parents got on the first flight to Chile this morning,” he explains to my mom.
The two must get about two minutes of conversation in while I’m just standing here, watching. Doing all I can to sweat less and act normal.
“Help him with the suitcase, son!” my mom says, snapping her fingers in front of my face and bringing me back to reality.
A reality in which I’m wheeling a huge leopard-print suitcase full of clothes that belong to my hot neighbor—who, by the way, is spending the next fifteen days with me—into my room. I take a deep breath and put the suitcase in a corner, between the closet and my desk. Then another deep breath, just to be on the safe side.
“Sorry about the giant suitcase. That was all my mom,” Caio says, appearing out of nowhere in my bedroom door and scaring me a little, which I try to hide with a tight smile.
I don’t say anything, because I don’t know what to say. I want to show that I’m funny, but out of the three jokes that I can come up with, two require knowledge of specific episodes of Friends, and the other, I’m almost sure, would be offensive to Caio’s mother.