“Boys! Lunchtime!” my mother shouts, rescuing me from the embarrassing situation.
“I’m going to take a quick shower and then I’ll be right there!” I yell back, running to the bathroom and leaving Caio behind.
When I step into the shower, I’m finally able to breathe. The water relaxes me, and I can think about the situation more calmly. I know how to talk to people, I’m kind, I’m pleasant (maybe). He’s just a guest.
It’s like when my great-aunt Lourdes comes to visit every year on All Souls’ Day. Her husband is buried here in town, and when she comes to visit his grave, she always spends the whole week with us. Great-Aunt Lourdes cooks everything with green peppers and uses her spit to fix my eyebrows. Caio won’t be doing any of that (I hope), so this should be even easier.
When I get out of the shower, I feel calmer and more confident that everything is going to be fine. It was just another one of the thousands of times in my life when I was being overdramatic for nothing. I should be used to it by now. I can almost laugh at myself, but the laughter doesn’t come. Because I suddenly realize that I didn’t bring any clean clothes to the bathroom. All I have with me is a towel and a pile of sweaty clothes.
I need to think fast, because I don’t want Caio to think I’m taking too long in the shower. You know what they say about boys who take too long in the shower. Well, there you go.
I press my ear against the door and hear voices in the kitchen. My mom is there and Caio must be eating his lunch. I think I can go down the hallway really fast and get to my room without being seen. I wrap a towel around me, play the Mission: Impossible theme song in my head, and take three long strides to my bedroom.
And when I open the door …
I.
Want.
To.
Die.
Caio is sitting there with a book in his hands. He looks at me, startled, and tries to say something, but I speak first. Yell, actually.
“GET OUT OF MY ROOM! NOW!”
Frightened, he gets up and leaves. I slam the door, lock it, and immediately start to cry. It’s not a loud and dramatic cry, the kind where you lean your back against the wall and slide down to the floor. It’s just a single tear, running down my face, and I can’t help but feel ashamed. Ashamed because I’m all wet, naked under a Star Wars towel that doesn’t even fit around my whole waist. Ashamed because Caio saw me like this. And I screamed at him. And this is only day one.
I hear the doorknob turn, but the door is locked.
“Felipe, is everything okay? What happened? Come have lunch!” my mom says on the other side of the door.
By the tone in her voice, I can’t tell if she’s worried about or mad at me. Maybe both.
“I’ll eat later. I’m not hungry,” I lie.
I open the closet to get dressed and start my usual ritual. For a few seconds, I look in the mirror, naked, and take stock of every single detail that bothers me about myself. Some days I like to notice the small things, like a new zit or a red stretch mark running up the side of my stomach. Other days, I prefer to analyze my whole body, looking from side to side and wondering what it would be like if I were thin.
But today I don’t waste too much time in front of the mirror. Even though I’m locked in here, having Caio in my house makes me feel more exposed than ever. I put on a random T-shirt, which falls uncomfortably around my still-wet body, and a pair of shorts.
My pride keeps me from leaving the bedroom. I lie in bed, eat half a sleeve of cookies that I found in my backpack, and kill time on my phone. I don’t want to be alone. I want my mom to come talk to me. I want her to give me advice and a plate of food because, honestly, half a pack of cookies? Who am I kidding? I need a real lunch!
But my mom doesn’t come.
Two hours go by, and I finally decide to tiptoe stealthily into the kitchen. My mom is painting a new canvas, and the apartment is silent.
“There’s a plate for you in the microwave,” she says as soon as she sees me coming. I can tell she’s annoyed.
I try to mutter a thank-you, but she only lets out a long sigh—the kind that comes right before a lecture.
“Felipe, my son, I’m not stupid. I am your mother. I know you well and I know why you yelled at Caio,” she says softly, probably because Caio is in the living room. “But you’ve never raised your voice to anyone, and you’re not about to start now. I know you like peace and quiet, and to be left alone. I understand all of that. But this is just for fifteen days, and I need your help. You’re not a child anymore. I’m not going to take you by the hand and make you apologize to your friend. But you will finish eating, put a smile on your face, go into the living room, and apologize to Caio.”
I roll my eyes.
“And just for that, you’ve earned the privilege of doing the dishes afterward,” she concludes with a satisfied smile.
I’m standing in the middle of the living room, hoping a meteorite will hit me and put an end to all this awkwardness. Or that a black hole will open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole. I’m not picky.
Caio is sitting on the couch, reading the same book he had with him this morning in the elevator (The Fellowship of the Ring by Tolkien—one of my favorites, by the way). Everything seems so out of place. It’s a little surreal to see him sitting on our old, floral-patterned couch, surrounded by all my mom’s unfinished paintings and a framed photo of a ten-year-old me wearing an indigenous outfit for a school play—which, besides being super embarrassing, is also pretty offensive.
He sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of all the mess, like an alien in the center of a Renaissance painting (and this is probably the worst comparison you’re going to read today).
He’s definitely noticed me standing here. It’s kind of hard not to notice someone my size. But even so, he doesn’t look at me. He’s concentrating on the book, his bangs falling slightly over his left eye. It makes me want to lick his face.
I wish I could sit next to him and see where he is in the book. Ask what he thinks about the story so far. I want to know if he’s the type who watches the movie and then reads the book, or the other way around.
I clear my throat, exaggerating the volume a little so he’ll realize I have something to say.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I say.
He looks up at me, deep into my eyes, and I can’t tell if he’s mad or feels sorry for me. I don’t like either option.
“It’s okay,” he says dryly.
Caio lowers his head and continues to read.
Wow, what a conversation. Nice work, Felipe.
Dinner is even weirder. We eat in the living room, watching a rerun of a reality show about wedding dresses. Me, my mom, and Caio squeeze onto our tiny couch, eyes glued to a bride who’s panicking because the wedding is three days away and the dress won’t zip all the way. I could never lose enough weight in three days to fit into a dress, so I eat my dinner sending positive vibes to the bride on TV.
My mom forces small talk with Caio, and it’s almost insufferable how nice he is about it. They chat about a prime-time soap opera that my mom doesn’t even watch, and yet she knows everything that’s going to happen in the next episode. Caio compliments her food, and despite the fact that it’s the same rice, beans, beef, and french fries from lunch, the compliment sounds sincere.