I kneel down to clean the mess I just made and suddenly feel a presence in the kitchen. For a second I believe it might be the ghost of my dead grandma, who has decided now would be a good time to tell me the meaning of life or to give me advice about how to become emotionally stable. But of course it’s not her (though I do miss you, Grandma!). It’s Caio.
“Need help?” he asks, looking at me with the face of someone who’s just been awoken by the clatter of two hundred pans crashing on the floor.
“No, no. It’s okay!” I lie, because it’s not okay. I’m crouching in my beige pajamas. And I am pretty sure my butt crack is showing. Big-time.
And those are all the words we exchange that morning. We go through a silent ritual where I pour a glass of water and offer it to him with a nod. He accepts it with a grunt that doesn’t quite become an actual word. And we just stand there, drinking water, staring into nothingness without saying anything.
Caio stretches his back between sips (a lovely sight, I have to say) and I’m sure he woke up with a backache. It’s impossible to sleep on our couch and wake up happy. Sleeping on a wet cardboard box would be more comfortable. I think about starting a conversation and asking if he slept okay, but I quickly give up. The silence is nearly unbearable now, and then he puts his glass in the sink and leaves.
I let out a sigh of relief.
The rest of the morning goes by slowly and torturously. After I woke him up, Caio didn’t go back to sleep. He sits on the couch and picks up his book. I pace back and forth, trying to casually make it clear that I’m available. Totally not doing anything. Like 200 percent free as a bird. But he’s so focused on his reading that I give up.
I go back to my room and watch YouTube tutorials for things I’ll never make (today it’s artisanal candles, ceramic bowls, and soaps). I can’t quite explain it, but the time I spend on the internet somehow feels less like a waste when I’m learning something new.
Weekends always go by pretty quickly, but after lunch it feels like I’ve been living this same day for forty-five years. My mom is painting in the kitchen, and I find myself alone with Caio in the living room. It’s cold outside, but of course I’m sweating. I’m sitting on the floor because it feels like the kind thing to do. Our floral couch was Caio’s bed last night, and I don’t want him to feel like I’m not respecting his space. My laptop is on my lap and I’m adding movies that I’ll never watch to my watch list. Caio is still sitting on the couch, still reading The Fellowship of the Ring.
In the last few hours, I’ve come up with a theory. I believe Caio is already done with the book but he keeps rereading the final chapters over and over just so he won’t have to talk to me. I know that sounds neurotic, but this time I’m serious. It just happened! I was debating whether it was worth adding Legally Blonde 2 to my watch list (an easy call, because I absolutely love the first Legally Blonde, and bad sequels to good movies even more). I looked over at Caio quickly as I clicked “Add to List,” and I caught him turning back a few pages in the book! He’s rereading pages! All so he doesn’t have to close the book and feel obligated to talk to me.
I’m officially the worst host in the world.
“It’s cake day!” My mom walks into the living room, practically shouting with excitement. “But we’re out of eggs and flour. I need butter, too, and I’m craving grapes.” She’s calling out the items as she writes them down one by one on a piece of paper. “Who wants to go to the supermarket for me?”
“I’ll go!” Caio and I say at the same time.
“Great, you can go together!” my mom says with a smile, handing me the money and the grocery list.
The supermarket is two blocks from our building. It’s a quick walk that I’m used to doing almost every day. But walking there with Caio by my side is a completely different experience. When I’m with him, people glance our way, and I don’t know if they’re reacting to how gorgeous he is or how fat I am. Or both.
I wonder what it would be like to walk down the street holding hands with someone. Just walking side by side, my fingers interlaced with Caio’s while we bump into each other a little because I can’t walk in a straight line to save my life. I think about how amazing it would be to walk into the store with his hand in mine, smiling at each other, as if we were Justin and Britney arriving at the American Music Awards in 2001, wearing denim from head to toe. The whole store looking at us and thinking we’re the best couple of all time.
But that’s never going to happen. Especially if we take into account the fact that we live in a town where no one would approve of two boys walking hand in hand in the grocery store. And the fact that Caio won’t even talk to me.
“I think we should split the list,” I say suddenly, without any context, because I have the social skills of a cheese grater.
“Huh?” Caio looks confused.
“The list. The items. We could divide and conquer, each one gets half the list. We’ll meet at the checkout line and waste half the time!” I explain, my words all crashing into one another.
“Fine by me,” Caio says with a crooked grin. His smile is a little awkward, but his teeth are perfect. He could star in one of those commercials with ripped models sitting by the pool, casually holding tubes of toothpaste.
I tear the shopping list in half, hand him a piece, and attempt to smile back. I say attempt only because most of the time when I smile, it looks like I’m having a stroke. I lower my head before he notices.
We walk into the store and head in different directions. I check my half of the list, written in my mom’s hurried handwriting:
Eggs
Grapes (the purple seedless kind)
Milk (the cheapest brand)
Easy peasy. I go down the main aisle and grab a carton of milk. I can’t find the purple grapes anywhere, so I decide to get the eggs. In my head, I’m in a competition with Caio to see who can find their three items first. At the end, there will be a finish line, with production assistants handing me a giant check as confetti falls from the sky.
I hurry to the egg aisle and suddenly feel the urge to turn around and run back home, because Jorge and Bruno are here. But they see me before I have a chance to escape.
A quick rundown on Jorge and Bruno: They go to the same school as me, and they’re responsible for 80 percent of the nicknames that I’ve amassed over the last two years. Jorge was held back a couple of times, is almost nineteen years old, and has a full beard that would be cute if he wasn’t such a jerk. Bruno is half my height; his hair is shaved on the sides, forming an undercut that didn’t turn out quite right; and he could never be cute even if he were on an episode of Queer Eye.
They both start walking my way, and I pretend to concentrate on which eggs to buy. White or brown? Decisions, decisions …
“Well, if it isn’t Butterball!” Bruno shouts, his high-pitched voice echoing across the aisle.
“Attention, shoppers: You’d better buy your food before the whale eats it all!” Jorge cups his hands around his mouth, as if he were announcing today’s deals.
I try to pretend like nothing is happening, but that becomes much harder to do when Bruno starts poking me in the back, moving from one side to the other.