I keep pacing around the house, as if waiting for Caio and my mom to jump out from behind the curtains and yell, “SURPRISE!” at any point. My stomach starts to rumble, and I feel like a heartless monster for being hungry at a moment like this. Even so, I go to the kitchen to look for food and let out a sigh of relief when I find a note on the fridge.
Felipe,
I couldn’t wake you up for the life of me! Going to the mall and taking Caio with me.
There’s food for you in the microwave, just heat it up!
Love you!
And, right below, in handwriting I don’t recognize, it says:
Thanks for the book. ;)
Four words and a little wink. At least it looks like a wink. I can’t tell for sure because Caio’s handwriting looks like chicken scratch (hey, nobody’s perfect). Anyway, if it’s between a wink or a really weird exclamation point, I’ll go with option one. Caio left me four words and a little wink, and I can’t stop smiling. I’m so excited, you’d think he stroked my hair and gave me a coupon for one kiss. But no, it’s only four words. And a wink.
The wink is a good sign, right? It’s a flirty smiley. Does this mean he’s forgiven me? That he’s thankful for the book and wants to give me a shot? The possibility makes me so happy that I almost forget to eat.
I shake my head to wake up from this dream in which Caio flirts with me, then reheat the food my mom left me. I have lunch in silence, watching the minutes go by on the microwave clock. It’s two and a half hours slow. My mom and I keep forgetting to fix it.
It looks like I have the whole day to myself now but no idea what to do with it. I could use the alone time to work on some personal projects, but I’m the worst person in the universe when it comes to completing them.
I once tried writing a comic book that’s set in my school. An explosion in a fictional lab (because my school isn’t the kind that has a lab) gave my teachers superpowers. My favorites were the heroes, naturally, and the ones I hated were the villains. I wrote and illustrated two stories but gave up on the idea because A) I can’t draw, and B) I could never get this thing published due to the extremely offensive content against my gym teacher.
After I realized how bad I was at drawing, I focused my angst into short stories. Some were actually kind of cool, and I thought it would be a good idea to put them out in the world. I created a blog and published my stories, but no one ever read them. I abandoned that project, too.
There was the time when I decided to learn how to play the guitar. My mom approved of the idea, even bought a guitar for me, and I started taking classes with Mr. Luiz, a retiree in our neighborhood who gives music lessons. I spent two months learning (trying to learn, really), but I knew in the first week that it wasn’t going to work out. I had the willpower, and I even enjoyed practicing at home, but the truth is that I have no sense of rhythm. I can’t play the guitar, can’t clap my hands, can’t even whistle.
Origami, cooking, juggling, belly dancing. I’m not good at anything! Maybe that’s why I watch so many useless internet tutorials. I think I am, subconsciously, looking for something I might be good at, but I’ve never lucked out in the talent lottery.
I finish lunch without the slightest idea of what I’m going to do for the next few hours, but I feel determined and optimistic. So I decide to begin the afternoon by adjusting the microwave clock, taking my first step toward change.
In an ideal world, I’d have spent the entire afternoon composing a song, writing a poem, painting the next Mona Lisa. Caio would get home to find me focused on my work of art, and he’d find himself in awe and in love at the same time.
Of course, that’s not what happens. I spent the entire afternoon catching up on my favorite TV shows, and when Caio and my mom open the door, it’s already dark out. I sit up on the couch, startled, pull my T-shirt down to hide my belly button, and hug a pillow to camouflage the folds of my stomach, which appear when I sit down.
My mom is yapping away, and I feel sorry for Caio, for having to withstand her chatter all day long. The only thing my mom needs is a pair of willing ears, and she can talk for an eternity.
But when I look at Caio, I don’t find a desperate plea for help in his eyes. He’s smiling and looks happy. Actually, this is the happiest I’ve seen him since he came to stay with us.
“We went shopping!” my mom says, all excitement, walking down an imaginary catwalk while holding a bunch of bags from different shops. I can’t contain a smile, because seeing my mom jokingly parading down the room makes me think that she could have been the prettiest model in the whole world.
“This morning I tried to wake you up in every possible way, but you were passed out.” She keeps talking while she removes items from their bags, one by one. “So I grabbed Caio and said, ‘Let’s go to the mall!’ Because this boy has been stuck in this apartment since Friday. Imagine if the police found out! They’d lock me up and throw away the key!” She starts laughing at her own joke.
Caio laughs, too.
“Of course, I bought a thing or two for you so you wouldn’t be jealous, now that I have a second son!” my mom says while rummaging through the bags for my presents. “Here!” she yells in excitement, and hands me a bag.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, a bit uncertain, because that’s what Caio’s presence does to me.
I stick my hand in the bag and feel like dying when the first thing I pull out is a pack of underwear.
“I got you new briefs,” my mom starts, “because I went to wash one of yours, and for god’s sake, Felip—”
“THANKS, MOM!” I repeat, almost shouting in order to get her to stop talking. Caio muffles a laugh.
I hide the briefs under the couch pillow and go back to exploring the clothes in the bag. One gray shirt, one black sweatshirt, one pair of jeans, as if I were the most boring participant in the history of a fashion TV show. But the last item surprises me. At first I think it’s a tablecloth, but it’s a checkered flannel shirt. It’s black and red, kind of like a lumberjack Kurt Cobain. It looks nice, but it’s not my style.
“Caio picked that one! I wanted to get you something a little more dressy. But Caio liked the color,” my mom explains, and I don’t know how to react.
“I hope you like it. I think red will look good on you,” Caio says, a gigantic smile on his face. I try to smile back and lower my eyes to look at the checkered shirt.
I feel my face burn and realize that if there were a contest between my face and this shirt to see which is the reddest, my face would definitely win the grand prize.
I try to process the idea that there exists in the world a color that looks good on me that’s not black or gray. Red. I was wrong this whole time.
The house goes silent for a few seconds until my mom resumes her chatter all over again.
“Help me organize these bags, and, Felipe, order a pizza for us. I’m not getting in that kitchen today, not even to paint!”
She’s laughing, and so is Caio. But this time I’m not jealous. I’m happy. Because the two of them are, officially, my favorite people in the world.
We have pizza for dinner and play three rounds of Uno (my mom wins twice, and Caio wins the other one), and it’s late by the time I decide to retreat into my bedroom to sleep. I give up on the beige pajamas and am back to my old habits: old shorts and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt that I can’t wear outside anymore because it has a hole under the armpit.