Here the Whole Time Page 2

  “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.

  “For real, Rita! Your food tastes amazing. My mom is so neurotic about what we eat at home. I already told my dad she’s taking it too far. She won’t even put salt in our food,” Caio says between bites.

  “Don’t even think about telling Sandra that you ate fries here! She’d never let you come back,” my mom says, giggling.

  And while the two of them talk as if they are best friends, I’m on the other end of the couch listening. Just listening and never speaking.

  I know this will sound ridiculous, but I’m kind of jealous. Jealous of Caio, because my mom is only focused on him and paying no attention to me. And to make matters worse, I’m jealous of my mom. Caio barely got here and he’s already praising her cooking. I’m jealous because I wish he would talk to me. About food, about his mom, about soap operas—about anything at all.

  When the TV show about wedding dresses ends (the bride loses the weight, the dress is gorgeous, everyone cries, fin), my mom gives me a light tap on the shoulder, and I know it means the dishes are my responsibility. Looks like she’s not done punishing me for today’s events.

  While I organize the kitchen, my mom says good night to Caio (all smiles, of course), and I do my best not to freak out when I realize that in a few hours he and I will be sleeping in the same bedroom. Inches away from each other.

  Our apartment is small, and we’ve never had a guest room. But my bed is one of those that you can pull a handle and ta-da! there’s another mattress hidden underneath. My mom chose this one thinking of all the friends I might invite for a sleepover. I can’t remember the last time the extra bed was used by anyone other than my great-aunt Lourdes.

  Sharing a room with Caio for fifteen days could result in an unlimited series of disasters. In the time it takes me to wash three plates, I am able to come up with a list of fifty-four disasters that I might cause just by sleeping in the same bedroom as him. The majority of the list is pretty gross (hello, night farts), but some are natural and inevitable (like morning wood).

  Jumping to the worst-case scenario is my specialty. But I decide to stop thinking this way when I come up with a hypothetical situation in which I’m a sleepwalker (for the record, I’m not) and I attack Caio in the middle of the night. Which … would be awkward.

  I wash the dishes, dry them, dry them again, and then put everything away inside the cabinets. I try to waste as much time as I can so I won’t have to face bedtime. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with a dish towel (sorry, Mom) and go back into the living room.

  I don’t know how long it took me to wash everything, but it was long enough for Caio to put on his pajamas, find a pillow, and lie down on the couch with a book, his feet on a folded blanket. For a split second, I don’t know what to say. Not that I was planning to say anything, but even still, I don’t react. I try to rationalize the following information in my head:

  Caio is probably going to sleep in the living room.

  Because he has a pillow and a blanket with him. In the living room.

  Caio is already in his pajamas.

  Is Caio going to sleep in the living room???

  Apparently, he is, as he’s wearing his pajamas. In the living room.

  Wow. Caio in pajamas.

  I guess I won’t have to worry about night farts and morning wood after all.

  And, yet, I don’t want Caio to sleep in the living room.
>
  I want him to sleep next to me.

  Especially if he’s wearing those pajamas.

  I could go on for hours on the topic of Caio’s pajamas. They’re navy blue and white, with a maritime theme. The top is striped and has a deep V-neck. The bottoms have little anchors and boats. But I can’t focus on the design because, where his shorts end, his legs begin. I could dedicate another two hours to the topic of Caio’s legs. His thighs are thick and have some hair on them, and his tan skin is even shinier under the light of the chandelier in the living room. (Actually, the chandelier is a round paper lantern that my mom decided to make after watching a YouTube tutorial.)

  If you look at him from just the right angle, Caio looks like Aladdin. And one second before I start imagining the two of us flying over a whole new world on a magic carpet ride, Caio clears his throat louder than he needs to and looks at me. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, gawking at him and embarrassing myself over a pair of thighs.

  “I’m sleeping in the living room,” Caio says matter- of-factly, as if I needed to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce as much.

  I think about insisting that he sleep in my bedroom. I think about telling him that the couch is too lumpy and will be murder on his back (which is true). But who am I kidding? Of course he won’t agree. Not after seeing me naked, soaking wet, and wrapped in a towel, screaming, GET OUT OF MY ROOM!

  I offer him some water, tea, an extra pillow, but he doesn’t accept any of it. When Caio turns his attention back to his book, I realize it’s better if I just go away. I walk into my room and slam the door gently enough so as not to wake my mom but loud enough to sound dramatic.

  I decide to sleep in my pajamas tonight. I usually sleep in an old T-shirt and shorts. I pull the pajamas out of the drawer. They don’t have a sexy sailor theme; they’re beige, huge, and hideous. When I look at myself in the mirror, I look like a page straight out of the Guinness Book of World Records, showing the record holder for world’s largest sugar cookie.

  I’m such an embarrassment.

  I fling myself onto the bed and watch cat videos online until I fall asleep.

  TODAY IS A SATURDAY. I usually love Saturdays. I get to sleep in and watch three movies in a row, and my mom always bakes a cake. Every Saturday is like that, and the tradition has never been broken. I like traditions, especially ones that involve cake.

  And yet I don’t wake up excited today. I didn’t sleep well and spent the whole night thinking about how much easier it would be if my life were Freaky Friday. My mom and I would swap bodies, and she’d have to deal with Caio. I’d just sit there and watch, smiling and painting. We’d stay in each other’s bodies for fifteen days, and when Caio left, the spell would wear off.

  I leave my absurd fantasies behind and decide to get out of bed. It’s early, six in the morning. I look in the mirror and notice that I’m still inside my own body. Too bad. This story would be much better if I had magically switched bodies with my mom.

  I walk out of the room to get a glass of water, and when I pass by the living room, there he is. Caio is asleep on the couch, and it’s almost ridiculous how good-looking he is. I’ve never seen anyone who could look so beautiful even while sleeping. Not in real life, anyway. I’ve always thought the whole peaceful sleep thing, the thing where your chest moves up and down calmly in unison with your breathing, only happened in movies. In real life, people sleep with an elbow touching the back of their necks, one sock half-off, and drool streaking down their pillows.

  Caio can’t be real.

  I think a whole seven minutes have passed, and here I stand, watching him sleep. Seven minutes. I need help. Seriously.

  Water, Felipe! Water! I tell myself, trying to focus on the actual reason that got me out of the bedroom. I walk to the kitchen, trying not to make noise, but of course it all goes wrong, because I’m about as delicate as a mammoth. I open the closet without realizing my strength and two pans fall to the floor. In the morning quiet, it sounds more like two hundred.

  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.