Asher ✓

15 | minivan

MARCH 1, 2010 / MRS. GONZALES' MINIVAN

A heady mix of heartbreak, nostalgia and pride bubbled in Vasily's heart as he watched his son leave home. With the numbing power of hindsight, this moment wouldn't be nearly as important to Asher as it seemed just then, when the tingle of excitement was racing on his tongue.

But still, it was the first birthday that he wouldn't spend in Russia, so Vasily made sure to express that in the fumbled speech of a nervous father.

"Asher," at least his father still said his name right, "I understand that you're fourteen now. You've definitely done some growing up. Have fun, but please, don't do anything reckless. Please."

It occurred to neither of the familial duo that their definitions of recklessness were overlapping like a Venn diagram — some points were agreed, some not.

So with a, "Don't worry, nothing bad is going to happen. I will stay away from things that are too fast, too high or too hard," Asher scooped up his hoodie, and shoved on his sneakers. 

It seemed to be that fastest, highest and hardest things were always the most fun, though Asher felt nothing but resentment for osteogenesis imperfecta — any imperfection in general, actually — when he watched kids scream hysterically from rollercoasters and laugh with their friends about scabs from skateboarding.

Asher jogged hastily away from his father, and to the backseat of Ryanel Gonzales' mother's car. She was a woman with the raspy crackle of being in her late-fifties in her voice, but could still sing of past birthdays and afternoon outings similar to this one.

Mrs. Gonzales was tough and scolding with Ryanel, prodding him into good posture and nice manners and valuable morals. Then, she'd turn away from the passenger seat, skim her eyes over Asher's unbuckled seatbelt (Vasily's definition of recklessness did not apply to him), untied laces and pizza-sauce-streaked face, and say, "I'm so happy Ryanel is making friends here. You seem like a good influence. He was always the bad child back home."

Her wrinkled, speckled hands fiddled with a switch and a dial until an old radio channel that poured soft crooning jazz into the van; Mrs. Gonzales was unaware of the livid glares her son was sending Asher in the side view mirror on the passenger side, who only pulled a scrunched-nose-crossed-eyes face back. Ryanel did not seem to enjoy his mother's company, and explained this to Asher yesterday with, "My mother should come with a warning sign."

Now, Asher realised that it was because Mrs. Gonzales picked constantly on her son, even in the company of friends. Granted, it was bound to be a bit infuriating to have a mother who thinks you're flawed, and your friends are flawless. Ryanel managed to contain his muttering and teasing — only because it was Asher's birthday. Mrs. Gonzales gave each of their two other friends the same treatment of warm smiles and laughing conversation about school, while Ryanel glowered like a petulant child.

Kerrish Soto was a second generation Hispanic immigrant who had been even more of a loner than their entire class of loners. Drifting from clique to clique like on the wind, Kerrish didn't really settle in with one group of friends until Ryanel pulled a Ryanel and asked him to sit at their table. 

His family came to the States for employment opportunities, and Kerrish grew up with all the work ethic of his parents and all the charm of New York City. As Kerrish glanced nervously at the pretty faces of his sisters, watching through the curtains, he pulled a hastily-wrapped present from the pocket of his maroon jeans and tossed it at Asher.

The Russian boy tore the present open — it was basically coming apart at the edges anyway — and held up the graphic, penis-shaped USB with humour dancing through his eyes. Simple, heartfelt, effective.

"Happy birthday, chief," Kerrish smirked as he buckled into the back seat. "Have fun with that."

Perverted-ness was, apparently, a worldwide language — one that all of their group of teenage boys had indubitably mastered. A scalding comeback was quick on his lips, and Asher was close to making Mrs. Gonzales change her mind about him being a good influence when she said, "What have you got there, Asher?"

Kerrish broke out in wild laughter, and muffled his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt as Asher and Ryanel fumbled to save the dignity of Mrs. Gonzales with crimson cheeks. 

Asher stammered, brushing the USB to the left, where Mrs. Gonzales couldn't see it. "Nothing. Kerrish gave me earphones."

The grey van rumbled through the streets of Astoria before stopping at a drab, dull house that rotted at the edges and had a termite problem. The rotten eggshell colour of the house said nothing about the brightness inside; Kerrish Soto, Ryanel Gonzales and Asher Delrov all knew the lives whirling around inside were chaotic, but very entertaining to watch. Out came Vinnie Fei — Chinese immigrant, in Asher's class — with his hands deep in his pockets.

Vinnie had changed his name when he came to America, to fit in with the culture. When hearing this in one of their class sharing sessions, Asher immediately wanted to ask why; why someone would want to hide their native name; why someone would want to fit in with people who aren't theirs. He might have voiced his queries, if he had been confident enough to say it, and close enough to Vinnie to ask something so personal. 

Asher knew, vaguely, that he and Vinnie and Ryanel were all tied together by the teasing they received because they sounded different (their English was significantly better now, but still clothed in lovely tongues of foreign countries) and looked different.

"Holy shit," Vinnie swore. 

He had taken his education very seriously — his parents had set quite demanding standards. Among his internet searches on urbandictionary.com — to learn the local vernacular — Vinnie had stumbled upon troves of swear words. Cue the incessant swearing; it was another language that teenage boys seemed to grasp spectacularly. His butt hovered over the seat — Kerrish had to clamber, limbs-a-kimbo, into the back seat to make room — when he saw the finger-sized object sitting there.

"What the fuck is that?" he whisper-yelled. The drone of mellow jazz music drowned out the curses before they flooded Mrs. Gonzales' hearing.

Kerrish leaned over the headrest, "It's my birthday gift to Asher. It's life-sized," and dissolved into mad laughter at his own joke again.

Asher's skin crawled at the insult, as Vinnie — who usually sided with Asher — tried to wrestle the mocking smile from his face. Kerrish continued, "At least I got him something."

The smile dropped off Vinnie's face; he searched his pockets — desperate to beat the challenge set by Kerrish.

"Aha!" he presented a bent piece of gum, with a piece of lint stuck to the wrapping. "Happy birthday, man."

"My gift was better," Kerrish smirked contentedly. "Would've tasted nicer too."