PENDING by alienhive
Congratulations for earning a spot in the LGBTQ+: Sun-Kissed Anthology! ♥
Author's Note: Trigger warnings: non-descriptive crude humor, observations of the human body, the word "fag" used jokingly once, and brief mention of sex, and of underage drinking, and of death at the very end. Keep in mind that this is typical high school humor being utilized, and I don't want to insult anyone.
* * *
There are quite a lot of friends I don't remember meeting. Our friends must've been friends with each other, and then we started to have conversations on our own, and then we would say hi in the halls, and somehow their number would end up in my phone. Many of my friends, I think, I probably made through my classes and Instagram. Most of them I met during middle school or freshman year. All of them are casual and simple, the way we like it.
I never feel the loneliness that people said came with high school. I have friends in every class. There is always somebody to each lunch with, someone who will have the homework answers. Amilcar and I shared three classes, and so we sent each other every cheat sheet we got our sneaky little hands on.
Ami is one of those dudes whom I don't remember befriending. I know that in middle school our mutual friend was Michelle, and we'd exchanged memes. Someone had the idea of creating Red Shoes. ((An inside joke: for half a year a pair of red heels were left unattended in Miller's room. He didn't move them and no one claimed them. Then, the day before spring break, they disappeared. It was a good joke for a good while.)) Red Shoes, capitalized and everything, was a group chat that consisted entirely of memes. I'm pretty sure that's where I first became proper friends with Amilcar--knowing his sense of humor told me more than anybody else.
We never became best friends, or even close ones. The reason that I consider him a friend at all is because he's always been there, talking or fighting or dancing. We don't converse outside of school or about anything other than school, besides friending each other on Snapchat. We acknowledge each other wholly, but given the time we've known each other we don't know much about each other.
Amilcar is popular. He's Mexican, and at our school there's a group of them who all hang out with each other. They don't let you in unless your mom constantly shouts at you that the house isn't clean enough, he says. My mom doesn't shout at me in general; in fact, I can't picture shouting at her. Ami laughed when I told him that.
I don't like to approach him when he's hanging out with them. They're always huddled in a group, talking with that accent of theirs, and I am entirely too Caucasian for them to consider even saying my gringo name. The fights that Amilcar had gotten into were because of them, so he says. Once, when we were sitting in the back of English, he told me that when he's with those friends an insult can't be taken lightly.
He's much easier to talk with when he's without that group. His jokes aren't as crude, and he doesn't blast trap music and dance to it randomly. It surprises me that he can act so differently around such different people.
One version of him I've never seen is of him alone. Like I said, he's popular and people like him and they never leave him alone. I can't say I'm not the same way.
There has always been one difference between me and other people though: I enjoy my own company. Too many people for too long a time wears me out. I like to be by myself, do things by myself, go to places by myself. It's not a secret, but no one knows about it.
I never really stopped to suppose that maybe Amilcar also has that omitted secret.
Perhaps he is waiting for someone. It would be the most obvious explanation, because there are quite a few gay Mexicans out in the open. In fact, just a few days ago when June began, he and Jacqueline and Alan were wearing rainbow colored shoe laces. His feet, which are tucked under the bench and somewhat hidden by all the people walking around, show that he's still wearing them. At least he has the decency to dress up a little, because while everyone else watching the parade waves flags and smiles, he sits there, passively watching the parade go by. His school backpack ((had he not burned it in the bonfire that was held the last day of school?)) slumps on the seat next to him, looking as worn as he does. It takes up the other seat of the bench, but that's understandable as quite a few gay people who didn't get lucky when they were young try to strike at these events. I, however, am not old and unwanted, and since we are friends, I doubt he would mind my company.
I take the couple steps required for him to hear me, since various types of music are being played, and shout, "Yo, Amilcar!"
To say he was surprised would be an overstatement, but he clearly wasn't expecting me. He looks me up and down, inspecting my very homosexual attire, and when I reach him he asks, "What're you doing here?"
I find it funny that he leans over the bench handle, crossing the arms that support his weight, a very cool position for him to pull. He always seems to be doing things like that. Quickly, I reach into my own bag and pull out my water bottle, holding it out to him. "Water you doing here?"
He grins and rolls his eyes. "Yeah yeah. Mason, pun master." He waves one of his hands at me as he talks.
"I mean, whataya think I'm doing here?" I ask him, rhetorically, rescinding my water pun.
Amilcar rolls his eyes. "Well you're known for being the most homophobic guys at school."
"Uh-huh," I say, rolling with it. I'm known for being the exact opposite. "That's why we don't talk ever; it's 'cause your rainbow laces trigger me."
With that, he stretches a leg out and strikes a dramatic pose. "Paint me like one of your gay girls."
"If you wear those shoes only." And I wink at him.
The backpack is pulled off the seat and he gestures for me to sit. "Aren't you waiting for someone?" I ask him, sitting, finally getting to the question I'd first thought of.
"Nah, I decided to celebrate my newfound homosexuality in peace," he explains sarcastically.
I don't believe him for a moment. He's too gregarious to be alone. "Yeah and I'm coming here to preach on being straight. I bet you were ditched, and you were about to leave your bag here unattended."
"Oh man," Amilcar says, huffing with laughter. "An unattended bag at a gay pride parade. My parents would be so proud of me." What little I do know about Amilcar is that his parents are very homophobic. He told me that it didn't really bother him, and that all he really has to do was warn all his queer friends to act square whenever they come over. I've gotten the impression that he hides a lot from his parents.
"My mom would hate me for being your friend," I tell him.
"Yeah well my mom would hate me for being your friend too," he retaliates, and I wasn't sure if I heard a hint of annoyance in that recrimination. I rarely hid things from my mom; it must be difficult to hide everything from his. Before I could switch to a safer subject, he asks, "Is your mom here right now? Like, who're you with?"
"I think you mean, 'Whom are you with,'" I tell him, and he promptly tells me to shut the hell up. "Oh right, I keep forgetting that you speak el spanglish a su casa."
"Oh right, I keep forgetting that you don't speak any Spanish at all. It's 'a tu casa,' toto."
"I do not know what that means but I am going to ignore it." I turn forward and face the parade, looking at the tents in tighty whities and the boobs with covered nipples. "This is a very interesting thing to watch alone," I comment.
"Could say the same for you."
"Yeah, true." And then a thought occurs to me. Dare I ask it? "Why are you here alone?"
His reply is too quick and too devious. "Didn't I tell you? I'm celebrating my newfound homosexuality."
"Yeah but that was a joke," I say, and I wait for him to explain himself. When he stares at the parade, ignoring me, I say, "I was being serious." No reply. I must have pressed too hard. "You don't have to tell me. I don't really care; it's totally fine you're here."
Amilcar doesn't respond, and so I give him time. Watching the parade is interesting in itself: there are many colors, and they all reflect off the sun brightly. Many of the people are almost naked, and many of the ones who aren't dressed weirdly are holding hands with someone of the same sex.
The rainbow flag hangs from everything, even some of the surrounding buildings. I'm sure that the store owners love the attention--there are signs promoting sales and discounts all around. I think I saw a confederate flag in rainbow colors, which I think is very stupid. I had been about to point it out to Amilcar, but when I faced him, he wasn't watching the parade at all. His eyes were lowered, like he was deep in a sad thought.
It was obvious he wants me to ask him if he's alright, but I've never been good at comforting people. When Ashley and some other girl friends had been with me when I was sad, they would listen to me vent, and listen until I was done. That was how they made me feel better.
"Yo, is everything okay?" I ask him. I hope I didn't sound too sarcastic or annoyed or anything.
It was as if he didn't realize he didn't look upset, which I knew was completely untrue because people like him are always aware of their body language. He looks at me and in one breath says, "Huh yeah no everything's cool I'm fine I just . . . ." He deflates like a balloon, the breath and the life leaving at once. His eyes had gone from up to down to peering at me to down again, where they stayed.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't wanna," I murmur, and then I hate myself. Whenever Ashley said that to me, I always felt like she was asking me not to tell her. Now I know that that feeling was correct; part of me doesn't want to know why Amilcar was upset. If it is something I couldn't handle, I wouldn't handle it well.
At the same time, I know that I would still try to handle it. Amilcar wants me to; it's why he chose to look sad in front of me. I don't want him to be sad: I don't know him well but I know he deserves the world. "At the same time," I say, slowly, "if you do want to tell me, I'm here to listen."
Somewhere between there and here the entire atmosphere changed. We aren't joking anymore.
His hand reaches up to tug at his bottom lip; I'd seen him do that before. The bracelets he wears slide down his arm and under the flannel, making his wrist look very long and lean. It never really occurred to me how thin he is, because he is known for winning his fights and skinny people don't win fights.
After a moment's thought, he says, "I actually, um-- I don't really need you to listen. Like, um--" The fingers attack his lip again. Then he huffs and shoves himself back against the bench. "I was being serious."
"What?" Serious about what? I think.
"'Bout why I was here. I was being serious." He doesn't look at me as he talks.
It takes me a moment to remember why he said he was here. It was to celebrate his newfound homosexuality. And he was being serious as he said it.
I can't think of anything to say. Anyone who is gay came out in middle school, and none of them acted like it was a big deal. Amilcar acts like he's nervous about my response. Why? Did he think that I, Mason, gaybie of the whole school, am going to call him a fag?
Was he expecting a big acceptance speech? 'Cause he came to the wrong person.
"Okay," I finally say. "So you're celebrating your newfound sexuality. That's fine." I'm a bit annoyed that he expected a dedicated, wholehearted response; I never got one of those.
His reply isn't what I expect at all. "Well, at least, I think I am."
We all have been through that. "So you're questioning."
"I guess so," he says. Why does he sound so bummed about it? His fingers go back to his lip as I try to think about why he is acting like this.
It occurs to me that I should simply ask him. "So, like, is this a big deal to you?"
"I mean, I know it shouldn't be, but yeah, kinda." He must be talking to the cement because that's where he's looking.
Even though I agree with him, I find myself telling him the exact opposite. "Well, I mean, you're allowed to think of it as as big a deal as you want."
"Yeah, I guess I am," he says.
A pause. I wait. Nothing. Is that all I receive?
Ashley used to ask me a lot of questions. "Why is it a big deal to you?"
He shrugs, and with it comes back his causal, commercial self. "I dunno," he says, like I'm asking him for the time or something. He faces the parade again, and I wonder if I should drop it, and then he asks, "Wanna walk with 'em?"
"Hm?" I ask, not for him to repeat himself but rather out of surprise, but he gestures toward the parade anyway. "I mean, we're not exactly dressed for it," I say, warily looking his outfit over. Flannel over black jeans--very gay. I came to watch this, not partake in it. If I'd known I'd be joining it I'd have worn less clothing.
"That's fine," he says, "we can just hold hands."
"Oh. Um." Hesitantly, I stand up. He raises too and grabs his backpack, taking off his flannel and shoving it in there. I grab mine too, wondering if he's flirting with me, and if he is I wonder if he actually likes me or if he's acting this way because he came out to me. Once his arms are bare he slides his fingers through mine, and we mingle with the parade.
Walking was probably the best thing we could have done. We don't speak much, and that silence gives us time to think about what we want to say. I can only think of the best things to say after a serious conversation is over, but this gives me time to think of them while the conversation was on its break.
"What if someone who knows your parents see you?" I ask him, and then I lift our hands to show him the obvious.
"I thought of that, but, like, anyone who's friends with my parents who'll care is really homophobic, and I don't see anyone 'round here reaching the straight ways, so."
His point is as good as any. And he's right: upon selective inspection I don't see anyone with hateful posters around here.
"You came out sometime in like middle school right?" Amilcar starts the conversation this time, and I nod in response. "How'd you know?"
The blush creeps onto me before I can stop the memories from flooding into my mind. "It's-- It's pretty embarrassing." He grins at me, waiting. "Fine. Well, um, once, my friend come over and he was drunk, and, like, he kissed me. And things just escalated from there."
"Dude, Mason, really? You got laid on your first night?"
"Oh my god, no! That's disgusting. And illegal."
"So's underage drinking." He's got me there.
"Yeah, well, having sex while drunk is more illegal." A pause. "You know I'm not gay, right?"
His look says it all. I'd been identifying as gay since seventh grade. "Look, like, I say I am, but I actually think I'm bi. I just say I'm gay 'cause I don't like it when girls flirt with me."
I figure that he's scared to come out because of his parents, and his friends too. He is known not only for his fights but for his breakup with Eva. She never really got over him, and everyone knows it. Some people think Ami was heartless for it, but others think Eva is crazy.
We walk for forever, and talk until our throats are as sore as our feet. The sun seems to forget its duty and stay in the middle of the sky for hours, which makes us very sweaty, and casually I suggest we link arms instead of hold hands.
I ask him about Eva, and he tells me he isn't sure why he dated her. He says that he wished he was confident enough to consider sexuality in middle school, and I agreed with him that it would've been easier.
Something inside of me compares myself to her. After all, we've now held the hand of the same boy. And I know something about him that she doesn't. I register the feeling as accomplishment, but then I realize that he may have come out to her long before me.
"How close were you guys?" I ask him.
Amilcar smiles at me, and coolly suggests that we stop parading and sit somewhere. My dying legs agree for me, and we find ourselves a Denny's to rest in.
Many other people from the pride parade are here, filling the room with their bodies and colors, and so in the time it took time for somebody to assist to the two most normal looking people in the room we bantered playfully. I had sat down right next to him, but we aren't holding hands anymore.
After a waiter came and took our respective orders I ask again. "Were you and she close?"
He looks at me, bewildered, and then: "Oh, right. Well, um, kinda? We talked a lot." I'm beginning to think he has two personalities: Cool Amilcar and Awkward Amilcar.
"Meaning?"
"I dunno. We talked." He shrugs indifferently. "She had a nickname for me, I helped her with her homework." I didn't know Ami was good at school. "What else, whataya mean?"
"Well, I was wondering if you ever came out to her," I explain. "Okay but first, she had a nickname for you? Jesus y'all cheesy. What was it?"
"'Y'all'?" Ami quotes. "What are you, a farmer? You look red enough to be one." +
"Your fault, you're the one who wanted to walk around." I hadn't brought sunscreen.
He shrugs, and then he mumbles, "She used to call me Amil-mobile."
I smile very widely. "Amil-mobile? Amil? But, like, everyone calls you Ami! What's with the L?"
"I dunno man, ask her. It rhymed, I guess." He throws his hands around. And then he hesitates. Awkward Amilcar has so many pauses, like Internet Explorer. He frowns, and then he looks up above my head like a deer in the headlights.
A lady in uniform comes to give us food ((mac 'n' cheese and Standcakes and a water and a lemonade)), and after receiving a quick thank you she's off to help someone else.
Before I can dig in, Amilcar says, "But, like, no, I never came out to her. We never did or talked about anything like that."
"Nothing?" I'm astonished. His reputation says otherwise.
"Nada," --His Spanish is godly.-- "nothing, but I'm pretty sure she woulda liked to kiss and stuff."
My hunger is forgotten at this new information. "You guys never kissed? But you always seemed like you were that couple."
Ami covers his smile with his hand. He's cute when he's sheepish. "No. I was too scared; I didn't know how."
Not knowing how? "Well, haven't you ever kissed anyone before?"
He looks down, and my mouth falls open. "No way."
"Yeah, I just--" He covers his face with his hands and I don't feel guilty for laughing at him because he's laughing too.
Another hesitation comes when we relax. Our food remains untouched as he thinks. Then, he looks at me, and says, "I wouldn't mind learning how."
Carefully, I let his words sink in. The hint was obvious, but did I like it? Kissing Amilcar, that I definitely wouldn't mind. Where that may lead I was unsure of.
I don't know him very well, and our cultures are very different. I'm pretty sure I mispronounce his ethnic name half the time.
That said, when we're alone together he takes up my entire being. I spent at least half the day holding hands with him, linking arms with him, letting everyone think of us as a couple and I liked doing that. I liked it because nothing really changed between us. I got to jeer and jibe, but still hold his hand. If that would be a relationship with him then I wouldn't mind it.
"It's really not that difficult," I tell him, equally as slow so he follows my trail. "I wouldn't mind showing you how."
He must be more surprised than I was, because he sits as still as a statue, like a candid photograph before me. Tentatively, I scoot closer and brace myself with my hands on the seat and the table.
I ask for his consent with my eyes, and when he blinks and smiles, I lean in and kiss him. My lips are sealed and I don't move them--it's the easiest, most basic of kisses. When I feel him press his face into mine I back up before he gets too cocky.
I keep myself close enough to feel his sigh on my lips, and then I lean back fully, gauging his response.
I've never seen his expression before. "Was that it?" he asks.
"Really? First kiss that that's what you say?" The blush that appears on his checks satisfies me. "I should be offended. That's kissing at the most basic level man. There's obviously more where that came from."
He grins at me. "You should show me sometime."
"Oh my god, save your horniness for when we're alone, alright? You made me walk all day and I'm effing hungry." I made sure to leave the promise floating in the air.
By the time we finish our meals and paid the sun had remembered its job and was sinking behind the horizon, which made everything twenty degrees cooler and a nice shade of purple that got right in the eyes. As I am in my rainbow tank-top and he wears an actual shirt, he lets me wear his flannel, which is very kind of him. I think we both know the subtext of it, even though the colors clashed.
We hang out until it got dark, at which time I say that I should go home, making a point to not invite him over. I'm not ready to go farther with him.
He offered to walk me home and my immediate response was, "Um," at which he smiled and told me he was only walking me.
Somewhere along the streets our hands met. We continued to joke about death and other dark, unmentionable humors.
I kissed him again before I opened my door, and then I hugged him and thought about how nice it was to simply hold him.
And when I was finally inside, I sunk down against the door and sighed like a lovesick girl.
I was smitten, and I could get used to it.