“I wish I had siblings,” I tell him. “The rare only child in a Mexican family.”
“Bet you were spoiled too.”
“As much as my parents could, yeah. But, your family, they’re all cool with you being gay?”
“Yeah. They even went to Pride with me in June.”
My fingers tap against my water bottle as I let out a sigh. “One of my friends in high school, he was on the varsity squad with me; he came out as gay last year. It, uh, it wasn’t great with his dad. Shitty, actually. And I think … I think a lot of me expected that, having met his dad and spent all of thirty seconds around him. Seeing how my friend was around him before he was out. Like he was always tiptoeing on glass, trying not to hurt himself. I hated that for him, but it’s like, obviously our people—especially the men—are going to act like that. A lot of my confidence in us doing better, in our dads and uncles being better, was crushed when that happened. So, it’s actually really nice to hear how that’s not the case for everyone. That not every dad is his dad.”
“I’m sorry that happened to him.”
“Yeah, I—sorry for getting real there for a second.”
“No, it’s okay. And, actually, why don’t we call it day? I’m feeling really confident about you knowing what you’re doing with ‘Allegory.’ Type it all out, and if you want me to read over it before Wednesday, I can do that. And I—oh!” Vale hops off his stool,heading over to the couch and a bag sitting next to his backpack. “Perfect time for a break. I brought some stuff for you.”
My head tilts, my eyes trying to guess what’s inside the bag, fully having zero context. “What did you bring?”
“Show me your room and I’ll show you.”
“Promise me you aren’t getting us both in trouble giving these to me, Vale.”
“I told you, family policy. If I’m unpacking the merchandise, I get first dibs on anything I want. I saw these shorts last night and thought you might like the style, so I put them in the influencer pile.”
I do some modeling in the pair I have on right now with a plain white tee, flexing the quads and showing off the thighs in these four-inch nylon shorts, maroon with small white flowers and larger red roses printed on them. On the bed, next to Vale, are a black pair with ivory flowers and a white pair with bluebonnet-looking flowers on them.
“I’ve never been huge on prints, but these are wild. I love them. Truly.”
“I thought with a solid tee or hoodie, even layering a shirt, they would look really good. Give something different to your usual vibe. There are also some paisley print shorts in this same length that I think you should drop by sometime and see. I don’t think shorts with prints are for everyone, but you pull them off really well.”
“And you’resureI can have these?”
“Yes, Gabi. I’m sure. Half the reason I work there is for incredibly discounted clothes. And these look really great on you. Honestly, thinking I should take them back just so I don’t have to share this view with other people.”
“Well, now you can take credit for it.”
“Almost as good. Plus you worked hard today, as much as you were clearly half asleep for a lot of it. And I know Coolidge is going to be really impressed with this essay. You’ve earned these for the brainpower.”
“But, just to triple check, you’re sure I can’t find a place to talk about the poop situation in a cave?”
“I’m begging you not to.”
I laugh, making my way to my bed and falling on it, legs hanging over the side, next to Vale. I try my best not to think of thethoughts. Of him right here on this bed as I—
“What do you think about?” he asks as he falls next to me and rolls onto his stomach, his hand holding up his head and his eyes going up and down my body. “What’s your brain like when you’re lying here? What dreams do you dream of, Gabi Piña? Give me some lore.”
“I, uh … football.”
That’s as much as I could get out on the spot.
He chuckles, shaking his head a little. “Okay, obviously. What about football?”
“I think about playing in the MLS. Or for a team in México. The chance to be a successor of someone like Ochoa or Keylor Navas. Emiliano Martínez, even. Wearing an El Tri jersey. I have almost every single México kit from every World Cup since I’ve been alive. Well, some are my Pops’s, but he gave them to me as a graduation present. Sometimes I fall asleep thinking about wearing one on the pitch, as their keeper. About giving my parents a life where they don’t have to work so hard anymore. And, lately, I’ve been thinking—as much as I try not to—about that philosopher Coolidge assigned me.”
“Found anything interesting about him yet?”
“He’s from Argentina. Same as Messi.”
“That’s a start. Anything else?”
