Girl Mans Up (4 page)

THE NEXT DAY, AFTER SCHOOL, TRISTAN AND I
meet up online to play a couple co-op missions. After that I spend twenty minutes looking over my weekend English homework and decide to pack it back into my schoolbag without doing any of it. At least I tried.

A text comes in. From Colby:
Mall after dinner?
As soon as I finish reading it, another text comes through, this one from Tristan:
Colby says mall l8r. Can u pick me up maybe?

I reply to Tristan first:
i'll let u know in a bit

I text Colby next:
i'll meet u there

Meanwhile, I head down to the basement. The bottom of the stairs is where the kitchen starts. Past that is the living room, and then Johnny's bedroom. On one side of the bedroom is the entrance from the backyard and on the other is the bathroom. The only real light that could come in here is through the patio doors, except there's an ugly, old quilt tacked up to cover them. The rest of the tiny windows are lined in black garbage bags, and the floor is all concrete with patches of area rugs. My parents act like Johnny's lucky to have his own apartment, like it's some amazing little home they gave him for free, but it's just the place where all our old crap ends up. Still, I wish I lived
down here. If my parents ever decided to kick me out, I'd just pack my stuff and head down.

Johnny's lifting weights with the music blaring. He spots me and nods.

“Can you drive me and Tristan to the mall in a bit?”

“Not like that. You gotta let me deal with that thing on your head first, man,” he says.

“You can fix it?”

“Can't get any worse,” he says, grinning when he puts the forty-pound weight down next to the couch. He points to the bathroom. “Go.”

I plant myself in front of the mirror and let the ceiling light shine on what's left of my hair. The clipper goes on, and Johnny makes a psycho-killer face through the mirror, holding the clipper to my head like it's a chainsaw. I grin, and then more hair starts falling off my head.

AT THE MALL, TRISTAN,
Colby, and I head for the Gamer Depot. I'm pretty sure none of us have any money to buy anything, but Colby goes in. Blake is behind the counter. I probably would've known this if I shopped here for my gaming stuff. But I don't because everything in my house comes from Walmart. But there she is, shooting price tags at a stack of Xbox games with this sticker gun thing. She doesn't see me. I flip my hood up and hustle after Colby and Tristan.

Colby hitches his chin toward the front of the store. “Go work your magic.”

“Right now?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“But . . .” Not Blake. “What do I ask?”

“Since when do you need help with that? Just get her to come over.”

“What about . . .” Bringing up Olivia would be dumb. “How come you're all of a sudden into Blake?”

“Because she's hot? And I heard she's not with that guy anymore.”

“What guy?”

“Some guy who would pick her up after school. I don't know. Just some guy.”

“Oh.”

“All right, what's up?” Colby says. “Because it kind of seems like you're trying to mess up my game.”

Tristan's in front of the Nintendo console, playing through the demo game. Colby's glare bores into me. What would happen if I told him I like her? If I said, Can you just back off this one, because I'm sort of into her, how would he respond?

Really? You? Ha!

So? I already told you she's mine.

Come on, Pen. That would be a waste of a hot girl. It's not like she'll ever be into you.

You're into her? Then maybe I'll let you have a turn after I'm done.

I sigh and head off toward the front counter.

“Excuse me?”

Blake looks up. “Oh, hey, you.”

The way she says that, like I'm somebody . . . “Hi.”

She smiles and reaches for a pack of licorice, shoving a red stick into her mouth and biting off the end. I throw a glance back at Colby, and in my head the words get all jumbled up.

“Can I help you?” she asks after a couple seconds of weird silence.

“Uh . . . do you know if
Rusted
is out on PlayStation yet?”

“It's an Xbox exclusive, and the release date is October twentieth. You can preorder it, though.”

“Oh, right.” Obviously I already knew all that. I'm just nervous as hell, and now there's nothing left to do but follow the plan. “So, my friend Colby, he's looking for a new first-person shooter to try out.”

She doesn't glance around to see if he's near. She's looking right at me. What if I say something dumb? She's so pretty. She's even prettier now that she's talking to me.

“Well, you've got your classics—
War Zone 3
,
Target
,
Slashko 2
and
3
, but stay away from the first one, because there were some pretty severe game-design flaws with the controls, and the glitches were insane.”

All of that was so hot, I just want it to keep going. But then I realize it's my turn to talk, so I stop nodding and say, “
Slashko 3
is awesome. I have it on Xbox.”

“I'm an Xbox girl, too, for first-person shooters especially. Although Nintendo wins everything.”

“Colby figures Nintendo is for little kids.”

“He must be quite the idiot then,” she says, and it makes me grin. “No one messes with Nintendo. I'm into retro gaming,
too. It's made me appreciate solid gameplay over sharper graphics.”

I nod. “Like eight-bit side-scrollers for the NES, right? I'm into that, too.”

A massive smile spreads on her lips. I watch her hands while she goes through the stack of games in front of her, and I look at her mouth, where the piece of licorice dangles from the corner of it.

“Okay, so here's the deal. Colby thinks you're hot and he wants me to talk you into coming over there.” I pause, looking for a reaction. She takes a bite of her licorice. “I don't think you should do it, though.”

“Huh,” she says. “Why not?”

“Because he's kind of an ass and you can so do better.”

Her eyebrow goes up. “How come you're telling me this?”

“You just don't seem like you'd be the type to, uh . . .”

“The type to what?”

“To waste your time with idiots.”

She nods. Her eyes are shiny with something that looks like a smile but doesn't show on her lips. She goes, “Want a price sticker?”

I have no idea what she means, until she picks up the price gun and aims it at me. I extend my hand, palm out. She grins and flips my hand over. She shoots and swipes the gun against the back of my hand. I go tingly where she touched me.

“Twenty-nine ninety-nine,” she says.

“Cool.”

“Want a sale sticker?”

“Sure.”

She peels a red circle off a roll and hands it to me. “Ten percent off.”

“What if I decided to stick them on a full-price game?”

“You don't seem the type to pull off such an idiot move.”

Her eyes do the twinkle thing again and it's like my stomach falls into my shoes, in a good way. I press the sticker against my shirt, as if it's a name tag.

The store phone rings. Blake puts her gun down and runs a hand through her hair. It's like a curtain of messy waves around her face. I watch her mouth move as she talks. The call ends and Blake says, “Tell him to get
Slashko 3
, and then tell him you tried but I have a boyfriend.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking about that guy. Some guy. Of course she must have a guy. But still, I have to ask: “So, um,
do
you . . . have a boyfriend?”

“No. Do you?”

“Do I have a boyfriend?”

“Well, girlfriend or boyfriend.”

“No to both. But that's not really—I mean, I'm not looking for a boyfriend.”

“Neither am I.” Blake nods with a grin. “Righteous hair, by the way. That style wins everything on you.”

“Uh . . . thanks.” I'm lucky Johnny's got skills with the clippers. “So hey, do you game online? We could exchange gamertags or something.”

“Yeah. Do I have you on Facebook?”

“I'm not sure.” Of course we're not Facebook friends. If we were, I'd be able to do more than stare at the thumbnail of her profile pic. I could creep all her pictures and just . . . think about stuff.

“Add me,” she says with this little smile I'll be thinking about for the rest of the night.

She does a two-finger wave before going back to her stickering job.

I walk back, pulling Tristan by the sleeve on the way.

“What the shizz?”

“Abort,” I tell him.

“Why? What happened?”

“The mission failed. Gotta regroup.”

Back in the PlayStation section, Colby hitches his chin up at me and goes, “So? Is she coming?”

“She can't leave the front. She says to try
Slashko 3
.”

“
Slashko
rocks,” Tristan says.

“I don't give a crap about
Slashko
,” Colby tells Tristan. To me, he says, “I think you're just losing your touch.”

“How?”

“Look at you,” Colby says, pointing to my head. “They used to think you were one of them. Now, they think you're trying to be one of us.”

“I am . . . one of us.”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, whatever. Blake isn't really worth my time. Garrett told me she had crabs,” Colby
says. “That's why she got dumped by her boyfriend.”

“I bet Garrett's the one with crabs. He's always scratching his balls.”

Colby cracks a grin, then shrugs. “Better be safe than sorry. Besides, she's not really that fit.”

My eyes narrow, but I keep all the words inside my mouth. If he wants to act like Blake is suddenly not thin enough for him—which is total bull because he knows exactly how hot Blake is even if she's not skinny like most of the girls he's usually into—then good. At least it'll keep him away from her.

“You should've let me give you a decent haircut,” he says. “Fauxhawks are so five years ago, dude.”

My hand goes up to feel the back of my head, where it's buzzed super short. Fauxhawks could be thirty years ago and I wouldn't give a crap, because I think it looks pretty good.

The three of us make our way through the store, passing right in front of the counter. I sneak a glance at Blake, and she's looking, too. I pull out my wallet so she can see, and I peel the stickers off my shirt and hand so I can put them in my wallet. Her eyes—everything shows up in her eyes. I'm so glad I have enough balls to look into them.

ON SATURDAY MORNING, JOHNNY WAKES ME UP
with a tap on the head. I'm sprawled on his couch with my face stuck to one of the cushions. “Wake up. We got work to do.” It's as early as a school morning. We grab leftover fried chicken from the fridge and head out to the garage to lug bags of gravel down the slope to the backyard.

We're both in black T-shirts with our sleeves rolled up over our shoulders. I have a sweat mustache, and Johnny's got a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“You think if I keep doing this, I'll get pipes?” I ask Johnny, feeling my squishy upper arms.

“You'd have to do it every day.”

We each have a shovel and we stab them into the grass, pulling up chunks of it. There are worms and snails under there and I kind of feel like crap for destroying their home and murdering them. I wonder about picking them out and bringing them to the other side of the yard, but then I think about how only a pussy would be sitting here thinking about picking bugs out of the ground to save them.

“You had pipes in grade ten.”

“That's because I've always lifted weights,” he says. “Plus,
I've always been a Portuguese stallion, you know?”

“Yeah. And I'm more like a chubby pony.”

“Nah. You're a . . . I don't know, man. I don't really know anything about horses.”

We dig some more. It looks like we scalped the part of the yard against the right side of the house.

“I'm getting tired of the NES emulator. I've been thinking about collecting retro gaming stuff,” I say. “Think we're going to get paid for this?”

“Ha!” he says. “That's funny.”

“Yeah. You're right. Forget it.”

A text from Colby comes in:
Xbox @ my place later

Me:
can't—working outside w/ my bro

Him:
Whatever.

My fingers are already typing something that starts and ends with the
F
word. But I delete it because now there's a Facebook IM alert. Blake must've accepted my friend request, and now she's messaging me. She's right there, under my fingers.

Her:
Know that coffee shop across from St. Peter's?

Me:
yeah

Her:
I'm meeting Robyn later, but I was thinking of checking it out before that.

Me:
that sounds like fun

Her:
Maybe I'll run into you there sometime?

Me:
maybe—like after dinner?

Her:
Like at 7. ;-)

“You gonna stand there and text, or are you gonna help me?” Johnny says.

I reread the conversation one more time before shoving my phone into my pocket.

“Hold this,” Johnny says, and he hands me his half-smoked cigarette. My face is going to split open with the grin Blake caused. Johnny walks to the middle of the dirt patch and crouches to stab stakes into the ground, while I think about later.

Mom comes shambling down the slope of the side of the house, carrying a basket with what look like sheets and bedspreads.

“Ma, man—you're gonna fall.” Johnny rushes over and takes the basket from her hands.

“Ya, ya, I fall and you no do stairs on the side and you say ‘I do it,
Mãe
. I do it!'” Mom says, talking about another project Johnny was supposed to do last year. He keeps his mouth shut and takes the basket to the clothesline. She waddles over to it and digs into the pile of sheets. “You come help. I teach you.”

“But I'm full of dirt,” I say.

She points to the hose, and waits until I've rinsed my hands.

I know it's only hanging stuff on the clothesline, but still, I'd rather be digging and working on my biceps, or checking my phone again—just to make sure that conversation with Blake actually happened.

We spread sheets and pin them up. I'm quiet, stealing glances at Johnny while he pours sand over the dug-out rectangle. When the basket is empty, I head back over to Johnny. Mom watches us a while, then she announces that she and Dad
are going to the
churrasqueria
tonight.

“You come?” she asks us.

We haven't gone out to the restaurant in over a year, mostly because it's boring as hell to sit there for two hours while my parents catch up with all the Portuguese people who are in and out of there, either dining in or picking up takeout. And there's also the fact that I'd get nagged about looking like a punk druggy.

“I bring you
comida
,” she says before Johnny or I have to shake our heads. This must be her thank-you to us for the work we did.

“Potatoes, rice, lots of hot sauce,” I say.

“Chicken,” Johnny says. “A lot of chicken.”

“Ya, ya,” Mom says.

My parents are probably going to be out most of the evening now. That means I can meet Blake at the coffee shop without having to make up some lie about hanging out with the guys.

I need a massive shower, though, because I'm pretty sure there's dirt in my ears.

USUALLY, I DON'T CHECK
myself out in the mirror. Mostly because without clothes on, I weird myself out. Maybe everyone thinks they look funny naked. My body is fine, I guess, but I wouldn't want anyone to see it. Especially not Blake. Not, like, with the lights on at least. And it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm sort of pudgy. When I have my clothes on, I feel normal. When my clothes aren't on, it's
like I lose something important about myself. When I think about someone else seeing me like this, it feels like they'd actually be seeing some other person. Like it wouldn't be me they'd be looking at.

It's not like I want to be looking at a boy's body in the mirror. It's just that a girl's body is so . . . girl.

When I get back to my room, I find fifty bucks in an envelope on my bed with a fake independent contractor invoice from
J. Oliveira Indoor & Outdoor Handyman.

THE COFFEE SHOP IS
pretty dead for a Saturday night. I should take a leak before Blake gets here, so there won't be a chance of us needing to go to the can at the same time. I hang around the bathroom door, making sure the coast is clear. It would be great if I was better at holding my pee. Maybe it's like other muscles, and the more you work it, the stronger it'll become.

“Um, that's the ladies' room,” someone says from behind me.

The door falls against my shoulder. When I turn, there's a lady standing there, looking like she wants to get by me. She makes an awkward face, lifting her shoulders. “Oh, I'm sorry . . .”

She sweeps past me, and I move over. I should've pissed before I left the house.

There's stuff online about trans people and bathrooms. That's what would come up when I'd search about people who avoid public bathrooms. A couple years ago, I used to be like,
But I'm not trans, so why are people still jerks when I try to go take a piss?
Then I realized I don't have to be trans to still confuse people with the way I look. I had my hair then. Now, there's nothing left that makes me a girl, except for the fact that I am one. But I guess that's not enough.

BLAKE AND I ARE
sitting on the curb out behind the coffee shop. There are two feet between us. I mostly look at her legs because it's the only thing I can stare at without seeming obvious about it. Besides us, there are two Dumpsters and three recycle bins out here.

“So, how'd you get into gaming?” I ask.

“My dad. He has a few retro gaming consoles.”

“Which ones?”

“A ColecoVision, and a Commodore 64,” she says. “And an NES. That goes without saying.”

“Your dad sounds awesome.”

“He doesn't game much anymore because he's always working. But I inherited all his stuff. Robyn keeps saying I could get so much money on eBay for it all, but I'm keeping it.”

“That's smart,” I say. “It's what I would do. Plus, you'd probably end up selling to resellers. I hate resellers.” I watch enough gaming YouTubers to sort of know what I'm talking about. “They jack up prices for everybody.”

“That's true. You know, we get so many people asking if we sell retro stuff at the Depot. I keep telling my boss we should do that,” she says. “So what are you playing right now?”

“I'm replaying the anniversary edition of
War Zone
with my
brother. I'm playing
Crypts
with Tristan. And I'm doing a second play-through of
Slashko 3
with Colby.”

“Do you play by yourself ever?”

“Sometimes. Not often, I guess,” I say, wondering if that means anything. “You?”

“I mostly play alone. I don't like playing online.”

“Same.”

“Guys are disgusting on there,” she says.

“I know, right? There was this nine-year-old kid from Colorado I used to play
Crypts: The Beginning
with a couple years ago. His dad would come on headset to talk to me and make sure I wasn't a jerk messing with his son. He was a pretty cool kid, decent gamer.”

“That's adorable.” The smile Blake gives me makes me feel a little gooey inside.

“Yeah, well, you know . . .” I shrug.

Her boots look like they lace up all the way to her knees. The silver rings on her hands, the black nail polish, the one freckle near her left wrist—those are Blake details. I wish I could look at her face that closely, so that I could see what Blake details are going on there.

“So
Slashko 3
—where are you at?” she asks.

“Just took down the guy in the sewers.”

“That's a tough mission.”

“Not really. Well, unless you want the achievement.”

“That's what I'm talking about.”

“So you got it? On the highest difficulty?”

“You think I'd take the easy way and get him with the
plasma cannon?” she says. “Pistol, with a bullet right between the eyes. Grenade for the dogs. Got it on my first try.”

“That's just so . . .” So hot, is what it is. “Wow.”

She does this little shrug like,
No sweat
, but with that grin on her lips, she doesn't look cocky at all. Just badass. She runs her fingers through her hair to mess it up like she just got caught in a gust of wind, and it makes my own fingers tingle with the urge to touch it.

“How come we've never hung out?” she asks.

“I don't know. We've never been in the same classes?”

“I was in your biology class last year. And your media class.”

“Oh.” I wasn't sure she realized. “Um . . . well, maybe it's because I always sit at the back of the class.”

“Maybe.”

I put a hand down on the concrete between us and her hand is so close that I can almost feel the heat coming off of it. We talk about music. She likes metal bands with girl singers. “Not the kind with demonic screaming, though,” she says. I tell her about being stuck between metalcore and the old-school rock stuff Johnny's always forcing on me. “So one second I'm blasting Asking Alexandria and All That Remains, then I'm nodding my head to Def Leppard and Skid Row.”

I even tell her about my parents' obsession with this Portuguese singer who's released, like, thirty albums so far with the weirdest song lyrics ever.

“Like what?” she asks.

“Like,
The little boy who lives in my belly, he wants fish, fish, fish.
”

She laughs. “And I thought I was bad.”

“At lyrics?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I sing.”

“For real? Like, in the shower?”

Now, in my mind, she's in the shower and she's naked and there are soapsuds everywhere. It's awesome.

“Like, in a band.”

“Yeah? Do you guys play shows?”

“Not yet, but there's a Battle of the Bands on New Year's Eve. It's at the community center. Five bands total.”

“You guys are playing? That's amazing.”

She shrugs and her cheeks go red.

“What?” I say.

“I can sort of only sing if no one's looking at me.”

That's the cutest thing I've ever heard, and I hate using the word “cute,” even in my own head. I want to tell her that she shouldn't be scared because even if all she did was stand there, mute in front of a microphone, it would probably be epic. “Maybe you just need to practice in front of an audience a couple times. Even a small one.”

It's really hard to keep acting cool when I'm turning into a puddle inside.

“What time is it? I'm meeting Robyn at nine,” she says, and right away I know it's time to go.