“All right, let’s find a time. Mel, how long are you staying?” Caio asks.
“Only until Sunday. Just another couple of days,” she answers, and Becky’s mouth curves down in a sad face.
Then the ritual of group farewells begins, as awkward and messy as expected. Becky hugs Caio and kisses his cheeks while Melissa does the same with my mom, then they go on, Melissa with Caio and Becky with me, and suddenly Becky is hugging Caio again and saying, “Oops, I’ve already said goodbye to you,” and everyone is lost and talking over one another.
Melissa takes this opportunity to give me a strong hug (stronger than what’s typically expected when hugging someone you’ve known for less than a day). Then she whispers in a very low voice to my ear, “Don’t be silly; he’s wild about you, too.”
And I let out a nervous laugh, as if to say, “What are you talking about, girl?” But Melissa just smiles at me and takes off down the hallway, holding hands with Rebeca. They are so different from each other, but when they’re together like this, walking in the same pace, they seem like the coolest pair in the whole world.
When night comes, I put on my Batman pajamas again and feel two questions thrumming in my head:
What the heck was Melissa talking about? I know she meant Caio. I’m not a moron. But where did she get the idea that he’s into me? I wonder if it’s real, official intel or if Mel is a sensitive person who can infer people’s intentions. Because if it’s the latter, she’s wrong.
How many times can I wear the same pajamas without washing them? They’re not like regular clothes that you wear throughout the day, but still they stay on your body for hours. And it was hot last night. But I checked and they don’t smell bad. They still smell brand-new, actually. Is it customary to own two pairs so you can wear one while the other is in the laundry? Because if that’s the case, I could get myself a Robin version. Which isn’t a bad idea, anyway.
When I get to my room, Caio is already in his bed, reading The Two Towers. That’s when I notice he looks even better after a day in the sun. His skin is even tanner now, and his lips are rosier. I feel like throwing myself on top of him and asking my first question.
But since I can’t really ask, “Is it true what Melissa said, that you’re wild about me?” I ask question number two.
“How many sets of pajamas do you think the average person owns?”
Caio laughs and closes his book, putting a bookmark on the page he was reading.
“I own three,” he answers.
“I own one,” I say, hoping he’s forgotten about the beige pj’s.
And since I don’t know what else to say, I turn off the lights and lie in bed, feeling my back hurt a little from all the sun.
“Pj’s are like our best friends,” Caio says. “They need to make us feel comfortable. And you don’t need a bunch.”
“Nice metaphor. How many best friends do you have?” I ask, and it takes Caio two seconds to answer, as if he was going through his list of best friends in his mind.
“I think just Becky. Melissa is cool, but I don’t know her very well. I can’t call her a good friend. I had more friends at school at one point, but they started drifting away as it became more obvious that I was … gay,” he says the last word in a lower tone of voice, as if it were still a secret. “What about you? Who are your best friends?”
I should have anticipated Caio would ask the question back, but I’m caught by surprise. I don’t have a best friend. Even when I was a kid and didn’t have all the issues I have today, I didn’t have a best friend. Classmates, maybe. Some cousins who would come to visit once in a while. But never a friend who would listen to all I had to say.
Caio is the first one to do that.
But of course I’m not about to say, “You, Caio. You are my best friend,” because I don’t want to sound desperate. I also can’t say, “Friends? I have none,” because that would be even worse. So I do what anyone else in my situation would.
“My best friend moved to Canada last year. For school. We still talk, but not as much,” I lie.
“That’s sad. What’s his name?” Caio asks.
“Jake.” I blurt out the first name that comes to mind, which, by the way, is the worst name I could have picked.
“A Brazilian Jake? That’s fun!” says Caio, and I can hear the suspicion in his voice.
“His mom is American. He was born in Michigan and moved here when he was three. His family is always moving around because his dad sells … airplanes,” I say.
“Oh, I see,” says Caio in the voice of someone who has just heard the most unabashed lie in history.
“Jake doesn’t exist,” I admit with a sigh.
Caio laughs and I feel like an idiot.
“Lipé, it’s fine,” he says. “We can be each other’s best friends. That way, you don’t have to lie when people ask.”
After hearing something like that, I’d normally go into a never-ending spiral about how Caio wants to be my friend and tweet something about being friend-zoned or something. But today there’s no crisis. Because that was exactly what I needed to hear.
But since I’m addicted to bringing myself down, I don’t miss this chance. “I’ve never been anyone’s best friend, so I might not be the right guy for the job.”
“You’re doing great,” Caio says. “Sitting around under the sun the whole day so I can go to the pool when you’d rather be anywhere else? That’s a best-friend move.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t go in the water.”
“Thanks for being there, anyway.”
WHEN YOU’RE ON VACATION, every day is a Saturday. But when I wake up to the sweet smell of cake, I realize it’s officially Saturday.
“I baked the cake a little earlier today,” my mom says when I get to the kitchen.
The table is half-set. On one side, I can see a checkered tablecloth, a freshly baked orange cake, coffee, and milk. On the other, my mom’s painting supplies, messy as ever.
“Where did Caio go?” I ask, trying to sound casual. When I left the bedroom, his bed was already empty.
“He went out. He’s in the hallway, outside. His mom called, and I think he was embarrassed to talk to her in front of me,” my mom says while serving me a slice of cake and a glass of milk.
“His mom is a lot,” I say in a whisper.
“All moms are, Felipe. It’s in our genes. It’s hard not to be after a human being pops out of your body,” she says, and it makes me laugh.
My mouth is full, and I spit out some cake crumbs by accident. Right then, Caio walks in, breath ragged, trying to keep his calm.
“My mom is unbearable,” he says.
I give my mom my best “I told you so” look.
“What happened this time?” I ask, my mouth still full of cake.
“She’s still going on about Becky,” Caio says, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“What about her?” my mom asks curiously.
“My mom hates Becky.”
“But she’s such a good egg,” my mom says. Good egg is her favorite description.