22 December 2015
From Earth, Venus is a beacon in the night sky, beautiful and bright. However, the surface of the planet is a scorching 467 degrees Celsius, the ground is barren and rocky, and clouds of sulfuric acid roam the atmosphere. Much like my face.
Looking in the mirror, I could identity every disgusting, clogged pore, every hair out of place, every imperfection on my imperfect body. I hated how my nipples were sort of oval, and my belly button was deeper than Krubera Cave. I’d spent an hour brushing my teeth and scrubbing away blackheads and digging Q-tips into all my face holes. I even paid special attention to the slum areas, not that I expected Diego to visit them. So far, he’d kept his hands in the touristy regions, showing a restraint Marcus never had. He respected that I still had no idea what we were doing.
After pulling every piece of clothing I owned out of my closet and drawers, I settled on my best jeans and a button-down shirt my mom had bought me that still had the tags on it. I felt like a little boy in his father’s suit, a fraud everyone could see through.
Mom whistled when I walked into the living room. She was smoking and drinking and watching Bunker with the volume muted so she could read. It must have been her day off from the restaurant because she was still wearing her pajamas. “Don’t you look nice?”
“Whatever.”
“I’m serious, Henry. You’ve grown into a handsome young man.”
“You’re my mom; you’re contractually obligated to say that.” There’s probably be a genetic reason every mother believes her son to be the apex of male beauty. I suppose if they didn’t, they’d smother the ugly ones, and the human race would have died out or been much more attractive as a result.
Mom flicked her ash into the ashtray. “Well, yes, but for a while, your father and I were worried you were never going to grow out of your ugly phase.”
“Mom!”
“What? You had those knobby knees, and your front teeth were so big, you could barely shut your mouth.” I liked seeing her laugh, even if it was at my expense. “Who are you dressed up for?”
“I’m hanging out with Diego. You met him.” I didn’t want to remind her that she’d met him over Thanksgiving break because I’d disappeared.
Mom raised her eyebrow. “You two have been spending an awful lot of time together. Do we need to have the talk?”
“Jesus, no. We’re not even dating.” I held up my hands and backed toward the door.
“Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, Henry, and I want you to be informed. We should have had this discussion sooner.”
My face was burning, and I wanted to escape, but Diego wasn’t going to pick me up for another ten minutes. “I’m not sleeping with Diego,” I said. “And anyway, I already know about that stuff.”
Mom looked skeptical. “I know you’ve seen it on those Web sites you visit—”
“Oh my God! Mom! Have you been going through my computer?”
“Only to make sure you weren’t experimenting with drugs or planning to shoot up your school.”
“That’s an invasion of privacy!”
Mom took a drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke at me dismissively. “Don’t be so uptight, Henry. Compared to Charlie, you’re pretty vanilla.” She shuddered.
The thought of my mother knowing what kind of porn Charlie and I browsed was mortifying, and I couldn’t get out of the house quickly enough. Waiting outside was preferable. Having needles driven into my eyeballs would have been preferable. “Please stop.”
“I want you to be happy. You know that right, Henry?”
To be honest, it never occurred to me that my mother was concerned about my happiness. My safety, yes, but not my happiness. It seems obvious now, but before she said it, I wouldn’t have put it at the top of a list of things my mother wanted for me. “I’m trying.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Why?”
Mom stubbed out her cigarette. “Because a smart, handsome boy like you shouldn’t have to try so hard to be happy.”
“I’ll be back by eleven,” I said, and dashed out the door.
• • •
Diego’s hand lingered on mine when he passed me the popcorn. His fingers were butter-slick and warm. He smiled, looking far less nervous than I felt. The movie theater was mostly empty, which only amped up my anxiety. Diego had convinced me to let him take me on an actual date, arguing that it wouldn’t have to mean anything and that it would be a good way to see what I was missing out on. He wore me down and I finally agreed, but only to prove to him that it was a disastrous idea.
“What’s the name of this movie again?”
“Dino and July,” Diego said. “It’s about a guy whose family owns a funeral home, and this girl he has a crush on dies but then comes back to life and helps him become cool. Sort of like Cyrano de Bergerac meets Pygmalion. With a zombie.”
“Sounds . . . interesting.”
“It got good reviews.”
I grabbed a handful of popcorn, immediately regretting it. What if my breath smelled like butter and salt? I dropped the popcorn and sipped my soda instead.
“Any word from your slug friends?”
After reading to Diego from my journal, I felt less like a freak discussing the aliens with him, though they still weren’t my favorite conversation topic. “Not since the barbecue.”
“Is that strange?”
“I’ve gone a whole year without being abducted before, but January twenty-ninth is barely a month from now, so you’d think they’d want to give me plenty of opportunities to push the button.”
“Would you? Press it?”
It should have been an easy answer. It was true that I didn’t want to live in a world without Jesse—I’m not sure any of us deserved to live in a world where Jesse Franklin felt like killing himself was the only solution—and if I didn’t press the button, I’d never have to worry about Diego leaving me like Jesse and my father had, Charlie and Zooey wouldn’t have to watch their daughter grow up in an increasingly hostile world, Nana wouldn’t have to lose her memories, and Mom wouldn’t be so sad anymore. If I didn’t press the button, the future would never disappoint any of us. But, despite how hard I fought him, Diego made me curious about my future. About our future together.
“I don’t know,” I said. Before I could explain, laughter echoed through the theater as a group of people rounded the corner at the front. I recognized Marcus immediately. “Shit.” I slid down in my seat.
“What?” Diego craned his neck. Marcus was with Adrian, and they each had their arm around a different girl. I think one of the girls was Maya Anderson, but I couldn’t place the other.
I kept still and quiet, hoping to remain invisible, but Marcus zeroed in on me like I was tagged with a tracker and yelled, “Look, it’s Space Boy! And he brought his girlfriend. That’s one ugly bitch, Space Boy.” Adrian and the girls cracked up and took seats a few rows ahead of us, but Marcus lingered in the aisle. His clothes were winkled and his cheeks were flushed. I could practically smell the booze on him.
Diego elbowed me in the ribs. “Problem?”
“No.”
The lights dimmed, the projector lit up the screen, and I ate popcorn, but I don’t remember anything about the movie. I spent two hours watching Marcus and Adrian out of the corner of my eye. When the show ended, I waited in my seat until only Diego and I remained in the theater.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Want me to slash their tires?”
I tried to laugh it off, but there was a scary intensity to Diego’s voice that made me think he wasn’t joking. “No. It’s nothing. Really.”
Diego nodded, but I doubted he believed me.
We walked next door to Barnaby’s, an old-style arcade, where we played Skee-Ball and avoided talking about what had happened in the theater. Finally Diego said, “Listen, if you’re going to let that guy ruin our night, I’d rather go home.”
His bluntness caught me off guard, and I felt like an asshole. I rolled the last ball and walked away without bothering to see where it landed. Diego followed me to a table that reeked of fries and grease and baby wipes, and sat across from me.
“It’s always been like that,” I said. “People calling me names, making me feel like I don’t belong. Before Space Boy, it was fag or knob gobbler or the Ass Pirate Roberts. My personal fave was Henry Diarrhea.”
Diego raised an eyebrow. “Henry Diarrhea?”
“I had a nervous stomach in middle school.”
“Oh.” He tried to catch my eye. “Those names, they’re not who you are.”
“I’m Space Boy. I’ll never be anyone else.”
“You’re whoever you want to be.”
“Come on,” I said. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” A mother with young kids scowled at me from two tables over.
Diego leaned his head back and sighed. I figured I’d finally done it. I’d convinced him I was damaged goods, not worth the time or effort he’d invested in me. In a way, I was relieved. I could stop pretending the possibility existed that we might have a future. My future died with Jesse, and I was killing time while the rest of the world caught up.
“Before I moved to Calypso,” Diego said, “I spent one year, ten months, and ninety-three days in prison.”
That was definitely not what I’d expected Diego to say, and I was sure I’d misheard him. “What?”
“Juvenile detention, actually.” Diego’s eyes, so like the slugger’s skin, grew distant and hard. “I should have told you sooner. I wanted to tell you.”
I had so many questions, but the first one to come out was, “Why?”
“It’s complicated.” Diego traced lines on the table with a dab of partially dried ketchup. “I was thirteen and angry and everything was so fucked up. I’ll be on probation until I’m twenty-one. No drinking, no drugs—I can’t even get a speeding ticket, or they’ll lock me up again.”
I’d sensed darkness in Diego, a stifled rage hidden behind broad smiles and laughter, but I’d have believed Audrey was a criminal before Diego Vega. His confession clobbered me like a sucker punch. I felt as blindsided as I had in the days after Jesse’s suicide, when I began to learn how truly broken the boy I thought I knew everything about had been. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because the past isn’t important. History is just a way of keeping score, but it doesn’t have to be who we are.”
“Great,” I said, laughing at the absurdity. “I’m Space Boy, and you’re a criminal.”
Diego squeezed my hand. “We’re not words, Henry, we’re people. Words are how others define us, but we can define ourselves any way we choose.”
I pulled my hand away. “Is that why you dress so oddly?”
“Part of it,” Diego said. “Compared to other kids, I wasn’t in juvie for that long, but it felt like forever. Being inside, it strips you of your identity. I was who the lawyers and the judge and the guards told me to be. Now I can be whoever I want, and I’m still struggling to figure out who that is, but the point is that the choice belongs to me.”
Maybe he believed that, but it sounded to me like a lie he fed himself so that he could wake up in the morning believing he could change. That people would let him. “Can you take me home?”
We didn’t talk on the drive, and I hated Marcus for fucking up the night. If I’d never seen him, I would have enjoyed the movie with Diego and we would have kissed and he wouldn’t have told me about being in juvie and I wouldn’t have been sitting in his car wondering what he’d done to deserve being there and what other secrets he was keeping from me. I understood he had his reasons, and it shouldn’t have mattered what he’d done in the past, but it did. The past overshadowed everything I thought I knew about Diego. It made me think maybe he had smashed Marcus’s car windows. And if he was capable of that, what else was he capable of?
Diego parked Please Start in front of the duplex. “I’m sorry, Henry. I should have told you the truth.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”
I brushed my hair out of my eyes and tried to look at him, but when I did, I was too tempted to forget the past. It didn’t matter that history was our way of keeping score, since the points didn’t matter, but I couldn’t just ignore it. “Diego, I like you but . . .”
Diego ran his thumb down the side of my face. His touch was soft, and I wanted him to kiss me so badly. “I spent nearly two years locked up in juvie, dreaming about the outside world. I thought about my choices, about the things I’d done and the things I hadn’t. I’ve never been to Paris or water-skied or fallen in love. When they let me out, I swore not to waste one second of my life. My counselor used to tell me that we remember the past, live in the present, and write the future. Even if the world ends next month or in a million years, we can still write our future, Henry.”
“I want that to be true.” I leaned my forehead against Diego’s, felt his breath on my nose.
“Do you hate me now?”
“Kind of the opposite.”