Enter Asshole Dave

 

 

I START my sophomore year with a bad attitude. I blame it on the weather—hot, humid, and overcast, the trifecta of shitty for Florida climate. It’s like being trapped in somebody’s armpit. I meet Chris at the top of his driveway on the first day of school and climb into his Volvo with minimal chit-chat. I’m not a morning person and also, it’s still a little weird after the weekend we just had. On the way to school, Chris tells me about a video he saw online of some kids surfing through the flooded streets of Miami during a king tide while tethered to the back bumper of a jeep.

“Urban skurfing,” Chris says. “Next time there’s a storm, we’re totally doing it.”

“It’s a terrible idea,” I say to him. “I’m in.” It’s a running joke between us whenever Chris comes up with one of his crazy stunts. This, at least, coaxes a smile from him. Besides, it does sound like fun.

“You talk to your dad lately?” Chris asks. He and his dad are pretty tight. Chris usually spends his summers in California, where they surf and camp and climb mountains and do all that father-son bonding you see in Patagonia catalogs—probably even work in a little game of catch here and there.

“Not since Easter,” I tell him.

“He hasn’t called?”

Chris is an only child, the apple of everyone’s eyes, including his stepdad, Jay. Two sets of awesome parents for one kid. And Paloma, who dotes on him as well. Chris doesn’t know what it’s like to have to compete with a bubbly twin sister and younger, cuter models.

“He talks to me through Tabitha,” I tell him. “There’s another baby on the way. A boy.”

“Wow. That makes five, huh?”

I nod. My dad is prolific. I’ll give him that.

“Still,” Chris says. “He could call you once in a while. Say what’s up and all.”

“I’d have to get a cavity for that to happen.”

Chris shakes his head, trying not to smile. “That is so messed up, Theo.”

“Yeah, especially since he’s not even my dentist anymore.”

We share a hard, bitter chuckle at that. Kind of feels like ice-cold air on the lungs. My dad’s a real deadbeat, something I’ve gotten used to over the years. I don’t like to dwell on it because then I get pissed off. Or I get sad and start feeling sorry for myself, which is way worse.

Chris and I arrive at school a few minutes early to claim our lockers, the same ones we had last year in Hibiscus Hall—the four quadrants of our school are named after flowers instead of cardinal directions. Like we can be duped by the naming of things as easily as tourists. For whatever reason Hib Hall, as it’s more commonly known, is where the “popular” kids hang out. I don’t really care about the cool factor, but it is centrally located, which is convenient. Chris’s surfer friends all have lockers there, along with some of the skater punks—my colleagues. Our circles overlap.

We say what’s up to Corbin, Jake, and Tomás, part of our inner circle who are milling around our section of lockers. Chris finds his locker from last year, and I’m about to claim the one next to his, but there’s someone blocking my way.

New kid. T-shirt stretched tight over broad shoulders. He’s putting his stuff into my old locker. I’m about to ask him to trade when the new kid stops and stares down the hallway, lets out a wolf whistle. “Hot damn,” he says. I follow his gaze and see that it’s none other than my sister who’s attracted his attention. She’s sporting a dress-code violation short skirt and high heels, doing her swishy walk down the hallway, turning heads and setting loins afire. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“That is one hot tamale,” the new kid bellows loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “Wouldn’t mind taking her over one knee.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say instinctively, getting all up in the kid’s face so I know he hears me. He’s wide like Chris but a little chubby in the gut. Artfully buzzed hair like he just got it cut, and a little bit of acne on his face. He looks amused. I want to knock the smarmy smirk right off his face.

“That’s his sister,” Corbin says by way of explanation.

“Aye, Papi,” the new kid says to me, picking up on my ethnicity, I’m guessing. His eyes go wide like he’s testing me to see what I’ll do next.

“Shut the fuck up and move your shit to another locker,” Chris says before I have the chance to respond.

“Why?” the new kid says to him. “I don’t see your name on it.”

Chris doesn’t argue with him, just reaches inside the locker and yanks everything out so it spills onto the floor—books, papers, folders. Chris unhinges the lock, clicks it shut, and bowls it down the hallway. It gets lost in the shuffle of feet. Corbin shakes his head, a knowing little smile on his face. Jake and Tomás pause their conversation to see what will happen next.

“Welcome to Sabal Palm High, asshole,” Chris says in his deep, scary, man voice. It would intimidate me if I didn’t know him like I do. “Now get the fuck out of our way.”

The kid looks between Chris and me. His smile widens. He leans down and opens the locker beneath mine.

“Have it your way,” he says to me. “You can be on top for now.”

Those words, on top, and the way he says it, the way he looks at me like I’m an easy target. He knows. He knows everything. And he’s putting it right there on display for everyone to hear. Fuck.

I jam my backpack into my locker, then stuff my skateboard on top of it, thinking to get out of there as quickly as possible. I don’t want to even look at Chris because it will reveal something about me I don’t want him to see. The kid just watches me, arms crossed, like he’s enjoying the show.

“You skate?” he says to me like we’re friends. I ignore him, fumbling with my lock. I haven’t used it in three months, and I’ve forgotten the hang of it. “I’m new here,” the kid says. “Maybe you could show me where the good skate spots are around town.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Chris says to the new kid, still staring him down and standing broadside to further intimidate him. Chris hasn’t even bothered to put his stuff away.

“Why? Is he your bitch?”

Everyone goes silent for a second, the whole hallway it seems, the whole city of West Palm proper. Then Chris lunges at him, slams him back against the locker with his forearm locked under the kid’s chin, like he could break his windpipe if he felt like it. I jump out of the way. I’ve never seen Chris pull a move like that before. Meanwhile our crew all make ooh and ahh noises, the musical prelude to an ass beating.

“Watch your mouth,” Chris hisses. Now the kid looks rattled.

“Everything all right here?” a teacher barks, storming up to us, knowing full well everything is not all right. Chris has a reputation for being a good kid, though, which is why the teacher gives him the chance to back down.

Chris releases the kid and backs off, but not too far. Chris’s posture tells me he’s ready to fight, itching for it. Chris gets this crazy look in his eyes when he’s about to go off—his nostrils flare and his face flushes, his muscles get all beastly looking. I swear he grows an inch or two. He has that look now. Meanwhile I’m motionless and tense, which is my reaction to conflict—I freeze up and become generally useless.

The new kid twists his neck as though stretching it. “I was just introducing myself. My name’s Dave.” He holds out his hand to me. I can’t believe the size of this kid’s cojones. I glare at him and finish with my locker, then walk away without another word to that asshole.

“See you after class, Papi,” Dave calls, and I flip him off, not caring if the teacher’s still there. I hate guys like that. Guys who get off on making other people feel small, like the world isn’t big enough for all of us to fit comfortably. I hate feeling weak and looking weak, especially in front of Chris.

Of course, Chris didn’t have to go apeshit on him either. Makes me wonder if Chris reacted so strongly because of the insinuation we were gay. I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

Regardless, I can’t have Chris always sticking his neck out for me. I’ve got to start fighting my own battles. Being more independent. I’m not his bitch or anyone else’s. Maybe I do have something to prove after all.

Standing up to an asshole like Dave is a good place to start.

 

 

I THOUGHT Asshole Dave would take the hint and move his locker somewhere else, but he seems determined to stick it out. A couple of days into school and he’s practically one of us, telling jokes and talking shit with the best of them. His mouth is foul, and the only good thing I can say about him is that he doesn’t talk to or about my sister again, at least not while I’m around.

Instead he’s all up in my business, asking me questions about my skateboard, my hair, where I’m from, what’s for lunch in the cafeteria that day, where my next class is, and if he can walk with me there. It’s kind of insane. I try to ignore him, but sometimes his shit is just too much. He only pesters me when Chris isn’t around, which means he thinks I’m an easy mark. Which sucks.

“The guys say you’re Puerto Rican, but I’ve never seen a boricua with blue eyes,” Dave says to me on Wednesday between second and third period. “You sure you’re not adopted?”

“Do you know how ignorant you sound right now?” I say, unable to ignore his idiocy any longer and doubly irritated that he’s asking people about me.

“He speaks,” Dave exclaims and claps his hands together like he’s discovered a new element. “I knew it. So, what’s your name?”

I don’t answer, and he continues his assholery.

“Say something to me in Spanish, Papi.”

“No.”

“Por favor?”

“Fuck you.”

“Seriously, man. I’m in Spanish III. I’m practically fluent. Try me.”

“Eres un gilipollas.”

“You’re a….”

“Asshole,” I finish for him.

He laughs, a real gut shaker. I’m so glad I can amuse him. He slaps my back, and I yank my shoulder away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Lo siento,” he says, and it almost seems like he means it. I finish trading out my books, go to shut my locker, and Dave reaches up and grabs the door to stop me. “We should hang out sometime. You can help me with my Español.”

I glance over at him. The smile is gone and he looks sincere, but it’s hard to say either way. I still can’t believe he has the balls to mess with me. I’m being bullied by the fucking new guy.

“Why are you messing with me, man?” I ask.

“What?” His eyes widen. “I’m not messing with you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Tu eres muy guapo, Papi.”

He knows just what to say to get under my skin. I shove him off my locker, slam it shut, and walk away. I don’t like Dave’s vibe. He reminds me of those kids who held me down and tried to spit in my face because I talked funny. Like he’s trying to push me into revealing something I don’t want to. And why? To have something to hold over my head? To expose me? To fuck with me? I don’t know what to do in this situation. I just want it to stop.

And what if Asshole Dave says something to Chris? Or goads Chris into a fight just to get at me?

Better to just avoid my locker altogether.

 

 

“WHERE WERE you at lunch?” Chris asks me that Friday after school on the car ride home. Dave’s been hanging around with our lunch crew, so I took my board down to the abandoned gas station on the corner and practiced my grinds. One good thing to come out of the Great Recession is there are a lot more empty buildings and vacant lots for skaters to shred. That’s what the older generation of skate rats says—sticking it to the man has never been so easy.

“I had some stuff to make up,” I lie. I don’t want Chris to ask me why I was off on my own. He’s always trying to include me in his social circle, and he takes it personally when I opt out.

“It’s the first week of school,” Chris argues. He doesn’t believe me. I’m not going to go into it about Dave, so I just stare out the window and hope he’ll give up.

He turns up the music—a local punk band. Did I mention he has great taste in music too? I glance over to find him bobbing his head along to the beat, and I figure that must be the end of it. Chris pulls into his driveway and shuts off the engine.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him while grabbing my skateboard and backpack.

“Hold up,” he says before I can bounce. He lays one hand on my arm and leaves it there, like he’s claiming it for his own.

I freeze but keep my stuff in my hands. He looks upset, and it probably has something to do with the way I’ve been acting. All distant and mopey.

“You’ve been ditching me all week. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

This heart-to-heart is exactly what I wanted to avoid, in avoiding him. Chris has a way of getting at the truth of the matter. I set my backpack and board down at my feet. How do I make him feel better about it without telling him about Dave’s bullshit? And what if he brings up Sebastian?

“I’ve just been busy,” I say.

“With what?”

“I don’t know. School?”

He sighs and shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me, something I can’t stand, to think that I’ve displeased him. “That’s bullshit, but whatever. You working this weekend?”

“Yeah. Both days.”

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

I mentally review my empty calendar. “Nothing.”

“Let’s go down to BOA.”

BOA—Bank of America—is one of our prime skate spots and my favorite. Chris knows it too. I don’t really feel like being forced to act normal in front of him, but if I bail, it will only make him try harder and probably hurt his feelings as well. Making him feel bad is, like, twice the pain for me.

“Let me change and I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” I say.

He nods. “See you then.”

An hour or so later, we ride our skateboards down to BOA since it’s not too far from where we live. The sea breeze is up, and it feels nice in my hair and billowing up my shirt. The Florida heat can make you feel like you’re trapped in a sweaty plastic bubble for, like, six months out of the year, so any breeze is practically Arctic by comparison. When we arrive at the bank, there are a few kids already out. The BOA closed down a while back, and the property has been for sale ever since. Cops hardly ever patrol it, and so long as we don’t break any windows or litter too much, no one seems to mind.

“Asshole Dave’s here,” Chris says to me. I don’t know which of us came up with the name, but it stuck.

I scan the parking lot, and at the same time, Dave spots me. He doesn’t give me that trademark smirk, though, just nods and goes back to whatever he was doing. Maybe he won’t give me such a hard time with Chris around. It’s pretty damn annoying that this kid is showing up at my neighborhood skate holes where I’ve been coming for years. Who the hell invited him anyway?

I grab my board and take to the concrete walkways surrounding the building. It’s a two-story structure with nice, smooth concrete and a good variety of curbs, rails, and stairs. There’s a loading ramp in the back and a wheelchair access out front. The way it’s laid out, you can skate the whole thing without ever getting off your board. I start at the top, sweeping through the drive-thru ATMs and using the curbs to practice my nosegrinds, front tailslides, and a few backside slappies, then up the loading ramp, executing some 360s and kickflips along the way. When I’m warmed up, I do a couple of nightmare flips on the upper level to show off my new trick, then pull off a 50-50 grind down the handicap rail and land that pretty decently.

A crowd gathers, and the guys start calling out tricks. Some of them I do; some I don’t. A few of them pull out their phones to film me. I’m not much of a show pony, but I’ll try any trick once, even if the bros are all hating on it. And if I like it, I’ll practice until I’ve perfected it.

I’m having a good day, feeling pretty confident, so I decide to go balls to the wall. I skate around the front of the building to the top floor, where there’s a huge sprawling staircase leading down to the parking lot. Instead of grinding the rail, I do a varial kickflip in the air. I’m airborne for longer than seems humanly possible and stick it on the lower level. It’s the best kind of rush. Fear and adrenaline and relief at not busting my ass in front of everyone. The guys all clap and whistle and list all the ways I murdered that trick. One kid keeps saying “What the fuck” over and over, with more passion each time.

Okay, maybe I am a bit of a show-off.

Chris laughs and punches my arm and calls me Killer, one of his nicknames for me. The attention is a little much, so I tell them I’ll be back and ride next door to where there’s a 7-Eleven. I say what’s up to Justin who works there, used to go to our school, and sometimes comes out to skate with us.

“You’ve gotten pretty good,” Justin says when I lay the drinks on the counter, Gatorade for me and a Mountain Dew for Chris. Even though I told him it shrinks your balls, he still drinks it. I guess he has the ballage to spare.

“Thanks, man. I had some time on my hands this summer.” I guess Justin was watching us from inside the 7-Eleven.

“You have a lot of….” He pauses and seems to be searching for the right word. “Grace? You move well on the board. A lot of skaters look like they’re trying to take a shit while skating, but you make it look easy.”

“Like taking an actual shit,” I joke.

He smiles and looks a little bashful. It’s kind of cute. “Yeah, if everything’s working right, I guess. You skate pretty, if that makes it any better.”

“I appreciate it,” I tell him with a smile. I’m always saying weird shit or intending to say one thing when something else slips out, so I cut Justin some slack.

I pay him for the drinks and return to the parking lot, where Chris is grinding the curbs. Chris skates like he surfs—all power and strength, but the pavement isn’t nearly as flexible or forgiving as a wave. You have to relax your ankles a lot more to maneuver a skateboard, which is hard for him. Sometimes it takes a light touch.

I watch him for a few minutes, recalling how I was the one to show him how to ollie in middle school, and the only reason he stuck with it was to prove to me that he could do it too. That’s probably the only reason I got so good at skateboarding—to have something I was better at than him. Then I notice his tongue poking out in concentration, and it reminds me of the other night in the tent when his focus was on getting me off.

Abort, abort, abort.

“You laid waste to that bank, Papi,” Dave says to me like a bruh. He’s broken away from his group of friends to join me where I stand, apart from the others.

“Don’t call me that.” Like a cloud passing in front of the sun, my mood instantly sours.

“Maybe you could tell me your name so I won’t have to.”

“You know my name.”

“I want you to tell me.”

“Theo Wooten.”

“Dave Ackerman.” He puts out his hand and instead of shaking it, I take a drink of my Gatorade. He gestures like he’s slicking back his hair to play off the rebuff.

“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he continues. “In my defense, I didn’t know she was your sister.”

“Is this going to be one of those things where you pick on me until I try to fight you?”

He backs away, but not very far. “I hope not. I don’t want to fight you. I know you and your friends call me Asshole Dave, but I’m really not trying to be an asshole.”

“You must be a natural at it, then.”

That shuts him up. I finish my drink, toss the bottle in a nearby trashcan, and drop my board on the pavement to deliver Chris his Mountain Dew while it’s still cold.

Dave grabs my arm. “We should hang out,” he says again.

I shrug him off me, kick up my board and look at him for the first time, thinking up a way to tell him off, but he’s not smirking anymore. His eyes search mine, and his expression looks almost… vulnerable. Why in the world would Asshole Dave want to hang out with me, other than to torment me?

“Why?” I ask.

He glances away like he’s nervous or maybe trying to make sure no one’s around, clears his throat, and says all secretively, “Because I think you’re hot?”

It takes me a few seconds to process, my disbelief registering a beat too late. “You are so full of shit.”

He grabs my arm again, then seems to realize his misstep and quickly lets go. “I swear I’m not. Pull out your phone. Enter in these seven numbers. They’re next week’s winning Lotto numbers.”

“There are only six Lotto numbers.”

“The seventh is for good luck.”

Now I’m confused. Asshole Dave is really trying to give me his number? He thinks I’m hot? Is he, like, gay or something? Bi? From all the trash he talks in the hallway, it seems like there’s a different honey on his jock every weekend.

“Are you hitting on me?” I’m more curious than angry.

He nods, his face somber as a funeral. “I’ve been hitting on you all week. I guess my Spanish isn’t as good as I thought.”

That’s a revelation. “I thought you were just being racist. Calling me Papi and shit.”

“I say stupid shit sometimes. A lot of the time. Anyway, I’m risking a beatdown right now from your boyfriend just to give you my number.”

I glance over at Chris, who’s taken a break from skating and is watching us with interest.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, trying to hide any feelings I might have about it.

“Does he know that?”

Because it’s none of Dave’s damn business and I want to quit this conversation before Chris sniffs us out, I pull out my phone, and Dave gives me his number. I don’t have to call him. I could just let his number sit in there, uncalled, forever. If he is interested in me, that’s one way to mess with him.

“I’ll be around all weekend,” Dave says. The smirk is back, and even though I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, Asshole Dave is kind of growing on me.

Or maybe I’m just that desperate.

 

 

“WHAT DID Asshole Dave want?” Chris asks. We’re stopped at a taco truck on our way back home from BOA. Chris is putting back five tacos to my two.

I’m not really sure what Asshole Dave wants, but I’m curious enough to find out. Whether it’s bogus or not, Chris doesn’t need to know about it.

“He has some decks he’s trying to sell,” I tell him. That’s two lies I’ve told Chris today, a new record.

“I didn’t know you were looking for a new deck.”

“You know how it is. I’m never not looking.”

“You should let me buy you one for your birthday.”

I smile at that and also feel a little bad for lying to him. He’s so damn thoughtful. “I’ll let you know if I see something I like.”

“You were really shredding it out there. You could probably go pro, you know?”

I shake my head. “I doubt it.”

“Seriously, Theo.”

Chris talks to me like a proud parent sometimes. Feels a little dangerous to believe him, like when your mom tells you you’re the most handsome boy ever.

“Might take all the fun out of it, if it were, like, a job,” I say.

Chris scowls at that. “Yeah, skateboarding for a living, what a drag. Mowing lawns is so much more fun.”

“Mowing lawns is just to get my foot in the door. Maybe I’ll take over Lawson’s Lawns one day.” He shakes his head, and I smile. It’s really not the worst job in the world. I like being outside, and there’s a lot of satisfaction in taking a rangy, overgrown lawn and making it look neat and tidy. I don’t even mind the chore of picking all the dead petals from the flowers for our more affluent clientele. I’m kind of a neat freak in that way.

“You’d better aim higher than that, Killer.” Chris reaches over and messes up my hair so that I have to finger comb it to get it out of my eyes. I pretend to be irritated even though I secretly love it.

We used to talk all the time about what we were going to do when we grow up. Chris wanted to swim with sharks on camera. Then, for a spell, he wanted to own a resort in Costa Rica that catered to surfers. I told him surfers are broke or else too cheap to pay for a room, and Chris argued that he’d go for the older crowd, surfers with families, and make it an all-inclusive destination vacation. I could never settle on something, so Chris decided I was going to be a pot farmer in California, because I’m the only one of our friends who can resist smoking the product. Chris said he’d run the store, appropriately named Potheads, and we’d recruit some of the other guys to help with harvesting and baked goods—value-added products. Chris practically had a business plan laid out for it.

But we haven’t talked about it lately, maybe because neither of us wants to grow up. The thought of being an adult is pretty terrifying. I’m still figuring out how to be a teenager.

“How about you?” I ask him. “You going to be a pro surfer, or is Potheads still the plan?”

He chuckles. “Maybe. But if Potheads doesn’t work out, I was thinking I’d go into finance like my dad.”

From what I understand, Chris’s dad shuffles rich people’s cash from one money-making venture to another and makes a killing doing it.

“Sounds boring.” And not very much in keeping with Chris’s larger-than-life personality.

“Good money, though. You know how I like nice things.” He smiles his thousand-watt smile, the one I cave to every time.

I try to imagine it. Corporate Chris in a business suit, closing the deal with his firm handshake. Weekender Chris with his classic good looks, wearing a polo shirt and loafers with no socks, golfing with his colleagues, a blonde wife waiting for him at home with a few towheaded shorties running around. Neckties and minivans and weekend barbecues. The American dream, man.

Kind of makes me sad as hell. I’m not sure there’s any way I fit in there.

“Just don’t start wearing Crocs,” I tell him.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

We finish eating and head back home. There’s this spot on the sidewalk between our driveways where we always say goodbye. I’m about to tell him I had a good time or something even stranger when his phone rings. Chris pulls it out of his pocket and glances at it. “Kelli,” he says simply.

Kelli Keyhoe, the blonde wife in Corporate Chris’s American dream.

“Go get her, tiger,” I tell Chris with a fist-bump, the bro-est form of affection I can muster, and one that I secretly hate.

“Yeah,” he says, distracted, and turns away to go answer it.

I watch Chris navigate the landscaped path up to his house. There is no hope for Chris and me. We’re friends and that’s all we’ll ever be. I’ve got to get that through my thick skull. I will beat the just friends drum until the feelings have been forced back into that deep, dark cave where they belong. A cave so deep and twisted, a spelunker would get lost and perish before ever discovering those forbidden thoughts.