“Hey, sweetie.” I wrapped my mom in a hug, but her whole body was like a polarized hull plate, rigid and brittle. After a moment she finally relaxed against me. But then the microwave beeped.
“You don’t need to do that for me.”
“I want to.”
“All right. How was your day?”
“It was okay,” I said. Mom didn’t seem like she was in the mood to hear about my testicular trauma.
I wasn’t in the mood to talk about it anyway.
“How was yours?”
“Long.”
I pulled down a plate for her and grabbed the rest of the taco fixings out of the fridge while she checked something on her phone. She looked up and frowned at me. “I can make my own dinner, you know.”
“I don’t mind. Want some tea?”
Mom sighed and sat down. “I better not. Thanks.”
I grabbed my cup—a second steeping of Ti Kwan Yin, which had more mellow floral notes than the first steeping—and sat next to her.
“How did your test go?”
“I got a C.”
“Do you need some help? We can go over your problems together.”
“It’s okay. I went to Chip’s after practice and we worked on it together.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” Mom took a bite of taco and studied me as she chewed. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.”
I don’t know why it felt like such an accusation when she said that.
I don’t know why I felt like I had to defend myself.
“He’s been really helpful,” I said. “Oh. I left my bike at his house. Think you can drop me off in the morning?”
Mom frowned. “I can’t tomorrow. Early meeting. Oma or Grandma will have to.”
“Oh.”
“I wish I could, though.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
I let Mom eat in silence after that.
There was something she wasn’t saying out loud, something I was supposed to know but didn’t.
When she finished, she wiped her hands and mouth, careful to avoid her lipstick.
“I better go put Laleh to bed.”
“Oma already did. She even got her to take a bath.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then.” Mom glanced toward the stairs.
I sipped my tea.
“Want to watch something? Star Trek?”
“Um.”
Mom had never asked me to watch Star Trek before.
That was always me and Dad’s thing.
I didn’t know what to say.
I was trying to figure out if we should continue where Dad and I left off, or start a different series, but then Mom said, “Never mind. Sorry.”
She got up before I could say anything.
Before I could tell her I wanted to watch Star Trek with her.
Mom ran her fingers through my hair and kissed my forehead. “I’m going to go to bed.”
BROKEN FURNITURE
In the morning, Oma dropped me off at Chip’s to grab my bike.
“Hey.” Chip answered the door in a pair of soft gray sweatpants that looked really nice on him.
Like, not-wearing-any-underwear nice.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt either, and like I said, Cyprian Cusumano had a very nice stomach and chest. The kind I wished I had.
The kind guys like me were supposed to have.
“Sorry, I know I’m late. Evie’s been a handful.”
My ears felt like twin plasma fires.
“I’ve just gotta throw some clothes on. You want anything?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.
How could Chip act so casual around me when he was half-naked like that?
And why couldn’t I look away?
I wondered what Landon looked like without his shirt on.
If he had hair on his chest, or if he was smooth.
I sucked on the tassels of my hoodie.
“Sorry,” Chip said when he ran down the stairs in black joggers and a white V-neck T-shirt that was just a bit too small for him.
It was only slightly less distracting.
He’d done his hair too, styling his fade into a soft brown quiff that was just a little messy.
Cyprian Cusumano really was a beautiful guy.
I hated myself for thinking so.
“Sorry. I’m ready.”
“It’s cool.”
* * *
Everyone at practice treated me like I was made of glass. Perhaps seeing me take a knee to the balls had brought the guys face-to-face with their own frail mortality.
That kind of thing could be deeply unsettling.
When Coach called a time-out, I grabbed my water bottle and wandered over to the bleachers to stretch my calves. Coach followed me.
“How’s it going, Darius?”
She was using my first name again, like I needed to be handled.
“Okay.”
“Will you be able to play this Friday?”
“Yeah. For sure.”
“Good.” She nodded at me and then wandered away, her clipboard tucked under her arm, to shout at Jaden and Gabe for horsing around.
I held on to the bleachers for a hammy stretch.
Even though I was kind of annoyed everyone was taking it easy on me, I really did love that Coach and the team cared about me like that.
It was pretty cool, having a team.
I’d never had something like that before.
After practice was over, Christian called all us together.
“Good work today, guys,” he said.
He had this warm, calming voice when he talked normally—like he was doing now—which was nothing like his Captain Voice.
Christian’s Captain Voice would not have been out of place on the bridge of a starship.
“Game against Meadowbrook this Friday. Let’s crush it!”
We all cheered.
“And party after. My place. I got the new FIFA.”
“Woo!” Jaden shouted, and high-fived Christian.
I looked at Chip, who shrugged and grinned.
I had never been to a party before.
Was it the kind of party people had on TV? With drugs and alcohol and sex and broken furniture?
“What if I suck at FIFA?” Chip whispered to me.
“I’ve never played.”
“Well, it can’t be worse than the wrestling parties.”
During the winter, Chip was on the Chapel Hill High School varsity wrestling team.
“Why?”
“Most of the guys didn’t shower after meets.”
“Gross.”
“Right?” Chip laughed and ran his hands through his sweaty hair. “Soccer guys are way cleaner.”
Chip squeezed my shoulder and grinned at me, then followed the rest of the guys toward the locker room.
I stayed where I was, shaking my head.
Sometimes I didn’t know what to make of Cyprian Cusumano.
* * *
Wednesday afternoon I had my first shift as a real employee at Rose City Teas. I worked the tea bar, chatting with customers and figuring out what kind of tea they wanted: black or green or oolong, flavored or unflavored, an old favorite or a new adventure.
While I worked the bar, Mr. Edwards was cupping a new batch of Phoenix Mountain, a Chinese oolong that was supposed to be fruity and delicious. Landon kept poking his head out of the tasting room, waving at me to join them, but every time I was about to, another customer showed up needing help, and Polli was too busy making lattes to cover for me.
Finally, Landon gave up and closed the door.
I don’t know why it made me so sad. It was just one tasting.
But I really did want to try the Phoenix Mountain Oolong.
Instead I prepared a gaiwan service for a man about Oma’s age, who peppered me with questions about oolong processing, and Chinese versus Taiwanese producers. I was trying to explain about Bai Hao and the little bugs that tried to eat the leaves when Polli cleared her throat and pointed out there was a line forming.
I excused myself and started taking more orders.
As I steeped a single-serve pot of Earl Grey and did a wake-up steep for another gaiwan service, Landon emerged from the tasting room, holding a white porcelain Rose City–branded teacup.
“Here,” he said. “This was the winner.”
“Thanks.”
Landon handled the gaiwan for me while I sipped with one hand and poured out the Earl Grey with the other. The tea was bursting with lychee flavor, which was kind of a surprise to me.
I’d never tasted lychee in a tea before.
I wondered what the other batches had tasted like.
I wondered what Landon got to learn about Phoenix Mountain tea and where it came from.
I wondered what I had missed.
* * *
Finally the line at the tea bar petered out, so Mr. Edwards sent me and Landon to do some inventory. As I counted tins of Genmaicha, Mr. Edwards poked his head in. “Can one of you grab some Dragonwell?”
“Sure, Dad.”
Landon went over to the shelves and reached for the top, where the boxes of Dragonwell sat. His shirt rode up, exposing a tiny patch of smooth skin on his back, and the metallic silver waistband of his underwear.
I thought about Chip’s gray sweatpants, and how he didn’t wear underwear with them.
And I thought about Chip, seeing me naked, when I’d never even taken my shirt off around Landon.
My ears burned.
“Darius?”
“Hm?”
“Can you . . . ?” he asked, turning toward me, showing a few inches of pale stomach.
He had this line of fine hair that disappeared behind his belt buckle.