The Music of What Happens

by Bill Konigsberg

The fist glances off his chin. The bone-on-bone crack is gratifying, but also surprising. Because it isn’t my fist colliding with Kevin’s jaw that creates that sound. “Ow,” Kevin says, shocked. I look to my left and there is Jordan, staring at the back of his hand like it’s operated without his consent.

With my white friends, I’m always half-Mexican. They never say I’m half-Irish. Never say I’m half white. Like I’m tainted halfway away from standard. It’s like when I was a kid and I thought vanilla ice cream meant no flavor, like it was the base of all the flavors. But vanilla is a bean. Like chocolate is a bean. Like cinnamon is a root. All roots and beans. All flavors. There is no base. No ice cream without a flavor.

“So how does this work?” I ask, hoping the answer is, We throw the ball once and then go home.

And by the way? Not everyone who grew up doing this wanted to punch you.” He kisses me on the lips. I kiss him back, and we walk, hand in hand, back to his truck.

“Oh my God,” he says. “This is seriously — I don’t know, dude. I kinda love it.” “Do you?” “I love it because it’s you. Would I love it for me? Hell no.

Beauty and the Beat by the Go-Go’s, take out the album, and put it on side one. As “Our Lips Are Sealed” starts up, I hand him the jacket.

That feels like a profound thought. Cheesy as shit, but also simple and true.

“Would you shut up?” “What kind of way is that to talk to your model?”

But I can tell him something. So I put the drawing facedown on the desk and go over to him and put my hands on his face. “You are so freakin’ beautiful,” I say. It’s something I never, ever would have said a few months back. No chance. But now I can.

Man, I could get used to this thing where I don’t think I’m a total piece of shit all the time.