Here the Whole Time

by Vitor Martins

‘You didn’t tell me! I can’t have a houseguest right now, not during winter break – and for fifteen days! I have plans!’ ‘Internet and bingeing Netflix?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Really big plans you have, Felipe.’ She knows me well.

If you’re a fat eight-year-old boy, no one calls you Butterball. Everyone thinks you’re cute, pinches your cheeks, and always makes it very clear how much they want to eat you up. In a sweet way. Weird, but still sweet.

None of the other kids in the building knew that I loved to play mermaids. It was something I did just for me. I was afraid of what the other boys might think of me if they found out that when I went underwater, in my head I was Ariel. And that deep at the bottom of the pool, I kept my imaginary collection of forks, mirrors, and thingamabobs. Caio just smiled, crossed his legs to form a tail, and dove underwater. He didn’t care to know how to play. He didn’t say he’d play only if he could be a merman. He merely went along with my silly fantasy and we swam like mermaids until dusk. It was the best day ever.

As I grew up, the shame of wearing a Speedo in front of Caio grew with me. I didn’t quite understand what I felt, exactly, but I know that when I was twelve, I started wearing a shirt whenever I went to the pool. And after I turned thirteen, I never set foot in the pool again. At thirteen my body began to change, hair started growing everywhere, and I had this urge to kiss someone on the lips. And I wanted that first person to be Caio.

It’s a little surreal to see him sitting on our old, floral-patterned couch, surrounded by all my mom’s unfinished paintings and a framed photo of a ten-year-old me wearing an indigenous outfit for a school play – which, besides being super embarrassing, is also pretty offensive.

You know when you sleep outside your regular hours and wake up totally lost, not knowing what time it is, where you are, or what happened in the world in the meantime? Yeah, that.

‘Moms,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Aye, aye,’ I say, because I have no idea how else to continue this conversation. And then we lie there in silence, doing stuff on our phones, and I wonder how people used to avoid awkward silence before smartphones where invented.

Therapy isn’t like cold medicine, where you take one pill and then feel better the next day. I remember the first time I met Olivia, thinking she was going to give me all the secrets to a happy life and I’d walk out of our session magically thin and hot. That’s not how it works; it’s a long journey. But trust me, this story would be twice as dramatic and three times more self-deprecating if it weren’t for my therapist.

grab the book I bought yesterday after therapy and pick up reading where I left off. It’s a fantasy novel about a girl who was raised like any other person until, on her seventeenth birthday, she discovers she has special powers and a mysterious past. Now shit’s hitting the fan all throughout the kingdom, and everyone’s future lies in the hands of this girl who doesn’t know how to control her powers and doesn’t even try to learn how to. Have you ever read a book like this? Because I’ve read about fifteen.

And so, to break the silence, I tell the truth. Because those who tell the truth open the path for good things to happen. I think my mom said that once. Or maybe it was Dumbledore.

‘I have an idea!’ He starts texting someone on his phone. ‘I’m talking to Becky, and she wants to meet you! Do you want to go out today?’ ‘Hmm, I don’t know,’ I say, because I really don’t. And also because I don’t really know how to process the information that Becky wants to meet me. Nobody has ever wanted to meet me of their own free will. I’m usually just a consequence in people’s lives. Never a choice.

Being thin is not a prize you win in the lottery of life that guarantees eternal happiness.

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.’

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.

‘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.’

And we change subjects like that, from thongs to surgery, from cake recipes to internet memes, from politics to TV series. I contribute when I think I should, laugh more than I’m used to, and after the third (or fifth) beer, I can’t even remember the name of the boy who kissed and/or chewed on Caio’s mouth. (That’s a lie, I do remember. His name was Denis.)

‘No one can protect us but ourselves,’ she says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘But, look, Felipe, I swear to you that one day things will get better. One day you’ll learn to like who you are a little better, and that’ll be reflected in what other people see when they look at you. There will always be assholes, but we learn to fight back. That’s the most important thing – to not put your head down, to fight for the right to marry who you love, for the right to have your body respected regardless of what it looks like or what you’re wearing. To fight for the right to walk down the street without being attacked for the color of your skin.’

‘I’m sorry to wake you up like this.’ ‘It’s all right,’ I lie, because I can’t get mad at him. ‘I just had to talk to someone about it, and that someone had to be you, of course. I’m too excited! There was no way I could wait until tomorrow.’ ‘What?’ I ask, feeling a streak of drool running down the corner of my mouth. I try to casually wipe it off on my collar. ‘He’s back!’ Your desire to snuggle with me all night? I think. ‘Gandalf!’ Caio explains. ‘He’s back! I knew he was too important to die in the first book. But, you know, I was over it. And then he suddenly appears, back from the dead!’ That’s when I start laughing. Because it’s so funny to see Caio genuinely excited about information that has been publicly available since 1954.

It scares me, because this whole time I’ve had a crush on Caio the way one has a crush on a Hollywood celebrity. But now I can see him up close. I’ve heard him cry. Heard him laugh. We drank together. We slept in the same bed together. And I’ve never done that with any celebrities. Caio is real. And maybe I’m, I don’t know, in love? I mean, really in love. Like ‘I want to kiss you right now but also every day’ in love. How can people be sure that they’re in love, though? Is there a test?

‘I’m so proud of who you are. Of the decisions you make, of how you face your challenges, of how you make me laugh even when my day sucks. You are my companion, son. And anyone who can enjoy your company is lucky. And I’m very happy that you trust me enough to tell me about your feelings,’ she says, wiping my tear with the tip of her finger. ‘Thanks, Mom. But I only came to you because I have no other friends,’ I tease. ‘Unbelievable! Get out of here.’ She laughs and pushes me away. Then we’re laughing and pushing each other, and it feels so good. I wish I knew how old is too old to lie down in your mom’s bed and talk. I hope there’s no such thing, because I want to be able to do this always.

So we walk home. It’s already dark by the time we leave the mall, and the sky is full of stars. I look up and thank Becky for the push, Olivia for the advice, L. Frank Baum for writing The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, my grandma for having existed, and the people who invented scenes after movie credits and armrest supports that can be moved. Without all of you, none of this would have been possible.

‘Counting you, I’ve kissed two mouths in my life,’ Caio informs me. ‘So far, you’re way ahead. The other one was the biter.’ ‘Denis.’ I nearly whisper the name of the first guy Caio kissed. Which, if you stop to think about it, is a pretty creepy thing to do this late at night.

I feel comfortable here, and that’s when I decide to enjoy his body, too. My hands, paralyzed on his shoulders up until now, slide down his arms. I caress his hips and start to discover every detail of his body, little by little. He notices how curious I am and lies still for a time, granting me permission to explore. Caio’s skin is hot, and I feel his heavy breathing when I run my hand over his chest. ‘You are beautiful, too,’ I say in a whisper. And when he runs his hand along my face to give me another kiss, it occurs to me that if the word beautiful had a million different meanings … Caio would be all of them.

I stare at the phone screen like a goof, not knowing what to say. Which is nothing new. I’m afraid I’ll seem too needy, or too clingy, or too dramatic. Just to be sure, I send a reply that makes me sound like all three:

I guess I’ve always been so busy trying to avoid being unhappy that I never found a way to be happy.

I like the pool. For a long time, I pretended I didn’t, because I was ashamed of my body. But tonight, floating next to Caio and looking up at the moon above us, I understand what makes me happy when I’m in the water. When I’m here, I feel weightless.

4) The book I’ve read the most times … I am not much of a re-reader, but I’ve read Carry On by Rainbow Rowell at least three times in the past few years.