Not In That Way

t h e n

9 years ago

I befriended a boy named Atlas who perpetually smelled like lavender ten years ago and aside from choosing dad over mom, it was one of my biggest mistakes.

I remember our first meeting clear as day. It was summer 2008 when I was trying to learn how to swim, determined for the sole purpose of one day, someday, I could save drowning people. In the very first day of swimming lessons, I, like always, embarrassed myself. I was the only one among 13 boys who wore speedos. They were laughing at me and I wanted to cry, because they were strangers and they were laughing at me already as if they knew me. One boy came to senses, and took off his shorts that immediately stopped me from crying. The laughter stopped dramatically. The boy with blonde hair walked towards me, then stood beside me. The wearing-shorts club looked at us long. And as if my sneeze was their queue, they laughed hysterically, pointing at us.

I did not cry again though, because I was facing embarrassment with someone.

I looked at the kid who saved me and found an expression of a face that represented large letters of the word regret.

     It was my first time to see such pretty eyes. And it was wrong because I was drawn already and they were from a boy. But that idea did not cross my mind. I must have looked like I drank a glass of pure lemon juice in one gulp, because I was trying to fight the tears that were about to fall and at the same time trying to smile. I was always a crybaby and everyone except mom and dad and Charlie and Tracy and uncle Bernard and aunt Sarah and James teased me for it. I let the few batch fell and wiped some off.

     Like any 8-year old boys rational thing would do; we flashed our tongues to them in an irritating way-- rephrase that, in what me and the blue-eyed boy thought was an irritating way. It was funny because our tongues came out in sync. 

     After that, we became somewhat fwends. Yep, he had a problem in uttering 'r'. So Summer to him was Summew.

     "What's your name?" I had asked two days after the speedo fiasco.

     "My name is Atlas" he replied without looking at me. Throwing a beach ball up and down. My eyes followed the motion of the ball.

     He continued to do just that. I stayed by the poolside and looked at the him and the other kids playing in the water.

     I admit, I was good at making friends, but they did not last long. And I wanted to be friend with Atlas for a long time because he was cool and kind and had nice eyes. So, I swam towards him and I caught the ball and threw it at him. He caught it, hesitated to throwing it back to me but he did, it landed on my forehead instead and he laughed and I laughed and that's how became partners in crime.

     He was the new boy in town. His family transferred 200 miles away from 'trouble', as to what Mr. John, his father, described their old neighborhood.

     Atlas' house was 7 houses away from mine, so it was not impossible for us to be the best of friends.

    We would have a sleepover at my house or at his, but I always preferred sleepovers at his because his room was bigger and smelled of lavender and he had a mini refrigerator that never ran out of chocolates and his mom was a good mom, who cooked delicious food my mom could not.

     I developed an adoration for Mrs. Alicia Samuels. She was really good at singing, and she always sang Atlas and I to sleep. "Black bird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and fly, all your life..." All thoughts of monsters lurking under the bed, or injections, or cockroaches entering my ears disappear into thin air whenever she sang us. Her voice was like morphine that sedated us through singing. Our eyes would close, our muscles unclench, and sleep would engulf us almost instantly.

     She was good at cooking food that were alien in my ears and unpronounceable for my mouth. And I knew, Atlas too, was struggling  more than I do.

     She was a mom to me more than my mom, but never  had I ever call her that. Because she is Atlas' mom, and I had a mom, and if I call her mom, then I would have two moms, and that would not make sense to me before. So I sticked to calling her Mrs. Alicia, even though 'mom' was on the tip of my tongue.

     Atlas' was lucky to have such nice parents who molded him very well into a person.

     Atlas was a 'cool' kid. That was the word I had used to describe him and that was also the word the kids at school used to describe him. COOL. No, he was not moderately cold: lacking in warmth. He was the connotation of cool. He was very good at anything(Except for pronouncing words with 'Rs' of course). He was excellent. He was the king of football, video games, chess, math, puzzles, you name it.

     His excellence made me envious at times actually. So I told him one night while we were looking at his favorite superheroes in the form of life-sized stickers that were attached to the ceiling of his room.

     "Don't be. You awe as good as me." Atlas had said. And he knew that I knew that he had to lie to make me feel better.

     "You always beat me." I replied.

     "You beat me too, always, Summew." And even if I wanted to stay sad, I could not.

     After that conversation, I tried to get out of Atlas' shadow. I wanted to be as excellent as him. I wanted to be good at anything. I wanted to be a king, but there are things that aren't meant for us.

     I never wanted to play football. The game was awful for me. I never wanted to dive just to get a ball, or slip, or kick. I never wanted  to be sweaty. I never liked being naked with boys. So I told mom and dad that I did not like playing football and that I should stop. And that made dad sad, because he once played football. He was even the captain of his high school's and also college's football team.

     "Why would you not like playing football?" dad had asked me.

     "Because the ball hurts my toes, and the boys are smelly and I hate Coach Peters because he's always angry." I said.

     Dad let it go. He was probably thinking that me, not liking football was just a phase. So one day when he invited me to play football, I turned him down and went Atlas' house, because that's what 8-year old boys do; go to places they will not likely be bored.

     My house was boring. But Atlas' was not. His house had large things; like television, refrigerator, bedrooms. His house was not boring.

     When I went back home with Atlas, because he wanted to sleepover at my boring house, mom was shouting. She was using the 'f' word. And when she does, she's mad. Not the usual mom-mad. The heavy-duty mad. They seemed to know it whenever I arrived because the shouting would stop and they're back to smiling and all.

     Kids don't overthink. So I was smiling and laughing that very night with Atlas, not knowing what would happen 4 years later.