Whatever, Nevermind. - two.

BY THE TIME SPRING CAME ALONG that year, Jaime and I were almost inseparable. I mean, I get why it would seem like an exaggeration to you. After all, we were just a couple of kids in second grade who nobody really talked to, or wanted to talk to. But what Jaime and I started felt like something far more than those feeble friendships kids our age usually sparked up. I didn’t understand it back then, but now I do. Hell, now I do.

The only times I ever saw him back then was at school. We sat by each other in class, hung out at the playground, and even parted ways at a particular spot when walking home. My week started and ended with him, and I didn’t mind it at all, really. Mother didn’t know about him, which meant everything was still okay.

But once Jaime’s birthday rolled around mid-May, he invited me over to his house. “My mom wants to do something special,” he said, “and you’re the only one I talk to, so I want you to come over.”

I was overjoyed at first. Ecstatic, even. I told him, “Of course I’ll come over,” before I even thought of the fact that Mother didn’t know him yet. But I couldn’t tell Jaime that, so I let him write his address and phone number down at the corner of those gigantic agendas they used to give out, and parted ways with him at the end of the day like we always had.

Most kids never have to worry about that stuff like I did. I mean, parents usually strive for their kids to get invited to shit like that as if it’s some sort of rite of passage. But my parents weren’t like most parents.

I mean, my dad was pretty chill. He was one of those dads who didn’t really know what to do with their kid, so they just let them do anything. Everything I asked for he would say yes to without even thinking about it first, and if I ever did anything wrong he would joke about it rather than scold me. He was a quiet man though, reserved. If he didn’t have to go out, he’d be content spending days lounging on the couch, watching movies and television shows and the news. Hell, now that I think about it, he was a lot like me.

Mother, on the other hand, was the problem. It’s not like she didn’t love me, I don’t think, but I often assumed that she just loved me too much. She’d been planning my life from the moment I popped out of her, and if I didn’t live up to her expectations, she’d regress into herself for days and leave me hellishly guilty. Dad never said anything against the soccer practices, piano lessons, tutors, or the fact that I didn’t have any friends as a regular seven-year-old should. Anytime I would ever look like I wanted to complain, Mother would always say it’s for your best and I’d have to shut up then.

That was that.

So I bet you can imagine how nervous I was to tell her about Jaime. Maybe a professional like you would understand it, but I didn’t back then. I mean, all kids should feel excited about stuff like that, but I couldn’t.

When I got home that day, Dad was at his usual spot by the TV and Mother was in the kitchen making a snack (which was always an equal serving of fruits and vegetables since she didn’t believe in junk food). My mind was racing with how to break the news to her. Should I dance around the subject? Maybe bring it on all at once?

I greeted Dad first just to save time, smiling at the way he ran his fingers through my hair the way he always did every single day without fail. And then I faced her.

She never smiled at me, not because she hated me or anything, but because she thought she looked ugly when she smiled (which was a load of bullshit, really). So instead she said, “Hey, sport,” then put a plate full of carrots and apples at the dinner table. “Come eat.”

I sat in front of the plate like I was supposed to, and Mother sat right next to me like she always did just to make sure I ate everything. I never knew how to tell her that I didn’t like food much, and I knew it would just piss her off if I did, so I never mentioned it. I just ate and held back tears.

“How was school?”

“Fine.”

“Did your teacher check your homework?”

“Yeah.”

“And everything was okay?”

“Yup.”

She nodded for a moment, absently staring down at my plate before picking my bag off the floor. I had forgotten that she usually checks my agenda to see what I had to do, and once I saw her hand reaching for the spiral book I was sure I’d throw up everything I ate since birth.

I watched her, mouth agape, as she flipped through the pages and stopped at the right date. She stared at the page for a moment, eyes scanning over every aspect of it before she put the book down.

“What’s this?” she asked, pointing at Jaime’s address.

“I, um, made a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah, in my class. His name is Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she echoed, and touched her lip the way she always did when she was thinking. “And this is his address? And number?”

“His, um, his—you know—birthday. It’s coming this weekend, and he thought I could, um, he thought—you know—”

“A friend invited you over?” Dad’s voice travelled into the kitchen from the doorway. We both turned to him, watching the goofy smile on his face. “That sounds wonderful, bud. Isn’t that great, Diane?”

He gave her that look, the one he always gave when they started speaking with their eyes. It baffled me how they’d be able to do such a thing; stare so intently at each other like they could practically hear what the other was thinking. After a while of tight silence, Mother sighed and stood from her seat, heading to the phone sitting patiently on the socket.

“That does sound great. Let me just give his mother a call and we’ll talk about it, okay?”

Damn, Dad never did much for me when it came to Mother, but I sure as hell appreciated that. Even now, I’m not so sure what gave him the courage to speak up, but he did. That’s all that matters. He did. And I’ve never forgotten it since.

***

Jaime didn’t actually live in a house, but an apartment a few ways away from me. It looked a little old (Mother said it’d been there since the sixties), and trash littered the sides of the building, making it looked like it existed in another dimension rather than a suburbia. Mother was hellishly sketchy once we rolled up, and the questions started pouring in about Jaime and his family.

What did you say his name was again? What do his parents do for a living? Are other kids coming here? Why didn’t you tell me other kids weren’t coming? Jesus, I can’t believe you would even do such a thing.

By the time we got up to his floor, Mother was red to the face with anger. I was terrified that she’d change her mind and drag me out of there, but she didn’t. It could’ve been the silent messages Dad sent, or it could’ve been the fact that we already made a commitment, but I was grateful for it anyway, whatever it was.

It was Jaime’s mom who answered the door when we knocked, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t blown away by her. She was a beautiful woman to say the least. I could tell Mother thought the same by the way her expression quickly changed.

Jaime’s mom was a bit short, but had a really slender figure that made her look taller than she actually was. Her hair was long, thick, and black, all bunched up in a bun that stood neatly on top of her head. But the one thing I noticed about her was her eyes. There wasn’t anything special about their colour (they were just dark brown, like mine), but there was something in them that I can’t quite describe. She looked at me the same way most moms look at their newborns in movies, a look Mother hadn’t given for years. And in that moment, I could finally understand why Jaime was the way he was.

He was lucky.

Jaime’s mom and Mother exchanged a few words before she let me go, words I can’t really remember since I was still staring like a damn idiot. I only snapped out of it once Jaime’s mom locked the door shut, putting a warm hand at my back to guide me into the apartment. It was really warm in there, and it smelled like thousands of homemade dishes were clinging onto each piece of furniture, lingering like guests.

“Jaime’s waiting for you in his room. It’s just down that hallway. The very last door,” she told me, smiling and pointing.

I blinked. “Right. Thank you, Mrs. Cortez.”

“Just call me Ines.”

Now that really knocked me out.

By the time I reached Jaime’s room, I noticed it was about three times smaller than my own. In fact, his entire apartment was about the size of my living room and kitchen combined, and I wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that, really.

He didn’t have much from what I could see. Nothing hung on his walls, he only had a blanket and a single sheet on his bed, and only a handful books and toys littered the floor here and there. Jaime sat in the midst of it all, a great big smile slapped on his face like his living conditions were far greater than anyone else in the city.

“Did you get here okay?” he asked.

“Alright.” I sat on the floor next to him. He was scribbling in a colouring book, and handed me my own with a handful of broken crayons.

“I saw your mom. She’s pretty.”

“Not as pretty as yours.”

“I know.” He grinned. “She’s baking a cake right now, you know. She said we can help her out.”

“Your mom bakes?”

He looked at me weird. “Your mom doesn’t?”

I didn’t want to admit it, so I coloured the picture of a lake for a little while before I said, “Where’s your dad?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I never saw my dad before. I don’t know who he is. But my mom always told me that it’s okay because a lot of kids don’t have dads. It’s okay if I don’t have mine.”

I remember that made me feel guilty as hell even though I wasn’t sure why. Was it because I lived in a big house? Or that I had my own parents? Or that my room was filled with such useless shit while Jaime had nothing? I wasn’t sure, and it made me uncomfortable, so I got up and said, “Can I have a glass of water?”

“Sure.”

He never seemed as bothered by it as I was. Hell, he didn’t seem bothered at all. If anyone were to ask me what I admired about Jaime Cortez, it would be that.

As we walked towards the kitchen, I told him, “Maybe your dad’s at work or something. Just for like, you know, eight years.”

He laughed. “Yeah, maybe.”

After that, we sort of forgot about the whole thing. Not that we wanted to forget it, of course, but it seemed to disappear as the day filled with baking, watching movies, gardening, and playing in the yard at the back of his building. And that day, I finally realised how damn lucky Jaime was, and I couldn’t help feeling awfully jealous about it. But it was the truth.

Jaime Cortez was one lucky bastard, and I was jealous of him.