Finally, the secret is out of my body.
I hold his note close to me that night, reading and rereading his words until I fall asleep.
He is sorry.
And he prefers my kiss than my withdrawal.
I smile.
That means he is not going to hate me.
I sigh. It is a huge relief that I don’t have to hide myself anymore.
Now that I have gone past the fear, the embarrassment is quickly catching up. While I should be grateful that he doesn’t hate me, I dread all the jokes he might crack at my expense.
I bury my face into the pillow at the thought of his teasing grin. I don’t need a mirror to know that my face is full scarlet right now. How am I going to face him tomorrow?
My dignity was thrown right at his feet. One look or a grin would kill me. Maybe I should stay in my room the whole day.
The next morning, I am careful not to wake him up when I go for my morning jog. From the slit underneath the door, I can see that the bathroom lights are off.
I open the door. There is no one inside.
The coast is clear.
I tiptoe in without switching on the bathroom light, relying on the dim glow from the lava lamps from my room to find my toothbrush. It is an electric tooth brush, but I brush with it manually, trying to keep myself as silent as possible. The moment I turn on the tap to rinse, his voice beckons from behind the closed door.
Babe?
My body freezes for a split second before panic kicks in, and I skitter out of the house like a mouse. Luckily, I am already in my running shorts and shoes. I’m not planning to avoid him the whole summer, just to buy enough time to deal with the embarrassment. Mentally, I rehearse how I will respond if he approaches me. In particular, I think about where to hide if he starts to tease me.
He is already awake by the time I return close to nine. The door is ajar, and I can see his legs crossed on the bed. I halt on the steps immediately. Slowly, I move back up the steps quietly towards the living room. Then I go out and around the house to enter my room from our joint balcony. Normally, he would draw the curtains in front. Even if he doesn’t, the stairs from the sundeck are on my side of our floor, so he won’t see me sneaking up from behind.
Normally, I would shower after my jog; instead, I quietly put on my swimming trunks and head out to the pool for my daily swim.
By the twentieth lap, I see him sitting on the sundeck chair, a few yards away from the pool’s edge. He is looking straight at me with a smile. Then his head slightly cocks, and he waves. I pause for a moment before I wave back, my head half submerged under water. With my googles on, I can’t tell if it is a smile-smile or a teasing-smile. Better to be on the safe side. I kick against the wall and swim to the other end.
I keep on swimming, longer than my usual time, getting up from the pool only when he is gone. A slight pang of guilt hits me when I think about how he’d feel. Maybe he’s not out to make fun of me. But then again, this is Samuel. While he is bossy but nice most of the time, he can be mean when he makes fun of me.
There’s no point in avoiding him since he already knows I’m home. I head towards the shower and find the bathroom door open on his side. He looks at me briefly before I shut it; his eyes seem steely. I shudder, wondering if I had pissed him off this time. My mind is preoccupied when I take off my clothes. The shower running on my face is spilling on to the floor. I forgot to close the shower curtain. I pull on it.
WHAM!
I jump at the sound.
Babe! What’s going on?
Loud knocks on the door.
It takes a moment for me to orient myself and see the damage I’ve done.
Loud bangs turn into thuds.
One side of the curtain rod had fallen off and knocked a vase off the top of the cabinet.
The bathroom door is kicked open.
Shards are all over the floor, and the water is still running.
“You’re not supposed to lock the door.” Samuel barges in and stops right before he steps on the broken glass. He surveys the mess I made before glaring at me and shaking his head.
“I’m showering, and I’m seventeen.”
It’s not fair that everyone else gets to lock the door for a shower except for me. Mom and Dad have forbidden it because I might get hurt inside doing weird things, like pressing my face against the mirror. It was only that one time. Although I cracked the bathroom mirror and cut my neck, I did barely miss the jugular.
He glares and orders me not to step out of the tub. I cover myself with what remains of the shower curtain. I watch him as he picks up the glass shards piece by piece.
“I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. The vase dropped when I pulled on the curtain.”
I don’t want him to think I am still hung up over what happened at the pool.
He sweeps up the last pieces of glass carefully into a dust pan and stands up, glaring at me once more and twirling his fingers like a tornado. I am embarrassed.
Dad called me the ‘Tornado’ for the extent of wreckage I caused when Samuel left two years ago. I threw a tantrum so huge that I regretted it when I realized how much it hurt the people I love. I was childish; that’s what I thought when I saw Mom getting cut by the glass shards while she was cleaning up my mess at 2 a.m. in the morning. I helped her clean up and apologized to my brother.
And he said to me, We’ll stay tight, I promise. Skype, Facebook, whatever it takes.
“I’m sorry.” I apologize for the trouble I’m causing him now.
“You’d better bribe me not to tell Mom about this.”
“She’ll find out.”
“Not if I get a new vase and the curtain rod fixed before she comes home.”
“Where did Mom go?”
Samuel doesn’t answer me. His face is a blank, and he frowns for a brief moment.
“Are you coming out?” He dumps the pieces in the waste basket, folds his arms and asks: “Or are you planning to parade your ass while I fix the curtain rod?”
I knew it!
He grins the moment my face turns red.
We hover between talking and not talking over the next few days, saying lots of things to each other, except for the one thing that really matters.
What happens next?
No reprimands, no speeches and no reassurances. Lots of taunts and jokes at my expense, though. He is in a mean mode right now.
Maybe he is just as confused as I am, and all these jokes and teasing are his way to lighten up the awkwardness between us. I wonder if he feels uncomfortable about me looking at him that way. Or did he know it way before I even became aware of it myself? Either way, he’s not saying a word about it.
I’d rather he not say anything about it; doing so will only confuse me further. Literal meanings, subtle meanings, innuendoes, sarcasm, puns, metaphors – every sentence feels like a code that needs to be cracked before I can even graze the depth of the intent.
You mean the world to me.
Dad said that once when I was found in the woods after freaking out and disappearing for the whole night. And my mind calculates the worth of the world to understand how much I mean to my father.
You’ll be the death of me.
Mom said that when I smashed her vase, refusing to go back to school after being bullied during the first week. I thought the vase had cut her fatally or something.
Right now, I need to know how he really feels. Are things going to be awkward from now on? Will we ever be as comfortable with each other as before?
It is late at night, and I’m officially tired of this on-and-off iciness between us. I want him to be sweet and kind to me again. I stand outside his balcony door, watching him read his email, him on the bed with his iPad. He looks up at me and smiles briefly, and then he continues doing his things. A few minutes later, he gets up, puts his iPad on the nightstand, and goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth. When he gets back into bed, he casts another glance at me before switching off the lights, taking a longer look this time. He realizes that I didn’t come here to observe him.
“You okay, Babe?”
The only way to find out if things will ever be the same as before is to ask him with my body. He watches me enter his room, making tentative steps, anticipating a rejection or rebuttal any moment.
But he doesn’t say a word.
I crawl under his duvet and inch towards him, waiting for any signs of revulsion, uneasiness or disgust. He doesn’t lean close, and neither does he move away from me. He is simply getting ready for bed as if I’m not there.
But when I get really close, almost touching him, he watches me curiously. My body is close enough to touch him. At first his muscles are tense, but then after a while he relaxes when I do nothing but lie beside him. Our bodies are in soft contact with each other; my chin lodges itself onto his shoulder.
Slowly, I inch even closer, resting my cheek on his chest, snuggling close, an arm and leg over him. Then I start sobbing quietly.
Will we ever be close again?
That’s what my body is asking.
I feel his lips on my forehead. Quietly, he rests his hand at the back of my head, gently stroking my hair.
“Silly boy.” He utters a whisper that is almost inaudible.
And that is the answer I needed to feel from him.
Things more or less return to normal, except that now he knows, and we’re in a don’t-ask-don’t-tell situation. I gather this from the only time which he made reference to that pool incident. The next morning, we are jogging along the silent roads down the hill towards the woods that lead to the park. It is dawn, but it is still dark, and this is my usual route. The world is still dreaming. There is no one but us.
And all of a sudden, when our footsteps are perfectly in sync, our breaths are one, he speaks, “Don’t ever tell Mom and Dad.”
He doesn’t provide any context. I don’t get to see his face. But I know exactly what he’s asking from me.
Please don’t create trouble. Let things remain as they are.
I don’t answer him or turn to face him. Dad will ask me about the pool one of these days. Of course, I wouldn’t tell him, but I wonder how much he can gather from my face. As if sensing my thoughts and in between breaths, Samuel adds, “I’m serious. They will disown me.”
Why would Mom and Dad do that? I’m the aberration.
All I do is brush my shoulders against his arms as I run next to him. No words are spoken. But he knows I’ve heard and understood what he said.
I am grateful to be let off so lightly.
If anything did change, it somehow brings us closer. My chest doesn’t feel tight and heavy anymore. It feels good to be honest. He seems more affectionate these days as well. I guess there is no point for him to be shy. I’m already in love with him, and there is nothing more embarrassing than that.
In fact, he is his usual chill self. My brother never ceases to amaze me; nothing ever seems to faze him at all. I would’ve expected a bigger reaction out of him. He acts like it is no big deal compared to the grand scheme of ‘crazy things’ that I do - staring at the stars for hours, following people and observing them, shutting myself in just as quickly, stealing my parents’ clothes to scan, rubbing myself against the pillar. Having a crush on my own brother seems to fit right in.
“You’re not scared of me?” I ask him one day when we are heading back to our rooms after dinner. He seems surprised by my question.
“Why should I be? You bite?”
I nod. We do bite each other sometimes when we play. We watch a lot of zombie and alien movies together, and they always bite people. Those movies are easy to understand since there is little dialogue, and you don’t need to follow their faces.
“Oh, wait, that’s right, you do bite.” He smiles and rubs his chin. I stare at him looking confused, and then he starts to laugh.
“So are you scared or not?” I ask again, this time my tone is impatient. I think he is making fun of me.
“Of you?” He laughs, “Yeah, I’m so scared that I’m shitting my pants right now.”
I shake and groan and then stomp off to my room. He is definitely making fun of me. He is still laughing when I shut the door. I don’t talk to him for the rest of the evening.
The next morning after my swim, he knocks on my door with a grin on his face. He says in a sing-song voice, “I’m sorreeee… You’re not going to ignore me the whole summer, are you?”
He apologized, but normally people don’t smile when they apologize. It means they are happy instead of feeling sorry.
“Come on. You’re too fun not to tease,” he shrugs with a wry grin and then says, “It’s nothing personal.”
I throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily.
“All right, all right, I’m sorry.”
He hides half his face behind the pillow and looks at me with wide eyes and pouty lips. He blinks a few times. Now he looks sorry.
He comes inside and sits on my bed.
“If I was scared of you, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
He speaks as if the fact is obvious. How am I supposed to know that? I’m scared of him but I want to be close to him at the same time.
“Does that answer your question?”
Yes, but I’m confused. He is supposed to be scared.
During our last days in our small Portland apartment, we still shared a room, and his bed was just next to mine. We spent the night packing, getting ready to move to Wyoming. When I woke up, I noticed his boner peeking out of his shorts, legs sprawled wide open in his sleep. I was curious why he wasn’t showing his horny face; he told me those two were supposed to come together. Rule 645:1:2:1:4 states that I am not supposed to touch my family’s private parts when I hug. But I wasn’t hugging Samuel at that time, so I stroked it, like a dog. He stirred in his sleep and smiled, but when he opened his eyes, he jolted up and shrank back.
Hey! Hands off!
That was the second time he raised his voice at me.
After we moved to Wyoming, we were no longer allowed to share a room. I was disappointed, but I didn’t understand why. At the back of my head, I thought that I must have done something wrong. His reaction had been strong, but I didn’t know why. I was determined never to cross him the same way again.
Rule 645:21:3 was created and branded into my skull. That’s why I couldn’t fathom why he doesn’t react as strongly as before.
“You’re… okay with me liking you?”
“It’s weird.” He shrugs. Then he looks at me and breaks into a grin, “But I’m used to weird. I grew up with you, remember?”
I nod and smile.
“But if you start groping me, I’m going to kick your ass.” He smacks the side of my head lightly.
I know the consequences perfectly well. It is the only condition to his unconditional love. It is that rule which keeps me from climbing into his bed, pulling down his shorts and starting to stroke him.
Thou shalt not fondle thy brother’s, mother’s or father’s privates.
He knows that I know what’s at stake. Nothing frightens me more than losing his love.
As if seeing the fear in my eyes, he pulls me in for a hug and says, “Don’t let silly things come between us, okay? If something bothers you, just say it.”
He is warm and kind again, but it will take time for us to be comfortable with each other the way we are used to.
This is just like potty training, I think. I just need to control my body when I’m around him. But I’ll eventually get a grip on myself if he is patient enough.
Most of the time I can catch myself in time; I won’t go beyond a lingering glance at his shoulders. The prospect of giving him a chance to make fun of me is enough to snap me out of my stupor. But some days are simply harder.
Knock. Knock. Knock. On my balcony door.
There he stands in his red speedos that hang a bit too low to be decent; almost naked, arms on the wall, craned neck, tilted head and that cocky smile.
I try not to let my breathing go wild, so I avoid staring at his crotch when he speaks. I don’t manage to catch a word of what he says. The more I avoid looking, the harder those brief glimpses burn into my head; the way his bulge bounces with the slightest movements, the tuft of public hair peeking out above, the crack of his ass showing when he turns around.
Don’t look!
He tries to follow my darting eyes, his face confused. Looking down, looking sideways, looking behind, wondering what’s wrong with his body. Then it dawns on him when he sees me stand in my room wearing my board shorts, my body bent over and both hands pressing down on my crotch.
I am caught red handed checking him out.
It isn’t the first time I’ve seen him in trunks. It’s not as if I haven’t seen him naked. The fact that I’m not allowed to look simply sends my hormones into overdrive. He says the best way to make anything desirable is to make it forbidden. He said that once about his teammate’s hot girlfriend, but I think it applies in my case as well.
At first, he sniggers, and then he bites his lower lip to stop himself. Shoulders still heaving, he shakes his head and says,
“I’ll give you ten minutes. Get it off, and get your ass to the pool.”
I pull the curtain so hard and fast that it feels almost like I’m slamming the door on him. My shorts drop to the ground, and I jerk off in record time, come, wipe clean, put my shorts back on and get down to the pool looking composed and cool like it never happened.
Only the slightest smirk on his face remains if I pay close enough attention. I try to ignore the look on his face, and he is nice enough not to rub it in and make fun of me. It is one of those rare days that I’m glad I suck at reading faces.
# # # # #
We spend endless afternoons lazing around by the pool or in our rooms. The sun is on our backs, the lazy summer breeze in our faces.
Samuel likes company when he works. Dad pays him to write a program to manage his client’s progress, things like Face Reader. Otherwise, he’d have had to take a summer job or internship like last year.
Laptop, lotion, beer and sunglasses – he lies out on the large towel, headphones over the ears, muffled music thumping away while his fingers tap away at the keyboard.
He’ll swim, he’ll work and then laze around, and then type away again.
From time to time, he’ll take off his headset and say things like,
“Babe, what’s wrong with this algorithm?”
And I’ll scuttle over like a puppy, eager to do things for him.
“There’s a leak in that line that causes the logic to run in loops.”
He’ll flash his pearly whites and pat my head.
When he’s tired of working, he lies down by the side of the water while I read my comics on the sundeck chair. Every single movement feels glacial. Even the way the trees sway to the occasional breeze.
“Samuel, are you asleep?” I will ask when we get too quiet.
Not a breath.
Then he will answer with almost a sigh, perfectly still except for the slightest movement in his lips.
“I was.”
“Sorry.”
He dangles one leg casually into the water, kicking back and forth slowly like he’s caressing the water. I long to touch his legs and run my fingers through his calf to feel the hair on his legs. I would love to nestle in his bare chest, study the mat of dark blond hair, and stare at his crotch while a magazine is covering his face.
He won’t know that I’m looking.
And on another hot lazy afternoon, I lie on my belly in his bed reading comics again. He lies on his back with his arms folded behind his head. His balcony door is closed, and the air conditioning is on full blast. We’re only in our shorts, but our bodies are damp from the heat. The room is quiet except for the low humming sound of the blowing air and the occasional sound of me flipping through Zatoichi. Out of nowhere, I break the silence.
“You’re sleeping?”
Long, long pause.
“No, I’m thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
One of his knees is bent. “About football, the coming season.”
Or later that evening, feeling busted after a long evening jog together, we hang out in my room after showering. He takes a nap beside me while I have a book open right in front. But I’m not really reading.
My head is beside his legs, his knees are still bent, and again, we’re only in our shorts. I think he is asleep, so I sneak a peek into the opening between his thighs; taking in the tuft of pubic hair and small glimpses of his nuts underneath his shorts.
Without opening his eyes and without moving, he suddenly breaks the ice.
“Babe.”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Thinking, then.”
“About?”
He will kick my ass if I tell him.
“It’s a secret,” I reply.
“Again? What other secrets are you hiding?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
Then he opens his eyes, looks at me with a knowing smile, his grin crooked to one side. “Try me.”
He is teasing me again.
My cheeks feel hot, and I cannot bear the weight of his gaze any longer. I won’t give him the satisfaction of further humiliating myself.
“I’m not telling you.”
“Then I’ll go back to sleep,” he mumbles.
And the room goes quiet again. Not long after, he suddenly says, “It’s nice to have you around.”
And he falls asleep on my bed next to me, and his breaths are deep and slow. He is completely at ease. I am not some monster that he needs to be on guard against all the time. My worst fears appear to be unfounded.
He makes it clear that the consequences for crossing the line are severe.
I will kick your ass if you grope me.
He says it with a smile, but normally when he invokes violence in his speech, he means business.
I’ll kick your ass if you tell Mom.
I’ll kill you later.
Don’t come near my room when she’s here. I’ll skin you alive.
There he lies next to me, so close and within my reach, yet he is not afraid I will touch him in his sleep. Does he trust me so much when I don’t even trust myself at all? I think about it for the whole night; he seems amused by my infatuation. In fact, he is enjoying every bit of attention that I give him, wasting no opportunity to order me around just to see if I’m as eager as a puppy to please him. He is flattered.
Perhaps rule 645:21:3 only applies to the act, not to the desire. Just like how churches say it is okay for boys to like boys as long as they don’t act on it. That’s why he won’t find me disgusting because I haven’t actually done it. In the middle of the night, I get up from the bed, lift an arm off me and take a cold shower. Then, first thing in the morning before my run, I amend that rule immediately.
I can live with that, as long as he doesn’t freak out.
I wonder what he truly thinks inside, though. Other than the occasional teases, he doesn’t cringe nor encourage my roving eyes and unabashed affection. But that could mean anything.
On the surface, things remain the same as before. I try not to think too much about it when he’s around, just stay quiet, and we simply soak in each other’s presence. On those days, I am content and blissful. Not asking more from him other than staying close by my side.
“Check this song out.”
He removes one of his earpieces and holds it out for me, breaking the long monotonous quiet evenings, both of us listening to the same music that only we can hear.
I love it when he’s silent.
I also love it when he breaks the silence, saying anything at all – random stuff, like what I think about the things he should do after college or if I ever consider joining him in USC. No one ever takes my opinions seriously at home, so I feel honored that he wants to hear my opinions.
“I will go to USC.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. How else will you be able to do your thesis without my help?”
“Ah, fuck off.”
He crumples his shirt and throws it at my face.
At that time, I totally forget myself, so I catch it just when it lands on my face and hold it there long enough for me to take a good sniff of his scent that he so willingly offers me. At first, he pretends not to notice, and then he looks slightly embarrassed when I stare at him.
He mutters under his breath,
“You dirty little boy.”
Then I realize he understood what I did, and I feel embarrassed.
One time, I accidentally walked into his room while he was changing; he didn’t scramble to cover himself or chase me out. When I realized I was gawking shamelessly at him, he met my self-conscious gaze with a sympathetic smile.
I turn red when I get caught, but he doesn’t tease me this time. He is being gentle with my pride.
That smile is telling me that I am not a monster.
And something stirs in my heart that makes me forget completely about his dangling dick. It makes me wants to cry and smile and hug him at the same time – the first time I understand that feeling.
I am moved.
“Can you hold that smile for me? I want to take a picture,” I mumble with sheepish eyes.
“I charge extra for nude shots.” He tosses the towel aside after drying himself, facing the wardrobe to take out his clothes.
“Nothing below the waist, I swear.”
Then I realize he is joking, so I wait for him to put on his boxers before I snap away.
What if he has known it all along? What if it all started the moment I touched him below when I was twelve? And if he knew it way before I did, he would have eight years to get over it and wait for me realize it myself.
Is that why he’s so unfazed? Am I the last one in on the joke again? The only difference now is that I know he knows. The whole idea makes me paranoid, feeling naked and exposed, like an animal on display.
Nowadays, he no longer knocks when he enters my room. It is something that always puts me on edge because my room is my safety zone. Not that I mind my family; it just makes me nervous if I don’t know who is coming in when I’m engrossed or looking away. That’s why my parents always stand at the door and wait.
And that’s why Dad is shocked to see Samuel whisk past them, tap on my shoulder and tell me it’s time to go [‘out’? say, to a restaurant?] for our family dinner. I don’t jump or throw a tantrum, because I can smell him coming, that familiar intoxicating musk, even with my back turned.
He doesn’t even knock any more when entering our shared bathroom, the doors of which can be opened from either of our rooms.
He’ll stride in while I’m showering or taking a dump, unapologetic and nonchalant, and start to shave, wash his face, or take a pee and then walk out as if I’m not there at all.
Or, when I’m burying my head writing my most private feelings and thoughts in my journal, he’ll suddenly walk up behind me. He knows I'm writing in my journal but still stands behind me and banters away.
“How was your day?”
I quickly lower the screen of my laptop. “Okay, I guess.”
“What did you do?”
I was writing down all the confusing feelings inside me, trying to understand and express them, getting a perspective to free myself from tunnel vision. Right now, there is nothing I can see in my head but his face.
“Did you miss me?”
I nod. He chuckles and points his chin at the laptop.
“Can I read it?”
“No.”
“Are you writing about me?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that give me the right to read it then?”
I am stunned; he has a point. And if he opens it, he’ll see his name and pictures all over my journal – full descriptions of my lurid fantasies abound – but what is less clear is my nebulous emotions towards him and myself. I don’t know how to deal with the shame and the longing.
He kneels down slowly, swivels my chair around, hands on my shoulders squeezing gently and says, “It’s all right, Babe, you don’t have to hide anything.”
He doesn’t read my journal in the end. He is just teasing me and making a point that I don’t have to feel ashamed.
And that’s all I need from him, to be allowed to pine and taste every longing and unrequited desire until they have taken their course and fade into something mellow, and hopefully when I look back at these memories, there will be sweetness hidden somewhere in those aching moments.
I don’t know how long it will take, but it has to come eventually. Until then, I am content with whatever affections he can spare. I’ll take any crumbs he throws at my feet.
# # # # #
Tall woods sway in the gusts of wind; they line the long stretch of road down the hill that disappears into a vanishing point far ahead. The descending sun hides half of its face below the horizon, like my bashful gaze when I am watching him. I can feel its warmth like a gently caress on my cheeks. Columns of sun rays shine through the clouds like pillars of light that extend all the way to the sky. They cast a golden glow on the dead leaves piling up on the pavement.
For the entire afternoon, the muted blast of the top forty charts can be heard from afar in one of my neighbors’ houses, meadowlarks and bluejays sing in the woods across, but only the rumble of an approaching car distracts me from staring at the cloud break. I look up from the ledge at our front entrance, outside the giant grilled gate, squinting ahead to see if it is the familiar black sports car he drives.
“Babe, you’ve been sitting here since morning.” Mom hands me a glass of chocolate milk, her warm hands wrapping around my shoulders.
I look up and smile at her and turn my eyes towards the road again. From afar, I can’t tell if the car is black or dark blue; it could be of any model and make. Then suddenly, I feel the warmth of her hands on my cheeks.
I turn to look at her face; an interesting expression appears. My fingers trace the fine wrinkles on her face. Then I twirl the grey locks of her hair, as if my finger is a tiny roller. She is smiling but her eyes look sad.
“Are you feeling sad or happy, Mom?”
She tilts her head slowly and says, “Both, Babe.”
“Why are you sad?”
Then she pushes back my long fringe and says, “Who’s going to take care of you when we’re gone?”
Her eyes glimmer.
“Are you and Dad going somewhere?”
She’ll shake her head and smile again. She stands up and is about to go back inside. Then, as if remembering something, she turns back and says, “Dinner will be ready in an hour; it’s your favorite dish.”
I perk up and smile. Haloumi cheese.
# # # # #
He returns home around nine at night. I follow his car when he drives toward our house. I follow him as he gets out, tossing a smile at me as he heads towards his room. I follow him all the way until he goes inside, takes off all his clothes, throws a towel over his shoulder and enters the bathroom. I wait for him outside patiently.
“Can I hug you?” I ask him when he comes out.
“Not now, Babe, I’ve just finished showering.” He pulls out boxers from the wardrobe and puts them on.
“When can I hug you then?”
“When I’m dressed and when we’re alone?” He takes the towel and dries his hair. What does he mean by: I can hug him when we’re alone?
“You mean I can’t hug you in public anymore?”
“Just... tone it down, save it for greetings or something, okay?”
Greetings, as in how people hug when they come home, just to show that they are welcomed. And I don’t feel so bad about him going out of the house any more. At least, I have something to look forward to when he gets back. I get a hug from him every time he comes home.
He goes out to get a fresh supply of beer. I will wait for him and give him a hug when he comes back.
Sometimes, he takes the trash out to the bin outside the metal gates. I wait for him and give him a hug when he comes back. He’ll grin and snort, but he’ll hug me anyway.
At times, he’ll go running with me, and when we return, all sweaty and wet, I’ll extend my arms for a welcome hug at the door.
“Are you serious?” He sniggers, droplets of sweat trailing down his temples and neck, shirt soaked to the skin.
Without replying, I pull him in for a long hug until I’m fully satisfied.
During the days when Samuel is out, I sit by the entrance of our house, waiting for him to come home. If he says when he’s coming back, it is a lot easier. I’ll just wait for him at the entrance half an hour early. When his car approaches, he waves as I run and follow it to the garage and claim the hug he owes me.
“And here you are, huggy monster.” He remembers his promise.
He will rub my head, look left and right, and then plant a kiss on my cheeks as I wrap my arms around him in the garage. When he pats my bum twice, that’s my cue to scoot off and give him space.
He pulls my hand along (if he’s in a good mood), until we get into the house, and he lets go if he hears Mom and Dad nearby. I still follow him from a distance a few feet away until he disappears into his room and closes the door.
Otherwise, he surprises me, like on Thursday when he pulls out a packet of marshmallows and tosses it over.
“See what I’ve got?” He flashes a grin and a BluRay disc in his hands; the title is World War Z. I love these zombie-flick nights.
Then I wait patiently until he’s all changed, settled down, and comes into my room, and we watch the movie together. It doesn’t matter that I don’t find fear entertaining: because I enjoy laying my head on his thighs, chewing marshmallows while he sits on my bed, one knee propped up, eating popcorn.
Sometimes, he’ll jolt when a zombie jumps out from nowhere. That always sends me off the edge laughing.
He takes my pillow and whacks my head.
“You’re not supposed to laugh. It’s supposed to be scary.”
Then I try to pay attention to the screen and get myself into the mood. Sometimes, I even manage to get myself freaked out and bury my face against his chest. Through the crack between my fingers, I take a peek now and then to see if the man has been eaten alive.
He loves those moments when I go running to him, scared as a mouse. He pats me on my back until the fright leaves my body.
“That’s more like it.” He smiles.
When he’s done with the popcorn, he lights up a smoke and opens a can of beer. The more gore and innards that splash on screen, the faster he gulps down the alcohol. And I smell his body, him drunk on alcohol and me drunk on his sweet, pungent sweat.
“Scaredy cat.” He teases me once the movie is over, and he gets up to return to his room.
I love those horror-flick evenings.
It’s when our bodies connect in those one or two hours that says a lot of things. His comforting pat, that cocky grin when I bury my face against him, the marshmallows I pop into his mouth – they speak of tenderness and love.
By the time he tucks me into bed and switches off the lights, I can’t remember a scene of that blood and gore. Only his heavy musk lingers on my sheets and pillows. I press my face against them, inhale deeply and fall asleep.
# # # # #
On Saturday morning, I go for my daily rituals: a jog around our property followed by Parkour when the first light shows.
The whole world is sleeping. But I am the only dreamer.
My eyes have been long used to the darkness. Even before the sun comes out, I can make my way along the familiar roads, the dirt tracks, the shortcuts across the woods. I know every single stone and twig, and I won’t trip over any of them. That morning, I keep seeing his face when I run. I think to myself that it won’t be these pebbles and woods that trip me one day; it will be my own silly dreams about him. It will be a bad fall when the day comes.
I run as far as the park by the reservoir. There, I can practice Parkour; the free-running will liberate the tightness I feel in my body and my heart. Jumping over fences, climbing trees, leaping across drains, running from one end of the park to another as if no obstacles can stop me, I feel free. Parkour is a survival sport. I learned it to run away from the boys from school. Now I’m doing it to run away from my own emotional cage.
It is days like this when I feel like the world belongs to me. No one wakes up this early on a weekend, and I have the entire park to myself. During these times, I forget that I am different from everyone else. Any straggling joggers seem to be trapped in their own world, like me, solitary in their pensive strides, eyes lost ahead and ears plugged to their iPods. Everyone leaves everyone else alone in their own kingdoms.
The drainage ditch ahead of me, deep and wide, cuts off my path like a chasm. I lift on the balls of my feet and stare right at it. My body tenses and trembles, aching to cross the line; somehow, the deep, long gap reminds me of rule 654:21:3.
The sky is turning blue, and people are starting to appear. I back off a few yards and sprint. I leap across it with a somersault. I land perfectly, but I am standing dangerously close to the edge. If I miss by a few inches, I would probably spend the rest of summer in a hospital. My heart is still pounding, and I’m catching my breath when I hear a clapping sound.
A curly-haired boy standing by the bench is watching me. “Hey, boner, that was pretty cool. Can ya’ do that again?”
I squint to see his face under the shadows.
“It’s me, Peter. You boned my girlfriend at your party. Don’t you remember?”
I recognize his face, but I can’t see his expression. My shoulders tense up, and my hands instinctively hover over the pocket knife in my shorts. I didn’t know Rachel was his girlfriend, and boys usually hit me when I touch their girlfriends.
Or they’ll hit me for staring or touching them.
So I stand a few yards away from him with my eyes glued to his feet when I speak.
“I r-remember you.”
He wants to see my leaping somersault or the backflip I did earlier.
So I show him both.
“Whoa! That was awesome, dude. Did you learn that from Bruce Lee or somethin’?”
“Y-YouTube,” I mutter.
My face is still looking at the ground so I jump when he punches my arm. My fist is ready to strike, but I see him holding both hands up.
“Hey man, relax. I’m not hurtin’ you. Just askin’ if you can show me how to do that.”
I take a good look at his face. He doesn’t seem particularly hostile, but I’m not fully sure, so I ask, “Can I h-hug you first?”
His jaw seems to drop an inch, like how Samuel looks when he sleeps and drools. Then his lips curl up, but his brows remain tense. “Erm, oo-kaay.”
He gives me an awkward hug with a pat on the back.
At least now I know he’s friendly.
And I spend the next hour or so showing him how to tumble properly. That’s the basis of Parkour: you need to learn how to break falls before you try anything else.
“Here you are.” Rachel, the red-headed girl jogs up to him, wearing a sports top and shorts. She looks like she’s wearing a bra to run, but I try not to stare. Boys hate me when I stare at their girlfriends’ breasts.
He waves at me when he leaves with Rachel. Before he goes, he says, “Hey, come along next time when we hang out with Captain. You’ve got to finish what you started.”
He was referring to Samuel. They were on the same football team back in high school. So I say okay.
I watch the both of them hold hands when they leave. It makes me wish that I had someone to hold hands with like that, someone who is not my brother, someone who’s allowed to be intimate with me. Someone with whom I feel safe; it doesn’t matter if it is a boy or a girl.
I never feel this way towards my brother until I get really frightened of other boys. After he left last year, there was no one around to stop them from harassing me. If all boys are this mean, then my brother must be really an angel. He has his mean moments, but they never go beyond a joke at my expense.
Girls are more comfortable to be with; they are soft and gentle most of the time. Even when they’re mean, they don’t usually hit me unless I touch them the wrong way. But girls don’t protect me from other boys, except Mom does, perhaps. That’s why I feel safest when my brother is around.
I walk home and reach it at about eight-fifty in the morning, just enough time for me to wash up and get changed for swimming. It is Saturday, and I’m surprised to find everyone’s car parked in the garage.
The morning air is stale and heavy, it hasn’t rained for quite some time. The sky is grey, but it doesn’t look like it will rain anytime soon. A freak crash of thunder startles me, and I skitter down the driveway, my hands over my ears.
The front door is ajar, and I can hear the commotion from outside the house. I pause in my steps, unsure if it is a good time to go inside. What if there are strangers in there, too? I vaguely hear Mom and Dad talking. At first Mom sounds really upset, then Dad starts talking instead. Their voices are loud, like they’re angry.
He has a right to know! That’s my brother’s voice.
I hear words like ‘responsibility’ being thrown around. Then I think I hear my name. When the lightning flashes again, I decide to get into the house before the thunder follows. When I enter, Samuel is on his way out to the garage. We brush past each other, and his facial expression is black as tar. He doesn’t say a word to me, just gives me a gentle pat on my shoulders to acknowledge my presence.
Then I don’t see him for the whole day. Just as I’ve predicted, it doesn’t rain that day. The morning clouds remain grey and grumpy but refuse to let the rain out. I wonder what the commotion earlier was about. Perhaps I could ask him after he gives me my hug for the day. Everyone seems to be in a bad mood. I wonder if it has something to do with the weather. I bring the old moldy headset along in case of more freak lightning, heading outside to wait for him to come home.
Along the driveway, I recognize the tire tracks of his car embossed in the faint trace of dust over the road. The smell of hot gravel and tar fills my nose as I trace his tire tracks. Maybe following the tracks would lead me to where he is.
The balls of my feet slip in and out of my flip-flops, I don’t know how long I’ve walked, but the tracks disappear at some point down the road. By then, the sun is shining down harshly on the bare skin of my shoulders. I find a place to sit by an old rusty container beside the road, shaded from the sun by the surrounding trees. Legs dangling freely, I peel off a sliver of dried skin underneath the strap of my tank top and start the long day awaiting his return.
Across the road, an old faded sign marks the entrance to our property. Every time we drive home, I see the sign. I am sitting at the bottom of a hill not too far away from home, about half an hour’s walk, probably. The highway is visible from where I sit, the sandy plains before me are flat, and I can see any passing cars for miles away. I have a feeling he won’t be back soon.
A car passes by, and for an ephemeral moment its mirror catches the sun and gleams brightly like a star; I hold my breath.
Are all things beautiful so transient and unreachable?
I watch each passing car, anticipating the beautiful burst of light for that briefest moment. The beauty entrances me, but it feels sadder every time it is gone. Few cars cross this way; sometimes hours can go by without a single car. How I wish one of them would stay. How I wish my brother would stay.
As the sun rises, the heat bears down on me, the rusty container no longer shaded by the trees behind. The metal beneath is slowly heating up by the time I jump off, I feel my phone ring. It is Mom.
“Where are you, Babe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you lost?”
“No, Mom, I know my way back.”
It feels funny when I say that. I feel lost even though I’m not. I don’t even know the name of this road. If only feelings were like roads; you can return to where you were simply by retracing your steps.
“Are you watching cars again?” Her voice buzzed by static.
“No, I’m watching the lights.”
The line is silent for a moment. Then she speaks. “Your Dad and I are going out. Take some water with you if you’re staying out in the sun, okay?”
“Okay, Mom.”
It is almost two in the afternoon, and I didn’t realize how hungry I was. On my way home, I raise a hand to feel the leaves and the branches by the side of the road. Sometimes, the bark reminds me of the bristling stubbles on his face. Sometimes, the leaves feel like the soft hairs on his chest. I eat some cereal and sit outside by the driveway on the ledge, accompanied by a large bottle of water and the electronic photo album he gave me for my birthday.
When the sun sets, the blazing sky hurts my eyes as I look into the horizon. No cars in sight.
There are more than ten thousand photos inside the photo frame, most of them taken by him, some of them showing the two of us, but every single frame tells a part of his story. I watch the photos from the first frame to the last, thinking about the story he wants to tell with these crystallized moments.
He once told me that a picture by itself tells a story, but a sequence of pictures tells you about life. No one at my birthday understood his gift. Many of the pictures don’t even show any of us.
Why is there a close up of a trash bin? Mom asked.
I smiled because I remembered. Both of us dug through that bin to hunt for our clues. We lost that mission, nonetheless.
Why is there a finger in the album? Dad asked, too.
It was Samuel’s finger. You could see the fine lines and dried skin, nails slightly chipped and rough. The angle he chose, the distance of the lens – he did it to show how I would see the world in its fine, intimate details. It’s as if he went inside my head and printed out the image right out from my brain.
Only both of us understand what the gift means. It is his story of how he sees me from his eyes and how he would reflect my world through his pictures.
The photos tell the story of his devotion. I long to hold him in my arms again.
When darkness falls, the air gets as cold and dry as the stone ledge I’m sitting upon. The familiar sounds of rustling leaves and insects always makes me feel at home. Often, during one of those sleepless nights when he is away, I would sit outside the balcony just to listen to the soothing clicks like they’re a lullaby, and I would fall asleep on the cold concrete deck.
I go back to the house to grab a sweater and some leftovers from the fridge. As I eat the cold shepherd pie – Mom told me to use the microwave, but I don’t like the sound it makes – I wondered if this is how it feels like to live alone. And I also wonder, when Mom and Dad are gone and Samuel has his own family, will he come and visit me once in a while. Just like how Mom would visit her brother once or twice a year when we were still living in Oregon. I feel grateful at the thought of that; at least I know Samuel will come home tonight.
Back to the same spot on the ledge, I lean my head against the tree and doze off for a moment. It’s close to eleven at night. I stretch my toes, and my eyes widen when I see lights approaching.
It is Dad's car.
“Babe, what are you still doing here?” Mom rolls down the window and pokes her head out.
“I’m waiting for Samuel.”
“He’s out with his friends. Go find something to play with inside the house, okay?”
Play?
Does she mean solving the challenges posted on the Harvard website? I’ve done all the old ones already.
Mom gets out of Dad’s car when I don’t answer her. She coaxes me into the car, bribing me with a cup of hot chocolate if I get in.
Mom coughs a couple of times in the kitchen. A few grey hairs streak out from her tied-up bun. The lines around the corner of her eyes crease like spider webs when she stirs the chocolate. The hot aroma fills the air, and I smile as she hands it to me.
It feels warm and nice when I wrap both hands around the cup. She asks me what I did the whole day. I tell her I was watching the lights in the car mirrors. Then she sighs heavily. After that, Mom makes me brush my teeth and tucks me into bed. After she leaves, the house becomes dark again. No more sound after I hear her footsteps disappear up the stairs.
It is midnight when I make my way outside to the chilly driveway again. The flashlight shines on the ground and lights the way. I don’t turn off the light when I settle down on the stone ledge. Instead, I play with it, bouncing the light around like it is a basketball. Occasionally, I startle a stray cat when the light shines on it accidentally. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to get tired, and I fall asleep.
One-forty-five a.m.
That is the time on my phone by the time I wake up, lying on the stone ledge.
Even if he comes home now, he’ll be too tired or drunk to hug me.
But I continue to wait anyway. I hug myself to sleep on the stone ledge, the cold stinging even with the sweater. After a long period of silence, the rumbling of an approaching car wakes me up. My eyes can barely open when the headlights of his car shine in the dark from afar.
It is three in the morning.
He isn’t alone in the car. There is a girl sitting next to him. At the moment, I know I am in trouble. He might be mad if the girl sees me; I will embarrass him.
Don’t come near my room when she’s here. I’ll skin you alive.
He said it three years ago, making it clear he doesn’t want me around when he brings girls home. I want to hurry off but I’m caught in the headlights, too entranced by the lights to move.
“What are you doing out here, Babe? It’s freezing.” My brother stops the car by the roadside and comes out to me.
“I-I was waiting for you.”
His brows squeeze and eyes narrow, and I quickly apologize before he gets mad.
“I’m s-sorry. I didn’t know you were bringing someone back.”
He appears to be deep in thoughts; his lips part slightly and close again. He hesitates to speak his mind. I look at him as he puts both hands on the sides of my arms,
“Go back to bed, all right? Don't wait for me.”
When he gets back into the car, I hear him apologize to the girl.
Sorry, my brother is like a kid sometimes.
And he drives off after that, not turning into our home. I watch the car disappear down the road.
I am stung.
I am only a kid to him. I always thought I was his best friend.