Compulsion by Heidi Ayarbe

Author:Heidi Ayarbe
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins US
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Sixty-One Confession

Friday, 5:12 p.m.

Five twelve. Five plus one is six plus two is eight minus five is three. OK.

Coach takes out his cache of team-building crap and dumps it on the field. He consults his book and decides we should do “minefield,” starting with Luc and me. I’m blindfolded and Luc has to guide me around a bunch of obstacles by giving me spoken directions.

Luc’s a decent guide. I get through most of the stuff until I land on my ass in a bucket of icy water. When I take off the blindfold, the team cheers. Luc says, “Guevón.”

We’re okay, a team again. I’ll get to go home and just zone out.

But Coach isn’t done with us yet. We move into the school gym. Mats are spread around it. We do trust-fall shit. And when we’re done, we sit back to back. Coach says, “Now it’s confession time.”

There’s a collective groan.

But I think part of us kind of likes this—being forced to say something.

“You know the drill. Like/Dislike/Like. Be real. Let’s go.”

Luc and I lean against each other. “You first,” he says.

“Okay. Like.” I take a breath. “I like that you wait for me in the morning, even when I’m having a tough time getting out of the house.”

Luc pauses. “Like. I like your honey-colored eyes.” And he cracks up. I hate that. I hate that everything has to be a joke to him.

I start to stand up and he yanks me back down. “Okay. Okay. Like.” He lowers his voice. “I like that you haven’t told anybody that I do that choir shit for church. And, guevón, if anybody ever finds out I vote for contestants on American Idol, I’ll kick your ass to next week.”

Silence.

This is the first time Luc has ever said anything real to me. It’s as if he actually wants to talk today. The preconceptions slip away.

We’re just us, whoever that is.

We sit in silence. The rules are we don’t comment. We just listen and let whatever’s been said be said.

“Fuck, man, are you gonna go or what?” Some of the players are already done, sitting around the free-throw circle where we’ll end this. But part of me wants to let it sink in and just be here.

Be real, not who Luc wants to see.

“Okay. Dislike.” I try to find a way to say it even though I think my brain’s wiring has shorted. “I dislike those times when you become your dad. Like this afternoon. Because—” Because it reminds me of all the times I was never a real friend. My voice drifts off.

I sigh.

All the shit I carry with me—the time, the magic—floats away for a second, leaving me lighter. Free.

I hold on to that little bit of truth until I feel Luc tense up—his back knots and his words come out like venom. “Dislike. I dislike that you’re a total marica. You didn’t see me pissing myself every time he hit me, because every time he hit me was one fewer time he’d hit my mom.

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