Dishes by Rich Wallace

Author:Rich Wallace
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2010-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

My hair is short and fine, so I just let it air-dry as I walk over to Hector’s. I decided on sandals and long khaki shorts, plus a yellow-and-blue-checked shirt with short sleeves.

“Hmmm,” Hector says, sizing me up. “You going to a church supper or something, Danny?”

“Didn’t know there was one.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s your best shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s very wrinkled. And not exactly hip. Come with me.”

Classical music is coming from his bedroom—I think it’s Mozart. I follow him toward it; it isn’t a long walk. There’s no real kitchen—just a microwave and a mini-refrigerator on a counter piled high with magazines and catalogs in a sort of hallway, with a bathroom off that on one side and his bedroom on the other.

There are three or four folded shirts on top of his dresser; they appear to be brand-new. He picks up a black polo shirt with a little alligator stitched on the chest. “Let’s try this,” he says. He reaches for my shirt and starts unbuttoning it.

“I got it,” I say, taking a step back and finishing the buttons myself. I set my shirt on the bed—it’s a queen or a king and takes up nearly all of the space, neatly made with a cream-colored bedspread and a bunch of pillows.

I put the new one on and it fits. “Did you just buy this?” I ask.

“Yes, but it’s okay. Just wash it and get it back to me.” He reconsiders this and decides I should give it back unwashed. “You have to do these just right. You can’t dump them in with your underwear and dry the life out of them.”

He hits me with a spray of cologne before I know what’s coming, then sweeps a few fingers over the side of my head. “Not too bad,” he says. He picks up a large white tube—the label says L’ORÉAL STUDIO LINE—and squirts some clear gel onto his palm.

He holds it up for me to look at. “You want the size of a dime,” he says. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

“I’ve never used gel on my hair.”

“I didn’t think so.” He rubs his palms together, then pushes the front of my hair up and off my forehead. He runs his fingers above my temples, then pats the hair down a bit and steps back.

“Great,” he says.

I glance at the mirror. It’s different, but not extreme. You can barely tell, actually. “Looks better,” I say. “Listen, you left me hanging about whatever happened with your father. Did you work that out?”

Hector starts drumming his fingers on his thigh and looks at the floor. “We didn’t talk for almost a year. Then he called me on my birthday this past April and kind of tried to be nice. Asked how I’ve been doing in this very vague way, and seemed glad when I told him I was fine. He has no idea that you can be gay and be happy and be connected to someone.”

“Right.”

“Not that I am connected. But I could be.

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