Tell Me How to Be by Neel Patel

Author:Neel Patel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flatiron Books

* * *

Then one night, a Friday, we were watching Armageddon at your parents’ motel when you asked if I wanted to go swimming.

“I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“You can borrow mine.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let me go to the bathroom first.”

I examined my belly under the harsh yellow lights. You knocked on the door.

“Ready?”

“Yeah, one second!”

You tossed me a pair of shorts.

“These should fit.”

When I returned to your room, you were undressed.

“Oh, shit,” I said, backing away. “Sorry.”

Your chest was bare; you were wrapped in a towel. Aside from a sprinkling of dark hair between your nipples, your body was smooth. I tried not to look at it. I tried not to notice the swell of your chest, the ropey muscles in your arms, the soft, fuzzy pelt at your navel. You didn’t seem to mind.

“I have a towel on. It’s not like my dick is out.”

“Right.”

“Unless you want it to be.” You wiggled your hips. “Like that?”

“Shut up.”

Heat spread through my face as you bent down to slide a pair of swim shorts on underneath your towel, then pried the towel from your waist. You tossed it at me.

“Smell this.”

I pretended to be disgusted, but I could have buried my face in it. You led the way through your parents’ apartment and into the lobby and down a narrow hallway toward a pair of sliding glass doors. The smell of chlorine sliced through the air. Inside, the pool was large but empty. The walls rippled with emerald light. You immediately dove in, splashing me.

“The water’s great.” You flicked some at my feet. “Come in.”

Your voice echoed above our heads. You watched as I peeled off my shirt. I was sure you would point out the fat at my sides, which was soft and springy like two hemispheres of dough. You didn’t.

“Come on.” Your tone turned pleading. “I’m all alone.”

I dove headfirst, icy water flooding my shorts.

“Ack!” I cried. “It’s freezing.”

“I know.”

“You asshole!”

You laughed, tipping your head back. “You should have seen your face.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I splashed you. You splashed back. Then you dove underwater and surfaced inches from my nose. Water streamed down your face like rain from a gutter. Your puckered fingers gripped my neck.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to learn how to fight.”

“And who are you, Evander Holyfield?”

You let go, splashing. “Sala.”

“That’s what my mom calls me.”

“Oh, yeah? You must be a naughty boy.”

You pushed off me and swam the length of the pool, sending a ripple of foamy waves in my direction.

“She also calls me nakamo.”

“Do you even know what that means?” you said, reaching the other side.

“Of course I know what it means. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if you did.”

“I’m not a coconut,” I said. “That’s Bijal.”

You laughed. “Yeah.”

Then you told me how your English teacher had asked you, in front of the entire class, if you were going to have an arranged marriage.

“She never asks any of the other kids that kind of shit. I don’t know why she has to ask me.

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