Theo

Tiny

Over the next year, I decided Phil was a pretty cool guy.

    I mentioned to mom that Phil was alone in his house in the evenings and she got in contact with Katarina, insisting that her son come over to our house for dinner which, apparently, was a big relief to his mother who worried a lot about her latch-key kid.

    School was the same, same teammates, same crew—just with Phil added into the mix.  He became something like a fixture in my house so on Saturday evening after a day hanging with the crew playing football, I wasn’t surprised to find him seated on my bed, playing video games.

    “Yo,” I said, taking a seat next to him.  He was shooting zombies but managed a small smile.  “You know you could always come with me, right?” I found myself offering.

    Phil just shook his head.  “I’m not very athletic.”

    He wasn’t.  I’d seen him in gym class and whew, the kid was not built for much.  Dribbled a basketball okay enough, could even make a basket, but he could easily get knocked around.  It must be the small frame.  His only saving grace was his speed.  For being short, the guy was fast.

    “You just need some practice,” I lied, smiling coyly.

    He peeked over at me, his dark eyes narrowing.  “Ha. Ha. We both know that bull.”

    My smile just widened.  “You staying over tonight?”

    “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging.

    That was the thing about him that I didn’t get.  He wouldn’t sleep over unless explicitly told to by me or mom.  It seemed like maybe he thought he was overstepping some kind of boundary by assuming he could just spend the night—even though we have a big couch downstairs and when he does sleep up here, we both usually pass out on the floor while playing games.  It’s not even a thing.

    “I should go home,” he added with a smile.  “Church is tomorrow morning.”

    Ah, that again.  I just nodded, watching him play for a bit as I leaned back on my hands, kicking out my feet.  It was hard not to compare myself to the boy next to me.  I seemed to do it unconsciously lately, noticing how my hands seemed larger, my arms and legs thicker.  He was almost dainty.  And kind of pale considering he’s Hispanic.  I could guess his father was white.

    “What?” he asked, glaring at me.

    “Hm?” I wondered, meeting his gaze.

    “Why are you staring at me like some kind of creep?”

    Oh.  “You’re so tiny.”

    He huffed, handing me the remote and going to get up.  I caught his arm, his thin, brittle arm and said, “What’s wrong?”

    “I’m leaving,” he said, staring down at me with unhidden malice.

    Whoa.  “Hey, I didn’t mean—“

    “Let me go,” he said, pulling his arm from me and stomping out of the room.

    Geez.  Why was he so mad?

. . .

When I showed up on the front porch, Katarina opened the door and gave me an unimpressed look.  “What did you do?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest, tapping her foot lightly.  Katarina would make a lovely wife but not for me.  She was too intuitive, too intense—I’d quickly decided that she needs a really strong, patient man to handle her and I’m probably not it.  Even if she does have the cooking of an angel.  I chuckled nervously as she glared down at me.  “Well?”

    “I teased him about his size.”

    She tsked.  “Why?”  More glaring.

    No wonder her son glares at me all the time.  It’s like the Echevaria default setting.  “I didn’t mean to.  It wasn’t meant to be mean.  He just took it that way.”

    “You cannot decide what you did wasn’t mean.  If it hurt somebody, it was mean,” she said, opening the door wide.  “Go.  Apologize.”  I stepped into her house, smelling heaven upon the stove.  If this woman was home, she was cooking or cleaning.  I was pretty sure she never really relaxed.  “Now,” she insisted when I didn’t immediately rush up the stairs.

    I sighed, heading upstairs, going to his room.  I knocked on the door.  It’s weird because he almost never knocks on my door but he’s weird about privacy.  When we talked about it, he said that I don’t care about boundaries but he does.  Whatever that means.  “Phil,” I muttered through the door.

    “No,” was the response I got.

    No?  Did he really just “no” me?  “C’mon Phil,” I muttered, turning the knob and pushing open the door anyway.  He was lying in bed, the hood of his hoodie up, the blanket pulled to his nose.  He pulled the blanket over his head when he saw me come in.

    “Go away.”  He sounded annoyed.

    “No,” I said back, shutting the door after me and taking a seat on his bed.

    He groaned.  “Just go home, Theo.”

    “Nah,” I said, tugging at his sheets.

    He clung to them, glaring up at me, trying to burrow deeper into the bed.  “Stop it, Theodore,” he snapped, using my birth name.

    God, I hate that name.  It makes me think of that stupid chipmunk with the squeaky voice.

    “It’s Theo,” I hissed, ripping the comforter out of his hands. He stood no chance as I bared down against him, my forearm across his chest, pinning him to the bed.  “Quit being a baby,” I muttered, frowning at him.  His mouth went slack.  I noticed that his dirty blonde hair was wet and he smelled like he’d just taken a shower.  Glancing down, I realized he’d been reading a book.  Oh, I recognized that book.  Picking it out of his hand, he went to complain but I shushed him, flipping through the manga.  “Bleach?” I wondered, grinning down at him.

    Immediately, he was defensive.  “So what if it is?”

     I rolled my eyes, bonking him on the head with the book.  “I love Bleach.  You should’ve told me you like it.  I have season one in DVD.”

    His eyes widened, like round saucers.  “You watch anime?”

    “Yeah,” I shrugged.  “Trey got me into it a couple years back.”

     “Wow,” he said, sitting up and looking me over like he was seeing me for the first time.  “I didn’t think somebody popular would—“

    “Don’t judge me because I’m beautiful,” I said sardonically, grinning at him.

    Phil’s eyes narrowed.  “Don’t call me tiny, small, little, pipsqueak, or . . . or any synonyms to any of those words from now on.”  Then, as if it were an afterthought, he muttered, “Please.”  Even polite when making demands.

    I grinned.  “Sure thing, Shorty.”  When he threw a punch, I caught it, laughing at his weak attempts to hit me.  “Okay, okay,” I laughed, dodging more hits, “that was the last time, I swear.”

    “You’re awful,” he complained, still pushing at me.

    “Yeah, yeah.  Want me to bring over Bleach?” I wondered, already knowing the answer.

    He went starry eyed again, nodding his head enthusiastically.  He looked like an excited puppy, staring up at me like that.  I ruffled his hair and he stiffened.  “What are you doing?”

    I chuckled.  “Good dogs say woof.”

    Phil got lucky and successfully landed the punch that time.