Diego was quiet for a moment, but the empty space was filled by the chaotic noise from other tables. I hoped I hadn’t offended him. “Artists have to learn how to paint what’s in the mirror, even if what they see is a total shit show.” He gave in and scooped up the last bite of potpie. “If you can’t paint yourself honestly, everything else you paint will be a lie too.”
“I didn’t realize artists were so self-aware.”
“Yeah, well, being self-aware only means that we know we’re assholes.” Diego shrugged and pushed his empty tray to the side. “Anyway, that’s what my ex-girlfriend used to tell me.”
“Ex-g-girlfriend?” I tried not to stutter, but I couldn’t help it, and ended up drooling. “Shit.” I forced a laugh and wiped my lip with a napkin.
Diego pretended not to notice, but I caught him grinning. “Her name was Leigh. She’d tell you I was the biggest prick in North America. Probably the world.”
Having recovered from my sudden inability to keep saliva in my mouth, I said, “Did you break up because you moved here?”
“Nah, we were done way before that.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not. She was only using me for my big prick. Didn’t I mention that?”
I snorted and laughed. The students at the other end of the table glared at me, which only made it harder to stop. “I know the feeling.”
“You got a . . . ?”
“Not really,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t know. He’s a big prick too.” I considered telling Diego about Marcus, but I hardly knew him, and it wasn’t my secret to tell. It would destroy Marcus if word got out he was hooking up with Space Boy. “Why’d you move to Calypso?”
Rather than answer, Diego looked at the table and the walls and over my shoulder—everywhere but at me.
“I get the feeling you don’t want to talk about it. I was only trying to make conversation,” I said.
“It’s complicated.” I thought Diego was going to explain, but instead he said, “What do you do for fun around here?”
Diego’s unwillingness to discuss why he moved from Colorado to a shit hole town in the limp dick of the nation only made me more curious. Maybe he was shipped off by his parents as punishment for robbing liquor stores or cheating on history exams. Or maybe he was a secret government operative whose mission was to befriend me and discover what I knew about the sluggers. That actually made more sense than anything else. Still, I hated secrets. Jesse had kept secrets. Maybe if he hadn’t, he’d still be alive. Only, Diego wasn’t Jesse. Diego was nobody to me, and I didn’t want to piss him off by prying.
“You already went to the biggest party of the year. What more do you want?”
Diego leaned back in his chair. “Something exciting.”
“What’d you do in Colorado?”
“Stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah,” Diego said. “Hung out with friends, avoided my parents. Stuff. All of it very exciting. I miss it.” He looked far away, like he’d traveled there in the silence between our words. That’s the problem with memories: you can visit them, but you can’t live in them.
“Then why don’t you go back?” I regretted asking the moment the question left my mouth. Shadows crowded Diego’s face, and every muscle tensed up. Shoulders, fists, cheeks. I cleared my throat and said, “All we’ve got here are beaches, but you already know about those.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
Diego grabbed his tray, already half standing. “The beach. We’ll bail on class, and you can show me around Calypso. I’ve got a car. We’ll get some sandwiches and hang out.”
Jesse and I skipped once in tenth grade. It was the first week he got his driver’s license. Vice Principal Marten nearly caught us trying to sneak off campus, but Jesse’s car was faster than Marten’s golf cart. We drank beer on the beach and lay in each other’s arms until the sun was only a memory burned into our brains. He’d said, “You know, I think I love you, Henry Denton,” and I believed him. I believed all of Jesse’s lies.
“I can’t.”
Diego slumped back into his seat. “It’s cool.”
“Maybe some other time.”
Rather than giving me a guilt trip, Diego said, “Any time,” and I knew he meant it. “So, tell me about these aliens of yours.”
I twisted a bit of sandwich wrap around the end of my index finger, watching it turn grape red. Diego snapped his fingers in front of my face. “I’m not making fun of you.”
“I didn’t—”
“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
“It’s not something I talk about.”
“Then you should write about it.”
“Drop it.”
Diego was either oblivious or determined or simply a giant prick like his ex-girlfriend had said. “Writing’s like painting. You have to write about yourself before you can write about anything else.”
I was done talking, but I couldn’t figure out how to shut Diego up. It was like something inside of him had malfunctioned, and he was going to keep rambling until his batteries died.
“There’s an amazing world out there for you to discover, Henry Denton, but you have to be willing to discover yourself first.”
The bell rang, saving me, and we all rose like Pavlovian dogs, eager to run to our next classes. Except Diego. He was still sitting, like he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what. Finally I said, “What if I don’t give a shit about the world?”
Diego gathered our trash and frowned. “I’d say that’s pretty fucking sad.”