Plus, Gaspar is really cute, thought Pablo, but then he bit his lower lip because he knew he wasn’t supposed to think about that. Just last week his father had grabbed him by the hair, all because Pablo had taken a long time choosing what he was going to wear to his uncle’s birthday party. His dad had never done such a thing before: his mouth reeked of mate when he said: “You wouldn’t be a little bit faggy now, would you?” Pablo liked to dress well. He’d said as much to his father, who had nearly hit him for it. When they got home from the birthday party he’d come up with a plan: he listed all his clothes on the last page of a school notebook, in three columns, and then he linked everything with arrows, a kind of summary chart using different colored pens, the way he’d learned to link sentences in class. He had to memorize the combinations or check them quickly before going out, and that way he wouldn’t waste any more time trying to see if the brown corduroy pants went with the green shirt or not.

Gaspar never had those problems. Right now, Pablo was watching him walk up with his bike in a thin, mustard-colored sweatshirt that was a little too big for him, with blue jeans and Topper sneakers, and there was nothing so great about those clothes, but they sure looked great on Gaspar. Even if he wore something weird it came off cool: for example, he’d wear really long leather belts that hung off him. They were his father’s, and sometimes he had to wrap them twice around his waist. Still, the men’s buckle and the worn leather didn’t look like a costume, they provided just the right touches to make him stand out from the rest. Of course, it wasn’t just his clothes: it was his way of brushing his hair from his face, it was his long legs and dark blue eyes, round and seemingly innocent—at least until he smiled or got mad. Then something really weird happened, because the expression in his eyes would shift just slightly; Pablo didn’t know how to describe it, but it was something he both liked and distrusted—it reminded him of his cat, the way he’d purr as you petted him and then suddenly strike for no reason, with no real intention to wound, just to make it clear that he’d gotten what he needed.

When he reached Pablo, Gaspar pulled a piece of gum from his back pocket and offered it to him, a little squashed. They started to blow bubbles on the sidewalk, under the protection of a balcony that acted as a roof, because it had started to rain.

“Will you come with me to the park?” Gaspar pointed to the bike. “I went flying, you should have seen it, but I didn’t get hurt.”