06 | emotion

IT TOOK EMONI a week to notice his shift in behavior, and when she pointed it out Wesley shrugged, smiling.

“This is how I act all the time.”

“No it’s not, chacho,” she deadpanned, slurping at the Ramen noodles she’d ordered them for dinner. “And it’s creepy, but if you’re happy then, no me importa.”

He wasn’t happy, but he was as close to it as he had been in a long time. She just didn’t know it had anything to do with a boy.

Of course she’d heard of his escapades from her friends―the girls and boys they saw him bring home while she worked the night shifts―probably because of how much of an anomaly his presence created. You see, there were Black and Hispanic, with some lower-class white folks sprinkled into the mix even; but not a lot of Asians lived on their block, or even in this part of the Bronx generally. But Emoni minded her business and had only brought it up once.

He hadn’t lived with her for up to three months then, and they’d been in the middle of watching one of those soap operas she was so obsessed with that only aired on Telemundo, when suddenly she lowered the volume and looked him dead in the eye.

“You’re being safe?”

He didn’t need any clarification on what she was asking, and still picking at his finger nails he scoffed.

“What do you take me for?”

“A goddamned hormonal seventeen year old boy is what,” she said. “Now answer my question.”

He glared at her, but boricua came from the hood. She had seen worse, and only returned his hard glare with a look to match.

After a moment’s pause, he murmured, “Yes I am.”

Emoni eyed him suspiciously, but nodded finally.

“It’s a start. Just be careful who you mess around with,” she paused. “And if anything goes missing in this house, it’s coming from your upkeep money.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Sometimes, a persistent wheezing started up in his deaf ear and he would freeze up, waiting for a blow that never came. He'd remain like that for minutes, heart thudding, eyes blinking back tears in rapid succession. He could never pinpoint any specific triggers, and episodes seemed to occur sporadically.

His head was an unconventionally loud place, fueled by nicotine and white noise, with the poetry it allowed him to write.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

With the end of his senior year fast approaching, Wesley decided to clean up his act and tried to make up for all the classes he’d slacked on―divvying up his time between studying for finals, talking to Wyatt, and a part time job at a not so shitty restaurant a few blocks away from where he lived. A job he’d gotten through the recommendation of one of its waiters, a kid he went to school with.

Sure he did the dishes and cleaned table tops, had to wake up at ungodly hours of the morning just to be on time. And it was true that he didn’t need to, but making your own money was a giddy feeling. He’d even began to slip twenties into Emoni’s purse whenever he had the chance to.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing, like when he had to excuse himself from American History to head to the back of the school building for a smoke, shaking until he took a drag that he savored for longer than necessary; or when in the middle of one of their texting sessions Wyatt called him Wes and he froze, not replying until the next day: don’t call me wes.

oh ok, was all he said, and they picked up where they left off, good as new.

He still didn’t think it was love, but he could see himself loving Wyatt Carter, who was smarter than anyone he’d ever met and had an aura of mystery that hinted at the many, many layers of himself he kept locked away; and even though he was no stranger to beauty, he couldn’t deny that homeboy looked like a thousand bucks twice over, so there was that too―though he could be mad confusing sometimes, and found a way to make every conversation about himself.

Wesley didn’t find it annoying though. In fact, he liked those small, simple, flaws.