Carlos came from Guatemala to live with us when I was in 3^rd grade because Dad wanted me to learn Spanish. His father and Dad were business partners: the former provided pottery for the latter’s nursery. Carlos was in 6^th grade, stood a few inches shorter than me (I was big for my age), had black hair and brown skin that contrasted with my blond hair and fair skin.

            
            Despite Dad’s excitement for Carlos, Mom did not want him living with us. “Those bean burners always carry knives,” she said. “Ain’t you afraid he’ll hurt Hardy?”

            
            “Gal, we can protect our son in our house. The main thing is that Hardy’ll learn Spanish, and that will put him ahead of his classmates.”

             
            Carlos’s room was our sunroom. It was an addition, and the floor sloped away from the house, and there was a wooden door and an external black metal door that matched the bars on the windows. Both doors always remained locked, so Carlos had to enter and leave through the kitchen door like the rest of us. Seeing the bars around the room and especially the shadows of them during afternoons in his room, Carlos may have thought he had entered an upscale American prison.

            
            A medical bed sat horizontally on the far side of Carlos’s room. Dad bought the bed off TV hoping its vibrating massage would help his bad back. Dad slept in it for a year before moving back into the bedroom with Mom. Carlos’s room had only one item showing that he lived there: a drawing of a parrot.

            He made the drawing a few weeks after he moved in and used my markers to color it: orange, green, red—the parrot was vibrant and realistic.

            
            I was in 3^rd grade, but was in a 5^th grade reading class. Mrs. Ferguson, our teacher who pronounced “r” as “r-ruh,” held a contest to see who could draw the best animal. The drawing contest correlated to something we were reading, perhaps Animal Farm. Art, next to math, was my worst subject, but I wanted to win this drawing contest.

            
            Each day I arrived home an hour before Carlos, who rode a special bus for international students, and on the day the drawing contest was announced, as soon as I entered the house I grabbed the scissors and went to Carlos’s room. The parrot was drawn on a sheet of loose leaf paper, which I decided did not look good enough to win the contest. I cut along the outline of the parrot, so that the paper took on the shape of the bird. I knew what I was doing was wrong. This was Carlos’s parrot, and if I wanted to use it to win a contest, I should ask him. But he lived with us, ate our food, and had attracted Mary’s attention.

            
            The hour before Carlos arrived home dragged on, and as I waited, I played out different scenarios to his reaction. In all the scenarios, I would wait for him in the living room; I didn’t want to wait in my room because it was small and I could easily be trapped in it, but the living room was large, open, and if the need arose, I could make my way to the kitchen and out of the house.

Scenario #1: Carlos would enter his room, drop his book bag, see his parrot missing from the wall, and remain in his room trying to figure out what happened to it. Scenario #2: He would storm out of his room and ask me what happened to the drawing.

Scenario #2B: He would storm out of his room and accuse me of stealing his drawing. Scenario #3: He would storm out of his room and pull a knife on me…This last scenario scared me the most and had me sweating when I heard the bus stop in front of the house.

            
            What really happened (as I remember it): Carlos entered his room, dropped his book bag on the floor, and went to the kitchen for the can of Charles Chips Potato Chips that was delivered monthly to our house. He didn’t seem to notice that his drawing no longer hung on the wall. I was suspicious of his nonchalant behavior, so that night after dinner I joined him in his room and made a point of drawing attention to the empty space.

            
            He never picked up on my pointing and staring at the place where the parrot had hanged. Was he afraid to say something? Had his papa told him to go with the flow in the house?

            
            Here is what I believe he wanted to say to me: “You are spoiled. You think every thing belongs to you. You are fat and don’t know how good your life is.”

 

 
            When I took possession of Carlos’s drawing, I mentioned Mary. She was a sixth grader who lived a block away, but the year before when we were both in the same elementary school, she was the first girl I made out with. Her grandfather Ron and Dad were friends (Yes, Dad was the same age as her grandfather), and her grandfather poured the concrete for our pool. After that, Dad would invite Ron and his wife over for dinner, and for one of those dinners, they brought Mary. While only in 5^th grade, Mary developed early: she had curvaceous hips and small honey dew-sized breasts. People easily mistook her for a teenager.

            My initial meeting with Mary occurred the spring before Carlos arrived. Ron and Dad sat poolside in the shade of a table-umbrella with sweating Michelob bottles in front of them along with an open package of crackers and a half-eaten salami log. I stood behind Dad’s chair and Mary behind her grandfather’s. She wore tight jeans that accentuated her hips, and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt with three-quarter black sleeves. I thought Mary was cute first thing off, and therefore I found it difficult to talk to her.

            “Get me another beer, then y’all go play,” Dad said, handing me his empty bottle.

            “Get me one too,” Ron told Mary.                                                                    

            I was quiet walking to the house, quiet in the house, quiet on the walk to the old men...I thought for something to say, something to offer her…

            “Youwanttojumponthetrampoline?”

            She looked at me for what seemed minutes, then a slow smile parted her lips and I saw that her canines protruded, framing her two front teeth.

            “Yeah.”

            The trampoline was a dark blue octagon shaded by a fat oak tree. Shoes off and white socks glaring, Mary and I jumped on it. I found watching her go up and down rather enjoyable. I was taller than she only by a hair, but I out weighed her, and that extra weight came in handy as I strategically placed and timed my jumps, making sure of two things: to land as close as possible to her feet and a moment after her. Timing was the hardest part, because my feet had to hit the tarp while hers were still on it. When performed properly, Mary, with eyes wide and screaming, soared. 

            The jumping was good: I didn’t have to talk. But it couldn’t last forever. Plus, if the jumping on the trampoline lasted too long, I feared I would bore her, and there’d be no chance of her ever returning to see me. But what to do next? Entertaining a girl, especially an older girl that I liked, was new to me. And I thought she liked me. She didn’t tell me to stop making her soar, and that had to be a good sign. But what if Dad, the controller he was, made Mary be nice to me?          

            I jumped extra high, stayed in the air for what felt like a minute and hoped I wouldn’t ever land, but finally I did.

            “That was cool,” Mary said. “But doesn’t it hurt your feet when you land on the ground?”

            “Did my dad tell you to be nice to me?”

            Her mouth fell open and she slowed her jumping until she stood still in the center of the trampoline. “I never met your dad till today. And what kind of stupid question is that anyway?”

            “What about your grandfather? Did he tell you to be nice to me?”

            “No one told me to be nice to you,” she said, hands on those hips. “And I can’t see why anyone would want to be nice to you.” She made her way to the edge of the trampoline and hopped down and started putting on her shoes.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad." I lowered my voice and leaned over to her as she sat tying her shoes. “It’s just that my dad likes to buy friends, and I just wanted to know if you were being nice for real or not.”

            Mary left a lace untied and stared at me. Her deep brown eyes darkened.

            “I know what you mean,” she said. “My parents only let me go to the roller rink on Saturday mornings. They say at night it’s too dangerous, too many weirdoes.”           

            “At least you get to go roller skating. Dad won’t even let me do that.”

            “I bet he would let you go with me.”

            She tied her shoes and we walked together to the old men. The salami log was eaten and flies buzzed above the grease stained plate and Ron and Dad, hands gesturing and voices loud, were trying to top each other with stories of who had Naval bunkmates with the most flatulence. Mary and I waited for them to finish, and I made certain to stand close to her.

            Their stories, with laughter from both and a final curse from Dad, ended and Mary spoke: “Mr. Jones, would it be all right if Hardy went with me to the roller skating rink Saturday morning?”

            “That boy can’t skate.”

            “Yes, I can.” Although Dad knew it was a lie, he didn’t contradict me.

            “He generally helps his mama take care of her plants on Saturday mornings,” Dad said.

            “She won’t miss me for one day.” Although I hoped that going to the skating rink with Mary, or spending time with her period, wouldn’t be limited to just one Saturday.

            “You’re going skating again this Saturday?” Ron said to Mary. “You go every weekend. Thought you’d be tired of that place by now.”

            “No, sir,” Mary said.

            Why were these old men blocking my chance to be with Mary?

            “What time on Saturday?” Dad asked.

            “From ten to twelve, sir,” Mary said. “Sometimes a little later. But usually my mom comes for me at noon.”

            Dad turned up his beer bottle, drained it, and set it down. “I’ll bring you both on Saturday. Now go get me another beer.”

 

            That started a Saturday morning tradition (date, in my mind) that was still going on when Carlos arrived in August. Although Mary and I went to the roller rink every Saturday morning, I never skated. I always cheered her skating, played video games, and when Mary pushed me to rent skates, I claimed they were defective in some way that I only I could detect. 

            While Mary laced up her skates, Carlos hit the rink.

            “He skates good,” May said.

            “It’s probably the only way of traveling in his country.”

            “That’s mean.”

            Mary left me sitting and stewing. How could she brag on his skating? I never bragged about other girls to her.

            In two revolutions around the rink, Mary caught up to Carlos. They laughed, and I knew it was directed at me.

            A new song came on, a roller disco song from the 70s, and going into the first bend, Carlos bumped hips with Mary. I hoped she wouldn’t return his bump. They came out of the first bend and were at the top of the rink; Mary’s hands were above her head and she snapped her fingers, dipped her knees to the beat, and when she came up she bumped Carlos’s hip.

            He immediately returned the gesture, and so did she. My date, my girlfriend since last spring was with Carlos. They came bumping down the railing in front of me, and Mary smiled, but not for me.

            As they began circling the rink again, Carlos eased behind Mary and took hold of her lovely hips, directing them side to side. I knew Mary would put a stop to. He was practically on top of her, their bodies rubbing back and forth, yet she laughed and smiled and had a high old time with Carlos feeling all over her.

            I hurried to the skate rental desk, laced them good and tight, made sure no one was looking at me, and holding on to a chair I slowly stood. The skates raised me another three inches and made me feel top heavy. I tried to mimic the way Mary moved her feet, but instead of rolling forward, I stumbled and flailed my arms to keep from falling face-first. Mary and Carlos kept at it, and they had drawn the attention of the other skaters as well as the people in the concession area. All eyes watched them, which was bad and good. It angered me, because I should have been out there with Mary. But it also meant no one was paying attention to me almost killing myself with every move.

            I slowly rolled through the concession area into the sitting area, and I no longer flailed my arms to remain standing. I pushed off with one foot, rolled a little ways, and then pushed off and rolled again. Not expert skating, but I moved and didn’t fall.

            I waited until Mary and Carlos were on the far side before easing onto the rink. I stayed close to the wall, touching it every few feet for additional balance and an extra push. I had not fallen and was fairly confident when Mary and Carlos came by holding hands.

            “Looking good, Hardy,” Mary said.

            Encouraged by Mary’s words, I moved away from the wall and increased my speed. Instead of pushing off with one foot and rolling to a stop before pushing off again, I pushed off with my left foot and while rolling I pushed off with the right foot and slowly built up enough momentum to catch Mary and Carlos.

            I tried to sidle up next to Mary, but this meant moving diagonally, which proved too awkward. I lay sprawled on the floor and Mary turned and saw me. I knew she was coming to check on me, but she only watched me as she skated backwards.

            I got to my feet as other skaters whizzed by laughing, and I made my way to the sitting area. After a few more circuits, Mary and Carlos came over panting.

            “You not skating more, Hardy?” Carlos asked.

            “I hurt my hand when I fell.”

            I hoped Mary would sympathize.

            “You don’t skate on your hand,” she said.

            I kept the skates on until it was time for Dad to pick us up.  

 

            I came in third place in the drawing contest. At the time I was angry for not winning, but I knew I did not deserve to win. Instead of listening to my conscience, I blamed Carlos for all my problems and knew that once he was out of the house, my life would be perfect.

            I began bad-mouthing Carlos to Mom, who then told Dad. The first thing I told was that Carlos stole money from the video games at the skating rink. I never saw anyone steal money from a video game, but I created an elaborate lie in which Carlos threatened to cut me with his knife if I didn’t agree to be his look-out while he jimmied open a video game’s coin slot.

            I only saw Mary a few more times after that. Part of it was our age difference and different schools; but in retrospect, that day skating was the end of Mary and me. Carlos wouldn’t call me spoiled, but I will. As well as insecure. Instead of having two friends, I ended up with none. Carlos returned to Guatemala over Christmas break. Those rare Florida December mornings cold enough for us to see our breath is a good memory of Carlos. He was from the lowland jungles and unaccustomed to weather that cold; he enjoyed pretending to be a dragon, and I played along too. Boys pretending to be dragons, yet one slew them both with jealousy.