four

I gaze out at the water as it steadily drips from the sky, pounding down onto the sidewalk terrace before the front of the building. An awning is protecting me from getting drenched, but I know that if I take a single step forward, then I won't be shielded any longer. All I have on is a flimsy sweatshirt and my shorts. I forgot to pack a pair of sweats this morning, and now I'm wholly regretting it. My legs are freezing and beginning to shake from the cold. Though it's only late fall, the weather has been particularly colder lately.

           "Do you need a ride home?" a voice suddenly pulls me out of my thoughts.

           I glance up and stare a sweat-drenched boy. He has had the intelligence to bring pants, so his legs are currently not as chilly as mine. In addition to his sweats, he's also wearing a fleece jacket. Out of the two of us, he's clearly the one better equipped for what Mother Nature has decided to throw at us this afternoon. I look at him for another short moment before finally managing to respond: "Uh, what?"

           "Do you need a ride home?" he repeats dully, adjusting the duffle bag that hangs over his shoulder, so that it no longer threatens to slip off.

           I bite the edge of my lip instead of replying, because technically, the answer to his question is no. No, I don't need a ride home. But alternatively, I definitely want one. So, I say a stretched out, "No..."

           And he asks, "Then why haven't you gone to your car yet?"

           "Because Jason has it," I grumble, really not too thrilled with my big bro right now. He doesn't pry, but I explain to him anyway how Jason and I have to share a car and how Jason usually gets rides home from friends on Tuesdays but today—of all days—has decided to take the freaking car, leaving me to walk home. In the rain. With only a sweatshirt and shorts on. He just nods as I tell him, and I end with an awkward, "So, like, yeah."

           Then, he begins to walk away. No parting word. No wave. Not even another acknowledgment of my existence. He just goes, and jogs into the storm. I want to call out and tell him that he's being a dick—leaving me and all—but I don't, because chances are that he won't hear me and he's not actually being a dick. My having to walk home in the rain isn't his problem. It's mine. He asked if I needed a ride, and I told him that I didn't. So he left. And he had every freaking right to do so.

           I wrap my arms around my waist, hugging myself, as my teeth chatter and I begin to ponder if waiting out the severe shower would be worth it, or if I should just swallow my pride and call Jay or one of my parents. But then after a couple long moments of mutely deliberating, I'm suddenly hit by a splash of water. Clumps of droplets hid my bare legs, drenching my sneakers, and I feel just like a Popsicle. I shiver, and then the idiot in the car who has just drenched me rolls down his window. It's him. Again.

           "Get in the car, Sal," he commands, and I don't argue.

           I clutch my bags, and then make a mad dive for the vehicle, pulling the passenger's door open as fast as I can and slamming it shut just as quickly. Only when I have safely secured my seatbelt do I allow myself to breathe. Then, I curiously scan my new surroundings, and assess that through the mess of empty potato chip bags and crumpled up past academic assignments, this is the car of the average American teen. The driver, however, is anything but average.

           "Where to?" are the first words he utters as he begins to drive away from the building in which we both obtain our current educations.

           "My house, preferably," I say, tucking away a loose strand of hair that has somehow escaped from the clutches of my ponytail. He stares at me blank-facedly, so I give him my address and make him promise that he won't stalk me, to which he counters that if he wanted to stalk me, he would already know where I live by now. It's a valid point, so I don't refute it, and thank him for offering to drive me.

           "You were pretty good today," he tells me, smoothly navigating the roads with a relaxed yet attentive grip on the steering wheel.

           "Pretty good?" I scoff. "I was great!"

           He shrugs his shoulders, and just says, "Next week we'll start on dribbling."

           "Like, with a real ball and everything?" I exclaim, suddenly growing excited.

           "Yep."

           I smile happily, and watch as the raindrops race down the windshield, every so often colliding with one another. In addition to being in the process of defrosting (well, attempting to), I'm also currently not succeeding at ignoring the spiraling pain that every inch of my body feels due to how much my muscles were worked just minutes ago. Today, Ezra decided to have us explore the realms of setting picks, something about rolls, and more defensive stances. None of which are as fun as they don't sound. There was a lot of running and awkward contact with Ezra due to the drills we were doing, but it was nothing too bad (though, my legs would beg to differ).

           Silence consumes the automobile for a long while, until I finally recognize the street that he turns down. Like everywhere else right now, it's coated in puddles the size of lakes, and the sky is still a wet gray. Houses blur by my vision, and then we're coming to the middle of the road, to an all too familiar house that qualifies as being my home. Most of the lights are out and there aren't any cars parked in the driveway, so I don't know who's home. Regardless, a sudden chill of warmth spurts through me at the realization that I'm home.

           He slows down and then stops his car by the sidewalk that wraps around the yard of my house like a moat. I unbuckle my seatbelt, about to thank him and run, but then I pause as my hand brushes against the handle of my door. "Hey, Ezra," I begin hesitantly.

           His heads slowly turns towards me as he asks, "What?"

           "Do you, uh, want to come in?" I gulp, feeling awkward as the question exits my mouth—like it's something I shouldn't be asking or something.

           Ezra stares at me for a prolonged minute, carefully stretches out the word "sure," and then we both bolt from his car. I'm carrying my backpack and basketball duffle, and his hands are empty. We only get marginally soaked, and then the porch roof shields us from the rest of the incoming rain. I'm ready to drop the items in my hands so that I can open the door, but then without even requesting, Ezra takes both bags from me, and I let him. Reaching into my pocket, I extract a key, and then insert it into the correct slot on the doorknob.

           Before I push the door open, I look over to Ezra warily. "Jason might be here," I warn.

           He just nods dully and says, "It's his house. He has every right to be."

           So then I twist the handle, and let Ezra and myself into the shelter. I keep quiet, and so does Ezra. We wipe our feet off on the welcome mat, though I know that only one of us is actually welcome here. Even though this is the place that I've spent majority of my life inhabiting, I feel slightly like an intruder, because I'm bringing Ezra, and I know that Jason doesn't like Ezra. But Jason doesn't control my life, and he can't stop me from trying to be nice to someone who I genuinely don't mind. I am, however, a bit apprehensive about the possibility of running into my brother. With Ezra. As siblings go, we're pretty close, but having Ezra with me is like poking the bear with a metal rod.

           Maintaining that cautious silence, I tiptoe deeper into the house, and then soundlessly ascend up the stairs. Ezra follows my lead, staying just as noiseless. When we reach the top of the steps, I turn to the right, and within seconds, I'm standing before a closed door. The name "SAL" hangs in carved primary-colored letters on the plank of wood that allows entrance, exit, and privacy. I reach out and turn the handle, slipping in with a boy hot on my trail. Then I close the door and watch as he looks around.

           Thankfully, my room isn't one of those embarrassing ones belonging to a teenage girl who has misguidedly decided to conceal her walls in posters of boy band members (that would be the bedroom of my dear friend Alisa), which is why I'm not too worried about Ezra's seeing it. As rooms go, it's pretty plain, to be perfectly honest. The walls are bare for the most part, with the exception of a few photographed memories hanging here and there. On the floor, clothing is strewn about haphazardly, for it has been unable to complete its journey to my laundry basket. There's a bed of cocooned blankets, a desk of crinkled papers, a dresser of makeup products that are rarely used, and a beanbag chair. More clothes spill out of the erupting closet, and though it's fairly messy, I wouldn't change a thing.

           I don't apologize for the disarray, though, even when Ezra's eyes widen a considerable amount at the sight of certain articles sprinkled across my rug. As casually as I can manage, with my pointer finger and thumb, I pick up a neon pink bra by the straps, and toss it away, so that it's out of view. But Ezra notices. And he also sees a few pairs of underwear that are conveniently located among the heap of other items on my floor, so I don't even bother hiding them. So he now knows that I wear thongs? Big freaking whoop. It could be worse.

           "Uh, well, it's definitely a room," Ezra finally mutters once he's done with his surveying.

           "That it is," I agree, kicking off my shoes and leaving them in the exact place that they come off.

           His eyes flick over to the location of the two articles that I have just taken off my feet, and his face contorts in confusion. "Were you just wearing your basketball shoes?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

           So I say, "Uh, yeah, why?"

           "You shouldn't wear basketball shoes outside of the gym," he tells me. "It'll wreck the traction on the bottoms, and you'll get dirt on them."

           "Dirt?" I scoff. "So?"

           "So, you could slip on the court while playing, and seriously hurt yourself." His arms cross over his chest triumphantly, for he knows that his point is a completely valid one and that I believe him. I just roll my eyes and stomp over to my bed, outstretching my legs as a yawn involuntarily emits from my mouth.

           Before my bonding time with Ezra, I somehow accomplished the majority of my homework, which was an amazing feat in and of itself. There isn't anything I have to do that's due tomorrow, and long-term assignments are considered "long-term" for one very important reason, that being that they're long term. So because of my fabulous brain and time management skills, that means that homework is completely out of the question this evening. Besides, even if I try to do more work, I probably won't be able to. My attention span is pretty short and limited, after all.

           Ezra awkwardly stands at the edge, right by the door, as if he's about to jet off and leave. I reach over to the end of my bed for my laptop, and then flip it open, mentally weighing out my options. Instinctively, I end up on Netflix without even a single coherent thought. So I ask Ezra: "Do you want to want to watch a movie or something?"

           And he stares at me for a while, like Ezra has a tendency to do, and just shrugs, saying a fatigued, "Sure."

           I pat on the space beside me, indicating that he should totally sit down so we can awkwardly share the experience of Netflix together from the comfort of my bed on my dear computer. Before he sits down, however, I instruct him to take off his shoes, which he does, and then his rain-drenched sweatshirt also comes off, leaving him in just a pair of sweats, a thin white tee, and socks. Then he hesitantly climbs on my bed, and settles about as far away as possible from me, because he's trying to be a gentleman and all that shit, but it's still pretty weird.

           Following our set seating arrangements, the next challenge that arises is what exactly to watch. We're both I'm-chill-with-whatever-you-want type of people, so after an idiotic argument about neither of us wanting to take charge and decide on a flick, Ezra finally caves admits to liking comedies. I suggest High School Musical (the first one, obviously). We settle on Zoolander, and are both quiet as it begins to load, and I silently pray that my Wi-Fi doesn't decide to be sucky right now.

           "My legs hurt," I randomly complain, watching intently as the little circle thing increases in percentages.

           "That sounds like a you problem," Ezra mocks with a cracked smirk. Then, he reaches over to me, and pokes my freaking leg. AFTER I HAVE JUST TOLD HIM THAT THAT EXACT BODY PART HAPPENS TO BE HURTING. I wince in pain, and he laughs. But I don't find it funny, and make sure that my facial expression gets that message across loud and clear.

           "Uh, that wasn't very nice!" I exclaim. "My legs are killing because they're weak from all the running you made me do, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't poke them, dude."

           "Your legs aren't weak, Sal," he laughs.

           "Oh, really?"

           "Really," he challenges. "They're doing this thing called 'gaining muscle.' You should look it up some time."

           I roll my eyes at him childishly, and then smile as the movie loads fully. The credits and some music start to play, leading into the opening scene. It's a pretty stupid movie, but Ben Stiller is great, so he counteracts the dumbness of it all. Ezra isn't looking at the screen, though. Instead, his eyes are gazing at me, but not on my face or my boobs or any other part of my body that typical boys would choose to stare at. He's observing me in my general direction, but not anything in particular. Just the whole gestalt of me, I guess. He wears a face of deep contemplation, and I wonder what thoughts are circulating through his mind.

           Suddenly, he blinks, and I can't read the emotions swirling through his mind. He grabs my calves in his hands, and places them over his lap. My heart beats fast as he touches me without any introduction, because, well, I'm a teenage girl and there's a teenage boy who isn't totally ugly or an idiot or a douche or a corpse in my bed, and his fingers are brushing against my legs, so how am I supposed to react? Ezra begins to rub the raw skin sprinkled with bruises and floor burns from the nasty game we've been training for. His touch is gentle but firm, and soon he's kneading my tendons, and I let him. I don't know what caused him to take such a leap of faith, but I don't complain. Oh, and Zoolander is continuing to play all the while, though now serves are mere background noise. Neither of us is watching.

           "Uh, Ezra," I gulp after a while, his actions causing me to go into an almost therapeutic-like trance, "what'cha doin'?"

           "You said that you're legs were hurting," he mutters, "so I'm giving them, uh, a massage..."

           "Oh," I say, and then shut up.

           He keeps his fingers pressing at my ligaments for a while, never going above my knee, which is a good thing, because from my knee up is kind of a no-go zone, because, well, it is. So he stays with my calves, and I don't know what possesses him to do it, but he just does. And I'm thankful for it, because while it's more than a little awkward, it's also really nice. We stay like this for a while—with Ezra massaging my legs as I try to follow the movie and forget that he's massaging my legs. Then, like all good things, this one comes to an end. But not some boring, mediocre end that involves Ezra saying something clichéd like, "It's getting late; I should probably get going." No, this particular ending brings the whole freaking roof down like the Big Bad Wolf has just paid my house a little visit.

           It all happens so fast. One minute, Ezra and I are doing our thing and Ben Stiller is doing his thing. The next minute, there's a knock on my door, and then two assholes storm into my room, one in a blur of blind rage and fury, the other in a daze of resentment. They're both speaking, though one is yelling, and the other just looks confused. The leader of the two can't decide who he's madder at—Ezra or me—so he switches off between reprimanding me and screaming bloody murder at Ezra. I remain calm throughout, keeping a straight face and trying not to laugh. Because I'm one of those people who laughs at the most inopportune times—like when someone is in a fit of fury, geared towards me. And Ezra just keeps at my legs, and fixes his eyes on the screen of my computer, which I have yet to pause, so Zoolander is still playing.

           "ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME, SAL?" shrieks the angrier of the two.

           "No," I reply honestly in the dullest tone I can muster.

           That really seems to ignite the dynamite lit under his ass, for he then grows red, and I just know that things are going to end badly for one of us. "What. Is. He. Doing. Here?" he seethes, emphasizing every other word as he points to Ezra.

           I glance over to Ezra, as if to ask, "Who? Him?" But I know that that'll just irritate him more into punching a wall or coming close to doing some like it (like punching Ezra, for instance), so stifle a snarky comment. Instead, I respond in simplicity: "Watching Zoolander with me." But he isn't satisfied with my answer, and I realize why the moment I see what he's intently staring at: my legs—which are still in the clutches of Ezra's dexterous hands. So, to appease the pissed off party, I tuck my calves away under my thighs, eliminating the problem entirely. "Jay," I sigh heavily, "we weren't doing anything. After practicing, he gave me a ride home because you left me car-less in the pouring rain. I invited him in, we started a movie, and then he gave my legs a massage because they hurt like an MF-er. Get your mind out of the gutter, bro."

           "Kyle could've given you a massage!" fumes my brother.

           "Yeah," Kyle nods along agreeably, shooting daggers at Ezra, and I can't really blame him. This weekend, we went on our second date. It was relatively uneventful and the dearth of stimulating conversation could've driven a monkey crazy. But it was fun and Kyle was hot. He hadn't tried anything with me, and I was pretty darn glad about that, because when the day did inevitably come that Kyle decided to pull a move, well, I'm not too sure how I'll react.

           "Well, Kyle wasn't here, and Ezra was, and this has absolutely nothing to do with anything!" I say, my own voice raising an octave. "You bring friends home all the time, Jay! Discouraging me now for doing the same is setting a double standard—besides, you're not the boss of me!"

           "Bring Alisa home! I really don't care! Just don't bring him!" Jason yells, and the house stands still with the combination of the ire and the rain.

           "Would you have rather walked in on me half-naked with some random boy, Jay? Is that what you're telling me?" I counter, not backing down for even a millisecond. Over the years, I've had my fair share of verbal brawls with Jason. Neither of us is headed into law any time soon, so the majority of them result poorly, but I can definitely hold my own against my brother. It isn't an impossible deed.

           "Honestly...yeah. Yeah, I totally would've rather walked in on that," he admits, not bending the truth for anyone's sake. Ezra begins to shift on my bed, but I place a firm hand on his leg, indicating that now isn't the time to move. "I probably would've killed the guy, but it would at least be better than him!"

           "Jason, just get the hell out of here!" I whine.

           "No, he just needs to get the hell out of here," Jay fires back. I groan audibly, and then it occurs to me that not only has Ezra now seen my pristinely chaotic room, but now Kyle has, too. And that includes all the undergarments sprinkled about. Great. Just flipping great.

           "I don't want to cause trouble," Ezra begins, about to continue, but then Jay interjects.

           "Then leave," he says sharply, "and never freaking look at my sister again, let alone talk to her!"

           "Jason, just shut up!" I snap, slamming my laptop shut and causing Zoolander to temporarily disappear. "You can't control everything, and you can't control me! I'm not a baby, so just shut up, leave me alone, and go have fun screwing Kyle or whatever it is that you to do in your room. Alone. For hours. I don't care. Just go away!"

           There's a faint smirk on Ezra's lips, but he doesn't let it show, and then before I can stop him, he's standing up, and getting off of my bed. He walks over to where Jason and Kyle are, somehow not tripping over anything, and then whispers something to them. I don't hear what it is, and Ezra doesn't turn back to look at me. He just slips through my door, and all I can discern are his hurried footsteps as he jogs down the stairs. I hear the front door open and close, and then I know that he's gone. And now I'm the livid one, but the other two seem to be perfectly pacified.

           "Uh, just for the record, I, uh, don't swing that way," Kyle says uneasily, referring back to my suggestion that he and my brother were in some way intimidate. I would probably laugh if I weren't so outraged.

           "Happy, Jay?" I shout, crossing my arms tightly over my chest.

           My brother just sends me an all too calm grin, and replies with a smug, "Over the moon, Sal. Over the freaking moon."