Rafael snaps back to his senses and slams the door shut.

From the outside, he says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I mean, I didn't hear running water, so I asked myself if everything's fine. I'm leaving dry clothes here. Hope they'll fit."

He goes silent for a few seconds. "I'll be downstairs helping my mother finish lunch." One more sorry, and I hear him step away in the hall.

I sigh. And do things one by one: pull my pants up, stand, walk up to the sink and get the damp sheet without care. Then take a warm shower and pick the clothes Rafael left at the door.

The rain is still pouring outside as we sit around the Furtado's table once I come downstairs. From the transparent windows, I glance at the sky, not any different from that morning. It won't be different that night. Except that it will be dark, and maybe the rain would cease.

Mrs. Furtado is kind enough to call Lia herself before we begin eating.

I ignore Mr. Furtado and Rafael's attempts to engage in banter around the table, focusing my ears on Mrs. Furtado and what she would tell Lia.

The only thing I'm able to understand clearly enough is when she tells Lia not to worry about me.

She joins us around the table with a smile. "Done, we're adopting you for the rest of the school year" she says, leading Rafael to look at me amused.

I'm still not over the bathroom shock, so I look down to my empty plate.

During the meal, Mrs. Furtado insists that I call her Beatrice, every time I address myself to her. She also frowns on what she deems as being overly polite. By that she means my seemingly thoroughness while using cutlery. And my insistence in complimenting her food and my sparing of words. I have no idea what that last one even means.

Compared to home, there is a clear contrast in the way they speak and eat around the table. Sometimes they even laugh with their mouths half full. It's clear that Rafael's father is dying to abandon us and go watch his game, but the other two don't seem to care.

There is something different about Rafael here. As if the version of him that is here is his real self and his school version just a mere shadow of him. Or maybe he had just completely outgrown that shy version of him I used to know.

I realize now that a lot can happen in two years. I have been looking at someone, thinking I know them, when in reality he is already someone else. Not shy, anymore, just calm, and confident enough to remain unpopular despite leading a club in school. He doesn't need to appear cool to actually be cool.

Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, unable to come out to my mother, with bad grades and possibly no friends. Even when I'm able to get a fairy Godmother from God knows where, I somehow repel him.

I'm jealous... Of Rafael? That's it. I've reached rock bottom.

When lunch is over, I help Rafael clean the table. I'm aware that all I have to do to go home is ask their parents if they can drive me there. I was unsure about going to Rafael's at first but being away from home was exactly why I went biking this morning. I guess that is a win. Now Mrs. Furtado, herself, has put her finger on it and talked to Lia. So, I'm fine.

Rafael leads me to the kitchen table where he deposits the dishes. Then, he carries them to the sink and begins scraping leftovers from them with a sponge.

"I'm sorry for the bathroom incident earlier," he laughs nervously, "I would never have thought you-"

"Don't talk about it." I turn to the window because my head is hot. I can feel my blood rushing down my neck. I had my underwear on. No big deal.

He mumbles an okay and begins washing his hands. "So, how's life?"

Pretty original. I shrug. "I'm supposed to say I'm fine. So, I'm fine."

"You're not supposed to say anything. You don't even have to answer if you don't feel like it. Or ask me back how my life is going because that's what I was expecting you'd ask afterwards." He laughs.

I move from the table, resting my his against the edge of the sink and look at him. "How's it going?"

"Good, actually. We'll be having new members at the poetry club next week. Sophomore babes." He's wearing that sly smirk on his face again. "I'm really glad you came to the club, man. I hope you're liking it so far."

The problem isn't the club itself. The problem is that I can't focus when I'm there, and it's undeniable that my poems are shitty. At first, I wasn't trying hard enough. Or at all, but after two weeks, I'm still only able to utter gibberish that is phonetically painful to listen to.

"My life has been shitty lately," I say. He turns off the tap and rubs his hands clean of the foam in an apron hanging on the wall. I guess that's his way of making me understand he's not uninterested in what I have to say.

He encourages me to continue with a raise of his brows. "I'm failing at school."

"Oh," he says. "That's all? I mean, isn't it too soon to assume that you're failing anyways, since finals will only come in two months."

Of course, that's all, but we're not exactly friends, so I can't tell him everything. "Maybe," I say defeated.

"I thought Jord was the reason," he says calmly looking at me like he was expecting a reaction.

"It's that obvious?"

"Yeah, it's pretty obvious."

"He left me a poem inside my locker." I have it with me. I scoured my pocket and took out the crumpled piece of wet paper. "Well, used to," I say as I look sourly at the piece of wet paper in my hands.

Rafael comes near to me and helps me open it, as if gently taking out the leaves of a cabbage before cooking it. The words Jay at the top, blue, and will you pursue still read clearly. The rest was an unreadable mess of ink.

"Who am I even kidding?" I smash the whole thing among my fingers and throw it into the garbage can. Then, I'm embarrassed as I inspect the dark blue stain painted on my palm.

He gestures to the sink. And start washing my hands while he goes to fridge to get fresh water. He pours himself a cup, widening his eyes and gesturing with the bottle towards me. But I refuse the offer.

While I'm rubbing soap on my hands he asks, "so, he said he liked you too?" he takes a sip of water, "in the poem he wrote to you, I mean."

I thought so when I first read it and convinced myself he did every time his mixed signs led me to be doubtful. I always had the poem inside my pocket. It was like reading the Bible whenever you're feeling hopeless and need reassurance of some kind. Well, now it's gone.

"I don't know. I'm so confused."

"Confused," he says, suspenseful. "Can I tell you something about love?" he asks, seeing my skeptical look, he adds, "I've learned a few things through the years," he says. A three-second silence ensues and we both laugh.

"Dude were both sixteen," I say.

"Yeah. But," he ponders, "just ask him what he wants. How about that? What's the harm if he wants it and you do too? There's this party at Patrick's next Friday-"

"Yeah. I know," I say. The door of the kitchen creaks open. I'm thankful his mother walks into the kitchen at that precise moment, excusing me of having to say anything more.

"Go for a digestive walk or something," Beatrice says, "I'll take care of the rest here."

It surprises me that Rafael invites me to his room. "You'll have to get your clothes back at some point," he says when he picks on my uncertainty, already leading the way outside of the kitchen.

The room is dim when we enter it. When he turns the lights on, it is as if an old world comes to life. His world globe isn't the typical blue, plastic thing, like the one I had on my desk at home. His stand is wooden, sculpted and polished but still rough. There are bits of maps written on old yellowish paper scattered on the walls of the room. I think he has a thing for antiquities.

Among all the other objects, the one that catches my attention the most is a board fastened to the wall with eleven photos. I recognize the person in the most recent ones. It's him, in front of what seems to be a bookstore. The same one each time. In each photo he is grabbing a book and smiling to the camera.

He nears me with a box in his hand. "You like it? We take a photo there every year."

"Where's it?" "My favorite place in the world. Escadinhas de São Cristovão in Lisbon. It's considered the smallest library in the world, but I doubt it's true. My father is from Portugal. We go there almost every year to visit my grandparents. I always pick a book there, but I have only read three of them from start to end." He laughs. "What's your favorite place?"

"I don't know. I haven't traveled much, really."

"Who says you need to travel to have a favorite place?"

I shake my head. "I think I don't have one."

"Scrabble?" He raises the box in his hands and shakes it.

"I don't play. . .uhm. Actually, I have to go home. I have a few things to finish," I lie. "Can you ask your parents if they can drive me home?"

"Okay," he says. "I'll go get your bike in the garage."

On the drive home his father's questions begin with my name and suddenly go farther: where I live, my parents' names-- just in case he knows them, he explains himself. Then, my age and why he hasn't met me before if I went to middle school with Fafa-- as he put it. At some point Fafa starts to respond to the questions himself curtly, making sure he showed his annoyance to his father. It's strangely entertaining to watch.

When the car finally stops in front of my house, I have the impression of having discovered something I'd missed in a long time without being aware of it. I miss Dad so much right now. Rafael doesn't know how lucky he is.

Even though the sky is already dark. It's not technically nighttime yet. Lia acts as nonchalant as usual at my arrival. She lets me go to my room without even asking where I was. It's when It's starting to get dark that she comes to my room.

I already know I'm in trouble, so I just brace myself and listen to her.

"Listen, Jason. I'm trying my best and it doesn't seem like you care about any of what I have to go through to keep a roof under your head and keep bringing food and taking care of you and your sister."

"What are you talking about?"

She sighs and pushes her hair behind her ear. Her hands are on her waist and she ponders there, as if she was trying to contain her anger or measure her words. "Mrs. Gilbert called me. You didn't tell me about the written convocation she gave you. I am tired, Jay. You already don't seem to like me; I don't want to have to hate my own son too. So, tell me what I should do now?"

She's actually waiting for me to suggest something. I'm confused. "You always end up grounding me anyway," I lash out in the end, "why bother?"

"Really, that is all you have to say? That's really what you want? Grounded it will be then. Think about what you are doing then come to me when you think you're ready to suggest something else."

She slams the door behind her, like she always does, and I go back to my phone, like I always do.