Keith and Stanley joined a late lunch with Jake, Paolo, and me. The menu listed so many dishes I had never tried. I asked Keith to order something for me. He did, but I couldn't pronounce it. He said it's like ravioli, but without the over-cooked ground beef. My mouth watered at the aroma of sauce, and broth rising to my face. The flavors were so rich with creamy white cheese stuffed in each pasta square. I could have eaten a whole other plate.
The bill was enormous. I couldn't imagine spending so much on a single meal. My friends and their families took care of me now. How long would that last? I hadn't been home in nearly a week. My dad hadn't responded to a single text through all of this. Maybe he was dating some poor woman, terrifying her rather than me. Still, it was strange to get nothing, nothing at all.
Stanley asked me about the away meet. I told him I probably couldn't go. When he pressed me why I tried to dance around the fact that I simply couldn't afford it.
"You're going to that meet, Bret", Jake said, "Don't worry about it."
"You're, uh, too generous, I can't--."
"Oh, we insist, Mijo," Paolo said.
"No," I said with more force than I intended.
Staring at me, the group went quiet, their gazes bouncing around to one another.
Head lowered, shame and pride battled in my brain.
"I'm not the only one who's going to, uh, have a hard time going," I said.
After another brief pause, Jake said, "How about this? Get the team together and fundraise, and I'll talk to Keith's parents and some other swimmer families to match."
In agreement, Stanley and Keith nodded, verbalizing.
With a shrug, I expressed doubt and apprehension.
"You and the team will have to work for it," Jake added. "It's not a giveaway."
Quietly, I tried to re-establish eye contact with anyone.
Keith put his hand on my shoulder. "The team needs you, buddy."
"And it'll be a blast!" Stanley added.
Finally, I nodded, forcing a smile. "How do we fundraise?" I asked.
"Oh, I have some ideas," Paolo said with a devilish grin.
***
With my thumbs tucked under the elastic of my shorts, shirtless, I said, "I'm not so sure about this."
"It's fine," Stanley said.
"Yeah, Rudder, all the swim teams do this," Keith added, using my establishing team nickname.
Hoses in hand, both hunched over blue plastic buckets, filling them with water, suds accumulating at the surface. I scanned the empty driveway in between the road's asphalt and the closed gay bar that was donating the space and water. In return, they only requested we fundraise during their operating hours, selling Jello-shots. That didn't sound legal, but the Dads assured us that it was cool if we were only serving the alcohol.
Finally, I pulled my shorts to my ankles, only a tiny speedo and flip-flips covering my skin. Michael, the Mormon, continued to wear his shorts but agreed to go topless.
Lotion in hand, I pressed a dollop of sunscreen into my palm, rubbed my hands together, and spread the stark white cream over the whole of Keith's back while Stanley helped me with the same. I was very thorough, going at least an inch below the edge of his drawstring and leg elastics.
"Need any?" I asked, my gaze targeting Michael.
Avoiding my eyes, he meekly answered, "No."
"Are you wearing some?" I asked.
He waved his head.
"Come on; you need some at least."
He shrugged and walked toward me. From my hands, he snapped the bottle of sunscreen.
Initially, that put me off, but he didn't mean it. He's just anxious and uncomfortable, at least that's what I told myself. The sunscreen blotched over his shoulders, chest, stomach, legs, feet, and neck. He was trying and failing to reach each part of his back, but stubbornly refused to ask for help.
"Here," I said, offering my hand toward the sunscreen bottle, "I'll get that spot."
Michael plops the bottle in my palm as if defeated, as if he'd conceded something far greater.
Over the spot, I rubbed in a generous helping of lotion and spread some particularly poorly applied lotion over his sides, shoulder, and neck. I saw him turn his head to look at me with suspicion. Then I snuck a dab on each of his ears.
He lunged away, patting his ears, studying the substance on his fingers as if checking for blood.
"Rub that in, Michael," I said. "Don't want to burn those cute little ears."
He looked away again, his face flushing red under the cloudless, searing sky.
Keith waved at people driving past, pointing to the very nice-looking signs Paolo made for the carwash. In sneakers, he bounced around, yelling, "Your car's dirty!" "Car Wash here!" "Support your local swim team!" His perfect swimmer's physique and hairless skin, 95% exposed. He seized the attention of onlookers and brought in our first customer.
It was hard not to admire Stanley's confidence and commitment, too. He wore a tight, stylish white suit. The contrast with his beautiful skin was envy-inducing. Exhibitionist that he was, each car occupant got a show, his suit partially see-through when wet. He'd rub his crotch and ass against the front side windows; we laughed, Michael pretended to ignore.
Pairs of men sat in the front of most vehicles. I asked Stanley why that was, and he said it's because his Dads thought we'd do best near the gayborhood. The 'gayborhood.' I'd never heard that word before, but understood immediately.
During a lull in business, Keith sprayed the cold water from the hose at unsuspecting teammates. The short, muscular guy who swam in my lane, Cody, shrieked when Keith got him.
A customer rolled down his passenger window and called out to me, "Hey sweetie, will y'all be around tonight?"
"Mm-hm," I nodded. "Almost, uh, all of us will be."
"The one near the street?" the guy asked, pointing in Keith's direction.
I smirk, "Yes, sir."
"Hot," he said, grinning. "See you there."
Over at Michael, I shift my gaze. "What about you, Mike?"
"It's Michael," he said.
"Are you coming to sell shots tonight, Michael?"
He shrugged with a bit of an eye roll.
"Why not?"
"Too late, early church," he answered, stringing more words together than I'd ever heard.
"How, uh, about, I, uh, make sure they don't, uh, keep you too late, and then, uh, go to church with you?"
He lit up, "Really?"
"How early are we, uh, talking?" I asked.
"9:15"
"Ok, yeah, sure," I answered.
I got his address. His parents wouldn't allow him his own phone. So he gave me his house number.
***
"Home by 11," Michael said as he slid into the backseat of Stanley's Benz next to me.
