Curtis Salazar

"Curtis," I hear my name but I pretend as if I don't, one of my eyes peeking open and looking at the rectangular alarm clock on my bed side drawer, the red digits clearly said the time was 5:30 am— meaning I had another whole hour to sleep before I wake up for school.

"Fucking hell," I grumble, pulling my duvet over my head to block out the knocking sounds still coming from my door and maybe hoping it helps me disappear.

"Curtis!" My dad calls louder and bolder, losing his calm. I throw a mini fit on my bed, wondering what he wants with me this early. "I am coming in," he announces a second before the door opens and I feel him step into my room.

I stir, pulling the duvet down and pulling myself up to a sitting position. I watch him look around my room like he hasn't been here in a month, which he hadn't and I roll my eyes, yawning exaggeratedly like it was the creak of the door opening that woke me up. I look at him, feigning surprise. "Dad?"

Victor Salazar is a man that even though I've known him all my life, I can't really explain him to you because 'know' is an exaggeration here. Yes, he is my father and maybe he loves me as every parent loves their child but he's almost as distant to me as an Uncle who lives on the other side of world and you only hear of him but never really see him or to be more relatable— as a grumpy goth teenage girl who works at the cash register for McDonald's. The worst part is it's the same story for both my parents, I'm even closer to Miss Liu, Timmy's mom than I am with them. At least she knows I love cheese and hate pickles. If I were to pick who loved my more among both my parents, I'd strangely pick my dad.

Yes, he occasionally gives me a slap or two when I misbehave and he imposes his dreams and goals on me and I have to follow his rules and way of living all the time but... At least it shows he cares and wants what he sees as the best for me. My mom doesn't care; I don't even think she'll care if I stop breathing today, as long as I do it low-key without embarrassing her or the family's name.

My father walks to the curtains and pulls them open, exposing the awakening sun's rays into my room and making me squint a bit, getting adjusted. "Don't you think 5 am is too late for you to be sleeping in so deep like a drunkard?"

"Sorry, I had a late night," I lie. I didn't have any late night and even if I did, 5 am is too damn early for me to be awake for Christ sakes. "Good morning." He is already dressed in his impeccably ironed suit, shining shoes and dolled up hair.

He doesn't reply and instead throws a calendar that I didn't even notice he is holding until it lands on my duvet. I immediately frown, knowing what it is and picking it up anyway. "The season is picking up already, isn't it?"

"Yes," I answer, my voice low with an anger and sadness I couldn't control. More sadness than anger.

"Right, so I added a lot more ice time to your schedule. You plan on getting drafted this year, don't you?" He asks, like it's my fault and decision for not getting drafted earlier. Well to be fair when I told him the disappointing news of how I didn't get drafted, before he could get pissed I had stupidly said to my defense, 'well, there's still senior year'. At that time it looked like it won't come, at least not in the next ten years but then here I am a year later. Is this Karma? I'm not sure. I don't get a chance to answer him though because he continues, "because as you know, there's no other year after this one. This is your last chance."

"I know," I say, biting on the insides of my cheek, feeling this nauseousness that usually came with tears.

"Well," he sits on my bed and doesn't say anything else until I'm looking at him, eye to eye. "Stick to your schedule and we might all get what we want, isn't it?" I nod, he does to. "I spent a lot of time on it and I'm getting you a cook and giving her your diet plan," his hand comes around and holds me firm around my neck, forcing me to keep looking at him. "I'm doing all this for you and your future. Nothing can come in our plans, ey? Not after all our hard work. Just a little more and the sky would be your limit, get it?"

I nod.

"Good," he taps my head a few times before getting up to his feet and taking out his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hand. "I'd keep an eye on you, try not to get distracted." He starts walking to the door, then stops. "Oh and of course, I didn't exclude your play time. After all, all work and no play, makes Curtis a dull boy." He chuckles at his own joke, before becoming serious again. "Yes, on that note, try to make it to first in your year this year, okay? Afterall, you can't just be only an Ice Hockey star player, now can you?" I don't say anything and thankfully, he doesn't demand an answer to that. "Take good care of yourself, son. I'd see you later."

I keep staring at the door long after it shuts until my eyes slowly lowers to the calendar I'm gripping tightly with both hands.

Monday - morning exercise, breakfast, school, lunch break (eats healthy packed lunch), school. With or without practice, spend at least an hour and thirty minutes on the rink outside school (I've booked your hours for the rest of the season), spends two more hours reading in the library (home or towns, IDC), dinner and five hours rest.

Tuesday - morning exercise...

I don't continue reading because it becomes impossible to see through my tears filled eyes. My fingers tighten around the calendar and I shut my eyes close, letting the tears fall. For fear that I would tear the calendar to shreds at this rate, I fling it at the wall, pulling my knees up to myself and burying my head down letting the tears fall freely. I won't say I'm one who cries easily but when it comes to my father, I am a cry baby. He just knows how to intentionally or unintentionally press the wrong buttons and the crippling devastating thing is, I can't do anything about it.

Drafting, moving to first in the year... Drafting, moving to first in the year... Drafting, moving to first in the year...

My throat starts getting clogged up it becomes difficult to breathe. I feel like my throat is swelling up like I swallowed a football ball, my eyes bulge and I feel as if they are about to pop out my head. I roll until I fall harshly on the floor with a thud and I swear, I feel as if my life is slowly seeping out of me. My shaky hands reach for the drawer and I fail to grab the handle three times before my finger finally gets hold of it and I pull with all my might, nearly making the wooden part leave the drawer's whole body and scatter it's contents to the floor. Thankfully, this isn't a new happening and I've used precautionary method, keeping a pack of my empty brown bags at the top. I quickly grab one, my hands were shaking badly and it looks like all the blood on it is draining or turning cold. Forcing myself, I push the brown bag to my mouth and start taking in deep, long inhales and deep long exhales making the bag shrink in and balloon back up.

It's okay Curt, it's okay.

"It's okay Curt," Twelve year old Timmy's hands pat gently on my back. "It's okay."

I continue the breathing ritual until my throat feels free again and the blood returns to my face and hands. My fingers are still shaking but... Baby steps. Tears that didn't stop rolling down continue as I toss the bag away and sigh deeply, resting my head back on the edge of my bed. I try to distract myself with good memories but all that comes is the memory of the first time I had a panic attack.

I was twelve years old, almost thirteen and it had just dawned on me that my dad wanted me to make Ice Hockey a life long sport and maybe even a career. Up until then I had no idea, I just knew I started skating at the age of four without any choice in the matter even and then I joined the school's Ice Hockey team as early as I could and was commended on my expert skating skills. I continue playing and for most part it was fun and it made me have a lot of friends. It's not something I wanted to do for the rest of my life but then my dad caught me dancing the day before in the ice rink, doing mad spins and feeling very happy as Timmy and I laughed and he praised me. Unfortunately, the happiness was very short-lived because Dad wasn't happy about it and he dragged me out of there by my hair. I got an earful that day and a slap when I told him I liked dancing. He made sure it got ingrained in my skull that I was born and meant to be an Ice Hockey player and that was that.

I couldn't sleep and I thought about it up until the very next day and Timmy and I were walking in the hallway when it started. I suddenly couldn't breathe and the world started spinning on my feet. My vision blurred the longer I choked and I could hear Timmy screaming my name until I fainted. I woke up in the clinic, Timmy holding my hand, his entire face red with tears. My mom was there to and they concluded that it was a panic attack resulting from stress and the nurse recommended the brown bags. Mom took me home and confined me to my room for one week rest. The second panic attack happened that same week in the ice rink and it was just Timmy and I, for some reason he had a brown bag in his bag and while I tried to calm down, he breathed with me and patted my back, muttering; "it's okay, Curtis. It's okay." I think it was more his faux calmness that helped me and when it was all over, we lay on the cold ice rink in silence, my head on his leg just breathing. I didn't tell my parents and I haven't told them of any of the other numerous attacks that have happened.

Sometimes I wonder if my mom remembers that day or if she thinks I'm healed and incapable of getting stressed again because she has never mentioned it. But then neither has she mentioned my Ice Hockey, my eating habits or anything pertaining my life at all so, it's not really surprising.

I stay sitting in that position until my alarm rings for school and I feel so numb, it feels like the crying took out all my energy. I push myself into the bathroom and start getting ready for school and I briefly consider calling Timmy over but then I'd still meet with him later and there's no need spoiling his morning too with my problems. When I get dressed and ready to leave, I'm stopped my a lady that runs out from the kitchen.

"Sorry, Good morning Mister Salazar," the woman greets, smiling widely at me. She has a formal skirt and blouse on with an apron over it and her ginger red hair is covered with a hair net. "I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you I have your breakfast ready. You dad said you shouldn't miss it and I just started today," she smiles even wider. "Wouldn't want to get on his bad gracies Sir."

Never a minute to waste, I see.

I sigh, leaving my bag to drop on the floor and walking into the kitchen. "I don't care for introduction, I'd just call you Cook and you can call me whatever you deem fit." She follows me with my bag in her hand.

"If you say so then," she crosses over to the other side of the counter, passing me a plate of French toast and bacon with a cup of coffee. "Sorry, we didn't really have time to talk, I don't know your tastes. You don't mind coffee do you? It's black and I could put in anything you want—"

"It's fine," I cut her off, gulping down the cup of bitter black coffee. I love my coffee creamy and sweet. I love the almond milk coffee Timmy makes.

"Okay," she passes me a book. "Please fill in your food allergies if you have one and your favorite and worst meals. I have your schedule and I'd try to make you healthy and fitting meals at all time sir."

Of course you do. And of course it isn't fair pouring out my anger on the poor innocent woman doing her job but the anger has to go somewhere...

I gobble down my toast, she hands me my lunch and I take it quietly, leaving the house as fast as I could. I couldn't wait to see Timmy, he'd definitely make me feel better, this has been a shitty morning. I watch Timmy's mom's car drive off just before I enter mine and make my way over to his house making my presence known by pressing on the horn. Timmy wastes no time in coming out but by the expression on his face and walking step, I immediately know everything isn't entirely okay. He looks like he barely slept and something troubles his mind. I watch him walk up to the car, get in and we exchange absentmindedly greetings before he starts bringing out his camera; a move that says he's not really in the mood for talking much.

I start driving and I can't stop occasionally glancing at him. My own problems from this morning slowly seizing to exist as I wonder what might be wrong with him. Then I flash back to our last encounter and we were talking about how to kiss. My eyes widen a bit again and I glance at him— is that what's bothering him? I myself too spent my night thinking about it and how it would work out before my dad came this morning and ruined every thought for me. Is Timmy really freaking out about kissing me? I get why he would freak out though, we're best friends and kissing is a big deal to him.

The thought almost, very slim small almost made me laugh. I can't even remember my first kiss or when it happened. I just know it happened at a young age and in school, nothing else. I guess that's the difference between Timmy and I, he's really sensitive and romantic. On that note, I should probably be sensitive and romantic about kissing him too. Should I get him flowers and chocolates? Should it be something quick and passing or slow and sensitive? I glance at Timmy and decide against the flowers, he'd freak out more about the flowers than he's doing about the kiss. We were almost at school, the dreaded theater for our act.

"Are you okay?" I finally find my voice to ask, glancing at him as he blinks back to the present from wherever his mind is at.

"Um yeah."

It's not entirely true. "You seem preoccupied in thoughts," I tell him, noting his expression as he sees how far we've come from when we left his house. I mentally sigh, I can't be responsible for my best friend losing his mind. "Look, Timmy, we don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"What?" He asks and for a second, I wonder if it's actually the kiss that has him worried or if something else happened. I drive into the school and move to my usually parking spot that is thankfully still open. "Curt, I'm fine."

After I'm done parking and switching off the car, I turn to Timmy, narrowing my eyes a bit at him and looking over his face. His small brown eyes, small nose, small pink lips, big glasses and almost perfectly neat arranged bangs. If there is something else bothering him, why won't he tell me? His eyes looks a bit sad and I hate it. Fine, even if there something else worrying him, I'm going to eliminate one problem at least; the kissing problem. I nod, determined and get out the car. My eyes immediately meet with that of Nadia's. She and her flock are resting and gossiping by her purple car. She smirks at me and does the universal sign of I'm watching you. I smirk back, all the more reason to do the kissing now, we'd be killing two birds with one stone— it's a good day to watch me.

I start walking over to Timmy's side and he's already out of the car. He looks at me confused but I don't let it deter me, fixed on goal. Suddenly he chuckles, "you know you're unbelievable, right?"

I stop, "what?"

Timmy closes the distance between us and then the whole kissing thing becomes all too real. He's saying something that has to do with my tie as he fixes it but all I can see are his pink lips and how I'm planning to kiss them. I've seen these lips almost everyday since we became friends years ago and never once have I ever pictured myself kissing them. Kissing... I become hyper aware of my beating heart and apparently from the raised brow and confusion written on his face, so does Timmy.

It's now or never Curt.

I exhale, closing my eyes briefly and begging that I don't fuck things up before I open them again, more determined than before. "Look, Timmy, I'm just going to do it."

"Do—"

I don't let Timmy complete his words before my arm goes around his waist, pulling his body against mine with just our uniforms separating skin on skin. Timmy's eyes widen in surprise and my other hand holds his hand before I lean down and touch his lips with mine, my eyes closing shut at the contact. Timmy freezes, his body going stiff and I become hyper aware of everything and my surroundings. I can hear Nadia and her group go silent with surprise, I can hear footsteps stop moving on the granite stone ground, turning to watch us. I can even hear camera flashes as people use their phone to take pictures.

Focus, Curt. This, if not anything else, must look believable.

Timmy's still frozen and I have a hunch, his eyes are probably still wide open. I don't dare open mine to check because I know if I do, I'd be discouraged and this kiss would be over. It's not like I've forgotten how to kiss and yes, this is my first kiss with a guy but it's still a kiss. I move my lips against Timmy's still ones, my hand on his hand slowly moving up as I continue to move my lips. I feel Timmy unfreeze in my arms, his body relaxing as he moves his lips in sync with mine. My heart skips at the simple act and I lose all awareness of our surroundings, getting more awareness on how soft his lips are and how his heart is pounding in tone with mine and how I feel different; every nerve in my body feels Timmy lips on mine and though the feeling is unexplainable, it's one I've never felt before with anyone.

I feel Timmy's hand move from my tie to rest over my beating heart and another finding it's way to my hair, holding my curl with purpose and delicacy. A content sigh leaves my lips and my hands hold Timmy tighter as we kiss like it's something we've been doing since birth, like it's the most natural and free thing in the world.

I didn't know it but kissing Timmy brought me a kind of peace and contentment I didn't know existed and I could feel every worry evaporating out of me in that moment, my only focus— Timmy's lips.

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