Half a World Away

This Friday is our weekly Chores Day, and since Ruben and I are off for the summer, his parents send us off that morning to go get some shopping and errands done. Even my mom calls me at nine thirty that morning to make sure I check up on some orders she called for for her party planning company. I tiredly roll off of Ruben’s bed and onto the floor, onto Ruben’s makeshift bed and, soon after, Ruben’s arm, to reach across him and snatch up my phone.

“Ow, man,” Ruben groans tiredly, voice three octaves deeper from sleep. Eyes still shut and eyebrows furrowing, he tries to remove his arm from underneath my ribcage — to no avail. “Get ‘offa me!”

“Shut up,” I grumble while pressing the ACCEPT button on my cell. “It’s my mom. Hello, ma?”

“Scout,” she shouts, the television in the background. “I need you to stop by Clark’s Deli and make sure my sandwiches order is ready; and make sure to drop it off to Raja’s if it is. Alright?”

Right, I remember. Chores Day. “Alright. We’ll be up in a minute.”

“You’re not up yet?”

I frown. “No. It’s almost,” I check the clock. “ten in the morning.”

“You’re gonna make my arm fall asleep,” Ruben begs from beneath me. “Get off.” I purposely place more weight on him, only for him to cry out, “Dude!”

“Well,” my mom finally says on the other line. “get a move on, then. I can’t wait all day.”

It’s only nine, I think, but I say instead, “Okay,” and hang up, tossing my phone carelessly across the room. When I roll off of Ruben and beside him, he lets out a pained gasp, immediately checking his arm for damage. Aside from his usual scars from doing stupid shit, it’s fine. “You are a drama queen, y’know that?”

“And you’re heavy,” Ruben spits back. “It’s too early for this.” He rolls onto his side, tossing the blanket over his frizzy hair. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“No you’re not.” I grab the blanket and try to force it off, but he holds on tight. “Dude, c’mon. Please.” We both know I won’t be able to get it off of him no matter how hard I try, so these little arguments usually end in him finally obeying and doing as he’s told.

This morning is no different. Ruben obviously loosens his grip, because the next tug I try makes the blanket fly out of his hands, revealing a half-dressed Ruben with crazy hair and a pout on his tan-almost-sunburned face. “I hate you,” he says. “So fuckin’ much.”

“Well, you’re not supposed t’love me,” I mock. “It’s chores.” Ruben pulls a face at me while I get up, patting his shoulder twice on the way. “C’mon. Toss something on.” I search through the bottom drawer of his dresser, where my own clothes are normally kept in case I randomly decide to sleep over again in the future. Ruben and I used to share his bed whenever we finally decided to go to bed, but, once, Patrick walked in on us and thought we were secretly gay lovers, so that’s when Ruben decided he’ll take the floor and I’ll have the bed. It’s been like that ever since.

By the time I’ve got my shirt on and am pulling up my jeans, Ruben’s taken to, thank the Lord, brushing his hair, tying the dry waves back into a half-assed ponytail when he decides that it’s not worth it having it free on such a hot day. He catches my eye in the mirror, realizes that my usual teasing about his hair is coming on, and quickly looks away. “Don’t look at me, you perv. I’m practically naked.”

“I’m just proud,” I say, wiping away a fake tear. “You’ve finally tamed that head of yours.”

“Not everyone can have easy hair like yours,” he counters grumpily.

“But everyone can get a haircut.”

Ruben takes his time replying, having to get to his feet and sift through a couple of old tee shirts sitting near the corner of his room first. “Cara says it’s apart of my charm; who am I to deny the ladies?”

“Ben,” I sigh. “she’s the only girl to tell you that.” I stifle a smile as he mutters underneath his breath at me. “Maybe this is why you’re still single; you always listen to what lie Cara feeds to you next.”

Ruben pulls a shirt over his head, fixing it proper on his torso. “No,” he tells me. “I’m single because I hang out with you too much. Maybe in college I’ll find a girl who appreciates both me and my cool as fuck hairdo.”

Ouch. That one stung a little. Way to remind me of the topic I’m trying to avoid: leaving for college. I look in the mirror next, trying to look unfazed, and mumble a pathetic, “Whatever.” I tuck my dark brown fringe back from my face, frowning when I notice that my hair has grown a little too far underneath past the nape of my neck to be comfortable. I’ve always been one to have my hair long — mostly because I’ve been receiving compliments on its thickness and length for years — but this is becoming Ruben Bad fast.

“Okay,” Ruben says out of nowhere. When I turn around, I notice he’s fully dressed. “I’m ready to go, slowpoke.”

“Right.” I grab my wallet and stuff it in my back pocket. “Let’s get this done so we can go hang with Cara and Harrison.”

“No can do,” Ruben says as he follows me out. “I have to work today. Harrison and I are on the same shift.”

I glance back at him. “Really? You have work on Fridays now?”

“Mr. Martin Willard himself called me yesterday asking me to come in; something about Alice being sick. Who knows.” He shrugs at me while we make our way downstairs and to the foyer, where we slip on our sandals. “‘E called Harrison too, apparently.”

I pick up the list of errands that Ruben’s mom usually leaves for us by our shoes and walk outside and into the smoldering heat. The sky is clear today, meaning the only shade we’ll have is if we go indoors or stand under a tree. It hasn’t even been five minutes and I’m beginning to sweat.

“Then,” I say. “I’ll just ask Cara if she wants to hang around the bakery later on. I have nothing else better to do until tonight.”

“Night shift?”

“Unfortunately. Peter’s Pals is twenty four fucking seven.”

“Sucks.”

We head down our neighborhood’s street in following silence and have to walk a little while farther, around a couple of blocks, to get into town. By now, all the stores are opening up, flipping their signs on the glass doors with sleepy yawns, and some unlucky early shoppers (much like Ruben and I) are already on the prowl, some stray bags dangling from their wrists.

We pass by Ruben’s job, and we can’t ever walk on without Ruben having to, like an awful tick, turn right in through the doors and say hello to Martin, his manager and the guy who used to yell at us whenever we rough-horsed in town without adult supervision. I amble by the door with my arms crossed and the shopping list dangling from my right hand, watching as Ruben leans over the glossy counter and bangs at the annoying little bell over and over until Martin and his Soul Patch mustache walk out from the back room.

“Jesus Christ, Ruben,” Martin sighs on his way out, an empty pie pan in his large, square hands. “I thought you were someone important, the way you came up in here.” Martin, for as long as we’ve known him, has always been working in this bakery; and although the employees that work alongside him have been fleeting — save for Ruben — Martin has always been Auburn’s little constant. His bakery is like the center of our town, the place we go after homecoming night or our high school football games or just to hang out until ten p.m., when Martin locks up for the night. I like to call him Auburn’s Father.

“Sorry,” Ruben says quickly, like an overactive child. He starts bobbing up and down on the toes of his feet, still sprawled across the counter like a careless idiot. “Just wanted to see how you were doing. It’s been forever.”

Martin pauses to look at him, fixes his droopy gaze at me, and then looks back at Ruben with the same expression. “We saw each other just yesterday. When I asked you about coming in later on today.”

“Yeah, but it still feels like forever.” Ruben grins as Martin shakes his head, scratches at the remaining tufts of brown hair on his head, and turns to put the pie pan on a table full of them behind him. “How is Alice, anyway? You’ve spoken to her?”

“Just about an hour ago, actually. She still sounds awful.”

“Sucks.” Ruben makes a genuinely concerned face while absently watching as Martin goes to the back to retrieve something else. Ever since, back in our senior year of high school, Ruben suggested Alice go and work for Martin at this bakery, he’s been concerned about her work ethic. Something about her diligence reflecting on him, since he’s the one who ‘sold’ her to Martin; which, yeah, it sort of makes sense, but the length he goes to assure that Alice is performing at maximum strength is a little excessive.

Hell, everything he does is a little excessive.

“Yeah,” Martin calls from the back. He eventually emerges again with a few more cleaned pie pans. With one more glance at me, he says, “So. You two doing your usual chores like a bunch’a slaves?”

“Sadly,” I finally say, taking one more step into the bakery. It smells sweet and toxic, like floor cleaner and baking cake. “We have to get going now or else my mom’s gonna blow up my phone asking for this sandwiches order.” When Martin just gives me his signature weary look, I clarify, “Blow up my phone. Meaning, call and text me over and over.”

Martin nods. “Oh. Right.” He swats at Ruben to get him off of the counters, to which Ruben groans at, but obeys nonetheless. “Well, you two should get going, then. I myself need to do some chores around here before I really open up for business.”

“Just give me a call if there’s anything you need help with,” Ruben tells him while backing up in my direction. “You know, heavy lifting, or delivering, or anything.”

“I’ll be fine,” Martin assures him. “Really.”

“Even without Alice?”

“Even without Alice.”

Ruben nods at him, albeit it’s a little hesitant, and then slaps my hip on the way out the door, a silent signal to follow his lead. I do. “I’m still kinda worried about her, though,” he tells me, his dirty blonde eyebrows furrowing. “Maybe we should take a trip down to her place on the way back from all these stupid chores. Just to make sure she’ll be okay.”

“You’re going overboard now,” I say, smoothing a loose strand of hair out from in front of my face while I scrutinize the writing on our list. “Alice just has the flu, or something. She’ll be okay in a couple of days.”

“But,” he protests. “I need to at least make a doctor’s visit; when you’re sick you need to see the faces of your friends or else it’s bad luck.”

“Who the fuck told you that?”

Ruben shoots me a look. “Regardless, we need to see Alice. At least for a couple of minutes. And we can bring a peace offering. Like flowers, or something.”

Now I’m looking at him incredulously, face contorting into a mix between confusion and surprise. “What?” he asks me, mentally retreating from his previous comment, and that only serves to make him look even more guilty.

“Flowers?” I ask. “What, you’re interested in her now?”

Ruben gives me a shocked look, almost one of a man who was just offended. “God, no,” he stammers, nearly losing his footing at the curb when we cross the street and get back up on the sidewalk. The deli is only a few stores down, now, and he’s losing control over the situation fast. “I can’t just be worried for a girl that’s a friend? I have to automatically like her now, too?”

“I’m just saying,” I say.

“Just saying what?”

“You didn’t bring flowers for me when I got sick.”

“What,” Ruben asks with a smirk, trying to diffuse the situation. “you want me to bring you flowers when you get sick?”

I feel my face get instantly hot — with either shame or embarrassment, I decide — and I tell him, “Don’t you dare turn this back on me, Ben. You know what I mean.”

Ruben deflates, and that’s when I know I won. He gives me a pathetic little shrug, fixes his ponytail when there’s nothing, really, to fix, and sets his gaze ahead, at an older woman just crossing in front of us. We both give her a polite smile, to which she returns one, and then we’ve fallen back into the conversation without verbal decision; his constipated expression returns in a flash.

I should’ve seen something, I thought. I should’ve seen the signs that Ruben was into Alice when he first begged Martin to give her a job. But Ruben has always been that laidback, cool type of guy that would do that for people, regardless of any previous interactions he has had with them. So when Ruben was vouching for Alice and super sympathetic when she told him she recently got fired from her job and was unemployed with bills she needed to help her father and handicapped mother pay, I saw nothing wrong with Ruben doing this for her. It was usual, nice him.

Turns out Ruben has ulterior motives. I just have to hope this all turns out well for him in the end.

We’re just a clothing store away from the deli when Ruben speaks up about the topic again, telling me, “She just seems like a fun girl to hang out with until the fall. That’s all, really.”

“No, I get it,” I say, keeping my eyes ahead and steady. “You want to finally date someone before you head off to Stanford. That’s cool.”

I can feel him looking at me, gauging my reaction, and I have no idea why it’s pissing me off, but it is. I feel uncomfortable, I decide, with Ruben treating this whole phenomenon like it’s so foreign that he has to proof it through me before it’s given the okay. Like maybe our worlds are much, much closer than I once believed; so close that our asteroids are colliding, universes creating black holes in the chaos of it all. Ruben’s not as far — or as close — as I’d like him to be, and it’s a confusing feeling.

“Yeah,” Ruben says, uncertainty found on his tongue. “you’re right.”

The deli can’t be close enough in that very moment; once we step out of the heat and into the cool atmosphere of the store, I feel myself relax. Cool air blasts onto our faces and the electronic bells chime, announcing our arrival. That’s when Braxton, one of the loyal employees there, glances up at us from his superb sweeping job and gives us a warm smile and an equally warm, “Hey, boys,” his whole demeanor inviting.

“Brax,” Ruben returns the greeting, waving excitedly like he wasn’t just nervous and fumbling a minute ago. “We’re here to pick up an order for Scout’s mom?”

Braxton has to stop to think for a moment before his face lights up and he answers, “Oh — right! Those were finished up before we closed last night, actually. Lemme just go ask Clark about them. Hold up.” We say quiet okays while Braxton leans his broom against the counter and disappears behind the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, it swinging on its hinges before it stills.

No one’s at Clark’s Deli yet, leaving just the two of us on the floor, waiting patiently for Clark to show up. I keep my attention on our to-do list while Ruben examines the menu board hanging up behind the cashier, the list of foods written in fake chalk.

“The BLT,” Ruben says, mostly to himself. “Good stuff.”

A second or two later Clark is bursting onto the floor through the back, Braxton and another employee, a girl with a blonde afro and huge brown eyes, following behind with the several bags in their hands. “Well, look who it is,” Clark coos, a big smile spreading on his doughy face. “My favorite sons.” He pats Ruben’s head and just waves at me, knowing for a while that I’m not much for physical contact.

“Hi,” says Ruben cheerfully. “We’re here for Scout’s mom.”

Clark laughs like a jolly old man, despite being none of the above. With a squeeze to Ruben’s shoulder, he tells him, “Of course you are, boy. I have her order right here for ya.” He glances back at Braxton and the blonde afro girl. “D’you need help carrying all of this to the place she needs them?”

“Naw,” Ruben says before anybody can say something else in protest. Like the stubborn, I-can-do-all-of-the-heavy-lifting douche he is, he grabs as many bags as his arms can handle and then some and leaves me with the rest — a single order of three sandwiches. “I got this.”

“Be careful now,” Braxton warns Ruben as he hands me the remaining bag, giving me a short smile. I return one. “They’re heavy.”

Ruben passes all of them a strained smile, rocking to and fro as he balances the bags. “No problemo. Raja’s is not that far from here.”

Clark gives him a contemplative look. “Try not to drop them; I know Mrs. Bo, and she won’t be happy if they’re delivered messed up.” Which, in Clark’s language, is really, “Don’t deliver those sandwiches destroyed, because the customer will complain to Mrs. Bo, who’ll complain to me, and it’ll make my business look bad.”

“No problemo,” Ruben assures him again. “Let’s roll out.”

“Bye,” I say, and then we’re out of the nice, cool store and back into the horrible heat, battling the rising temperature and rising crowds of people. Ruben powers on ahead of me, bags swaying off his arms and from his wrists, while he sings himself a merry song and plants one sandal-covered foot in front of the other.

He’s getting looks by now, causing unnecessary attention to himself like he often does when he wants to display how big and strong he is. Like father, like son, I suppose. This is no different from when we were in middle school and Ruben was just getting into working out excessively; he’d show himself off to anybody who bothered to look for more than a few fleeting seconds, which, translated, meant me.

“Look, look,” he’d cry in the hallways or out in the bus lot, when school let out. There, he’d pick up any girl that’d let him, or try to climb any tree or locker until a teacher or supervising adult told him to stop before he harmed himself or others. Of course, he never did, and he was deemed the Busybody Kid amongst the middle school faculty before the eighth grade rolled around.

But now, at eighteen, he can cry, “Look, look,” while doing something equally stupid, like carrying over twenty bags of sandwiches orders, and no one will tell him to stop because he’s (supposed to be) a responsible adult now. If you ask me, he’ll always be that kid back in middle school screaming for attention. If you ask me, he’ll never be able to take care of himself alone, ripped from this world, in Stanford.

We get through town and back into the neighborhood, the houses bigger and more grand on this side. Raja’s home is luckily just two doors down from the entrance, so we’re up onto his doorstep in no time. Ruben’s visibly sweating and tired from carrying his load when I’m ringing the doorbell and waiting as the prolonged chime is heard from inside the foyer. Ruben takes a heavy breath; he doesn’t have much more time until he drops something, I speculate.

“Order from Mrs. Bo,” Ruben gasps when, eventually, Raja Sarin is opening the door and examining Ruben like he’s some kind of spectacle. Which, I don’t blame him; while Ruben tries desperately not to lose his footing, I hang my head, shielding my face — and any visible second-hand embarrassment — from view.

Raja nods. “Yes, of course,” he tells us, then backs up to grant access. “Come right on in. Go to your left and put them in the kitchen, please.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, then nudge Ruben forward so he can take the lead. The wide, high-roofed foyer room is cluttered with stacked dining table chairs, properly wrapped presents, and boxes of what I assume are decorations. The whole house smells like a mix between Martin’s bakery and the deli — there’s a clash of oven-roasted meat and freshly baked cupcakes in the air.

When we get to the food-infested kitchen and find a spot to put the bags on the counter, I tell Ruben, “God, you’re so unprofessional.”

He takes a quick glance at me as he spreads out the boxes evenly on the countertop, between the packaged cookies and a platter of crackers and diced cheese. “What? It’s hot as fuck outside and carrying all of these wasn’t an easy task, I tell you. That was almost as tough as carrying you up that hill in your backyard.”

“Still,” I insist. “You could’ve at least introduced the company name before you mentioned the order was from ‘Mrs. Bo’. And stopped all that panting, while you were at it.”

“We’re teenagers,” argues Ruben. “not your mom’s paid employees. If she’s going to ask me to get up at nine in the fuckin’ morning to deliver some stupid sandwiches, then she gets what she gets.” He starts fixing his ponytail again, avoiding my glare by leveling his eyes on the clutter of sandwiches. “I’m not here to be ‘professional’; I’m here to finish these chores.”

I shake my head at him, trying to fight the growing annoyance since we’re in another person’s home, but unable to completely accomplish that. “This is your problem, y’know that?” I take a pause, only leaving a mere millisecond between our breaths to think about it before I finish with, “This is why you can’t keep a girlfriend.”

Ruben practically scoffs, his attention instantly on me. Placing his hands on his hips, he shakes his head and tells me, “Wow. So you’re going to go that low now?” The look he’s giving me — one fighting between both anger and hurt — makes the annoyance gradually subside to a painful guilt. Because I barely get a look from Ruben that doesn’t have joy hidden in there somewhere too often; only when I dig too deep.

“See,” he tells me, now looking away, he’s so ashamed. Fuck. “that’s your problem, too. Just because somebody doesn’t think exactly the way you do you have to go and be an ass.” He starts to walk towards the door as Raja ventures, curiously, inside. “I’m sorry no one’s good enough for perfect Scout.”

Raja turns his head to watch Ruben’s retreating back, then looks back at me, one thick eyebrow slowly raising. “Huh? Something wrong?”

He must see the hot, untamed shame on my face, because his own expression softens and he quickly diverges from his question. “Thanks for your help. Be sure to tell Mrs. Bo a thank you, too.”

My voice cracks as I say, “Sure thing,” and then I give one last silent farewell before I’m weaving through the boxes and stacked chairs and trying to catch up to Ruben. But one thing that Ruben is, aside from all of this sudden and unwarranted drama, is fast. And when he’s mad, he’s even faster, me a witness from having seen him bolt out of his house when he gets into arguments with his father, or climbing the tallest tree in my backyard when he doesn’t get his way, remaining there until midnight.

Right now, though, things are different. Because it’s not a disagreement with his father or him being forced to go visit some cousins instead of coming with my family to the city; it’s an argument with me. And although our arguments are very sparse, when they happen, they blow up. This has been the fastest he’s gotten pissed at me in forever.

I should’ve suspected mentioning his lack of a girlfriend was a soft spot. Ruben’s been making small mentions about feeling lonely without anyone while all his friends are ‘hooking up constantly’ a couple of times, and that’s just enough to know that it’s a touchy subject for him. I should’ve known to slow down.

I should’ve known. And I did know. I just didn’t care.

“Ben!” I shout after him, picking up my pace down the sidewalk while simultaneously trying to ignore the sun beating down on me. My chest is unusually tight, I realize, and I’m thinking that it’s probably because Ruben won’t turn around and acknowledge me, at least. I know we’ll, eventually, make up and continue bike riding and hiking together, though there’s these arguments, these arguments that make me antsy every time. “C’mon, dude, please. You know I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Ruben finally calls back to me as we get back into town. Everything’s in full swing now, shoppers going to and fro with bags. “I’m sorry because I’m always too weak to get you back.”

I sigh. “Then get me back.” I start to speed up, gaining closer to him inch by inch. Just a little bit more and I can touch his shoulder with my fingertips. “C’mon. Do your worst and let’s get this over with, alright? We’ve got more things to do and we can’t do it with you running away.”

“We can’t do it with you being an ass, either.”

“Ben. Come on.”

“Don’t call me Ben; you’ve lost your right.”

By the time we’re on the other side of town, Ruben’s speed-walk has slowed down and I’m right behind him, close enough to feel his disgusting body heat. I try to ignore it, though, since this is Get Ruben to Be Cool With Me Again and not We’re on Good Terms; You Can Complain Again. It barely works.

“Ben.”

“Stop.”

“I’m sorry, dude. Seriously. We’re wasting time with this.”

Ruben continues with a few more heavy footsteps, then, suddenly, he stops on the middle of the goddamn sidewalk and my nose collides directly with the nape of his neck, sending me backwards with a shocked intake of breath. While I nurse my nose and groan about him needing to warn me if he’s going to ‘fucking stop out of nowhere’, he turns to look at me incredulously.

“See,” Ruben says. “that’s another thing about you. You only say sorry ‘cause you wanna continue to get your way, not because you’re actually sorry.” By the time I look up at him, my hand still cradling my nose, he shakes his head, looks off while squinting into the sun — like his father often does — and then tells me, “Alright. Whatever. I’ll continue to play your game; let’s finish these chores.”

I slowly drag my hand down my face. “Ruben. Don’t be this way, seriously.”

He throws his hands up at me. “You’re getting your way, right? Why’re you still complaining?”

Okay, fine. I’m finished with this conversation/argument/whatever the hell this is. If Ruben wants to act like a child then I’ll let him; it’s no skin off my back. Slipping a hand into my back pocket to retrieve the to-do list, I say, “Sure.”

Like things can’t get any worse, I come up from my pocket short-handed. I proceed to check all of my other pockets while Ruben stands nearby with his arms crossed tight across his chest, and when I still find nothing I look gravely at him. “The list is gone.” He finally looks at me, still squinting. “I must’ve left it over at Raja’s.”

Ruben shakes his head disappointingly, runs a hand over his messy ponytail. “Not so perfect, are we?”

I look hard at him.

“What?” he asks me. “Go get it, then.”

“Fine.” I turn and start to walk towards town again, but when I hear no other footsteps but my own I have to stop and turn around. Ruben remains in the same spot he’s always been. “You’re …” He looks away from the sun at me. “You’re not coming with?”

We, underneath the sweltering sun and right in the middle of the humid summer atmosphere, stare one another down like we’re both contemplating something. I can’t be too sure what he’s thinking at that very moment, but I know that the answer to this question is going to be a turning point in our argument; it can go any direction now. I’m tossing him a peace offering, to which he can either catch or let fall — either way, I’m certain he’ll come back to me in the end.

Our universes have been like that for awhile now. There have been those brief moments near the end of middle school and the beginning of high school that we, naturally, drifted. Ruben fell deeper into sports, having joined the track team in the eighth and ninth grade; and I joined the school's’ honor society, a club that pressed more importance on academics than athletics. The time we spent together stretched thin after that point; we were lucky to even say hellos to each other in the hallways or after school since our clubs and new flock of friends divided us in two.

The moon always returns to the earth, though, and unbeknownst to me — or anybody, for that matter — Ruben suddenly quit the track team and began to dedicate more of his time stopping by the honors society club room to ‘check up on things,’ as he put it.

Ruben, in this breath and four years to the present, cracks something akin to a smile, ducks his head, and gives me a hesitant, “Alright.”

This time is no different than the others: the moon will return to its earth.