poof, edited version.
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Being born with long legs certainly comes with its perks… And quirks. Although the comments from people asking if I play basketball or “how’s the weather up there?” get dull pretty quickly, there is one specific issue I’ve been dealing with. It’s sometimes hard to overcome, too. Well, not overcome, in a sense. I can’t control my height, unfortunately. But when you’re in a family that has the tradition of giving hand-me-downs instead of going to a store once or twice to buy your son a new pair of pants, jeans, or whatever trousers, they can get small on them pretty quickly. And there’s nothing that I hate more than short pants.
I jump, pulling up and adjusting the waistband of the jersey shorts Peter lent me as I catch sight of my own reflection in the mirror. Just by merely shifting my pupils to the right, I can see the owner of said pants sitting on my bed, slouching, and the palms of his hands resting on a pile of my crumpled clothes that are supposed to be in the laundry hamper.
Peter’s eyes were… Looking tired than usual–eyelids hanging low. But that doesn’t mean he’s exhausted; he’s unimpressed. “Don’t pull it up, you’re just making it even shorter on you-”
“Why is this so short?” I blurt out, initially supposed to be kept inside my head that escaped.
“‘Cause it’s shorts, dumbass. It’s supposed to be short.”
My eyes took one last careful look at the jersey shorts on my legs. The way the fabric hugged my thighs above the knee makes my leg unbreathable, in a way. If I take no more than one step, it will ride up until it reaches my crotch, and I’ve had enough of that embarrassing moment.
“But this is too short,” I said, jumping up and down to test it. The fabric is already racing up to my crotch. “If I knew your shorts were this short, I wouldn’t even ask to borrow yours from the start.”
“Will you just-” Peter took a sharp breath between his gritted teeth. “Can you just put it on for now and like, what, wrap a jacket around or something? We’re getting late.”
He stood up with so much energy that he immediately marched around the room with his head swiveling left to right. He skips over a few comic books I left on the floor, masterfully dodging the controllers a few feet away from the comics, and goes ahead to the corner of my room to dig into my pile of dirty laundry. He is already too familiar with the layout of my room that it has become second nature to him.
When Peter is still determined to get that jacket he mentioned, I quickly remove the jersey shorts before swiftly changing into my sweatpants that were just hanging on the edge of my bed.
“Or can we just skip this one game? Just for once?”
Peter finally turned around, not a jacket in his hands in sight. Maybe he gave up, or the thought of cancelling tonight’s game riled him up so bad, he stopped. “Mason.” He tilts his head, followed by an exasperated scoff. “Come on. We never skip one game. You really gonna let our streak die that easily?”
When do I tell him that I’m not as interested in basketball as he is? I know he’s not the type to associate me with being tall = plays/genuinely adores basketball, but he has to understand that dragging me into these games every month slowly makes me want to run off into the woods instead. But now’s not the time. Peter was getting antsy as the time passed without us heading into the town’s field. I know it on the top of my head now. He’s tapping his feet like a restless bunny, arms crossed tightly against his chest, and his eyes stare off into the distance into… Godknowswhere.
I sighed. “Right. Let’s just go.”
Peter’s eyes lit up, and in a second, he was already out of my room.
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
I followed behind, jumping out of my open windows without bothering to close them. I’ll be back in a few hours, anyway. The biting breeze gnaws my skin, reminding me that fall is approaching. The neighborhood is getting quiet, too; it always happens when autumn or winter is near. People don’t get as much out because the sun isn’t there, and it’s too cold to read at the park or walk your dog. Looking forward, Peter is already further away from me. He made it across the backyard and hopped over the high wooden fence. Judging by the sound of his landing, he made it safely.
“Come on, Mason!” he shouted, as the shuffling of his feet against the grass was heard.
Rushing over through the backyard, I arrived before the wooden fence, immediately jumping up to grip the edge, hopping over. Thump. It was a lengthy landing, but a safe one. Hopping over the fence for years to sneak out and eat burgers with Peter has made me accustomed to the high landing; it’s all muscle memory. Even Peter has it on muscle memory, too.
The town’s basketball field is no more than one block away from ours, so Peter is already dragging his ass as fast as he can to get there before the game starts. I took some time in my strides, looking left and right to see that the houses looked less colored than I remembered. Is it just because the cold season is around the corner? Although the houses don’t look as bright as it was in the summer, warm lights are visible through their windows. In some houses, I can see their shadows or the silhouette of their figures. Passing by Mrs. Grossman’s house, a swift of chocolate chip cookies passes by as I see her slouched figure carrying a tray from her closed curtains. Skipping faster, to catch up to Peter, a pizza delivery guy just dropped a box in front of Bill’s door; his father’s silhouette is sitting on the couch, probably watching TV. It’s impressive how you can witness the routines of individual lives just by peeking through their closed curtains.
And just like that, the sound of cheering gradually grew clear… We are near.
I speed up my pace until I can see the field.
The crowd soars. Every seat in the bleachers was littered with people shouting and jumping. It was weird to see such a small field filled with townspeople I would come across any other day. There’s Todd in the far corner, but he’s not driving his daughter to school. There’s McKenzie in the bottom seat, but she’s not doing random cartwheels in the street while her nanny watches (and worries). There’s also Suzie in the middle, but she’s surprisingly not knitting her half-finished sweater now. Then there’s… An empty seat. Two empty seats.
“Let’s go, buddy-o.” Peter clawed my arm, pulling my feet off my glued position as he took me to our now designated seats.
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
The game was fine, to say the least. It always has been. There’s nothing much to say about it. People just love to see their friends or their children running around in a field, passing a ball to each other, and trying to throw it in a ring. At least Peter didn’t get any more antsy, even though we were a tad late. But I’ll get what I can have.
People rise from their seats, some coming down to hype or congratulate the players, while others immediately walk home. Peter and I stayed in our seats for a while to let the crowd thin out.
Silence stretches between us, a rare occasion for us chatterboxes. Usually, Peter would be the one to initiate the conversation, but he was being awfully quiet tonight. It was weird, considering he was just cheering and jumping throughout the whole game.
“Good game, huh?” Peter finally spoke up. Although judging from his tone, it doesn’t radiate so much of Peter-energy.
I face his direction, reading his face. Yeah, this is only small talk. “Yeah. Good game.”
Another few seconds of stillness.
“Is there something you wanna tell me?” I asked.
His face contorts. “No.” Liar.
I kept quiet for a moment, letting him contemplate his thoughts. “Pete?…”
A gentle scoff. “Fine. You wanna go grab a bite? I’m starving.”
My brows meet together out of habit; they always do whenever Peter says something too obvious or borderline stupid. “Why didn’t you just say so earlier?”
“‘Cuz I know I already ruined your mood by dragging you into this game. I know you just wanna crash in your bed now.”
I blinked. “You’re not wrong,” I said. “Fine. What about tomorrow?”
“Sure. We can have breakfast.”
“No, I’m totally sleeping in. Brunch?”
Peter scoffed, almost too dramatically. “Who are we, Mrs. Grossman and her friends? Let’s just get lunch.”
“Asshole. Being Mrs. Grossman’s friend and having brunch with her doesn’t sound so bad, y’know.”
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
The walk back to our houses is now more composed and collected, but there was still a rush that goes into it, at least for Peter. Or maybe he’s just a fast walker overall; I always seem to get behind.
“So…” I skipped forward until I was walking alongside Peter. I swear to God, if he leaves me for another second, I might as well get kidnapped, and he won’t even notice. “Lunch, tomorrow?”
“Yeah. The usual place.” He didn’t even look me straight in the eye.
“Got it.”
The loud breeze made it seem that the town was whispering us secrets, or maybe warnings. But Peter didn’t take it seriously; he walked even further from me.
He finally stopped, and he went quiet for a moment. “Text me when you get back.”
Huh? “We live one block away.”
“Doesn’t hurt,” he said. “And thanks for coming along.”
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Icky petey
Today
Home already
Delivered
Beat you to it
Delivered
˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Icky petey
Yesterday
Home already
Delivered
Beat you to it
Delivered
Today
Pete?
Delivered
If you’re not gonna text back in the next 10 minutes, i’m gonna go get brunch with Mrs. Grossman and her friends
Delivered
“What the fuck?” I mumbled, rubbing the exhaustion out of my eyes as I attempted to sit up.
It was already late in the afternoon, judging by how the sun was judging me through my open windows. Although the UV ray kills, the cold breeze also seems to penetrate through my body as well. What a time to be alive… And awake.
“Asshole,” I mumbled again, clicking the CALL icon beside Peter’s name.
.
.
.
Not even ringing?
