Page 18 of Pride High 3: Yellow
“On top of that, I only had a few pre-rolled joints on me. I’m not dumb enough to drive to Texas with an ounce in the glovebox. I’d sobered up by then too. So they had a minor across state lines with a trivial amount of weed on him and nothing else. They let me go pretty quick after that. I guess I wasn’t worth the paperwork.”
Or maybe they noticed the bruise on his cheek, or called Diego’s mom and realized just how unhinged she was. The only question was why he had returned to Kansas at all. “How come you didn’t keep going?”
“To Texas?” Diego slowly rotated a hotdog on a sharpened stick above the flames. “Leaving is hard.”
Why? His mom neglected him, and maybe even abused him. Diego was used like a slave to keep his dad’s old auto repair shop going. What possible motivation could he have for returning to Kansas? Ricky hadn’t been the reason. They weren’t even friends at that stage. In the end, he decided to let the subject drop, not wanting Diego to linger unnecessarily on painful memories. Although hewouldask for advice during his next therapy session. Dr. Sharma would know what to do.
“Do you like them burned?” Diego asked, nodding at the stick Ricky held.
“Oh!” He’d been zoning out. The hotdog was beginning to blacken and bubble, but nothing a ton of mustard and ketchup couldn’t fix. Ricky was ravenous! Barely letting it cool, he ate half the hotdog in two greedy bites, forcing himself to swallow when he noticed a bag of chips. “Pass the cheese puffs,” he said, practically salivating in anticipation.
Diego watched him munch a handful before laughing. “I guess the edibles are kicking in.”
“Are they?” Ricky said. “Because I feel perfectly normal. Although a peanut butter cookie does sound really good. Can I have another?” He grabbed the Tupperware container and opened the lid. “Lookee lookee at all the cookies!” he cackled happily. There were so many! And he was going to eat them all!
Diego snatched the container away. “I don’t think so. Get some real food in your belly.”
Ricky happily complied. The hotdogs and buns were generic but tasted incredible. He felt like weeping with joy as they chewed together. Diego was such a great guy. Handsome and mysterious and deep and also handsome. Some hands? Hand him some handsome hands? What a weird word!
“Are you doing okay?” Diego asked.
Ricky realized that he was staring at his own hand while opening and closing it. “I think I might be high,” he said.
“Ya think so?”
Diego reached for the radio and turned it on. After tuning back and forth, snippets of sounds and voices fading in and out of the static, a funky beat filled the cave.
“MJ!” Ricky cried, hopping to his feet. “I love Michael. And I love this song!”
Ricky didn’t know how to dance, but he loved to anyway. And like so many kids of the eighties, he had done his best to imitate Michael Jackson’s impressive moves while growing up. He leapt around gleefully as “Remember the Time” echoed through the cave. When he noticed Diego grinning at him, he tried harder, doing his best moonwalk before jerking around like the zombies in the music video for “Thriller.” That made Diego laugh. Ricky went to him, grabbed his hands, and tried pulling him to his feet. Diego resisted before finally getting up, but he refused to dance.
“I’m more of a mosh pit kind of guy,” he said.
“You’re my boyfriend!” Ricky replied, grinning ear to ear. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it!”
Madonna’s “Deeper and Deeper” began to play next. Ricky twirled around, did catwalks up and down the length of the cave, played an invisible guitar during the bridge, and shook his butt in front of Diego to make him laugh again. And he just about lost it when he caught Diego moving his hips to the rhythm. Ricky took his hand, and to his surprise, his boyfriend kept pace with him, his inhibitions dropping away as he really began to dance. He didn’t spring around like Ricky did, but his feet moved with the beat, his torso gyrating alluringly. They were working up a sweat when the DJ interrupted their fun with meaningless prattle.
“Aww!” Ricky groaned in complaint.
Diego didn’t seem to mind. He was still grinning. “You’re really something,” he said.
“And you’re really some hands!” Ricky replied.
“You feeling okay?” Diego asked.
“I feel great!” Ricky said. And he did.
“Nice. I’m buzzing too.”
The DJ finally ran out of oxygen and put on another song. This one slower. “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins.
“This is one of my favorites,” Ricky said, taking a step forward.
Diego didn’t disappoint him. He opened his arms and wrapped them around Ricky. They began to sway and pivot. Diego felt so good, his chest warm and strong. Ricky clung to him even tighter, all the feelings inside him seeming to harmonize with the music. This had to be love. He’d felt it before, although it was sometimes hard to remember through the painful memories how good it had been. This was even better. Almost too good to be true. But it was. He raised himself up on his tippy-toes so he could reach Diego’s lips. The arms tightened around him, his feet leaving the ground momentarily as Diego leaned back, their mouths still locked. He only set Ricky down again when the song ended. Although the room kept spinning. And didn’t stop.
“I feel…” Ricky trailed off, unable to find the words, but he was reminded of his suicide attempt when he’d swallowed a bunch of pills and felt high before it had all gone south. “I’m not going to puke, am I? Or pass out?” His heart was racing, the room still spinning. “I think I’m having a bad trip!”
“Hey,” Diego said, cupping Ricky’s cheeks in his hands. “Hey! Look at me!”
