Creative Writing

Thursday, October 26, 2006

A Boy Named Boy





Boy aspires to become a hip-hop star, a professional baseball player, insanely rich, and his just like his father. Boy can recite Yung Joc’s “It’s Goin’ Down” word for word. Boy lives in basketball shorts, hats that are too large for his head, and plus sized t-shirts regardless of his gangly frame. Boy believes himself to be invincible, or so his strut makes people assume. Boy is extremely talented on the court, on the field, and on the diamond. Boy has a large safe in his closet where he stashes his weekly allowance of twenty dollars to buy iPods and cameras. Boy hates reading, unless its about Ozzie Smith. Boy owns his Mexican heritage despite the fact that his Mexican grandmother speaks perfect English and has all the enchiladas catered for holiday meals. Boy has been living with his parents for over fourteen years, and won’t be leaving anytime soon.
Even though Boy lives with his parents, popularity overrides family time. Charging his cell phone is a daily chore after the continual text messaging, which he has acquired much skill in, and the incoming calls he receives on a regular basis. As a junior high school student, Boy plays many roles. While being the No-Love-For-My-Family-Tough-Guy, he also assumes the position of Oh-So-Cute-Number-One-Lady-Killer/Athlete.
By law, says Boy can’t drive a car. This poses a problem for his overactive social life when everyone is meeting at the bowling alley for some Cosmic Bowling. For situations such as these, Boy has become very charming and funny, the two most attractive qualities to an adolescent girl. The normal response to his “you know you want to take me to Chaparral Lanes, you older high school girls,” is, 93% of the time, “sure, whatever you want” followed by a flirtatious giggle.
Boy has a girlfriend, but don’t ask him about it. He refuses to talk about it, unless his confidant is fourteen years old, just like him, and just as immature. Don't ask him if they've kissed, cause he'll roll his eyes and walk away. Don't tease him about being in a serious junior high relationship, he'll only get embarassed. Although his relationship status remains filled, Boy has many admirers who are older.
“He was asked to homecoming, by a freshman!,” his mother gossips.
“Mom! Oh my gosh!” Boy rolls his eyes and dramatically slumps in his chair at the dinner table.
“Well. You did didn’t you? I said no anyway, even if you wanted to go.”
“Mom! Who cares? She was ugly anyway.” As his father tries not to laugh, he smiles, ignoring his mother’s discipline. In the end, Boy apologizes, gives his mother a kiss and proceeds to engage in Kitchen Patrol, his nightly chore.
Boy’s favorite saying is ‘psyyyych!’ He has perfected the saying and uses it frequently.
“So, how was school today?” his father asks every day.
And every day Boy comes up with something new. “I got a referral for lighting things on fire in my science class,” Boy replies like a stone-faced killer.
“What?!”
“Psyyyych!” Boy laughs, shaking his head in disbelief that his dad fell for it again.
Only a few years ago, Boy gave his parents something to complain about. With lies, back-talk, and remarks ineffectively hidden under his breath, he conformed to the typical teenage mold. Luckily, Boy was not born unto passive parents. His attitude was quickly changed, but did not entirely disappear. He still has his moments, as most boys do.
The phone rings and Boy answers, in his contrived man-voice and casual attitude.
“Hello,” Boy greets, more like a statement than an inquiry.
“Hi Boy!”
“Oh, hey.” He seems distracted.
“What’s goin’ on, man?”
“Nothing…” And just when he seems like his interest has been taken captive by the TV, his sense of cool is dropped. “Oh, wait, I forgot to tell you about this kid at school. Dude, he is so weird…”
On and on the stories unfold as Boy forgets his social status, his all-star athletic ability, and his funny man attitude. He remembers who he is talking to.
At the end of his conversation, Boy gets ready to hand the phone off to his mother.
“I love you, Boy.” I say.
And without fail, as he does every other time I say goodbye, Steven replies, “I love you more.”

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