The Summer We L(i)(o)ved?

Chapter 3

The kid is around my age, if not the exact. He's staring at me, a coy smile sitting on his face.

I wanted to punch him. Or die.

You know what? I think I could settle for doing both, even.

"Well good day to you, too," I greeted, cheeks tinged pink. My glasses were sitting askew on my nose, so I corrected them. He had moved out of the doorway, lugging three bags in his wake. On reaching me, he outstretched a light brown arm, a light coating of hair dotting its surface and reflecting the light coming in through the window.

I took it, giving him the firmest grip I could muster. His palms were a tad wet, perhaps due to carrying his bags over from the bus.

"Good day to you too. I'm Antonio, nice to meet you..." It took me a second to realize that he was waiting for me to say my name too.

"Uh—mine's Jericho, and I'm most definitely not happy to be here." I kinda blurted out words as I felt due to my earlier embarrassment. A case of 'Piling this onto that' if you asked me. I felt like I was on fire.

He let go off my hand and snorted, setting his sights back on his luggage. Why would anyone need that many bags for a camping trip? I looked back at my two sad little boxes, feeling like I under-packed or underexaggerated the magnitude of activities we would be undertaking that would require that many clothes.

In a bid to make small talk and get to know him better, I opened my mouth... and activity of mine that hasn't borne any good outcome in recent attempts.

"So are you moving here or...?" he chuckled from where he sat on the ground, legs crossed and fingers finicking with the zipper. He was failing.

"If you're asking about the bags, no. I'm not moving here. I just rather *grunt* have enough *grunt* clothes!" He threw his hands in the air and yelled, "Che cazzo!"

I furrowed my brows. I have no idea what he said, but I'm pretty sure he just cursed in Italian.

Insane.

"Sorry about that," he murmured. I only just realized now that he had an accent. And boy was it HEAVY.

"Nah, it's cool. And besides, I don't know what that means anyway." We shared a laugh at that.

"Hey, let me help you out," I moved behind the box and pressed down on it, giving the zips free room to open, "Hope you don't mind?"

He gleamed at me, a small "thanks" falling out of him. He pulled the zipper back and the bag opened, the poor box sending unsaid pleas to me, asking that I got my ass off it.

I tried to stand, but with added force of the spring like mechanic that the box had, I ended up falling on the floor, on my butt.

We both burst out laughing, none of us really caring about it because it was actually a funny accident.

He stopped laughing for a moment, but his following words were interrupted by giggles, "It means 'what the fuck,'"

I gave a puzzled "What?" in return.

"What I said earlier... it means 'what the fuck,'" he repeated.

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Wayne looks dazed, and I'm sure I look like a dear caught in headlights. My brain is moving a mile a minute, thinking up a lie or something. As you probably know, I didn't have the luxury of time to clean up or anything, so I didn't even know how I looked.