BFF

    Parker approaches me calmly, lazily. All the students have flooded off to class leaving us in an empty computer lab. Leaving me to pretend to play games on my phone, or text Park desperately. “Sorry,” he mumbles and I grab my blue backpack from the table. Parker walks aimlessly behind me, no doubt lost in a conversation with Las Vegas. We walk through the long tiled hallways of the school. “Hey, it’s snowing; where do you wanna go?” I ask. Parker grunts. We push open the double doors of the school and wander out to the parking lot. I approach my beloved Chameleon blue Volvo C-30 and grab the snow scraper from the back seat. I also pop the key in and start the ignition. It is frightfully cold and my fingers begin to lose feeling as I finish scraping the heavy, wet, spring Colorado snow from my windshield. “Hey, I’m done,” I call to Parker as I take my seat on the driver’s side. The car is warm and Parker is still furiously texting Las Vegas. I roll my eyes and turn on my radio. Parker eventually opens the door, cold air rushes in; he is lingering. “Hey, come on, man, I’m cold,” I complain. Parker grunts and takes a seat. The rhythmic, furious clicking of Parker lost in love serenades me until I could scream. “Buckle up,” I command and shift into drive. I pull out of my spot, whisper a prayer that I will get it back, and begin my journey. “So, how are things going with Las Vegas,” I inquire, knowing I am opening a can of worms.

    “God, man, I don’t know,” complains Parker. “That’s it, you know, I mean, I am done. D-O-N-E done,” he spells it out for me and throws his phone onto my console. I raise an eyebrow at him, as I turn right at the first light, when the phone dings. Parker grabs it like an alcoholic reaching for a cold beer. I flick on the wipers as the snow fills my windshield. “Gawd!” Parker cries and throws his phone back down. “God, no, man, I am done!” he throws his hands up in the air, imitating some version of gay that he thinks he’s supposed to be. Parker jams a finger into my sound system, turning on the radio. He flicks through a few stations, barely allowing the songs to play thirty seconds before scoffing and tuning into something else. I turn left at the second life, inching out into the intersection nervously. “You know I support you if you’re done, but you’ve been done before,” I remind him. Parker shakes his head and turns off my radio. He reaches for his phone, lets his hand levitate, and then returns it to the radio. We listen, this time in full, to a pop song, at my request. I drive through two roundabouts and wait at a red light. 

    “It’s just like, you know, I mean, GAWD,” he starts, “He, like, never has time for me.”

    “And probably never will,” I respond with a smile and turn left at the light. I wait for a few more reckless teens, soaking up their lunch hour, and turn into the Cafe parking lot. There aren’t a lot of spaces. I grimace at the snow. I pull into a spot and brace myself for the cold. Parker grabs his phone viciously, throws himself out of the car, and slams the door. “Jeez,” I whisper to myself as I pop on my pink mittens. Parker taps his phone with annoyance so I take my time and shoot him a devilish smile. He opens his mouth wide like a whale and proceeds to catch snowflakes-his pink tongue bright against the grey sky. I giggle and hop out, locking the car behind me. We shuffle our feet, mine in Walmart little black boots, his in iconic red Converse All Stars. The slush mixes into a gross grey. I hear his phone ding and roll my eyes as he physically stops in the freezing cold, rips his black leather gloves off, and types. I march on. The Cafe is bathed in warm yellow light and a burst of warmth warns my body and soul as I enter. A woman in a pressed grey suit shuffles past me holding a giant bag. The Cafe smells of fresh baked bread, delicious herbs, and the carafes in the corner are steaming with coffee. I gaze up at the menu and ponder my choices. 

    “Sorry, sorry,” gasps Parker as he steps to my side. 

    “Sure,” I answer as I weigh the choice of soup in a bread bowl or a panini sandwich.

    “It’s just, like, he’s begging, for me,” Parker dramatically waves his bare, red, cold hand in the air, “And I’m just like, really!?” I decide on the chicken soup in the bread bowl and stare at my best friend. His deep brown eyes sparkle with delight. He skips to the cashier and orders broccoli cheddar soup in a bread bowl. We take our soda cups as he yammers on, “And, like, I knew it, you know? Like, I just knew, he’d come back crawling like a lost dog.” I fill my soda cup and he chooses tea. We both opt out of ice and smile knowingly at each other. “Yeah,” I mumble. He chooses our seat, our booth. We wait for our names to be called. He spends the whole time telling me that Las Vegas must really miss him. Then, he blushes red, “Oh gaawwddd!” He tucks his phone into his lap. I say nothing, no reason to egg this on. “It’s a dick pic,” he whispers, then shoves his hand in front of his mouth. Now, we’re both blushing. I stand, relieved to hear our names called, and grab our food off of the white deli counter. I balance the soup and plop down next to him. I screw my mouth to the side at the image of Parker texting Las Vegas again. I sigh and dig into my soup.

    Parker met Las Vegas in cooking class. Our school partners with the local college to create immersive programs available for the entire district. I knew Las Vegas was troubled by the cheesy tattoos he had on the inside of both of his forearms: knives crossed over a skull with a chef’s hat on his left and zucchini/eggplant half chopped on his right. I cringed, but Parker fell in love. He spent his days ogling the perfectly gelled back of Las Vegas’ head. I spent my days offering to take Parker to lunch. But lately, Las Vegas haunts even these moments. When they officially started dating, I got to hear the whole of Las Vegas’ backstory. “So his real name is Micah and he grew up in Las Vegas,” started Parker. I knew that part. It was the first thing he shared on day one of culinary class. That’s why I nicknamed him Las Vegas. “And he moved here when he was twelve. He goes to school at Whitley High, which is like, only fifteen minutes away from me. So like, no big deal. Plus, he’s got a car…” I zoned out after that. I twist my spoon in my bread bowl to get a carby bite of sourdough goodness. Parker is ranting again, “Like, why would he think I would want that?” He slams his spoon down, “Ok, so like maybe I do want that.” He grims a devilish grin and I laugh at him before taking a big swig of soda. “Oh my God! We haven’t even talked about you for like this whole lunch!” it’s like a lightbulb has turned on. I smile. “So how are things?” he sets his head on his folded hands, his dark brown eyes boring into mine. 

    “Nothing, I’m boring, remember?” I ask and take another bite of soup.

    “No boys?” he asks. I shake my head. “Work, ok?” he asks. I nod. “Hmm, school, ok?” he demands and I nod. “Oh!” he exclaims and then covers his mouth. 

    “What?” I ask.

    “Nope! Nothing. This time is about you,” he slaps the table assertively. We eat in silence for a bit. All that’s left is the sound of our spoons scraping the bowls and our slurps. I watch the snow gather outside and fight tears pricking the back of my eyes. “Um, Micah is getting honored at an AP Scholars banquet…” Parker trails off. I sigh. “Can you maybe…” he looks up at me and I remember what he looked like when we were twelve and he needed an emergency sweatshirt after Mason Carter dumped chocolate pudding down his shirt when it came out that Parker is gay. I gave him my black school sweatshirt. Parker called me a life saver. “Like give me a ride?” he asks. I nod and tell him to text me time and place. We drive back to school to the furious clicking of Parker texting as I bite my lip and try to get lost in some music. 

    We get back to class and change quickly. Las Vegas is there. He pats the seat next to him for Parker. It’s at the end of the table, no place for me. I sit behind the two of them while Chef Peterson discusses the plan for class. We are going to bake brownies. I’m excited. Sally taps my notebook and drops off a note, So, they’re all better? I pull out my blue sparkly pen and scrawl back, I guess. She laughs. We try to hide some giggles. She has a curl of blonde hair escaping her cap. We break into groups. I tap Parker’s shoulder and he tells me to join them. Parker skips off to grab the dry ingredients as I head to the stainless steel industrial fridges for the wet ones. The two of them spend the entire time giggling like thieves. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and try to keep them on task. Suddenly, Las Vegas takes a small handful of flour in his left hand and releases it onto Parker’s apron. He erupts in laughter and throws some onto Micah. They are laughing and falling over each other. All eyes are on us and I burn red while I side step to avoid the leaning tower of love. Chef Peterson approaches us, “See me after class.” My heart drops. The giggling stops. We finish our brownies. Parker and Las Vegas are feeding each other, taking selfies of their love. 

    Chef Peterson sits in her big, black, leather chair. Her desk is filled to the brim with cookbooks and various printed recipes. I sit, staring at the palms in my lap. Parker and Las Vegas hold hands. “This behavior was inappropriate today. The two of you,” she indicates Parker and his lover, “Are no longer permitted to be in the same group.” She firmly crosses her arms and I swear she casts me a look of forgiveness. “All three of you will lose 25% from today. Do better,” she waves us off and dismisses us. I walk out of the office, grab my backpack, and march to the door. Parker is left in the doorway kissing Las Vegas. Hot tears flood my face. I feel the shame of my actions. I should have stopped him. He shouldn’t have put me in the position that I needed to. I drive home, blaring the radio. In the sanctuary of my room, I finish fifteen math problems, edit an English essay, and binge watch a TV show on my phone. Parker doesn’t text me. This makes me mad. Then, I feel my heart break. 

    At 3am, I get a phone call, waking me out of a peaceful dream of me, a prince, and a beach. It’s Parker. I sleepily answer and decipher through his sobs that he and Las Vegas have broken up again. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt before jumping into my car. I turn on the engine and dust off my car furiously before driving the mile to Parker’s big blue house. I frown as I see my disheveled best friend in grey sweatpants and an oversized band t-shirt. He enters my car slowly, painfully. We drive through the dark street out to the Mcdonalds and order ice cream despite the snow. I also get a large fry, knowing he’ll need it. We sit in the parking lot, eating fries and ice cream. I offer him a hug and hold the hot body of a man destroyed once again. I feel his hot tears streaming onto my shoulder, down my cheek. “It’s over. It’s really over,” he stutters. There’s a part of me suddenly certain that it’s the truth. I feel a part of me shatter. That night, we cry together.