20. “This Is The Day”
Chapter 20
“This Is The Day”
Taz - Age 18, 1988
“ T azman!” Coach yells from the other side of the ice.
Here we go. This is going to be a whole thing.
“What the hell is on your stick?”
I feign ignorance, hoping to diffuse the situation. “What do you mean, Coach?”
“Don’t play dumb, Taz. I’m not in the fucking mood,” he snaps.
“Yes, Coach,” I reply obediently as Delzy chuckles from somewhere behind me.
“It’s Hello Kitty tape, Coach,” I finally admit, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
He looks at me with his head cocked to the side, clearly taken aback. “You’re telling me you wrapped your stick in pink tape with cartoon cats on it?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I did, Coach.” I didn’t . Of course, I didn’t tape my stick, one of my prized possessions with this shit. This is retaliation for ‘the Johnny Depp incident.’ Sidenote—that would be a great name for a band.
Anyway, I’m actually proud of Sascha. Her revenge was measured and on par with the intensity of my prank. I didn’t see it coming until I pulled my stick out of my locker today. But I can’t get into that with Coach.
“And what are you hoping to accomplish here, son?” he asks.
“Psychological warfare, Coach,” I manage to say with a straight face. The laughs are now erupting from several guys behind me.
“Psychological warfare,” he repeats. “Do you think the Blazers will be intimidated by a kitten with a little red bow?”
“I’m not sure, Coach,” I respond with a smirk. “I find it a little scary.”
“Tazman, I have half a mind to drug test you. Are you on dope, son?”
This time I laugh because hearing my coach say “dope” is hilarious.
“No, sir,” I say between chuckles.
“Mmhm,” he mumbles skeptically. “Well, it’s against league rules. White tape only for games, so remove that shit by Wednesday.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Get out of my face now,” he says dismissively.
I’ve been considering saying something to Sascha all week about it, but she’s been avoiding me more than usual. I have a theory: She can’t handle facing the intensity of her attraction to me. I’m simply biding my time while she comes to terms with it.
It didn’t help that I snuck into her room again last night. We only touched feet again, but that big-toe electricity was evident. As usual, we both chose to ignore it today. We drove to school separately, acting like nothing had changed between us. But there are moments like this afternoon when it’s clear that our relationship is evolving.
Sascha’s parents are gone for the afternoon, so I decided to do what any red-blooded American male my age would do with a bright, sunny day and time on his hands. I set up a lounge chair, put on my cheets, threw some Sun In in my hair, and lay in the sun.
“What in the name of all that is holy is happening right now?”
I had dozed off on my stomach, my lucky undies bunched between my cheeks to tan my ass. The sun had been warm and comforting against my back, lulling me into a peaceful slumber. But now, the sudden intrusion of Sascha’s voice jolts me awake.
I peel my sweaty face off my forearm and look up at her, squinting against the brightness of the midday sun. She appears almost ethereal, like some kind of dark angel, with her frame partially blocking its harsh rays.
As I wipe the drool from my chin, I can see the incredulous look on her face. She seems confused by what she sees, but I fail to understand why.
I flip over onto my back and address her with a lazy smile. “Sun’s out, bun’s out. Put on a suit, grab the baby oil, and join me.”
She narrows her eyes at me like I’m insane, as if I suggested she join Ivy’s cult or something equally ridiculous.
I raise an eyebrow in confusion. “What?” I ask, eager for her response.
“You’re such an idiot,” she retorts, a smirk playing on her lips. “Your hair is turning orange.”
I shrug, “Yeah, it’s about time for another round of bleaching.”
“What’s the purpose of constantly bleaching your hair?” she questions curiously.
“Why not?” I counter with a chuckle.
Her laughter resounds. “You always have such well-thought-out explanations.”
“About as much thought as you put into your insults,” I retort sarcastically, a smile playing on my own lips.
She pops a hip and removes her sunglasses, showing me the playfulness behind her green eyes. “Get dressed,” she says.
“Why?”
“Just put your ass away and get dressed,” she instructs.
Sascha
We browse the aisle at Thrifty’s minutes later, looking for boxed bleach for Michael’s hair. It’s not lost on me that I’m in this place, doing something with him that meant a lot to me when I did it with Lydia.
As I stand in the aisle looking at the various boxes, he sidles up next to me and asks with a mischievous grin, “So, what color do you use? ‘Devil’s Vixen’ perhaps?”
I can’t help but laugh. “No way, I’m a Black Velvet girl.”
His turquoise eyes sparkle as he cocks his head, those familiar wheels turning in his head. “I bet you are,” he says with a sly tone, his gaze dropping down to my crotch.
I roll my eyes and swat him with the stick from my Fun Dip. “You’re disgusting,” I scold.
“Just kidding,” he retorts, raising his hands in defense.
“Pick your color, and let’s go,” I reply firmly.
But as he gives me a wink and replies, “I like it when you’re bossy,” I can’t help but feel a surge of affection toward him.
“You’re such a child,” I chuckle, but there’s no malice behind it anymore. Our playful banter had become a comfortable routine between us.
***
I hold my breath as I squirt the pungent liquid into his hair. “This stuff stinks.”
He sits reluctantly on the toilet, grumbling about how much he hates this process. The smell of harsh chemicals fills the small bathroom, causing me to wrinkle my nose in disgust. Rotten eggs would be a welcome relief compared to this stench.
“You color your hair,” he reminds me. “It’s the same thing.”
“Not even close,” I retort with a laugh, trying to avoid breathing too deeply. “This is like industrial strength bleach.”
“Just hurry up,” he pleads, eager to finish this.
I massage the foul-smelling concoction into his scalp. We had considered only bleaching the tips, but once I looked at the ridiculous cap and calculated how long it would take, I made the executive decision to bleach it all.
“Okay, now we wait,” I say with a sigh, throwing my gloves into the trash and setting the timer on my Swatch watch.
“So, when did you decide to start coloring your hair?” he asks.
I pause momentarily, the memories stirring in my mind like old photographs. “Right before seventh grade,” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips as I recall the defining moment. “We were fostering a girl named Lydia. She was unlike anyone I had ever met—so confident and unapologetic. She colored her hair, listened to darker, more emotional music, and wore dark clothing. Everything about her fascinated me,” I admit.
When I glance at him, he’s listening quietly. No smart-ass remarks or quips, so I continue.
The memories of my friend flood back as I speak, and a pang of sadness grips my heart. “I had so much fun with her before she left,” I say fondly, thinking of our days together. “We colored my hair at the end of summer.”
“Do you still keep in touch with her?” he asks.
I can feel my voice trembling as I reply, “I haven’t heard from her in two years. It’s hard to keep in touch when life gets in the way, you know? She moved and had to take custody of her younger siblings, so now she’s fulfilling the role of a mom.”
“That must be tough for you,” he sympathizes.
I shrug. “I’ve lost a few friends to distance,” I admit. “I had a friend named Darius in middle school. He moved, too. I haven’t heard from him in forever.” A wistful smile spreads across my face as I remember our silly adventures and inside jokes.
Michael’s face lights up with recognition. “I remember that guy!” he exclaims, his voice filled with admiration. “He was hella cool.”
“He’s gay, you know,” I blurt out, almost challenging him to say something negative about it.
But instead of any judgment or hesitation, he shrugs. “So?”
“That doesn’t bother you?” I ask, still trying to grasp this new perspective.
“Why would it?” Michael asks, his tone laced with confusion.
“You’re a hockey player. It’s such a masculine sport. I wasn’t sure you’d like someone so different from you.”
“Sash,” he starts, his deep voice laced with a hint of regret and pain, “I couldn’t care less about who someone loves.”
I must be staring at him with a look of confusion on my face, which prompts him to explain further.
“I’m sorry your friend moved. He seemed like a cool guy. And being gay doesn’t mean a thing to me. Being an asshole does.”
My brows pique as if to bat this moment of introspection back onto himself.
“Yes. I’ve been an asshole in the past. I get that,” he admits. “Especially when I was younger and dumber than I am now. But I’d never judge someone like you assume I would. My own mother walked out on my family for the lead singer of a shitty garage band, leaving my father and brother to spiral into drug addiction. I’m the guy living in the glass house—I’m not throwing stones at anyone.”
Damn this man. With each word, he chips away at the steel cage that’s guarded my heart for so long. His raw honesty and vulnerability seep through every crack and crevice, making it increasingly difficult to hold on to my anger and righteous indignation.
After the bleaching and toning are done, I leave Michael to shower and clean while I get some space. Maybe it’s his proximity or the chemicals, but all I could think about for the past twenty minutes was what it would feel like to press my lips to his.
An exasperated cry escapes my lips, echoing through the empty room. I need to halt this train of thought before it derails and I end up in a mental ditch. The last time I got my hopes up about this guy, it ended in disaster. And now, he’s living in my house. If things go wrong again, I’ll have nowhere to hide.
Sitting at my desk, I pull my legs up onto the chair and open my history book with a sigh. But as much as I try to focus, the words on the pages might as well be written in Latin. The dates and events blur together in my mind. When was the Civil War? And World War I? And the Great Depression? How does Michael kiss?
Frustrated, I snap my book shut and reach for my Walkman to drown out my thoughts with music. But as I rewind the tape, there’s a sharp knock on my bedroom door.
“Sash!” Michael’s urgent and excited voice echoes through the hallway. “Come downstairs.”
I hesitate, wondering what he could possibly want from me this time. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I make my way down the stairs, following his booming footsteps to the kitchen.
“What is it?” I ask warily as I enter the room.
Michael stands at the counter with a proud smile, holding up a sandwich on one of my mom’s beloved Corelle Pyrex plates.
“What’s going on?” I ask, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I made us a late-night snack,” he says, beaming with excitement.
“It’s a sandwich,” I reply.
“It’s not just any sandwich,” he says with a smile. “It’s peanut butter, banana, and marshmallow fluff.”
Normally, I’m adept at suppressing my emotions, but at this moment, it’s impossible. “Oh my God!” I scream and jump up and down like a child, overwhelmed with nostalgia and happiness. “You remember that?”
“Hell yeah, I remember that,” he exclaims. His hand reaches out to offer me half of the sandwich, and I eagerly take a bite, savoring the sweetness as it dances across my tastebuds.
“This is amazing,” I mumble with my mouth full. “Where did you get fluff?” I ask, surprised.
“I bought some,” he responds, shrugging his shoulders.
He’s not like how I imagined him to be. Or maybe I’m not the person I thought I was, either. All I know is that the distance between us feels unbearable now.
He looks at me skeptically as I drop my sandwich on the plate and take in his appearance. Standing in my kitchen under the harsh yellow light, he still looks stunning, his newly bleached hair still damp and spiking up in all directions like some kind of rebellious halo.
As if pulled by an irresistible force, my body moves forward with determination until I stand directly before him. He tilts his head slightly and meets my gaze, a questioning expression etched on his features. My hands reach out and gently cradle his face as I rise up onto my tiptoes, our noses almost touching.
A flicker of understanding illuminates his eyes, like a distant light finally reaching the surface. Suddenly, the intensity in his gaze ignites into a blazing fire, sending sparks dancing through the air. My own eyes can’t resist drifting down to his lips, their fullness and temptation irresistible, and I lick mine in response. But I quickly bring my focus back to meet his gaze once again. If he denies me another kiss, I’m going to crawl into a hole and die. But the look on his face tells me he won’t deny me this time.
With a confident grip, he places his hands on my hips, pulling me closer to him. My fingers instinctively thread around his neck, our bodies so close together I can feel the heat coming from his skin.
I inch my face closer to his, expecting him to close the remaining distance between us. But instead, he holds back with a sly smile playing on his lips. It’s a challenge, a power play between us. And now, I don’t care who wins or loses because I only think about how badly I want this kiss.
I press my mouth against his. He responds eagerly, his warm and soft lips gently coaxing mine open with the swipe of his tongue. The intensity is present immediately. There’s no halfway point—it’s all or nothing.
He probes my mouth with his tongue, tightening his grip on my hips almost to the point of pain. He sucks on my lower lip as he spins and lifts me up on the counter, knocking the plate onto the floor with a crash.
Neither of us is ready to break the moment as his lips move from mine down to the junction where my neck and shoulder meet. He kisses me there and sucks the area lightly, causing me to throw my head back and moan, drawing him in further as my legs wrap around his waist.
“Is everything okay down there, Bug?” my mom yells from the top of the stairs.
Her voice pulls us from our bubble, and I pull away, breathing heavily. My hands are still itching to tug on the blond strands of his hair.
“Can I come to your room tonight?” he asks breathlessly.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and manage to grasp a moment of clarity. “Not tonight. It’s not a good idea.”
He looks disappointed but nods, grasping my hips and helping me off the counter. As I turn to leave the room, he reaches out and grabs my wrist to stop me. “You opened the door, Sascha,” he says huskily. “I won’t let you close it again.”