It's Not Shakespeare Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Amy Lane
parents live on the same block,” he said with a shrug. “We grew up together.”
The campus at SPCC was tree shrouded, and everything was blossoming in the windy sunshine and covered in yellow powder. “She’s younger than you,” James observed, and it was true. Sophie was graduating with her AA and transferring to a State University in June, but she was, by her own account, not even twenty. Rafael, on the other hand, was at least… what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?
“Yeah, I was like, ten years old when her moms brought her home. She’s got an older brother, but he’s sort of a flake-o-saurus so I got to babysit.” Rafael laughed for a moment, and it was a really warm sound. “When she was five she told me that she was going to marry me and I was going to be her prince and she would be my princess.”
“ Sophie said that?” If James had thought about it, he would have thought that Sophie would have been allergic to pink as a child. He had sort of a vague notion of a little girl who had cut the gum out of her blonde hair (he’d seen her roots when she’d forgotten to dye) wearing black overalls and a T-shirt.
That warm laugh again. It sort of curled up in James’s tummy and purred, making James’s whole chest warm and sweet and soft.
“Yeah! But see, by then I knew that I was looking for my own Prince Charming, right? So I was honest. I told her that we’d need to find a Prince Charming for her and then one for me, and she said that she could probably find her own damned Prince Charming but that I’d need help, because I was a boy and not everyone would know that’s what I was looking for.” Rafael shook his head in a sort of exasperated wonder. “The little shit’s been looking for my Prince Charming ever since.”
James stopped at his car—a racing-green Volvo, aged just long enough to be tacky and not vintage. Rafael looked at it skeptically.
“I don’t trust these,” he said frankly. “Their transmissions are for shit. Haven’t seen something that falls apart that much since a 1976 Pinto.”
James shrugged. When he’d arrived in California, he’d had enough cash to buy a house and not enough credit to buy a decent car. He’d had to go for a Used Whatever, and a Used Whatever was what he drove.
“It works for me,” he said, feeling lame and apologetic and deeply, deeply uncool. “I, uhm, take it you know cars?” He opened the uncool door of his uncool car and watched as Marlowe hopped up and ran to his accustomed place—the passenger seat.
Rafael looked at the little dog and said, “Oh hell no, little man. You can ride in the back seat or you can ride on my lap, but I’m gonna be co-daddy in this ship, you feel me?”
Marlowe panted up at Rafael, and Rafael scooped him up, fastened his seatbelt, and plopped the little dog on his lap. Then he rolled the window down just enough for Marlowe to be able to sniff the wind but not enough for him to fit through the gap, and James fell in love, just a little.
“Thank you,” James said quietly. “He’s sort of used to being, uhm, co-daddy. It’s nice of you to share.”
“No worries,” Rafael shot back. He scratched Marlowe under the chin, and the dog licked his nose. “And yeah, I work at Jiffy Lube. We’re all gearheads there.”
A giant bland tapioca blob-monster of white expectations exploded in James’s head. “Jiffy Lube?”
Rafael didn’t take offense—not at all. “Yeah, I know. Like I told Sophie—brown hoodrat, right? But she’s got a moms that works in a high school—gots all these idea about it not mattering—not black people or brown people or rich people or white people. She looked at you, saw pretty gay guy, thought of me. Sorry ’bout that.”
“No worries,” James said, mentally beating that big white tapioca blob-monster down with copies of Pablo Neruda and Jimmy Santiago Baca. “I’m, uhm, flattered. You’re sort of out of my league. And way the hell too young for me.”
They were at a
The campus at SPCC was tree shrouded, and everything was blossoming in the windy sunshine and covered in yellow powder. “She’s younger than you,” James observed, and it was true. Sophie was graduating with her AA and transferring to a State University in June, but she was, by her own account, not even twenty. Rafael, on the other hand, was at least… what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?
“Yeah, I was like, ten years old when her moms brought her home. She’s got an older brother, but he’s sort of a flake-o-saurus so I got to babysit.” Rafael laughed for a moment, and it was a really warm sound. “When she was five she told me that she was going to marry me and I was going to be her prince and she would be my princess.”
“ Sophie said that?” If James had thought about it, he would have thought that Sophie would have been allergic to pink as a child. He had sort of a vague notion of a little girl who had cut the gum out of her blonde hair (he’d seen her roots when she’d forgotten to dye) wearing black overalls and a T-shirt.
That warm laugh again. It sort of curled up in James’s tummy and purred, making James’s whole chest warm and sweet and soft.
“Yeah! But see, by then I knew that I was looking for my own Prince Charming, right? So I was honest. I told her that we’d need to find a Prince Charming for her and then one for me, and she said that she could probably find her own damned Prince Charming but that I’d need help, because I was a boy and not everyone would know that’s what I was looking for.” Rafael shook his head in a sort of exasperated wonder. “The little shit’s been looking for my Prince Charming ever since.”
James stopped at his car—a racing-green Volvo, aged just long enough to be tacky and not vintage. Rafael looked at it skeptically.
“I don’t trust these,” he said frankly. “Their transmissions are for shit. Haven’t seen something that falls apart that much since a 1976 Pinto.”
James shrugged. When he’d arrived in California, he’d had enough cash to buy a house and not enough credit to buy a decent car. He’d had to go for a Used Whatever, and a Used Whatever was what he drove.
“It works for me,” he said, feeling lame and apologetic and deeply, deeply uncool. “I, uhm, take it you know cars?” He opened the uncool door of his uncool car and watched as Marlowe hopped up and ran to his accustomed place—the passenger seat.
Rafael looked at the little dog and said, “Oh hell no, little man. You can ride in the back seat or you can ride on my lap, but I’m gonna be co-daddy in this ship, you feel me?”
Marlowe panted up at Rafael, and Rafael scooped him up, fastened his seatbelt, and plopped the little dog on his lap. Then he rolled the window down just enough for Marlowe to be able to sniff the wind but not enough for him to fit through the gap, and James fell in love, just a little.
“Thank you,” James said quietly. “He’s sort of used to being, uhm, co-daddy. It’s nice of you to share.”
“No worries,” Rafael shot back. He scratched Marlowe under the chin, and the dog licked his nose. “And yeah, I work at Jiffy Lube. We’re all gearheads there.”
A giant bland tapioca blob-monster of white expectations exploded in James’s head. “Jiffy Lube?”
Rafael didn’t take offense—not at all. “Yeah, I know. Like I told Sophie—brown hoodrat, right? But she’s got a moms that works in a high school—gots all these idea about it not mattering—not black people or brown people or rich people or white people. She looked at you, saw pretty gay guy, thought of me. Sorry ’bout that.”
“No worries,” James said, mentally beating that big white tapioca blob-monster down with copies of Pablo Neruda and Jimmy Santiago Baca. “I’m, uhm, flattered. You’re sort of out of my league. And way the hell too young for me.”
They were at a