WARNING: The teenagers make racist jokes. If you're easily offended, steer clear.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. The Frito Bandito belongs to Lays company.

"…straight down the center and yes! He scores!"

The wheels whirl in my rollerblades and click against the street, and the puck sails off my hockey stick to slam into the chalk square on the garage door. "Woo!" I turn to Maureen, she gives me a lazy grin.

"Do you do anything that doesn't involve sports?" she asks.

I didn't make Maureen come out, whatever she tells you. I had been blading a good forty-five minutes, maybe even an hour when she lolled out and sat on the sidewalk with a huge pair of sunglasses on, like she might have a hangover. Only Maureen could manage that without touching a drop of alcohol.

"You wanna play?" I asked.

"Don't be such a retard, Davis."

"My old skates'd probably fit."

"If I knew how to skate," she returned, and that was that.

Now she lowers her shades to give me a look of disbelief and says, "I cannot believe you actually have time set aside for that."

I stick out my tongue. "Not what I meant, Maureen." I retrieve the puck and take it out, roll down the street, thinking about last night. We had a good time after the cheeseburgers, all sprawled out in the living room to watch television since it didn't matter what was on.

"Get off," Maureen said, and stretched fully on the couch, leaving Eze—Mark and I to either watch from a chair, the right distance for a WI meeting but not for hanging out, or crash on the floor. I took the floor. Mark sat beside me.

"Oh, shit, is that…" He reached forward to grab something off the table.

"Hey, what d'you think, Mo?" I asked, nodding at Mark's rear. "Who says Jews don't got back?"

Maureen shook her head. "Who… talks that way, and isn't you?" she asked.

Mark thumped back down, playing with an old toy of mine. "The Frito Bandito, all right," he said, spinning the pencil. "I am ze Freeto Bandeeto."

"Frito Bandito's Mexican, you idiot, not French."

"How do you still have this?" Mark marveled. "I haven't seen a Frito Bandito since I was like six years old." He began to sing, "Ay, yii, yii, yii, I am dee Frito Bandito…"

I laughed and pulled Mark into a half-headlock, half-hug. "Who remembers that?" I asked. "That's fantastic."

"I didn't know Cohen was a Mexican name," Maureen said.

"Oh. I get it. Um, I'm Sephardic, actually, thanks," Mark told her. "I didn't realize Mo-Mo was a name for a Jew." He must have heard me say that… Whoops. "Other than a JAP," Mark added.

"Oh!" I applauded him. "You bitch!" Mark was already leaning against me, so I reached across his chest for a high-five. "Though it's not uncommon for Moses."

"Yeah but who do you know called Moses?" Mark asked.

I popped him one hard on the shoulder. "For one, my dad."

"Yo! Davis!" Maureen snaps her fingers. I pause and look at her. "So? Do you ever do anything that doesn't involve sports?"

"Uh… not Tuesdays and Thursdays between four and seven." Not that it's either of those things now; it's Saturday. It is a fantastic Saturday, with roller hockey at half-past nine o'clock, before the sun is completely awake.

"EW!" Maureen hurls a pinecone at me; I slap it away with my hockey stick. "You set aside time for that?"

I grin. "Not that! I do that in the shower. Or in bed. Or when I get home from school. Or—"

She holds up her hands and shakes her head. "Okay! I give! I don't wanna know! Go take skate to the corner."

I raced down; it was cold out, though the sun was out and it was only August. I warmed up as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Wind rushed past me. I reached the end of the street, spun around to head back home, then paused.

"Roger!" Mark stood on the front lawn, waving at me. "Hey!"

"Yo, Zekey!" I skated down to his house and skidded to a halt. "What's up?"

"Not much…"

"You wanna play some roller hockey?"

Mark smiles and shakes his head apologetically. He's got a nice smile. "I don't know how to skate," he admits.

"Oh, well, you want to learn? I'll get my old skates, I can teach you. It's more fun than basketball!"

Mark chuckles. "Okay," he says. Mark walks back to my house, and I skate. Maureen has gone inside by now; I crash through to the kitchen and grab my old skates. "They should fit you. Here, sit down." Mark sits. I kneel down and strap on the roller blades.

"All right, Mark. Let's roll."

I love me.

To be continued!

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