Symptoms of Being Human (2 page)

THE FIRST DOOR I COME
to
is a restroom, and I burst in and lock myself in a stall. For a moment, I just lean against the cold metal door, staring at a patch of discolored grout on the tile wall.

It.

I've been called worse—much worse—but somehow this comment stings more than the rest. I haven't been here five minutes, and the harassment has already started. I even made an effort to dress as neutrally as I could stand—but it doesn't matter. My
differentness
is impossible to conceal. I feel a familiar heat behind my eyes and the beginning of a quiver in my bottom lip, but I bite down on it. I can't give in this easily. I can't let one bad moment ruin my chance at a fresh start. I close my eyes and take three long, deep breaths. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to normal.

I pull out my class schedule and check the map on the
back: my first class—AP English/Room 207—is on the other end of the campus. Class starts in fifteen minutes; if I want to avoid the rush, I'd better go now.

The quad at Park Hills High is approximately nine hundred miles from end to end and feels just like “the yard” in some old prison movie. I entertain a brief escape fantasy in which I'm shanked from behind and bleed out before the first bell rings so I don't have to face the rest of the day. No such luck—but I make it across without incident, push open the door to the language arts wing, and start down the hallway. I stop outside room 207 and peer in through the window, one of those tall, narrow ones with chicken wire between the panes. I can't see anyone inside, so I open the door and enter.

The empty desks are arranged in a grid, and I take a moment to consider my options. The front rows are no good, because I'd be on display for everyone as they come in—and, after the morning I've had, I'd rather avoid the scrutiny. But the last few rows are out, too, because teachers love to call on kids who sit in the back.

I choose a desk in the center of the room, drop my bag next to it, and slide into the chair. It's new; there's hardly any graffiti at all, only the word “penis” etched in one corner. Briefly, I consider inscribing “vagina” on the opposite side, just to balance it out.

Then the door bangs open and a huge guy lumbers into the room. He's at least six feet tall, probably over three hundred pounds, and he's wearing a black T-shirt depicting Darth Vader clutching an ice-cream cone. His nest of messy black hair is clamped under a pair of red headphones, and he appears to be
playing an air guitar solo as he walks down the aisle, eyes closed, face contorting in an apoplexy of rage or ecstasy—it's hard to tell which. He goes up on tiptoe, pinwheels one arm to strike a triumphant chord on his imaginary ax, then falls to his knees and throws his hands up like he's taking in the applause of a stadium crowd.

After a long, gasping moment, he gets to his feet, slides into a desk right across the aisle from mine, and begins rummaging through his dilapidated backpack. I clear my throat to get his attention, but he doesn't respond; he probably can't hear me with those headphones on.

Finally, he turns his head to crack his neck. He opens his eyes, sees me—and flinches in surprise, knocking his backpack off the desk. His belongings spill into the aisle between us: books, papers, a Yoda pencil case, and an avalanche of small pink candies.

We stare at each other in wide-eyed silence for a long moment. And then the guy speaks, his voice about forty decibels louder than necessary.

“Jesus Christ on a cupcake! You scared the crap out of me!”

I gesture for him to take off his headphones.

“Oh yeah,” he says too loudly. When he pulls them off his head, his hair springs up, giving him an electrocuted look. He stands and retrieves his backpack, while I slide out of my chair to help collect his belongings.

The candies turn out to be strawberry Starbursts, dozens of them. When I've picked up the last one, I drop the pile onto his desk and meet his gaze. His eyes are large and dark, and he stares at me for a long time, not saying anything. Part of me
wants to turn away, to pull out a book and bury my face in it—but there's something about his presence, a gentle goofiness, that makes me take a chance.

Tentatively, I break the silence. “I'm Riley.”

He blinks. “Solo.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“That's what people call me,” he says. “Short for Jason Solomona.”

Solo snatches one of the Starbursts from his desk, unwraps it deftly, and crams it into his mouth. After a few hearty chews, he says thickly, “Want one?” I don't, but I feel like telling him no would be tantamount to refusing a peace offering from a foreign diplomat.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, and take one. It's sweet, and immediately adheres itself to one of my back molars like quick-dry cement. Solo stares at me for a moment, his eyebrows drawn together. He starts to speak, but hesitates.

My heart sinks; here we go. Come on. Let's get it out of the way.

Finally, he seems to make a decision, and says, “You're new.”

“Yeah,” I say, relieved.

“Where are you from? Wait,” he interrupts himself, “don't tell me.” He glances at my shirt, then leans into the aisle to look at something on the ground. My shoes? He straightens. “Midwest,” he says.

Half amused and half confused, I tilt my head to one side. “Why the Midwest?”

He points to my Doc Martens. “Boots, not very practical for Southern California.”

I start to retort, but he's already moved on.

“Authentic vintage Ramones shirt, not something you can just pick up at Hot Topic.” He inclines his head as if waiting for confirmation.

My heart gives a pleasant twinge; the guy doesn't seem put off by my appearance at all; in fact, he seems genuinely interested. “Go on,” I say.

“Unusual haircut. Rebellious air about you.”

“Why does that make you think I'm from the Midwest?”

Solo shrugs. “Where else could you develop such contempt for traditional American values?”

That makes me smile. He smiles back.

“Now,” he continues, putting a finger to his lips in a cartoonish imitation of a TV detective, “your vampiric Irish pallor suggests north of Indianapolis.” He sits back in his chair and folds his enormous hands. “Chicago. Am I right?”

“Not quite,” I say.

“Detroit!” he replies.

“Nope.”

“Madison?”

I shake my head.

He throws up his hands. “I give up. Where?”

“Park Hills. About a mile from here.”

He sags back into his seat, deflating like an enormous car dealership balloon that's been punctured by a sharp rock.

“Damn,” he says. “I thought I had you pegged.”

I shrug. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He laughs. “Not disappointed, just surprised. You look . . .”

He pauses midsentence, and my heart sinks again. All the
words I'm afraid he might say rush in to fill the gap in his speech: Weird. Freakish.

Wrong.

But then he does speak, and he doesn't say any of those things. He says, “You look . . . too
exotic
for Park Hills.”

Something inside me seems to swell and grow warmer, and I'm surprised when a weird laugh escapes me—something between a bark and a giggle. At the sound of it, Solo laughs, too. Caught up in the moment, I sort of flip my bangs back and say in a low voice, “Exotic, am I?”

Solo's smile falters, and the silence that ensues is so awkward that I want to climb under my desk and die. Solo flushes a deep brown, and I drop my gaze to my lap.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'm so desperate to make a friend that the second I get comfortable with someone, what do I do? I make some weird, embarrassing joke, and he interprets it as flirting. Ugh! It was the wrong thing, the wrong energy to send out in that moment. And despite my feeling neutral today, this guy clearly sees me as a guy; I can tell by his uncomfortable reaction to my unintended flirting. Now, there's a palpable weirdness between us, and I desperately wish I could take back that stupid hair flip and just keep my mouth shut.

Much to my relief, Solo starts speaking again as though nothing happened. “If you're from Park Hills, why am I seeing you for the first time a month into junior year?”

Eager not to make an ass of myself again, I execute the most nonchalant shrug in the history of shrugging. “I transferred from Immaculate Heart,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I hadn't said them. If he asks why, what am I
going to say? That I'm my father's political pawn? Or that I was trying to escape from a place where I was harassed and bullied on a daily basis? Charming small talk for a first conversation.

But Solo doesn't ask—he just glances down at my boots, then up at my hair, and says, “Catholic school. Of course. That would give anyone contempt for traditional American values.”

I smile. “You were right about the Irish part, though.” That seems to cheer him up.

The classroom door opens and two girls enter. I recognize the shorter one: she's the brunette with the perfect nose who speculated about my gender when I walked on campus. The one who called me “it.” Hastily, I lean over to pretend I'm pulling another book out of my bag, surfacing only after the girl and her friend have taken their seats. As the classroom fills up, Solo sets about putting the Starbursts back into his backpack and stowing his headphones, and I bury my head in my AP English textbook.

I actually enjoy my first class. Miss Crane has a round, pleasant face, and turns out to be a total book geek; she makes multiple Harry Potter references and takes note of who gets them. She catches me snorting at one in which she speculates how an appearance by Ginny Weasley might have altered the plot of
Sense and Sensibility
. When the bell rings, I take my time packing up; I'm not eager to leave Solo or Miss Crane's Sanctuary for Geeks. I'm relieved when Solo tells me he has AP Government second period—because I do, too—and we head to class together. Or, more accurately, I follow him through the halls, walking in his considerable wake.

After the
it
incident this morning, I've braced myself to
be gawked at, even openly mocked in the halls—but mostly, the other students walk right past me like I'm anyone else. I do draw a few looks, though; a blond girl in a pretty lavender dress gives me a friendly smile as we pass each other. I smile back.

Then, just as I'm starting to believe I might actually fit in here, a short guy in a blue baseball cap looks me up and down. At first I think he's checking me out—but when we make eye contact, he shakes his head, frowning like he's disgusted. I pick up my pace as I walk past him and follow Solo up the stairs to our next class.

Mr. Brennan, the Government teacher, has an enormous Chuck Norris mustache and assigns desks by alphabetical order—so I'm forced to take my place in the middle of the second row, while Solo ends up one row over. When Brennan starts his lecture, I'm not listening; I'm replaying the whispers from this morning, and the disgusted look from the guy in the hallway.

At some point, I look up to find Mr. Brennan standing directly in front of my row.

“Anybody want to hazard a guess?” Brennan says, referring to a question I apparently didn't hear. “This is the US House of Representatives, people. The YOU-nited States. The country in which most of you were born.” I look down at my desk, praying he doesn't call on me.

“Riley Cavanaugh,” he says.

I open my mouth, intending to reply, but nothing comes out. After a moment, the guy in front of me—slight-framed, with dark hair to his shoulders and a black peacoat I kind of
want to steal—speaks up in a voice that sounds like it hasn't changed yet: “Fifty?”

Brennan turns his gaze on him. “Incorrect. You might be thinking of the Senate, which comprises two representatives from each of the fifty states, for a total of one hundred.”

The guy shrugs.

“Ah. Well, close, but no cigar. But, in any case, DeLucca, I didn't call on you.” He turns to face me again. “Cavanaugh? Care to take your shot?”

The entire class is looking at me now, and the sides of my face instantly get hot. When I blush—which I do with pathological frequency—it's not like a subtle change in skin tone; it's more like a new paint job. Warning thoughts flash through my head:
Play dumb! Give the wrong answer!
But habit wins over caution, and I reply.

“Four hundred thirty-five,” I say. My face basically bursts into flame, and I look down at my desk.

“Correct,” Mr. Brennan replies, turning to pace the center aisle. “It appears that only two of us in this room stand between our fragile republic and the clandestine oligarchy. Let's see if we can't increase our numbers this year, shall we?” With that, he resumes his lecture, and I zone out for the rest of the period.

When the bell rings, everyone explodes out of their desks and stampedes toward the door; I get the impression that Mr. Brennan is not in the running for Park Hills High School's Most Popular Teacher. I follow Solo into the hall. It's less crowded now, and I can actually walk next to him without being shunted aside.

“What's next for you?” I ask.

“
Español
, then Algebra I.”

“You're still taking Algebra I?”

“I hate sequels,” he says.

I laugh. “Which period do you have lunch?”

Solo is about to answer when a tall guy slams into me, knocking me sideways. He's broad-shouldered, with a mop of sun-bleached hair, and his left arm is encased in a yellow fiberglass cast. In his good hand, he's clutching an iPad. As he blows past, he turns his head and looks at me. I catch that familiar flicker of uncertainty as he tries to figure me out. He gives up more quickly than most, and just says, “Watch where you're walking, bitch.” He shoots Solo a reproachful glance, then continues down the hall. A younger kid chases after him, shouting, “Give it back, man!”