Symptoms of Being Human (6 page)

BEC ISN'T AT HER USUAL
table at lunch, and on Thursday morning, she doesn't show up for school at all; she must have come down with a cold or something. Sitting alone on the ramp, I unfold and read her note for the zillionth time. It's just the words “In case you reconsider,” and a phone number.

In case I reconsider what—a date, or a tutoring appointment? I can't tell if she's being mysterious on purpose, or if she's already given me some obvious sign that I'm just too socially inept to recognize. I pull out my phone, thinking I'll send her a text to say “hi” or “feel better soon,” but my thumbs just hover helplessly over the screen. What do I say? And, what if I sound too desperate, and she's repulsed
?

This
is why I'm not popular; I can't decode the subtleties of text message etiquette, let alone figure out how to act around live people. My thoughts drift to Solo, who appears to have
given up trying to talk to me. Apparently, I misjudged him like I seem to misjudge everyone. And instead of keeping my guard up, I've allowed myself to hope that this place would be different. But so far, the only difference between Park Hills High and Immaculate Heart is the clothes.

I click off my phone, refold the note, and stuff it into my back pocket.

When I get home from school, I drop onto my bed, not even bothering to open my laptop, and fall asleep.

The muffled sound of my phone's air raid siren alarm tone wakes me. It's six p.m.; my parents will be home to pick me up for the fund-raiser in less than an hour. I drag myself out of bed and cross to my closet.

I stand there, staring at the outfit I have to wear tonight, which is still wrapped in plastic from the dry cleaner's. It's the most gendered thing I own, and I hate it.

I hate it.

I call it my “campaign costume.” It's a stupid name, but it helps me to think of it like that because that's how my
body
feels when I wear it—like a cheap Halloween costume that somebody else chose.

Putting it on is like a suicide ritual; as I dress, I'm killing any possibility of expressing my other, less acceptable self. Just standing here looking at it triggers a powerful wave of dysphoria. My arms feel like plastic. Like mannequin limbs. The tingling starts up again in my cheeks and the tips of my fingers. I've got to get this over with.

I take down the hanger and lay it on the bed. I tug off my
jeans and T-shirt, rip open the cellophane bag, and begin to dress. The material feels suffocating against my skin. I picture myself walking into the hotel ballroom with my parents, deafened by applause and blinded by camera flashes. I put my arms through the sleeves; my hands are shaking. Another flash goes off, and I can't tell if it's real or imagined. I pull fabric over my head, and it seems to rush in at me, clinging to my face like the plastic from the cleaner's, covering my nose, my mouth. I can't breathe.

I can't do this.

Piece by piece, I tear off the clothes and hurl them against the closet door. I stand there, chest heaving, staring at the heap, my breath coming in gasps. And that's when it hits me: This is what I wore the night I went to the hospital.

There was supposed to be a fund-raiser that night, but Dad had to cancel it—because of me. I remember I kept apologizing to him in the ambulance, and his cornflower-blue tie got tangled in the IV tube as he leaned down to tell me it was okay. I spent the night at Park Hills Community Hospital, and the next day, my parents drove me to Pineview.

I fall back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I haven't thought about that night in a long time.

Pineview was terrible—but it was also kind of . . .
easy
. I felt like the healthiest person there, as opposed to how I felt at Immaculate Heart, like I was the only one who was broken. It feels good to be the normal one for a change, but it's awful to be surrounded by sick and hopeless people. Like being in a room full of the worst possible versions of yourself, surrounded by reminders of what you'll become if you don't get better. If
you don't fix yourself. And, in those moments when you're sure you never will, it feels like there's a rope winding around your body, tightening every time you exhale. And after a while, you can't even breathe.

I feel that way now, like there's something heavy sitting on my chest, squeezing the air out of me. I stand and pace my room, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to catch my breath, trying to stave off the tingling already making its way up my arms. I can't let this happen, not before a fund-raiser. Not again. I can't do this.

I can't do this.

My dad's ringtone cuts through the air, and I jump. The phone rings again, and I grab for my jeans, which are still crumpled on the floor next to the bed. As I pull my phone out of the back pocket, a slip of paper drops to the floor.

I answer the call, and my mother's voice says, “Riley?”

But I don't reply immediately; I'm still trying to catch my breath. I can tell I'm on speakerphone in the Lincoln because I hear my father berating another driver in the background. Somehow, that grounds me.

“Honey, are you there?”

“Yeah, Mom. Hi.”

“We're on our way. Are you dressed?”

“Almost.” I glance at the clothes piled against the closet door, then look down at the piece of paper that fluttered to the floor. Bec's note.

“Well, you better hustle. We'll be there in fifteen minutes and we can
not
be late. Your father . . .”

I put Mom on speaker, then set the phone on my bed
and bend over to pick up the paper. Mom rambles on in her wife-of-congressman voice, but I've checked out.

In case you reconsider.

“Mom,” I say, attempting to interrupt her stream of nervous chatter. “Mom!”

“Yes, Riley, what is it?”

“I can't go.”

“What?”

“I can't go to the fund-raiser tonight.”

There's a long pause on the other end. Finally, Mom speaks. “Is it . . . are you . . .” She thinks I'm having another episode—which I sort of am, but she doesn't need to know that.

“No, Mom, it's nothing like that. I kind of . . . made plans.”

No one says anything for a good ten seconds. I hear the traffic on the freeway. I hear keys clicking against the dash panel. And then my dad's voice erupts from the speaker: “You made
plans
?” I can almost
hear
him throwing up his hands. “Unacceptable, Riley. The election is five weeks away. Family matters to these people. We have a respons—”

“I have a study date.” I blurt the words without thinking.

“A date?” he says.

I smack my palm against my forehead. Of course that's what he'd react to. I shouldn't have used that word. Why did I use that word?

“No, no. It's not a date. I don't know why I said that. It's just . . . studying.”

I hear my parents whispering to each other, but I can't make out the words. Then Dad says, “Studying for what?”

“I have an AP Government test.” Technically, I'm telling
my parents the truth. It feels odd.

“When?” Dad says. He's asking for details. That means he's considering letting me off the hook. He's actually considering it.

“Tomorrow, second period,” I say, and then words start to spew out of my mouth like noodles from my mom's pasta maker. “Brennan's really tough, Dad. He's not cutting me any slack even though I transferred. Also, I think he recognized my name. I'll feel like an idiot if the congressman's kid doesn't ace the first test.”

More whispering.

“Where are you going?” Dad asks. “Will there be parental superv—” I hear a
thwack
on the other end. “Ow. What, Sharon?”

“Riley?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“You can go on your study date.”

“It's not a date, Mom.”

“Okay, it's not a date. Your father and I think it's great that you're making friends.”

“Who is it?” Dad asks.

“Just someone from my Government class.”

“Boy or g—”

“Sean!”

“All right, all right!”

Mom clears her throat, then says, “Study hard and we'll see you after the event.”

“Home by ten,” Dad says.

“Okay,” I say.

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye.” The call ends, and I stare at my phone in fascination and disbelief. It actually worked. I don't have to go to the event.

Overcome with relief, I collapse onto my bed. I play back the phone call in my head and decide it was probably the most normal conversation I've had with my parents in years.

Except for one part:
Boy or girl?
My dad was about to ask before Mom cut him off.

Boy or girl?

The question rings in my head, the implications echoing around the inside of my skull like a ricocheting bullet. Dad was probably asking because he suspects I'm gay. That's not so bad, especially since he seems open to talking about it. But then, Mom cut him off before he could ask; why? Is it because
she's
not okay with it? Or because she suspects something more, and didn't want to open a can of worms right before an event?

A bark of laughter escapes me. I don't know why, but just now, the thought that my parents are trying to figure me out strikes me funny. They have no idea what's actually going on with me. And, for now, that's how I want it.

I unfold the note and read it again. Bec's writing is nearly illegible, a tangled scrawl of black letters.

In case you reconsider.

She wrote it, so she must have wanted me to come over. But then she went AWOL. She might be sick, or out of town—or, she might be home, waiting for me to call. Just the thought of it heats up my cheeks.

I turn my head to glance at my laptop. I could just stay here, reread the chapter summaries, and then burn five hours on Bloglr and tell my parents the studying went well. They'd
never know the difference. But then I remember Bec's bright-blue eyes and the cold, smooth touch of her hand on mine.

I take a deep breath and punch in the number.

The phone rings. It rings again. I end the call. Apparently I can't do
this
, either.

I stare up at the screen, trying to decide if I should call again—and then the phone surprises me by ringing in my hand, and I drop it on my face. It glances off my chin, bounces on the mattress, slides across the carpet, and comes to rest under my dresser. It rings three more times as I scramble off the bed and drop to my knees to retrieve it. It's way in the back, by the wall, and I have to press the side of my face to the dresser to reach it. Finally, I lay a finger on the phone, ease it out from its hiding place, and answer it on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” I say, slightly out of breath.

“You called right on time.”

At the sound of Bec's voice, my face splits in a grin. “How did you know it was me?”

“This is Sam, right?”

My heart leaps into my mouth. “Sam? Who—”

“I'm kidding, Riley.”

My heart slides back down my throat and into its usual place in my chest.

“I knew you would call,” she says.

“Really?”

“Mmm-hmm. I spiked those juice boxes with an addictive chemical. I knew you could only withstand the cravings for so long.” Even though I'm alone in my room, my whole body heats up. It's like a fever chill.

“Earth to Riley,” Bec says.

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“I thought you had a thing.”

“I did. I mean, I do. I mean, I'm not going. So.” I bury my face in my pillow. Please kill me now. I do not know how to speak English to the human people.

Bec says, “You . . . still want to study for Brennan?” The way she stretches out the word “you” makes it sound almost like a panther growl.

“Sure,” I say, trying not to sound eager, and failing miserably.

“I'll text you my address.”

BEC LIVES ON THE OLDER SIDE
of town, in a neighborhood separated from the more upscale part of Park Hills by Banyan Road, a wide, diagonal street marred by potholes and a defunct train track running down the center. Most of the streetlights on her block are out, and I have to click on my high beams to read the fading addresses painted on the curb. I spot her street number and pull over, suddenly self-conscious about the shiny newness of my mom's minivan in contrast to the peeling paint on Bec's old, one-story house. I get out, walk up the crumbling concrete steps, and knock on the door. There's no answer. I see light from a TV flickering through the thin curtains, so I ring the doorbell.

Heavy footsteps approach, and the door opens. A tall, extremely overweight boy with a shaved head looks down at me from behind the screen door. He's wearing a sweaty gray
T-shirt and has a video game controller clutched in one hand. His breath comes in wheezes.

“Hi,” I say. “Is Bec—”

The boy cuts me off. “Shh! My mom's resting.” I start to reply, but then he pushes open the warped screen door, and I take a step back instead. The boy squints down at me. It's the look that precedes the Question, or the taunt, or whatever is coming. I brace myself for it—and then, to my relief, Bec appears in the doorway.

“Thanks, Erik,” she says. “I'll take it from here.”

But Erik pays her no attention; his eyes are still on me.

“Are you—” he starts, but Bec cuts him off.

“Erik. Game. Go.”

He shoots Bec a death glare, but she doesn't look away. After a moment, his eyes flick back toward me. “Have fun studying,” he says, then retreats into the living room.

Bec watches him go, then turns to me and says in a hushed voice, “Come on in.”

An ancient square TV dominates one side of the family room. Somebody, probably Erik, has dragged an old blue couch and a mangy beige recliner off to one side to make room for a white plastic mat, which lies in the center of the patchy rug. Erik steps onto it and unpauses his game. It's on mute, but the screen flashes as he drops clumsily to his knees and starts doing what my father would refer to as “girl push-ups.” It's some kind of workout game; on screen, a beefy dude in a muscle shirt makes encouraging gestures as Erik matches his avatar push-up for push-up.

“My room's back here,” Bec whispers, then leads me
through the family room and into the hall. We come to a room at the back of the house, and Bec pauses outside the door.

“Sorry about Erik being a dick,” she says.

“It's okay.”

“He's had a rough week. Some guy on the football team is yanking his chain.”

Immediately, I think of Jim Vickers. “Who?”

“I don't know, some meathead douchebag. He's fooled Erik into believing he's got a chance to make the team if he loses weight and does a few ‘favors.' Which probably means pulling pranks that could get him kicked out of school, or God knows what else.” Bec glances back toward the family room, a tender expression on her face. “I tried to tell him they're just making fun of him, but he won't listen.” She shrugs. “Anyway.” With a smile and a flourish, Bec opens the door and motions me in. “Welcome to my humble abode,” she says, closing the door behind us.

This is clearly the master bedroom, but it's tiny—smaller than my room at home. I look around, trying to hide my confusion, because the layout doesn't make sense at all. The room is split down the middle, with a twin bed resting against each of the long walls. One side of the room has been painted dark gray, while the other side is a painfully bright shade of yellow. Unframed charcoal drawings adorn the walls on the yellow side, and in a corner against one of the gray walls, a battered electric guitar leans against an old schoolhouse desk. At first, I wonder if this bipolar arrangement is a manifestation of some hidden mental illness, but after a few seconds, I realize it's more likely that two people share this room. Across the sliding closet
door—also half gray and half yellow—someone has applied an enormous rainbow decal that seems to bridge the two halves of the room. I can't imagine Bec putting up a sticker like that.

“I had a sister,” Bec says, and I jump. I had almost forgotten she was in the room with me.

“Oh,” I say.

“She died a while back. I keep it like this to remember her. I hope that doesn't freak you out.”

“No,” I say. “Not at all.” But it kind of does.

Bec is looking at one of the charcoal drawings, a portrait of a horse standing behind a split-rail fence. In the background, heavy storm clouds gather.

“Are these yours?” I ask.

“Oh, God, no. I can't even draw stick figures.” She turns, smiles at me.

I set my bag down on the desk chair and gesture at the guitar. “Do you play?”

“Yeah. Not great, but good enough for rock and roll.” A sudden image of Bec on stage, thrashing away at this red-and-black duct-taped guitar, sends a wave of heat through my midsection. My eyes lock with hers, and for an unknown interval of time, I'm lost in bright blue.

Finally, Bec breaks the spell. “I guess we ought to study, huh?”

I look away. “Yeah. Totally,” I say, reaching into my bag to get my laptop.

“So, did I miss anything while I was out?”

“Not much.” I set my computer on the desk and push the power button. “Actually, I don't know. I've sort of had a hard
time paying attention in class. There's a lot going on.”

“I know what you mean,” Bec says.

“So, how come you weren't at school the past few days?”

Bec looks away. “My dad travels a lot for work,” she says. “Sometimes I get to go with him.”

“Oh. Is he still traveling?”

“He doesn't live with us,” she says, crossing to push in an open drawer hanging out of her dresser. She lingers there for a second with her back to me, and I decide to change the subject.

“Do you have Wi-Fi?” I ask. And then I think about the old square TV and the crumbling steps out front, and I'm suddenly embarrassed that I brought my brand-new Mac.

But Bec is unfazed. “Erik hacks it from our neighbor. He's a savant with computers.” She holds out her hands for the laptop. “He has to tweak your settings.”

Reluctantly, I hand it over.

While Bec is out of the room, I resist the temptation to do any serious snooping. I do, however, glance at her extensive and scattered book collection, and I'm delighted to find two of my favorites,
Catcher in the Rye
and
Bridge to Terabithia
, among the more worn-looking paperbacks.

A few minutes later, she returns with my computer, and we're connected. She stretches out on her bed, resting her chin on her palms, while I sit at the desk and open a browser window. I go to the school website and click on Mr. Brennan's page.

“So,” I say, “according to the syllabus: ‘This quiz will consist of five essay questions about how online dialogue shapes the American political climate.'”

Bec groans. “Kill me now. Essay questions? On a quiz?”

I scroll down. “We're supposed to click through this list of links in preparation.”

“Well,” she says, sliding off the bed, “I'm going to need a drink, you want something?”

“What do you have?”

She ticks the options off on her fingers. “RC Cola, juice boxes, cooking sherry, drain cleaner. I'm probably going for drain cleaner.”

I laugh. “I'll have one of those addictive juice boxes. You know, to prevent withdrawal.”

Bec smiles. “Good thinking. I'll be right back.”

Bec returns with two juice boxes. She hands me one, pops the straw into her own, and then raises it in a toast. “To Mr. Brennan.”

“And our fragile republic,” I reply, and we click our juice boxes together.

Bec leans back, eyeing me. “You're funny,” she says.

“Defense mechanism,” I reply. “Like how sea cucumbers vomit their guts at you when they feel threatened.”

“Do they actually do that?”

“I don't know. But I choose to believe it because it's an exceptional metaphor.”

Bec takes a pull on her straw, swallows. “So, you feel threatened?”

I blush, immediately and completely.

“Hey,” she says, scooting toward me on the bed. “I'm sorry. I do that sometimes. I push people's buttons.” And then, she puts her hand on my knee. It's an innocent enough gesture . . .
or is it? I feel the heat in my face intensify.

“I'm—it's fine,” I say. “I just have a blushing thing. It's a—”

“Defense mechanism?” Bec offers.

“Something like that.”

“Well, that's more sanitary than vomiting your guts out,” she says. I laugh. Then she sort of pats me on the leg. It's a weirdly maternal gesture, and it immediately douses the fire that had begun to spread through my body with a flood of disappointment. For a moment, when she put her hand on my leg, I thought she was . . . I don't know, hitting on me. But then it became this weird leg-patting thing, and the energy changed. Ugh. It's so frustrating being totally incapable of interpreting signals—and on top of that, I still don't know how she views me. If she sees me as a girl, am I just, like, a friend? Or, is she
into
girls? Or, if she gets more of a guy vibe from me, am I her type? Or am I just some nerd she can flirt with to get tutoring?

If Bec notices my reaction, she doesn't show it. She sits back against the wall and says, “All right. Teach me stuff about things.”

We spend the next hour clicking through the links on Brennan's syllabus. Half of them lead to clean, white, extremely boring government websites, but the other half link to pages run by various fringe political groups and conspiracy theorists. Most of these are wildly colorful, poorly formatted blogs that look like they were designed roughly the same year
Titanic
won Best Picture—but the content is fascinating.

One guy's blog consists entirely of videos of him ranting about how the Patriot Act was a direct violation of the Bill of Rights. Another guy—who my father would term a “nut
job”—blathers on and on about how there's actually no law that requires American citizens to pay income tax.

“What's the point of all this?” Bec says, gesturing at the screen with her drink box straw, which she has chewed into a knot. “Half of them seem legit, but the other half look like they're run by the tinfoil-hat brigade.”

“Which is the name of my new rock band,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Tinfoil Hat Brigade.”

Bec rolls her eyes, and I feel my face start to heat up again. If she thought I was even vaguely appealing before, I'm doing an excellent job of changing her mind.

In an effort to divert attention away from my apparently repulsive nerdiness, I return my focus to the screen. “We only have a couple more sites to go.”

The next link leads to the home page of a democratic congresswoman from Texas. Below her bio, there's a grid of icons, all of them logos of associations that have endorsed her for reelection. One of them is a sparkling, animated rainbow.

“What's the rainbow?” Bec asks.

So I click it.

A clean, well-formatted page comes up. At the top, there's the rainbow logo again, and the masthead reads:

QueerAlliance.org

LGBTQ Resources

“Pretty controversial endorsement for a Texan,” Bec says.

“Yeah, right?” I'm doing my best to keep my face impassive; I know this site. I've never been to the home page, but I've clicked through links on Bloglr and read a few articles
on it. Mostly, QueerAlliance.org consists of posts by gay and trans community leaders—but I did find one by a gender fluid writer in San Francisco that helped me a lot, back when I was still trying to figure out what was going with me. In any case, I never expected it to show up on a homework assignment.

Below the menu, there's a square photo of a professional-looking woman with a broad smile and short wavy hair, captioned “Mike/Michelle Weston.” Next to that is a calendar of events, including several pride festivals and the annual Transgender Day of Remembrance in November. I scroll down.

In a section called “What's New,” there's a list of “Featured Blogs” with photos, short descriptions, and links to each site. I scan through them.

When I see my David Bowie avatar, I almost drop my juice box.

The description reads:

Hiding and Other Social Skills

Alix's online diary communicates the experience of being young and gender fluid with personal stories and humorous rants

Hastily, I click the Back button, silently praying Bec wasn't paying attention. How did my blog end up on this website?

“I should get home,” I say, powering down my Mac.

“What? Now?” Bec says. She sits up on the bed. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, stuffing the laptop into my bag. “It's just getting late.”

Bec glances at her watch. “It's, like, eight fifteen.”

“On school nights I'm supposed to be home by eight
thirty.” It's a lie, but it comes easily enough.

“Okay, well, I'll walk you out.”

My head is spinning as I drive away from her house, thoughts going back and forth in my mind: What are the odds my blog would turn up on Brennan's homework assignment? Did Bec notice my panicked reaction? And then I think about the awkward knee-patting incident, and I want to bury my face in a pillow until I suffocate. Was she flirting, or am I deluding myself?

The thoughts rush in like that, one after the other, disconnected and out of order. I wonder if I ought to pull over until I calm down, but I can't seem to change course. Finally, I get home, close the garage, and head straight up to my room.

Dad has laid out my meds for me. I swallow my pills, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed. I try to do the whiteboard exercise, but fail before I get halfway through. Somehow, I still manage to drift toward sleep. My last thought is of Bec's hand on my knee, and the radiant heat that spread out from it.