Symptoms of Being Human

by Jeff Garvin

  After a moment, she continues. “I think you’re Alix. I think you’re the one who responded to Andie Gingham. And I would really like to know if I’m right.”

  I don’t say anything, but the heat rushing up my neck tells me that my skin and my blood vessels have already spoken on my behalf.

  Mike/Michelle nods. “Okay,” she says. “You don’t have to say anything. This is between you and me. I am not in the business of telling other people’s secrets. But I have an invitation for you. Or, maybe it’s a request. You don’t have to decide tonight, but I’ll need your answer soon, because it’s in two weeks.”

  I swallow hard. “What’s in two weeks?”

  Mike/Michelle clasps her hands, almost like she’s praying. “I’d like you to be on my panel at Trans Health Con.”

  At first, I mistake the sensation that rushes through me for anxiety—but there’s a hopeful edge to the feeling, a lightness instead of the usual darkness. I realize it’s not panic I’m feeling; it’s excitement.

  “Riley, you have a gift for words. The way you write, and the way you speak—you have the ability to move people. You saw it tonight, the way the group responded to you. The way I responded. The way Andie Gingham responded.” She puts a hand on her chest. “I know you haven’t come out to your parents yet, and you would probably want to do that before you spoke at the Con. I know you’re only sixteen, and I know it seems like I’m asking an awful lot. But, Riley—there are so many more Andie Ginghams out there. And they need to hear someone like you.”

  I blink at her. The blood rushing past my ears sounds like an army marching on dry leaves. My mouth is dry.

  Come out to my parents. Speak in public. In two weeks.

  “Please consider it.”

  I feel my head nod as though someone is pulling an unseen string. “I will.”

  CHAPTER 22

  ON SATURDAY MORNING I WAKE up to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I grab my phone and check the time: it’s almost nine thirty.

  “Riley, are you awake?” It’s my dad’s voice.

  “I am now,” I say, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Come on in.”

  He opens the door and takes a step in. Standing there in his blue pajamas and bathrobe, he looks like a dad from some old TV show. He sips from his University of Notre Dame coffee mug and surveys my bedroom over the rim of his reading glasses as if he’s never been in here before.

  “I didn’t know you were home,” I say.

  “Got in late last night, decided to sleep in.” He walks over to my record collection and starts flipping through albums.

  “How did your meetings go?” I ask.

  A giant grin spreads across his face. “Better than I’d hoped. The teachers’ unions are on board, and that makes a big difference. There’s still a long way to go, but we might just pull this thing off.”

  “And that’s good for the campaign?”

  “It’s good either way.”

  “That’s awesome.” I smile at him, and he smiles back. He pulls out London Calling by the Clash, flips it over, and starts reading the back cover.

  It’s been a long time since my dad came into my room while I was still in bed—and longer since I felt so . . . I don’t know, normal about it. I’m usually pretty self-conscious in the morning, at least until I’ve had a chance to read my internal compass and figure out how I want to present myself. But right now, it’s not so bad. I’m already feeling extremely guyish—like the needle is all the way on M—and I tend to feel less vulnerable on guy days.

  “So,” Dad says, putting the record back, “your mother and Shelly are off to some sort of baking expo and then to the spa.” He puts one finger on the turntable and gives it a spin. “And I’m going to get my lazy butt dressed and head into the office. I have a thousand emails to catch up on, then meetings this afternoon.” He glances up at me. “Want to come with me? We could get bagels.”

  I can tell he really wants me to go—but I haven’t spent much time alone with my father. I don’t know what we’d say to each other.

  “No pressure,” he says, taking an intentionally nonchalant sip of coffee. “I was just thinking you could keep me company. Bring your laptop. Do some homework. When you get bored, Elias can take you home.” I consider. The game isn’t until five thirty, and I was planning to do some reading anyway. Dad stares down into his now-empty coffee cup. “I want to pick new walk-in music for Tuesday. Something . . . different. I could use your expertise.”

  As usual, he’s reserved a carrot to dangle in front of me—I’ve been bugging him to let me pick his walk-in music since he announced his candidacy last year.

  “Can we get On the Vedge instead of bagels?”

  He looks up at me, and I can tell he’s pleased. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  An hour later, Dad’s bald and burly head of security, Elias, picks us up in his black SUV. When I get in the car, he hands me a paper bag emblazoned with the On the Vedge logo. It smells amazing.

  “You rule,” I say.

  “Good to see you too, Riley. How’s school?”

  “It needs drastic reforms, Elias.”

  He laughs. “To the office, Congressman?”

  Dad nods. “To the office.”

  Dad spends the morning behind his giant mahogany desk, catching up on emails. I sit at the small conference table by the window, trying to get through Act 2 of The Crucible. But, after rereading the same page three times, I give up and start clicking around the internet.

  Shortly before noon, Dad stands, takes off his reading glasses, and rubs his eyes. “If I read one more email, my eyeballs are going to pop out of my head.” He walks over to where I’m sitting, plops down in the chair next to me, and puts his feet up on the conference table.

  “You’re in a weird mood,” I say.

  “I’m in a good mood. You’re just not used to it.” He smiles. “So, what do you think for walk-in music?”

  I bring up my list. “I figured you’d want something education-themed.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “How about ‘Another Brick in the Wall’?”

  Dad frowns. “Isn’t that the ‘we don’t need your education’ one?”

  I smirk.

  “Very funny.”

  “Not safe enough? Okay. How about . . . ‘ABC’ by the Jackson Five.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “No, come on. That’s too . . . I’m, I don’t know, I’m edgier than that,” he says.

  “Edgier?” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  “Yeah. Edgier.” Dad gives me his best TV face, cocks his head at an angle, and says, “It’s time for an edgier Orange County. I’m Sean Cavanaugh, and I approved this message.”

  I roll my eyes. And then my dad emits this weird bark of laughter.

  “Sean Cavanaugh,” he says in a caricature of his congressman voice, “your edgy-cation candidate.”

  And he starts to laugh, a deep, booming chuckle, until his eyes get moist. At first, I just shake my head, but I feel a smile forming. This seems to egg my father on, because now he’s leaning forward, slapping the conference table with one hand, laughing so hard he’s gasping.

  “Call Shelly!” He motions helplessly at the phone. “We’re changing the posters!”

  Now I’m laughing, too—not a full-on belly laugh, but the closest thing I’ve had in a long time. It feels good—like something that’s been building up inside me finally finds a vent, and the pressure lessens.

  Finally, Dad manages to get control. “Okay,” he says, wiping away tears and putting his glasses back on. “Seriously. Next suggestion?”

  “How about ‘School’s Out’ by Alice Cooper? That’s your generation.”

  “Wrong message,” he says. Then, he sits up straighter. “Wait . . . the Ramones!”

  I frown. “Which song?”

  “You know . . .” And then he sings in a horrible imitation of Joey Ramone. “Rock, rock, rock, rock, rockin’ the high
school!”

  “Oh my God, Dad. Please don’t ever do that again.”

  He feigns a hurt look.

  “Now I know where my lack of musical talent comes from.”

  “All right, all right. But seriously, that’s an upbeat song. It’s sort of silly, but it’s catchy, and it’s education-related.”

  “Um, have you ever listened to the words?” I bring up the lyrics in a new browser tab and angle the laptop toward him so he can read. He scans them, frowns.

  “Wow,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “I almost pulled a Reagan.”

  Oddly, I immediately picture Solo inhaling his chocolate malted. “As in President Reagan?”

  Dad nods. “He used ‘Born in the USA’ during his campaign. Springsteen was huge, and he thought it sounded patriotic, but it’s actually a protest song. Made himself look like an idiot in front of the whole country.” Dad sits back and gazes out the window, tapping absently on the tabletop with his index finger. “I guess I’m pretty out of touch.” His voice sounds soft and uncertain, not like him at all—at least, not like any part of him I’m allowed to see. He turns his head away from the window and looks at me, and it’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time since I was a little kid. We sit there for a while, looking at each other. Then his eyes drop to his lap and he clears his throat—but before he can say anything, the phone rings. He reaches for the extension on the conference table.

  “Cavanaugh.” He looks at me, mouths the word edgy, and gives me a thumbs up. I shake my head at him. “Yeah, okay,” he says, glancing down at his watch. “I’ll still be here. Okay.” He hangs up. “Superintendent Clemente will be here in five. You want to stay, or . . .”

  “No, that’s okay. I need to head home. I’m going to the football game tonight.”

  Dad raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yes, Dad, really.”

  “With whom?”

  “My friend Bec. We’re going to go watch Solo play.”

  Dad frowns, folds his arms. “Bec is a boy?”

  I turn the laptop back toward me. “Bec is a girl, Dad.”

  “Oh, right. So, are you two . . .”

  “I don’t know yet,” I say, feeling my cheeks get hot. Dad cocks his head, and I can almost see the wheels turning.

  My breath quickens. Is this my opening? My moment to tell him? I don’t feel ready—and yet, I’ve known the truth for a long time now. I’ve been in therapy for months. I’ve come out to two friends, half a dozen strangers, and the entire internet. For Christ’s sake, I’ve been invited to speak about it publicly in two weeks. If I’m not ready now—will I ever be?

  I open my mouth to speak—and then all at once, I change the subject. “You want to finish picking a song?”

  “Yes. Absolutely,” Dad says. He sounds as relieved as I feel. “What else have you got?”

  “Well,” I say, turning back to the screen and swallowing the lump in my throat, “this one isn’t about education, not at all, really, and it’s kind of weird. But it might work.”

  “What is it?”

  I bring up the lyrics and turn the laptop back toward him.

  “‘Changes.’ David Bowie.”

  He pulls the computer closer and scrolls down, reading. A faint smile turns up the corners of his mouth—it’s the same smile I have—and he nods.

  “It’s perfect.”

  The phone bleeps, and Elias’s voice comes through the speakerphone. “Congressman, Superintendent Clemente is here.”

  “I’ll be right out,” he says, and punches the hang-up button. He turns back to me, folding his hands. “Okay, well. Thanks for the song.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Mr. Bowie.”

  We stand, and he waits till I’ve packed up my laptop and tossed my copy of The Crucible into my bag. Then I follow him through the door into the outer office.

  “Felicia,” he says, striding across the small lobby and extending his hand. I walk behind him.

  “Good to see you back on the home front, Congressman,” she says. She’s tall, and the heels she’s wearing make her even taller than my father; I can only see her shiny black hair over the top of his head. I step out from behind my dad, and the superintendent looks from him to me with a bright smile. “And this must be your . . .” She pauses for a split second—but in that time, I see her smile falter just slightly.

  Dad, being the consummate politician, jumps in a millisecond later, defusing the awkward moment with his usual charm. “Riley,” he says, “this is Superintendent Clemente. She’s here to hold me accountable for all my campaign promises.”

  She recovers her smile immediately, but I know my dad noticed.

  “Nice to meet you, Superintendent Clemente,” I say. We shake hands. Her grip is weak.

  Dad turns to me. He smiles, but it’s that no-teeth smile, and his eyes have gone distant. It’s as though I’ve already left the room, or as though he wishes I had. The warmth of the last few minutes evaporates.

  “Have a good time at the game, Riley. Be safe. Text before you head home.”

  “Okay,” I say, and then Elias ushers me out of the office, and the door closes behind us.

  CHAPTER 23

  THAT AFTERNOON, I TRY TO forget the uncomfortable exchange with Superintendent Clemente so I can study, but I can’t. God, why couldn’t we have run into one of his junior aides, or the janitor in his building? Why did it have to be the effing superintendent?

  I play back the moment right before Elias took me home, remembering the cold tone of Dad’s voice; it was like he was trying to distance himself from me. As though, instead of being his kid, I’m some politically dangerous thing that he needs to disassociate from.

  I slam my book shut, slide off my bed, and get ready for the game.

  To my relief, there’s no sign of the scruffy drummer when I pick up Bec at Bullet Hole. We drive to school—which feels strange on a Saturday. The lot is almost full when we arrive, and I have to park the minivan at the far end by the tennis courts. I shut off the engine, and we just sit there for a moment, neither of us eager to get out and face the chaos of the game.

  “Do we have to go?” I say.

  Bec glances out the window, then back at me. “If we leave now, we could be in Mexico before the game ends. No one would know we were gone.”

  “We could take on fake names.”

  “We could wear sombreros.”

  “And six-guns.” I smile. Bec smiles back. Then she reaches for the door handle.

  We get out of the car and walk toward the field slowly, delaying the moment when we have to join the noisy throng on the other side of the bleachers. We’re passing an old green pickup truck when Bec stops.

  “I just . . . ,” she begins, then pauses. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m totally cool with it. With you being gender fluid, I mean.”

  Air rushes out of my lungs in a sort of dry, silent sob—and it’s like I’ve been holding my breath for as long as I can remember, and now I can finally breathe.

  Bec continues, “I mean, it probably goes without saying. But I wanted to—”

  “No, I’m glad you said it. I’m . . . glad.” I laugh. “Gladdy-glad-glad-glad. I think I caught your speech disease.”

  “Monkey, monkey, monkey?” Bec says.

  “Yeah, that one.”

  She shakes her head. “On the contrary. What you said last night, about having somewhere to stand and someone to stand with . . . you have a thing with words.”

  I blush so deeply that it shows in my reflection in the truck’s window. “I have a thing?”

  “You have a thing.”

  “That is a supreme compliment coming from the girl who coined the phrase ‘slapping asses with a herd of witless sweat rags.’”

  Bec smirks. “I have my moments.”

  Just then, a voice comes over the PA, announcing, “Kickoff in five minutes!”

  But I don’t really want to move; I like standing here in the parking lot, talking to this str
ange, attractive girl. I try to think of something to say to postpone the inevitable end of this moment we’re having, whatever it is.

  “I told my dad about you today,” I say.

  “Oh yeah?”

  I nod. “He wanted to know if you were a boy or a girl.”

  She cocks her head at me.

  “I think he was trying to figure out if it was a date.” I feel my cheeks go hot again.

  Bec reaches out, takes my hand, and interlaces her fingers with mine. “Come on.”

  We’re still holding hands when we queue up to buy tickets, and a few people shoot glances in our direction. I feel a strange pang of pride and grip Bec’s hand tighter; her touch is at once reassuring and exhilarating. We get our tickets and then stop at the snack counter, where Bec purchases a soda roughly the size of a bathtub. I smile when she grabs two straws.

  The first few rows of bleachers are completely packed, so we mount the steps and head for the top. The crowd is loud and the PA is blaring; I’m not surprised when I feel a buzz starting up in the back of my head.

  We make it halfway to the top before the harassment starts.

  “Which one’s the dude?”

  I turn my head, and my stomach goes cold. Jim Vickers sits five feet away from me, one arm still bound in a yellow cast, the other draped around Sierra’s shoulders. She says nothing, but doesn’t take her eyes off me.

  Seated between us and Vickers are the bespectacled redheaded kid and Cole, the broad-shouldered football player with long stringy hair. He should be on the field; I wonder what he did to get suspended.

  Vickers points at me. “That one’s got to be the dude. No tits.”

  Cole laughs. “The other one doesn’t have any tits either.” The redheaded kid pushes up his glasses and looks away.

  Bec squeezes my hand tighter, and we start to move past.

  “That’s right. Keep walking, queers,” Vickers says.

  Bec stops, turns, and looks at him.

  Vickers says, “What are you looking at?”

  Bec smirks and says, “A very wet boy.”

  Vickers’s smile wilts. Bec squeezes her soda cup until the lid pops off—and then she takes a step forward and upends it over Jim Vickers, sending sixty-four ounces of ice-cold purple drink cascading into his lap.