He walked away, fists at his sides. The springboard disappeared.
You wouldn’t lose control in public. Not when you’re sober anyway. Hating you doesn’t mean I still don’t want to be you. It’s part of the reason I hate you. And how dare you remind me that it won’t matter what people call me, how I cut my hair, or how I’ll try to mime you – I’ll never be you.
“Don’t be so fucking dramatic, Andrew,” Oz shouted.
It’s not dramatic. For all your knowledge, you don’t understand a single fucking thing. I don’t care what you’ve been through, it’s not the same.
“I’m trying to help you!”
Help me? How can you help me when your presence is offensive to me? You can’t trade bags of weed with random people and help me. Nothing can, but even if it could:
Andrew spun around. “I don’t want your fucking help!”
But shouting a single sentence wasn’t enough. The diving board illuminated, and he made a mad dash toward it as he charged back to Oz. Fuck what anyone else would do. He was Andrew. And he wanted to rip Oz to pieces.
And fuck somersaults or twists or any of that bullshit. He jumped and hit the water.
Andrew stopped inches from where Oz stood near the car.
“Why would you want to help me? Do you feel sorry for me?” He grabbed the cigarette from his lips and threw it to the ground. He crushed it into the asphalt with his heel before jabbing a finger into Oz’s face. “Poor, stupid Andrew. Stuck in the body of a woman. Here, toss a bag of pot to someone and make him feel like he’s not hopeless. Give him a bone. You’re one of those perfect, beautiful people who should take pity on us. It’s the cross you bear, association and charity toward freaks!”
“That’s not—”
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me! You have no fucking idea how it is to be trapped in this body! Do you think I want to look like this? Do you?”
“I—”
“Shut the fuck up! You want to hear something else you don’t know?” Andrew’s body shook as he yelled. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me, and be around you! To look at you and see what I’ll never have! To see your face and watch you move!”
He seized Oz’s shirt.
“Did you have to think about putting this on? Did you worry about how it’d make you look? No, you didn’t! You threw it on and walked out the door! You knew that whatever you wore, it’d fit perfectly! No one would think you’re a freak! You don’t have to try to do anything! You’re always young and handsome and masculine, no matter what you wear!”
He let go of the fabric, but made a sharp motion at Oz as he backed off.
“Do you think any of this would fit me? That I’d look anything like you? Anything like how I feel inside? I hate your fucking shirts! I hate your fucking pants! I hate how you’re confident and how you’re so comfortable in your own skin! You’re a walking reminder of everything I want! And I hate you for it!”
Oz stared at Andrew and said nothing for what seemed minutes. It was probably a good thing as the screaming had left Andrew lightheaded. He considered turning and stalking away, but kept still, his vision reined in on Oz’s eyes. And for those first few seconds of silence, they contained an emotion he hadn’t previously seen.
The expression was similar to when Oz had spoken of the loss of his mathematical ability. Except he’d told his story to others before and knew what words to say and at which points he was liable to break down. That loss had also happened a decade ago, so while the pain was still vivid, a paper-thin layer of skin had covered it.
But this was a fresh hurt for which there were no immediate words. The shock of being maliciously and unexpectedly wounded.
Did even your father come out and admit he hated you?
The thought caused Andrew to feel slightly guilty, though not enough to apologize for the outburst. Then Oz’s injured look snapped away, the control and cockiness re-emerging. Instead of relief, the resilience irritated Andrew.
I wish I could let shit roll off so easily. God, I hate you.
“I can’t help how I look either,” Oz said. “Even if my appearance pisses you off, it’s all I have to work with. I can’t change myself to make you feel better. And if I could, I wouldn’t.” He took a step toward Andrew. “Maybe you need to look at me and get a fucking grip. Stop pining over wanting to be me, and do something about yourself. That’s why I brought it up. Not so you’d fly into a fucking fit. I wanted to help you.”
“You want to help?” Andrew asked. “You want to back your car over me, so they’ll cut out my brain again and put it in a man’s body? They’d freezer burn another part, and I’d feel like a woman.”
“Or a sheep.”
The comment was like flicking a pebble into a pond, and Andrew felt the pressure ease.
That’s it, you need to remember yourself. Remember the plan. You don’t know what could happen, and you’d like to think you won’t need his help, but you might.
And were he to chart out the time since waking in the Cryobiotic Treatment Center, despite the rock bottom lows, the period since meeting Oz had been filled with better moments. If he could manage to tolerate him, this wasn’t a wise bridge to burn.
“I’d prefer not to back over you with the car. In addition to the sheep potential, you know that sound when a bug hits the windshield, and it pops apart?” Oz shivered and smiled, though it was tense at the corners of his mouth. “I think if I ran you over, it’d make a sound like that, and that freaks the fuck out of me. It’d totally ruin my day.”
Maybe things will be better now that you’ve heard how I feel. Your head was too far up your ass to put it together on your own.
“What can you do?” Andrew asked.
“Get in the car.”
Red stored his guns, Patrice gave a haircut, and mysterious people provided cadavers for Santino in bartering for Oz’s services. All Andrew had ever been asked in exchange was to “get in the car.”
He circled the car, pulled open the passenger door, and climbed into the front seat. Oz continued to lean against the driver’s side. The familiar ache in his chest resurfaced as Andrew watched him pull the cigarette pack from his pocket.
Can nothing rattle you?
He thought of how Oz must look to anyone walking by – a handsome young man casually smoking a cigarette outside his car. The exact combination of ordinary and distinction made him only stand out for the right reasons. Oz purposefully, yet easily, sparkled just enough around the edges to be special.
You’re too smooth. Years of practice wouldn’t bring me halfway to being as cool as you. If someone yelled at me how I yelled at you, there’s no way I’d recover immediately to—
Something sounded like it hit the car on the driver’s side. Andrew had been daydreaming and not fully focused on Oz, but he didn’t seem to have broken his collected stance. His arm had moved, but it was probably from taking out another cigarette.
Chapter 30
Oz had tried to forget what happened earlier, but he couldn’t. Every time he looked at Andrew, he heard it in his brain. Even though Andrew had divulged the episode of trying on Robert’s clothes during the car ride, which brought his ferocity into closer perspective, Oz didn’t feel better.
He could see from Andrew’s viewpoint how it might appear he took aspects of his life for granted. It’d never occurred to him to cherish the simple things Andrew referred to. Who, aside from someone in Andrew’s situation, would?
Oz didn’t think about the clothes he wore. He kept outfits in a rotation. He could go home, count the hangers and pinpoint the shirt he’d wear two weeks from now. It wasn’t worth the effort to select something every morning.
How much time did Andrew put in? Painstakingly finding sweatshirts that hung decently and jeans that made him look like a gangbanger but hid the curves. Feeling like a boy in oversized clothes, or a monk in a robe.
Oz avoided mirrors too, but for a different reason. He had no use for them. Andrew w
as right: he liked how he looked. He was aware he’d be “young and handsome and masculine,” so why bother crooning in a mirror? He rushed a comb through his hair, pulled on the clothes of the day, and was out the door in less than ten minutes. How long did Andrew spend agonizing? Wishing to be seen as who he was?
Yet, while the reason for his anger and jealousy was understandable, it wasn’t fair that Andrew placed blame. The acrimony stung him, but Oz remembered his own words days ago:
“You aren’t connected. You’re two separate individuals. You leave his feelings, his decisions, his weird erotic fantasies in his compartment. They may affect you sometimes, but they’re not yours.”
As often as he replayed the mantra though, following right behind:
“You’re a walking reminder of everything I want! And I hate you for it!”
So while the things at the restaurant that night had been done and said, they hadn’t been real. Oz had read too much into it, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d failed again at solving something he thought he’d understood. And it wouldn’t have hurt so much had he not invested or hoped.
As he’d leaned on his car smoking, he’d been able to relax. His breathing had grown steadier, though his chest felt like someone had opened it and used a melon baller to scrape out his insides. When he was raw and bleeding, they’d packed the cavity with sulfuric acid and lye. It ate its way through his back, and he felt he was about to be bisected.
“I hate you!”
His hand had formed a fist before he registered it, and he’d swung his arm forward then back into the frame of the car. The hit could be heard across the parking lot, but he didn’t think Andrew had noticed. He hadn’t said anything when he’d gotten in the car to drive.
Oz’s hurt improved when they entered the athletic store. Being able to play the instructor and having the upper hand helped.
“This is a rash guard, and that’s a lower body rash guard.” Oz had taken a sleeveless shirt and pair of shorts from a rack. “They’re made of spandex and nylon – surfers use them to protect from abrasion.” He tossed the clothing to Andrew along with a t-shirt and basketball shorts. “Tuck the top into the bottom, and then put on the other clothes.”
As Oz knew they would, the rash guards made a world of difference. A previous weed connection had been a transsexual man who’d told him about this trick. It was especially useful in that it was innocuous. If anyone found the rash guards, there was nothing incriminating about a piece of unisex clothing that could be purchased at any store. Though the customer had moved on, Oz had remembered the technique; he thought it was terribly smart and resourceful, and he liked things like that.
He’d watched Andrew admiring himself in the mirror – stretching the t-shirt across his chest, pulling the fabric in a roll at his back, and Oz knew this was significant. He hadn’t looked at his body in a full-length mirror since the Robert-clothing incident.
But all Oz could think about was what Andrew had said to him:
“You’re a walking reminder of everything I want! And I hate you for it!”
The uneasiness again got better at the department store. He selected items of the right size and shape, since Andrew didn’t yet understand proportions in men’s clothing and body types. Although Robert was a larger man, the clothes he wore were form-fitting and clung to his frame. Natalie’s body wasn’t fat, but it clearly belonged to a woman. The issue Andrew had was cramming feminine distributions into Robert’s Saran Wrap shirts and nut-hugging slacks.
Oz had plopped himself in a waiting room chair and at one point, Andrew approached him like a dog with a tennis ball, a tie in his hand.
“Will you? I don’t know how. And I want you to teach me.”
Oz obliged. He looped the tie around Andrew’s collar and performed the folds and twists of a single Windsor knot. He felt the heat from Andrew’s throat as he cinched it.
“Leave the top button open. It’s better that way.” He stopped from unbuttoning it for him and stepped back to his chair.
He looked at Andrew’s reflection in the mirror, watching as he undid the top button. With the help of the rash guards, he was wearing a normal man’s clothes. And with the short hair, he passed okay, despite the softness in his face. Not for a man in his late twenties, but for a young boy who hadn’t fully grown out of childhood. And he seemed ecstatic about it.
The happiness hurt Oz more. He turned away, wishing he could smoke in the store. Fuck other people’s right to clean air. And that’s when he remembered the cigarette Andrew had taken from him and smashed into the ground.
“You owe me a cigarette. That one you crushed during your tantrum wasn’t half done, you fucking punk. It’s wasteful.” Oz was unable to keep the biting tinge from his voice. “There are nicotine addicted children in China who would’ve loved to have that.”
“You shouldn’t smoke, anyway. It’s bad for you.”
“Oh, yes? I had no idea. None whatsoever. Thank you for bringing this riveting news to my attention. We should go to the papers with this. Sound the alarm. Everyone must be made aware. No one has any fucking idea that smoking is bad for you.”
“Santino is right. Between the alcohol and cigarettes, you’re intent on destroying yourself.”
“No, between the alcohol, cigarettes, weed, fast driving, and daily swims in shark invested waters, I’m intent on destroying myself.”
“You should stop smoking. And drinking.” Andrew loosened the tie, removing it from the stiff collar. “You said you didn’t before the procedure. Is that something else that changed?”
“No. I didn’t come back needing to suck down smoke and booze. I choose to do those things of my own volition, and I enjoy them very much, thank you.”
“Why?”
“Well, Water With Lemon, precisely because I didn’t do them before. Do you know how much it pisses my father off? That fucker was, and continues to be, fond of reminding me how he built this body. He’d tell me, ‘I made you. I built you. I constructed you. And you’re perfect.’ Yeah, bringing me back was about me and my work. About him only wanting me to live. Not about his pride.”
There was more he could say, but he wasn’t sure how agreeable he felt revealing anything else to somebody who hated him.
“So, I started smoking. And drinking. And getting pierced. And getting tattoos. My father so loved his perfect creation.” Their eyes met in the mirror. “I’m going to destroy it.”
Andrew turned to face him, his brow furrowed. They stared at each other before he walked into the dressing room. Without saying anything.
That was your fucking chance. If you wanted to apologize, if you wanted to let it be known that you care about me, and not just what I can do for you. There was your window. You could’ve fucking done anything! But you walk away?
When Andrew returned, it was impossible for him to not feel Oz’s anger.
As they drove back, tension suffused the inside of the car, making the air thick and foggy. He’d burned through his first cigarette pack and half the extra pack in the glove box, but it wasn’t helping. He struggled in taking himself down a couple notches to avoid driving like a maniac, but the pressure continuously built.
“Oz.”
He hit the brake sharply for a red light.
“Oz.” Andrew turned toward him, but Oz stared at the traffic signal. “I don’t want you to destroy yourself.”
“Oh, no, huh?” He tapped his cigarette ash on the window. “I’d think it’d be a boon for you. You can’t look at me when I’m dead, can you?”
“Technically, when you’re dead, I could still look at you.”
“If I have myself cremated, would that accommodate you then? Or would it bother you to look at my ashes too? Maybe I could vaporize myself. Or climb into a barrel of acid.”
Go ahead. Try again. I dare you.
“Oz, I’m sorry.”
“Are you sorry because you mean you’re sorry, or because I helped you, and now you feel like an asshole?
”
“I mean that I’m sorry. Can you pull over? You’re scaring me.”
Part of Oz wanted to drive faster. But while he picked on people for sport, and felt he’d been treated with unfair cruelty, it wasn’t right to terrorize Andrew. Damn his conscience. Why wasn’t the filter on his actions as open as it was with his words?
He pulled into a parking lot and turned the engine off. Andrew’s hand touched his arm.
“I want you to know, I meant everything I said earlier.”
I feel a ton better already.
“I’m a miserable person, Oz. I’m envious of you and sometimes my jealousy gets the better of me. I shouldn’t have blasted you like that. If I was going to tell you how I felt, it shouldn’t have been in anger. And I’m sorry.”
Oz looked out the windshield in silence.
“But this is my problem, not yours. And I want to get over it. I like being around you. I like you. A lot.” Andrew squeezed his arm. “You don’t want to hear this, but I do think you’re perfect. Whoever built us doesn’t matter. We lost a lot through this whole mess, but I think we need to move on. Forget about everything. Your father, the Hodge conjecture, Robert, Simon, Natalie. Fuck it, and let’s go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think I can live this lie anymore. I may not be able to make it the next few months pretending with Robert.”
“What do you mean? What are you going to do?”
“I mean, I’m going to try to stick it out until this conservatorship garbage expires, but maybe it’d be best if I went to CryoLife. I’d have the peace of mind—”
“No, you can’t. Why would you do that?” Oz’s mind raced. He tamped it down.
“They’d probably put me on the meds, but the whole bit about how they’ll grant me my real identity after the conservatorship, and then when they let me go—”
“What makes you think they’d let you go? Or worse – look what they’ve already done to you. You think going to them will give you a better result? Out here you can have some freedom, and I’ll keep control of your meds so they don’t slip you extra shit. If you return to them, you’ll be at square one. And I’m telling you the God’s honest truth – for all the crazy people I know, I’ve never met anyone who’s gone back to CryoLife.”
Assimilation Page 24