Probably mad at Wade, I thought bitterly.
Wade was why I mostly avoided Joan. Back in middle school, she tried real hard to be my friend. One day, as Wade dragged me down the hall, doing his rendition of “If I Only Had a Brain” while I tried not to fall on my face, Joan appeared in front of us. She stood there until we reached her, and then she punched Wade in the nose.
For a while after the punch, Wade didn’t mess with me. His friends, however, did. They laughed when I passed their lockers. No one ever said a word about Wade getting punched. Wade was too popular, too good on the football field, his dad too high up in Moorhen’s biggest job-providing company, TeleCell. Instead of ribbing Wade for getting beat up by a girl, they turned it back on me.
“Stephen Luckie,” one of his friends had said, “needs a girl to be his bodyguard.”
I watched Joan drive past with my stomach in knots. It had never made sense to me, after she punched him, how she could date him, but by our freshman year, when Wade was a sophomore, he and Joan were always together.
I remember being a little kid and being told that if a girl was mean to me it meant she liked me. I didn’t think that was true, and even though Joan did eventually end up dating Wade, it seemed too easy an answer.
As the pink Volkswagen disappeared into town, I raised my middle finger in a halfhearted gesture. Hey, Joan, why defend me against Wade and then suck face with the 007-quoting bastard?
I lowered my middle finger as a car slowed to a stop beside me.
“Son,” Dad said from behind the wheel of his maroon Camry. He wore the disappointed expression I knew so well, his dark brows thick frowns on his forehead.
“Father,” I said, ever the smart-ass.
Dad spoke through gritted teeth. “I saw that profane gesture you just made. I will meet you at the house. No lollygagging. Ride straight home.”
My foot jerked. My shoulder did this fast rise-and-fall thing three times in a row. That was new. Dad pretended not to notice. I pretended not to notice. For a moment, we both stared at each other, pretending not to notice.
“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t going to go away until he got the respectful reply he was waiting for.
He drove off and I turned to follow him, resisting the urge to use my middle finger one more time.
Dad was already at the kitchen table by the time I put my bike in the garage and left my sneakers by the door. He had a cup of black coffee—he only drinks black coffee—and his mouth looked like maybe my grimace tic was contagious.
“Sorry,” I said, automatically. But sorry never worked on Dad.
“I’m disappointed in you, Stephen.”
“You always are,” I said.
Note to self: In the future, at least attempt to look contrite. Don’t poke the bear.
“Why would you think that was okay?” He couldn’t lecture me like a normal father. No, he had to make me give my own lecture, doing all the work for both of us.
I sighed. “It’s not okay. I know now. Your stellar parenting skills enlightened me.”
“What if a church member had driven past? Is this the image you want them to have of their pastor’s son?” His fingers drummed the side of his coffee cup.
Honestly, I never considered church members’ opinions. Back in Auburn, Mom served a small traditional church, and it was obvious people paid attention to me. In third grade, as my whole family adjusted to my shiny new Tourette’s diagnosis, members of the congregation took turns bringing us supper and patting my head sympathetically, hugging Mom, shaking Dad’s hand. It was like I’d died and stuck around to witness the funeral. Hello people, neurodivergence is not a death sentence. It made me feel totally messed up, even though I wasn’t.
But our church in Moorhen, The Exchange, was different. I tried to imagine our youth minister, Matt, freaking out over my gesture toward Joan’s car. He wouldn’t though.
The door opened behind me and Mom bustled in, dropping a Bible and notebook on the table as she kicked off her shoes. “What’s up with my two favorite men?”
I groaned and dropped into a chair.
“I caught your son flipping someone the bird on the Tallapoosa Bridge.” Dad spoke to Mom but kept his eyes on me.
When I was in trouble, that’s how he referred to me. “Your son.” Dad never wanted to claim me when I wasn’t holding an honor roll certificate or working on a science fair project.
“Stephen?” Her eyes darted from me to Dad and back again.
“It was stupid.” My shoulder did the three quick shrugs of the new tic. Crap. They’d been getting better. “I was mad at this girl, and no one was around, so I flipped her off. She was long gone. She didn’t see. Only Dad saw.”
“Well, it’s not a gesture I’m particularly fond of.” Mom sat across from me. “What girl was this?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I stared at my hands, the fingers flexing lightly, not as dramatic as the night of the party, walking up the stairs behind Sylvie.
“It must matter, if it was worth the angry gesture.”
“It doesn’t. Really. It was a stupid impulse and I won’t do it again.”
Mom sighed and glanced at her phone, which was lying faceup on the table. Her heart wasn’t in this lecture, and I knew it.
Dad knew it too, because he chose that moment to slurp the last of his coffee and cross the kitchen to the sink. “Spaghetti sound good to everyone?”
“Spaghetti sounds great,” Mom told him, scooping up her phone.
“Sure,” I said, grateful for the change of topic and anxious to get out of the room. I wasn’t myself right then, and I needed to clear my head.
“Oliver Rohn’s in the hospital,” Mom said, tapping out a text. “I need to go up there after dinner.”
Dad nodded and turned on the faucet to fill a pot with water to boil. “His heart again?”
I used their distraction to escape the kitchen. I’d have to find some way to work out everything inside my head. Even if Sylvie didn’t need me to protect her, I still had a scribbled-marker feeling in my brain, like someone had attacked my thoughts with a Sharpie.
With the door closed and my parents’ voices muffled, I pulled out my guitar and fiddled with the strings. I’d taught myself to play over the summer.
Stashed under my bed was a notebook I’d snatched from Mom’s collection. She had so many blank spirals and book-bound journals, she’d never notice one missing. It had a soft, floppy cover made of a thin wood grain. So far, it only held a few scribbled lines, ideas that might become songs, if I could ever make the melodies work.
Quietly, I strummed and sang, “Be still, myself, the kiss will overcome…” A blatant rip-off of a hymn we sang in church. Maybe if I started by rewording tunes I already knew, it would be easier to come up with my own later.
Unfortunately, I mentioned this to my mother and she mentioned it to Matt, the youth minister at The Exchange, and he started bugging me to play in the youth band. At least he hadn’t gotten Brian, the worship pastor, in on the plan yet.
There was a knock on my bedroom door. I stilled my fingers, and there went the shoulder again. Jump. Jump. Jump. Always three times. Shit. That tic was gonna stick around a while. Exactly what I needed.
“Yeah,” I called out.
“It’s me,” Mom said.
“Come in.” I lowered the guitar to my lap and flipped the thin green pick from finger to finger.
Mom poked her head in the door. “You okay?”
“Sure.” I nodded. “I’m great.”
“You took your dad by surprise.” She stepped inside and leaned against the doorjamb. “He worries you’re going to act a fool and get me in trouble, but that’s just the past hanging over him. It’s nothing to do with you.”
I knew she was right. Mom worked at a tiny church south of Montgomery right out of seminary. She and Dad were dating, and the congregation was incredibly conservative. The Conference never should’ve appointed a woman there. Dad was busily making a name for hims
elf in the world of science, and he published an article on evolution and the Bible, which landed in a church member’s hands.
Mom was reappointed.
Dad knew our actions could affect my mother’s job. What never sank in was this: Mom didn’t care.
“Anyway,” Mom said. “If you want to talk about this girl, about whatever made you angry—”
“It’s really nothing,” I said.
I used to get angry a lot, and I knew she got anxious when my temper showed, but the thing on the bridge really wasn’t a big deal. She didn’t need to worry.
“Okay then. I’m heading back to the hospital. You need anything while I’m out?”
I shook my head. “Thanks though.”
After Mom left, I stared at the pick in my hand, moving it between my fingers and reliving the moment on the bridge when I saw Joan’s face, how she looked pissed, and I felt pissed, and I realized I had no right to be upset over Joan still liking Wade.
Middle school was ancient history. I really needed to let go of my Joan obsession and focus on other girls, girls I might actually have a chance with, especially if Ballard’s experiment somehow worked and I could gain control over my tics.
That was a catch-22 though. I needed a girl to like me before she would kiss me, and the tics didn’t stop until the kissing started. I didn’t think even Ballard could find a solution to that problem.
Chapter Four
The next day was Friday, and Ballard was going to the Moorhen football game, but I wasn’t up to faking interest in which way some jocks were running on a field. I’d spent way too much time dodging the guys on the team, ignoring the way they jerked their bodies to mimic mine. I just couldn’t cheer for them.
I’d convinced Mom to drive me into Auburn for a trip to the bike shop. She’d gotten excited and started planning a whole evening.
“Yo, Luckie,” Ballard called as I unlocked my bike after school. I used two separate bike locks, because the idea of someone stealing her sent shivers of panic down my spine. My bike’s an authentic 1956 Schwinn Hornet. I call her Gwinn the Schwinn.
“Yeah?” I glanced back over one shoulder, and it jerked hard. Three times. So, basically, I slammed my own shoulder into my own chin and knocked my own teeth together so hard tears sprang to my eyes.
“Stay at my place tomorrow night? At the lake?” Ballard leaned against his car, backpack at his Chaco-clad feet.
“Probably not,” I said, shaking away the pain. “You know I gotta be home for church on Sunday.”
“Just ask. And ask the right reverend, not the mad scientist. It’s important.”
“How so?” I pushed my kickstand up with one foot, balancing with the other, and rolled backward until I was closer to him.
“The experiment, bro. The experiment.” Ballard widened his eyes and nodded, like he was speaking in code. I guess he sort of was, but at the moment, it wasn’t my dad that came off as the crazy one.
A quick look around the parking lot revealed no one watching us. “It’s never gonna work, Ballard. Forget it.”
“I have a real plan now. We’re golden.”
“What’s the plan?” My fingers flexed on the handlebars. If there was one thing I’d learned from Ballard’s past schemes, it’s that he was always golden, but I never was.
“Not now. Someone might hear.” His eyes darted left to right.
I doubted anyone cared, but he was right. School wasn’t the place to discuss a kissing experiment. “Fine, I’ll ask, but I can’t promise anything.”
With a grin and a fist bump, Ballard hopped into his Jeep, swinging his backpack in behind him. I put my feet on the pedals and rode out of the parking lot.
Halfway home, I spotted Mom driving toward me in her green Mazda, almost the same shade as my Schwinn. She pulled over and secured Gwinn in the bike rack while I tossed my book bag into the backseat.
“Good day?” Mom asked once she was behind the wheel again.
I shrugged and turned on the radio, scanning for the local rock station.
“Math test go okay?” Mom watched me from the corner of her eye.
“Just a quiz,” I told her. “No big deal; we’re only a week into school.”
She went on asking questions about my classes. She always knows everything thanks to a program the school uses. She can access my homework assignments, exam schedule, etc.
“Well, I’m glad school is off to a good start.” Mom smiled. “And I’m glad we’re doing this.”
“Me too,” I said. “It’s been a while.”
“It has been a while,” she said.
We used to do stuff all the time. When Mom had to travel to speak about the process of starting a new church, I’d go with her and find a good trail to ride, but she hadn’t taken many speaking engagements in the last year. The Exchange was growing fast and took up more and more of her time.
Dad spent a lot of time with me when I was in the ten and under category. Back then, he and I got each other. Back then, it was the coolest thing ever to pull out my Gross Kitchen Science book and spend an afternoon making things bubble and stink with my father.
My mom and I rode in silence for a while, and then I mentioned our reading list for the semester, including The Crucible and The Great Gatsby. I knew Mom would be thrilled about The Great Gatsby.
“Oh, we can rent the movie,” Mom almost squealed with delight. “Both of them. Robert and Leo, all in one night.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure, sounds fun.”
By the time we pulled up to the bike shop, Mom had told me all about their 1920s themed prom from her high school days and had me check if the movies were streaming anywhere.
We entered the shop and the bell overhead tinkled. At the cash register, a cute girl I didn’t recognize looked up. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. Allen must have hired her to replace the kid who used to work the front. He’d probably graduated and moved on. As I rolled my bike through the store, I thought about all the reasons I could visit the bike shop and get to know the new girl. She’d smiled at me and then dropped her eyes in that coy way girls sometimes do, sort of shy-like. Maybe I could get up the guts to talk to her when I picked my bike up. I’d have to convince Mom to wait in the car.
Allen met me in the back with a broad smile on his bony face.
“How’s Gwinn?” He gave me and the Schwinn a once-over.
“Gorgeous as ever,” I told him, concentrating hard to suppress a shoulder twitch. “But I’ve got an issue with one of the bolts.”
While Allen and I talked bike maintenance, Mom browsed the cycling gear, though I’m sure she didn’t have a clue what any of it was. I used to try to get her to ride with me, but neither of my parents were fond of the outdoors. Dad prefers books and computer screens, and Mom would rather be watching old movies with a glass of wine.
Allen rolled Gwinn out to the little garage in back and I turned to look for Mom, but she was gone.
I scanned the racks, fighting a quake in my gut. My fingers flexed and the tension built in my shoulder. I’d held it off too long. It was about to … jerkjerkjerk. There it went, extra hard after holding it back. Still no sign of Mom. Sweat beaded my forehead and suddenly I felt like I was seven again, lost and scared in a crowd. Sometimes my emotional reactions are more intense than the situation calls for, but knowing that never makes them stop.
I took another step toward the door, hoping Mom went outside to take a phone call, and the cashier called out, “Excuse me.”
I turned to her, my face already twisting into a grimace. Her attention made things worse. I’d really hoped to talk to her later, not fall apart in front of her within ten minutes of meeting. The tension built and then … shoulder jerk, face grimace, finger flex, foot fling.
The cashier was lifting her phone from the cradle as she spoke. “Are you okay? Do I need to call someone?”
She was so pretty, dark hair in a messy bun and eyes full of concern.
“Like, should I call 911?” She le
aned forward on the counter, still holding the phone.
“No,” I snapped, fighting to control the grimace. If I could at least keep my face normal, that’d be great. “I’m fine. I have Tourette’s.”
For years, I wouldn’t tell anyone about Tourette’s syndrome. If a stranger asked, I’d stare wide-eyed until Mom came to the rescue or else I’d flat-out run away.
Eventually, I discovered it’s easier to own it. It is what it is, and there’s even a lot of good to be said for neurodivergence. Mom says that most of the historic figures that changed our world for the better were probably neurodivergent. Their brains worked differently, so they thought differently, and then they acted differently, and it made a difference. However, if I could just lose the tics themselves, then maybe a girl would notice me for some reason other than to be scared something was wrong with me.
“Oh.” She lowered the phone. “That’s the one where you curse a lot, right?”
My cheeks burned and my whole body ached with the effort of holding back tics.
“Like on that show? I can’t remember the name, but it was on MTV, and the kid would scream out curse words…” She trailed off, watching me.
“No,” I said through gritted teeth.
Now it was her turn to blush. “I’m sorry. I just—”
I cut her off. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. I was out of time and the tics won. Jerk jerk jerk went my shoulder. I covered my face to hide my grimace.
The bell over the door tinkled and Mom reappeared with two lemonades. “I couldn’t resist popping over to Toomer’s. Here.” She handed me one cup, smiling like a kid with cotton candy.
“I’m really sorry,” the cashier said again.
Mom’s smile faded as she watched my face.
“Can we go now?” I asked. “Let’s go for a walk or something. Allen can call when Gwinn’s ready.”
“Sure,” Mom answered, looking from me to the pretty girl who no longer tempted me at all.
Mom didn’t need to ask what was wrong after we left the store. She squeezed my shoulder once, an unspoken apology, and changed the subject. “Let’s walk to The Gnu’s Room. Maybe we can find a copy of Gatsby.”
Kiss and Repeat Page 3
