Symptoms of Being Human

by Jeff Garvin

  He leaps to his feet, gasping. “What the hell?”

  “Oops,” Bec says, and drops the cup.

  Sierra stands up. There’s a purple stain splashed across the thighs of her jeans, and her face is red with fury. “You little bitch,” she says, taking a step toward Bec, but Vickers grabs her arm and pulls her back down to the bench.

  “What’s going on here?” says a low voice from behind, and Bec and I turn simultaneously. Mr. Brennan stands a few steps below, dressed in a Park Hills High sweatshirt and jeans, a frown of disapproval peeking out from under his moustache. “Mr. Vickers,” he says, “is there a problem?”

  Vickers glances at Bec, then back at Brennan. “Nah. We’re cool.”

  “All right, then.” Mr. Brennan turns back to us. “I suggest you two go find your seats.”

  “We will,” Bec says. Brennan shoots a warning look at Vickers, and then starts back down the stairs.

  A few rows up, a group of girls stands and starts applauding. One of them calls down toward Vickers, “How do you like that, douchebag?”

  Sierra glares at me.

  Bec takes my arm, pulling me away, and we move past them, climbing until we reach the very top of the bleachers. I sit, taking deep breaths, trying to abate the tingling that is rapidly spreading out from my cheeks to the rest of my face. Bec squeezes my hand.

  “You’re shaking,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  A squeal of feedback issues from the speaker overhead, and a voice begins introducing the players. The list is long and mostly unfamiliar until the announcer says, “Jason Solomona!” At first I don’t react, but when Bec stands and starts cheering, I join her. The announcer says something else after his name, but it’s a string of words and phrases so foreign to me they might as well be in another language.

  “What was all that about?” I ask.

  “One of the defensive linemen was injured, so Solo’s filling in.”

  I start to ask what the hell that means, but then the announcer introduces the star quarterback, and the crowd explodes to its feet. The noise is tremendous—and that’s when my vision starts to tunnel. I sit down quickly and draw my thighs up to my chest. Bec reaches behind me and rubs my back.

  “I know it’s loud,” she says, “but we’re okay up here.”

  I nod.

  “And we can leave if it gets bad.”

  I close my eyes and try to paint the whiteboard black. I make it about three quarters of the way before the black paint starts to drip away—but combined with Bec’s touch, it’s enough to calm me. The numbness recedes, leaving only that frenetic buzzing in the back of my head. I start to watch the game.

  To me, football is like a poorly organized war in which two groups of guys face off at an arbitrarily drawn line. Someone yells “hike,” and then they all try to kill one another while four or five others chase a ball like cats after a laser pointer.

  Solo isn’t even one of the cats—he appears to spend most of his time wrestling with the only guy on the other team who comes close to matching his size. At halftime, the scoreboard reads:

  LIONS: 0

  VISITORS: 14

  The other team is from Anaheim Lutheran, and I understand enough about football to appreciate that today, it’s the Christians who are eating the Lions.

  When the fourth quarter begins, the other team is already in what Bec refers to as “the red zone.” They line up only a few yards from the big Lions logo spray-painted in the grass. The crowd is hushed, the mood tense. I’m watching Solo. When the other team’s quarterback yells “hike,” Solo darts forward with unexpected speed, knocking his sumo partner onto his back. Two other guys in white Lutherans jerseys rush in to block him, but they’re smaller, and he shunts them aside like bowling pins. Now, the Lutherans’ quarterback—who, for some reason, is not throwing the ball—starts to dodge around, trying to avoid Solo, but Solo pursues him relentlessly. Finally, the guy turns and tries to run up the field in the opposite direction, but it’s too late. Solo jumps on him, squashing him flat against a big number thirty painted white on the grass.

  And then, all the other players run up and pile on top of them. Even the other Lutherans. It’s as if Solo and the opposing quarterback have committed some sort of crime, and their punishment is being crushed to death.

  All of a sudden, a guy in a green jersey emerges from the tangle of legs and helmets; he’s holding the ball. He looks down at it in disbelief, and then starts to run.

  Somebody in the crowd yells, “Fumble!” And then everyone is on their feet, Bec included, yelling, “Go! Go! Go!” Even I stand up and raise my fists.

  That seems to turn the tide of the game, and when it’s over, the scoreboard reads:

  LIONS: 17

  VISITORS: 14

  Bec stands up, ready to leave, but I pull her back down by the hem of her jacket.

  “Let’s wait until the crowd clears a little,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “Besides, I need you to explain what happened so I can compliment Solo without sounding like an idiot.”

  Bec laughs. “What happened is that, the very first time Solo ever played defense, he sacked the opposing quarterback and caused a fumble that led to a momentum-shifting touchdown. Which is epic. They would have lost without him.”

  “Why do you know so much about football?”

  She shrugs. “I am mysterious and unpredictable.”

  We watch the bleachers clear out. When Vickers and his gang are gone and the seats are mostly empty, Bec says, “Good to go?”

  I nod, and we stand and start down the stairs. The buzzing is still there in the back of my head, as though the anxiety is just taking a nap, and too much noise or excitement will wake it up again. I take a few deep Doctor Ann breaths. They help, but it doesn’t quite go away.

  It’s getting dark when we finally exit the field. Parents are pulling out of the lot in their SUVs, the opposing team’s players are filing onto their bus, and groups of students stand around, discussing the game or deciding where to go next. We’re stepping off the curb and into the lot when I spot Jim Vickers and his crew huddled next to an old green pickup truck. It’s the one Bec was leaning against before the game. Vickers looks at me, glances at Bec, and says something to his friends. They all look over at us. Instantly, the buzzing in my head grows louder. I want to reach for Bec’s hand, but I’m frozen.

  “Hey,” Vickers says, walking toward us. I want to walk away—to run away—but Bec stands fast. Two of Vickers’s friends trail behind him. Sierra leans against the bed of the truck, arms folded, watching with a smug look on her face.

  The buzzing in my head spreads until my whole body is thrumming.

  Vickers stops maybe three feet away and points at Bec. “If you were a dude, I would beat your ass.”

  Bec cocks her head. “That’s a bit sexist, don’t you think?”

  Vickers shrugs. “I don’t hit girls. Even titless wonders like you.”

  I feel my jaw tighten.

  “But it’s okay to comment on our bodies?” Bec says.

  “I just call them like I see them,” Vickers says. Cole laughs.

  “Huh,” Bec says. “Let me give that a try.” She gestures at the purple stain on his crotch. “Based on the lack of bulge, even if we allow for shrinkage because of the cold, I’d say you’ve got your own anatomical shortcoming.”

  Vickers frowns.

  “I mean you have a small dick,” Bec says.

  Vickers’s face darkens, and he clenches his good hand into a fist. He steps forward and puts his face right in Bec’s.

  My chest is tight, my heart pounding. My head throbs with adrenaline.

  “You better walk away before I decide you are a dude. Dyke.”

  Bec’s nostrils flare, but she says nothing, and she doesn’t move.

  I’m surprised when I hear my own voice cut through the silence. “Back off.”

  Vickers glances at Bec, then back at me.
“Fuck you, queer. This is none—”

  But I don’t hear anything after the word “queer.” That word isn’t his to use.

  I fly at him. My vision goes blurry. My head feels full of burning cotton. Vickers tries to shove me, but I knock his good arm aside and lunge forward. Instinctively, I grab his cast in both hands and pull hard. Something pops. He grunts in pain and staggers back—and then there are hands on me. Bec’s hands, pulling me away. Vickers drops to the ground, clutching his arm and groaning. Sierra yells a curse and rushes toward him.

  I stand there, looking down at Vickers sprawled on the asphalt, not quite believing what’s happening.

  His friends kneel to help him. One of them, the redhead, looks up at Bec.

  “You’d better get out of here,” he says.

  She takes my arm, and we do.

  CHAPTER 24

  I’M STILL BREATHING HARD WHEN Bec guides me into the passenger seat. She gets in on the driver’s side, slams the door, and starts the engine.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  My heart pounds—but in my chest, not in my throat. The roar of the crowd still rings in my ears, and the glare of the stadium lights is a hovering red blur when I close my eyes. But this isn’t anxiety; it’s adrenaline.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think I am. I’m just really . . . amped.”

  “Well, buckle your seat belt, Bruce Lee. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  A squeaky, slightly hysterical laugh escapes my throat as she backs out of the parking space and heads for the exit.

  “Wait,” I say. “Can you drive?”

  “More or less,” Bec replies.

  As we’re pulling out of the lot, I shoot a glance back toward the green pickup truck. Vickers is on his feet now. Sierra tries to put an arm around him, but he pushes her away. For an instant, I think I see Bec’s brother, Erik, standing by the truck’s front bumper. And then we turn the corner and pass out of sight.

  “Did your brother come to the game tonight?” I ask.

  Bec looks over at me. “I doubt it.”

  “Is he still trying to get in good with the team?”

  She shrugs. “Honestly I haven’t been paying much attention to him. There’s been a lot of other stuff. . . .” Bec pauses, shakes her head. “Anyway.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “A lot of family bullshit I don’t really feel like going into,” she snaps. I shrink back in my seat a little. Bec glances at me. “I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject.”

  “Okay,” I say, still a little hurt.

  “I’ll start,” Bec says, affecting a cheery voice. “You want to go to the movies with me?”

  I smile. “Yes, I do.”

  Bec drives like she’s trying to outrun the cops: she zigs and zags through traffic, exceeding the speed limit by at least fifteen miles per hour. At first, I just grip the door handle and stare—but then Bec rolls down the windows and turns up the music, and something inside me seems to break loose. She starts singing along to “Anesthesia,” and I join in with my own atonal shouting.

  We careen down East Imperial Highway and shoot right past the Cineplex.

  “Where are we going?” I yell over the music.

  “You’ll see.”

  We turn south on Richfield Avenue and keep driving until we cross the Park Hills border into Fullerton. Bec clicks off the stereo and lets out a long, slow sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I guess I’m still pretty shaky. I thought my heart was going to beat right out of my chest back there.”

  “Welcome to my world,” I say.

  I turn and stare out the window. We pass a hardware store my dad used to frequent and an old appliance showroom with a banner that reads: EVERYTHING MUST GO! On the plywood planks covering the broken windows, someone has spray-painted EVERYTHING IS GONE.

  “I’m sorry I freaked out back there,” I say, my face still turned away from Bec. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Hey,” she says, and I turn to look at her. “It’s okay. You’re human. You have a breaking point. Vickers found it.”

  I nod. “I think I might have rebroken his arm.”

  Bec considers. “Well, he and his friends haven’t exactly made life easy for you. And tonight, he said some really nasty shit. And then he got right up in my face.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Bec repeats, with emphasis.

  She turns left, pulls up to a 7-Eleven, and sets the parking brake. “You stay in the car,” she says, then gets out, leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running. “I’ll get snacks.”

  I watch her through the window as she browses the snack aisle. She has this confidence in her walk—as though nothing bad is ever going to happen—and I try to memorize how she looks in the store, lit from above by the harsh fluorescents and filtered through two layers of glass. I feel something inside me twist and untwist, like a wet rag being wrung out. It’s a good feeling.

  When she gets back in the car, she hands me a plastic bag containing a Slim Jim, a bottle of grape soda, and a bag of mini Oreos.

  “They’re accidentally vegan,” she says, and the pleasant twisting sensation intensifies.

  We head east for three more blocks and pull up behind a crumbling, windowless three-story brick office building. Despite the packed parking lot, there’s not a soul in sight—and, somewhere on the other side of the building, a strange electric glow lights up the sky, growing and fading at random, like the lightning from a miniature thunderstorm.

  “This is it,” Bec says.

  “This is what?” I ask.

  Bec just smiles and gets out of the van. I follow as she slaloms through the parked cars, working her way toward the back of the building. She stops under an ancient, rusting fire escape and looks up at it.

  “You’re not going up that thing,” I say.

  “We both are,” she replies, her eyes locked on the wrought-iron ladder protruding from the bottom of the fire escape.

  “That’s crazy.”

  Bec looks at me, and my stomach twists again. “So are we,” she says, holding out the 7-Eleven bag. I take it.

  And then, without warning, she bends her knees and leaps into the air, grabbing onto the lowest rung. The catch gives under her weight, and the ladder comes down with a tremendous clang. Bec brushes flakes of rust off her hands and gestures at the ladder, which now hangs a foot above our heads.

  “You first,” she says. I stare up at the ladder dubiously. Bec takes a step back. “I’ll give you a boost.”

  I step forward, and Bec puts her hands on either side of my waist. Even with layers of shirt and jacket between us, my skin heats up where she touches me, and then it spreads through my whole body. I’m grateful there’s only one flickering sodium lamp overhead—because I’m certain I’ve just gone completely red. I jump and Bec lifts, and I grab ahold of the ladder and start to climb.

  By the time I make it to the top, I’m flushed and out of breath, but the exertion seems to have expelled the last of the buzzing from my head. With the 7-Eleven bag clenched between her teeth, Bec ascends the ladder like a fireman, vaults onto the roof, and motions me forward. “Come on.”

  I follow her across the rooftop, careful not to trip on the warped, peeling surface, which is littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and empty beer cans. When I catch up to Bec, she’s standing at the edge of the building, looking down on the courtyard of an abandoned shopping center. There are people down there—two dozen or more—sitting on planters and blankets and lawn chairs. Someone has rigged up a projector, and they’re showing an old movie on the side of the four-story building facing us.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “Movie night,” she says. “One of the churches around here organizes it, I think.” She gestures at the old adobe-style bell tower on the other side of the courtyard. When she speaks again, her voice is so quiet I have to move closer to hear her. “I used to come here a lot,
until the football guys found it and ruined it. Probably Chewie’s fault. But since there was a game tonight, they’re otherwise occupied.”

  And then she’s silent for a long time—thinking, I guess, or maybe remembering something. Either way, I don’t want to disturb the quiet, so I just watch her face, lit intermittently by the flickering projection on the far wall. Finally, she leads me to another part of the roof, where she reaches behind an exposed ventilation duct and pulls out two corroding lawn chairs. She sets them near the edge, then gestures for us to sit. The old movie dialogue echoes faintly off the bricks, blending in with the sound of crickets and the distant whoosh of traffic on the freeway. For a moment, it feels like we’re alone in the world.

  “I used to come here with my sister before she died,” Bec says. Her voice is suddenly small, almost like a little kid’s. “Today would have been her fifteenth birthday.”

  “Oh, God, Bec. I’m so sorry.”

  Bec nods. “I thought I could handle coming back here, if you came with me, but I . . .” She stops, swallows, and then starts to speak again. “She was transgender, Riley. That’s how I knew about the Q. How I know Mike/Michelle and everybody. Because of my sister.”

  I stare at Bec for a second, then nod absently and look away. If I’m really honest with myself, I’m not surprised. How else could Bec be so attuned to what I’m going through? I feel a deep swell of sorrow for her, and for her sister.

  And then the sorrow is overpowered by a pang of something else, a knot of doubt that leaves a bitter taste in the back of my throat: What if Bec was never attracted to me in the first place? What if she only followed me to the ramp that day because I reminded her of her dead sister? It would make sense; I mean, we spent what I thought was our first date in the bedroom they shared. And then she took me to the Q, a place they went together. And now, we’re at another one of their spots. On her dead sister’s birthday.

  I turn and look at Bec, worried that she’s somehow been reading my thoughts—but the distance in her eyes tells me she’s a million miles away, remembering something impossibly painful. I’m surprised when she speaks up again.