Symptoms of Being Human

by Jeff Garvin

  My mother shifts in her seat. “Does that mean . . .” Her voice breaks, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentler. “You’re gay?”

  I shake my head, searching for a better way to tell her. “No. It means that I . . . It’s like—most people wake up, and they know who they are. Like you know you’re a woman. You feel that way, you feel like one. It makes sense to you.”

  She blinks at me as though I’m speaking a foreign language.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Tears of frustration blur my vision, and I wipe them away. “I had this all worked out, how to say this, but it just sort of . . .” I open my hands. They’re on fire with pins and needles. I suck in a breath. “Gender fluid means that sometimes I feel like I’m a girl. And sometimes I feel like I’m a boy. So the . . .” I trail off.

  It’s quiet for a long time. Finally, I glance up at my mom. She’s looking past me at some unseen spot on the wall. “Oh,” she says. Her tone is polite, distant. “So it’s . . . you’re transsexual.”

  I hear a thin vein of contempt in that last word, and it sends a jolt through my heart. Mom reads my reaction and shakes her head. She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

  “No,” I say. “It’s like that, but it’s more complicated.”

  Slowly, terrified of what I might see on his face, but knowing I have to look, I turn to my father.

  His jaw is set, his cheeks white. “How long have you known?”

  “I figured it out last year,” I say, the words flowing more easily now. As though they need to come out. “Right before that big dinner, do you remember? I locked myself in my room?”

  Recognition dawns on his face. My heart leaps; he understands.

  “But I guess I always knew something was different. I just didn’t have a word for it.”

  Dad nods.

  “But I don’t understand,” my mother says, glancing at my father and turning back to me. “How did the media find out before we did?”

  I try to swallow, but my throat is too tight. I glance back at my father, hoping he’ll intervene on my behalf, but he only looks at me expectantly. I moisten my lips.

  “I started a—a blog. It was anonymous, and then . . .”

  I fall silent as my father stands abruptly. His face is crimson, the vein in his temple pulsing. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, but he can’t seem to speak.

  My mother cuts in, her voice shaking. “You put this on the internet?”

  “I didn’t—I used a fake name, but somebody figured out—”

  “Well of course they figured it out!” My dad’s voice, almost a bellow. “I’m a United States congressman running for reelection, Riley. For Christ’s sake, you don’t think there are people trying to dig up dirt on my family?” His eyes are wild, the cords in his neck tight with anger.

  Trying to dig up dirt?

  I swallow. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to—”

  “One month out of Pineview, Riley. We’re not even through dealing with that mess, now you want to broadcast your bisexual phase on the goddamn internet?”

  The moment the words are out, his face goes pale. He looks at Mom, then back at me. He swallows. When he speaks again, his voice is low and tremulous. “Riley,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”

  But I don’t care. I stand up, shaking with rage. “You think I don’t feel the pressure of your campaign every minute of every day? You think I don’t know I’m just a PR problem to you? I changed schools for you. I wear this for you. I hide who I am for you. I go to the doctor and take the right pills and I did not broadcast this! I shared myself anonymously, and somebody fucking outed me!”

  I stand there, trembling, out of my body. My heart is in my throat. It’s going to explode. My father glares at me, his mouth tight, his eyes wide and red. I turn my glare on my mother so suddenly that she flinches.

  I drag my arm across my eyes, sniff, and turn back to my father. “And this is not a phase, Congressman. This is who I am.”

  I turn and run for the front door, grabbing Mom’s keys from the bowl on the hall table as I pass. I hear voices behind me, calling me back, commanding me not to leave the house, but I don’t care. I tear open the front door, climb into the minivan, and peel out into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 29

  I JUST DRIVE.

  My body is on fire with tingling. My chest is tight, my vision so severely tunneled it’s like looking through the wrong end of a telescope. I can’t tell if I’m going five miles per hour or fifty.

  They know. Everyone knows. My father . . . I still hear the rage in his voice; I feel it in my body like a physical blow. A punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

  So I just drive.

  I drive without thinking, tearing west down Imperial Highway. Over the train tracks. Toward Bec? I don’t know. I reach into the cup holder where I stash my phone, thinking I’ll call her, call someone—but my phone isn’t there. I’ve left it at home. I don’t even have my ID.

  The lights are out at Bullet Hole, and it’s quiet in the parking lot. I rattle the door; it’s locked. I look around for something to break the glass, and then I realize how stupid that is—there’s no one inside anyway. I run back to the minivan.

  The clock on the dash reads ten minutes to midnight. It’s Tuesday. Of course Bec isn’t here; she’s at home. And she’s probably asleep—but I have nowhere else to go. I pull back onto Imperial and speed toward her house.

  The streetlights on her block are still out, and her house is dark when I pull up. There’s an old green pickup in the driveway. Erik’s? I don’t know. I reach for the keys to turn off the van, thinking I’ll get out and go knock on Bec’s window—and that’s when the truck in the driveway roars to life. I flinch at the growl of the engine. A single headlight illuminates the garage door in a splash of orange.

  “Hey!” a voice shouts from inside the truck.

  Panic surges through me.

  I peel out from the curb, make a sharp right, and step on the accelerator. I’m barreling the other way down Imperial now, pedal to the floor, not knowing where I’m going, not caring. The streets are almost empty; I pass no one. I check the rearview, looking for the truck—but I only spot one headlight, maybe a motorcycle, far behind me.

  The buzzing in my head grows louder. My ears fill with the sound of static, like rushing water; the panic rises. And rising with it, a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach—a low, hopeless knowing: whatever I was hiding, whatever I was protecting, it doesn’t matter now.

  The tires thump as the minivan crosses the train tracks again. I think of Andie Gingham—

  And suddenly, it’s so clear to me why she wanted to jump.

  The water seems to envelop me, rising to my mouth. I’m breathing in shallow, ragged gasps. Frantically, I roll down the window to try to get some air. The buzz of the engine echoes against the concrete freeway underpass. My body thrums with electric tingles. My vision blurs. I have to do something. I have to go somewhere.

  At some point, I turn. I pass the old hardware store. I pass the closed furniture showroom with the painted message: EVERYTHING IS GONE.

  I’m not even sure what I’m doing when I pull up behind the crumbling, windowless three-story building—the movie-night spot where Bec used to come with Gabi before the football crowd took it over—I just shut off the van and get out. A stiff autumn wind picks up, scattering the dead leaves piled against the Dumpster, then swelling to a gust that rattles the rickety fire escape.

  The parking lot is deserted. There’s no flickering glow from the courtyard. There’s no Bec; there’s no one at all. I’m alone.

  I think of my dad’s hands, folding his tie in on itself. The gap my mother left between us on the couch. I hear blood pumping past my ears. A fresh wave of cold tingles washes over me. I shake my head. I can’t think about this. I have to do something.

  Anything.

  I glance up. Overhead, the sodium street lamp blinks intermitt
ently, and I see the glint of new metal against the rusting frame of the fire escape. The ladder has been retracted, and someone has wrapped a brand-new steel chain around it, locking it in place, far out of reach.

  And suddenly, I want to get on that roof. I need to get on that roof. I walk over to the Dumpster and start to drag it toward the ladder—but it stops short, jarring my arms almost out of their sockets; it’s chained up, too. I look around for something else to stand on—a milk crate, a pallet, anything—but there’s nothing.

  Panic rises in me like cold bile, threatening to drown me.

  I run back to the van, climb in, and start the engine. I inch toward the building until bumper touches brick, then shut off the motor and get out.

  Heart pounding, I climb up the van’s shallow hood and reach for the ladder. It’s still three feet above my head. I take a deep breath, bend my knees, and jump.

  My fingers barely brush the cracked and rusty surface of the lower rung, and then I fall. My foot comes down at an angle and I slip, falling sideways, my hip slamming into the hood just before my head knocks against the windshield.

  My vision goes black.

  When I come to, I hear laughter. The sound of an old engine idling. Doors opening and closing. Heavy doors. The truck from Bec’s driveway—it must have followed me here. I open my eyes, and I’m blinded by a flood of orange light.

  A voice says, “Look who it is.”

  I squint. My vision is blurry, but I see two, maybe three silhouettes moving toward me, casting long, low shadows in the throw of a single headlight.

  “Looking for your girlfriend, you queer fuck?”

  My stomach clenches; I recognize that voice. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the light. There are three of them. A broad-shouldered guy with stringy hair stands closest to me. Next to him is a smaller kid. The glare of the headlight casts an auburn halo around his head and whites out the lenses of his wire-rim glasses. Behind them, lingering close to the truck, is the tallest of the three. I see him in silhouette, his arm posed at an awkwardly formal angle.

  “I asked you a question,” he says. He steps into the spill of the headlight, and I see that his arm is in a cast. Panic grips me.

  It’s Jim Vickers.

  I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Maybe they just came here to drink. Maybe they’ll only harass me, and then let me leave.

  “I’ll . . . I’ll just go.” I turn, intending to roll off the hood and put the van between them and me.

  “Wait up,” Vickers says, his voice eerily gentle—and then a hand grabs my ankle. My heart spasms in my chest. I roll onto my stomach, trying to pull myself away, but he yanks on my foot, pulling me back toward him. My fingers grip the gap between the hood and the side of the car. I can’t let him trap me. I have to get free.

  Vickers grunts, yanks harder on my leg. One hand slips, but I regain my grip. “Cole,” Vickers says. “Help me out.”

  I feel a hand grab my other ankle. I struggle to kick, but the hands are too strong.

  “Oh, come on,” Vickers says, almost laughing. They pull hard, and my palms make a squeaking noise as I’m dragged backward across the hood. My toes touch asphalt, and then someone slams my face down on the warm metal, bending me over the hood.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” the long-haired one says. There’s laughter. I struggle to stand, but the hands push me back down.

  “Hurry up, you guys,” a third voice says. “I don’t want to get caught.”

  “Shut up, Grady,” Vickers says. “Anybody want to take bets on what we got here? I got ten bucks on chick.”

  “That thing is too ugly to have a pussy.”

  Another laugh. Then Vickers says, “One way to find out.”

  I feel a hand grip my upper thigh, and I scream. Another hand covers my mouth. I thrash on the hood, kicking wildly.

  “Grady, get over here.”

  The third boy moves forward.

  “Pin the arms.”

  My arms are pulled apart and pinned so that I’m spread-eagled on the hood. Someone takes a fistful of my hair.

  And then his face is against my neck. His dry lips on my skin. His breath reeking of beer.

  He whispers, “Not so tough now, are you? Fucking freak.” My head is slammed against the hood again. Stars pop in my vision. I feel my body slacken.

  He presses against me harder. Stubble abrading my cheek, foul breath in my face. His hand grips my thigh, then moves up to reach between my legs.

  “What do you got down here, huh? What do you got for me?”

  I find just one word. “Please,” I say. My voice sounds weak, thin. “Please.”

  He turns his head. “Kill the lights.”

  Someone lets go of my arm, but I don’t thrash. I don’t cry out. I just hold still. The headlight goes out.

  His thumb hooks the waistband of my underwear.

  I feel the cool night air against my skin. I focus on the smooth, warm metal beneath my cheek. I stare at the windshield, watching the reflection of the flickering sodium lamp appear and disappear.

  And then, all at once, everything lights up. Camera flashes, I think, vaguely. They’ve come to take pictures.

  But the light doesn’t fade.

  And then he’s off me. The hands release me, and I hear footsteps moving away. Doors slamming, the truck reversing, then peeling out on the crumbling asphalt. I want to move, but my whole body is numb. I just stay there for a moment, spread across the hood, and then I feel my shoulders start to shake. But it’s not me crying. It’s some other Riley. I roll onto my side and slide down the side of the van to the pavement.

  And then a huge hand touches my shoulder. And I scream.

  “Riley, it’s okay. It’s okay.” It’s Solo’s voice.

  I look up. Solo and Bec are standing over me.

  “You’re going to be okay.”

  CHAPTER 30

  I SIT IN THE PASSENGER seat of Solo’s car with my arms wrapped around my knees. Bec tries to hold my hand from the backseat, but I don’t want to stop hugging my legs. Solo tells me they’re taking me to Park Hills Community Hospital.

  I thought there was a special place at hospitals for things like this. There isn’t; I sit in the waiting room at the ER. Solo talks to the woman behind the counter, and Bec holds my hand. There’s an old man with an oxygen tank sitting across from me. Against the far wall, a baby is screaming. A woman in a brown sweater tries to make it stop. I let go of Bec’s hand to cover my ears, and I close my eyes.

  I’m in a big room with ten other beds. I’m concealed from the other patients by a thin blue curtain—but the random shadows moving beyond it only make me feel more exposed. Finally, the curtain is pulled aside and a tall woman enters. She has a long, dark ponytail and a red blouse under her white coat. She tells me her name, Dr. Amala, and asks permission to examine me. I feel myself nod. She pulls on a pair of blue silicone gloves.

  She frowns as she works, as though she’s cleaning up an unpleasant mess.

  My mother arrives before the police. I don’t want to see her.

  Officer Dinning is polite and gentle, but it doesn’t matter. I hardly feel anything. I feel like a mannequin, like the parts being poked and prodded and inspected don’t even belong to me.

  I have to lie down for the swabs. My stomach cramps.

  I’m okay until the police officer starts taking photographs. When the first flash goes off, I flinch hard, knocking the exam kit off the metal cart and scattering its contents on the floor.

  Doctor Amala recites some soothing phrases. A nurse heaves an exasperated sigh as she collects the spilled contents and hurries off to get a fresh exam kit.

  Officer Dinning waits while I regain my composure. “You okay?”

  I nod, but I keep my eyes closed for the rest of the photos.

  I think I talk to my mother. I don’t remember what we say.

  Finally, they offer me something to make me sleep. I take it.

  I hear my father’
s voice, and I open my eyes. He’s leaning over me, his face puffy. When our eyes meet, he lets out a breath as if he’s been holding it for a long time. He squeezes my hand, but says nothing. I drift back to sleep.

  When I wake again, I’m in a different part of the hospital. The lights are off and the room is empty. There’s a window, but the blinds are drawn. I can hear the hum of machines and the sound of arguing voices in the hallway. I try to sit up, but a sharp pain in my abdomen stops me—so I lie back and fish around for the bed’s controls. I find the remote and raise the bed until I’m in a sitting position. My head aches, and I reach up to inspect my face. There’s a big square bandage on my left temple and another on my cheek. My lips are chapped, my tongue thick. I turn my head to look for water and realize my whole head is thick. Whatever they gave me to put me to sleep has left me extremely groggy.

  There’s a plastic cup on the table next to the bed. I reach for it and miss, knocking it to the floor with a clatter. The door opens and my father and a nurse rush into the room. I squint as the lights come on.

  My dad leans over me and takes my hand while the nurse pours me another cup of water, which I sip through a straw.

  “Hey, Riley,” Dad says.

  I can’t look at him.

  “I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” the nurse says, then leaves, closing the door behind her.

  “How are you feeling?” my father asks.

  I start to answer, but I can’t find words. I shrug. He nods.

  “Your mother is here,” he says. “She’s sedated. When we heard, she—well, we both . . .” His face goes hard. “Jason Solomona spoke with the police. They told us what happened. I mean, everything they could.” Dad frowns, shakes his head. “Riley, I’m so sorry.”

  I want to nod. To say, “It’s okay.” I expect myself to. But something stops me, and I just look at him and take another sip of water. His eyes sadden, then go dull.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks. It comes out a whisper, almost a prayer. I’ve never heard my dad’s voice sound like that—weak, almost helpless. Anger courses through me, heating my face and making my whole head throb. What right does he have to be weak? To not know what to do?