Dr. Roger glanced down, then back at Charlie. “Is it so surprising your classmates spoke fondly of you?”
He shrugged.
“Would you be less surprised if they were nasty?” Dr. Roger waited a beat. “Or if they said nothing at all?”
Charlie folded his arms. Again that feeling of a lid closing on his brain.
“That’s all right, Charlie. The most independent thinkers are often the quietest. Thing is, we keep things to ourselves when we don’t think anyone will understand.” Dr. Roger waited a beat. “Do you ever feel that way?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“I have in my notes that Dr. Lightly prescribed Fixol, an antidepressant.”
“She recommended it. She didn’t prescribe it.”
Dr. Roger tapped his lips with an index finger. “Well, if you don’t think you need it, I agree.”
Charlie was shocked. “Really?”
“I don’t believe every problem can be solved through drugs, Charlie. I like to look at human behavior and interactions.”
Charlie sat back in his chair, letting out a long breath. “Good.”
Dr. Roger flipped over a page. “It says here your mother left a few years ago.”
“That’s true.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Mother gone. Not many friends. Close with your dad?”
Charlie’s eyes flicked to the carpet. “Yes.”
“Until recently?”
Charlie’s breath caught. He met the doctor’s eyes.
“These are difficult years. The parent-child relationship becomes strained, especially in a single-parent home.”
Charlie shook his head. “Well, that’s not us. We’re friends.”
Dr. Roger nodded slowly. “Good. Good.” He took a sip from the tumbler of water on his desk. “And friends are always there for each other. Look out for one another. I bet you look out for him sometimes, too.”
“Sometimes. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I’m sure it’s made you very independent, which is good. Means you’re mature. Of course, it also means you’ve got to rely on yourself a lot. Be your own parent. Decide for yourself what’s good or bad, right or wrong. I’ll bet you make lists. In a journal, perhaps? Or maybe just in your head when you’re by yourself. Lists of rules. Principles. Things to rely on, that you decide for yourself.”
Charlie thought of his happiness list, but said nothing. Dr. Roger went on.
“Most people haven’t had to be self-reliant, so they aren’t smart enough, or strong enough. Which makes them selfish and reckless. And sometimes it feels like . . . it’s best to just avoid people, and their flimsy rules. Being alone becomes its own rule, doesn’t it?”
Charlie’s throat felt tight. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.
“But being alone is hard. It’s lonely, and it’s sad. Maybe now and then you meet somebody who’s different. Different like you. But you have to be alone. Because if you don’t have to, then maybe you’re lonely for no good reason. Maybe it’s not by choice.” Dr. Roger leaned forward and looked Charlie in the eye. “Charlie, I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to be alone. No one should ever be alone. That’s a rule I have.” He folded his hands. “Do you think you can borrow one of my rules?”
Charlie blinked. He felt coolness on his cheeks. He touched them, and his fingertips came away wet. He stared at the tears, shocked.
“Charlie, I don’t think you’re depressed.” He closed Charlie’s file and pushed it aside. “It makes sense you feel . . . disconnected. You’ve become disassociated from the world, because at large, it has failed you.” Dr. Roger leaned back, steepling his fingers. “If I were to recommend a treatment, would you be open to trying it out?”
David couldn’t stop thinking about Rose all day. He decided to cut last-period gym and go home early. He sneaked out the back door and jogged toward the parking lot. A row of cars was parked on the grass by the auditorium, one a white Ford Taurus with the license plate WATTS1. A woman in a reindeer sweater was haranguing a pair of exhausted stagehands. It was Mrs. Hynes, Saint Mary’s theater director.
“Well, we can’t do the Ascot scene without Mrs. Higgins! Why would she just take off? She knows we have rehearsal today.”
David decided to cut across the field, but she’d already spotted him. She waved in his direction, her scowl melting into a syrupy grin, purple heels sinking into the mud as she hobbled over.
“David! Oh, I’m so glad I caught you. Listen, swim season doesn’t start for another few weeks. What do you say you audition for My Fair Lady?”
David adjusted his bag and stared longingly at his bike, just a few yards away. Mrs. Hynes spooked him. She was nice enough, but desperate-seeming. Last year he’d seen her boobs when she bent to recover a dropped coffee mug, and he sometimes wondered if it was an accident. The experience scarred him.
“Aren’t auditions over?”
“David, honey, it’s been a disaster. My Mrs. Higgins is MIA. The whole cast is so maudlin since that girl died. You know she auditioned, don’t you? She didn’t have star quality, and that’s what I told her. Disturbed person, clearly, poor little thing. And that dyed hair, yuck. Anyway, Orson dropped out, which is a tragedy because he’s the best dancer in the school, and I remember you auditioned for the part of Anthony last year, and you had a very passable singing voice, so what do you say, huh? You’ll do it?” She batted her false eyelashes.
“I’d like to, Mrs. Hynes, but I’ve got a lot of schoolwork.”
She looked at him sideways and smiled. “I think you’re running off to see a girl.”
“I’m just really busy.”
“I know what you’re up to. Oh, to be young again. Of course, it wasn’t so long ago that I was your age. . . .” She put a hand on his shoulder, and something in David’s stomach lurched.
“Well, I’ve got to go.”
“You’ll come to the play, won’t you?” Her hand slid down to clutch his fingers.
“Sure thing,” he said, breaking away. He made for his bike at a dead run.
Rose was on the den computer.
“Hey, what are you up to?”
She turned at the sound of his voice and grinned. “Hello.” She stood and wrapped her arms around his midsection.
“We’ve graduated to hugs, huh?”
“Friendly hugs, yes,” she said, pressing against him.
Friendly for you, David thought.
“Look what I learned how to do today.” She’d folded a piece of his father’s stationery into the shape of a bird. “If you fold one part close to another part in just the right way, it makes a shape of something else. Isn’t that interesting?”
“You learned origami?”
“I can only do the bird so far,” she said. “Do you want me to show you how?”
“Later,” David said. “Come on. Let’s watch some TV.”
That evening, David rapped on the French doors and waved to his parents, who were eating dinner. Mr. Sun pointed at his watch, meaning, “Back by curfew,” and Mrs. Sun smiled with sad eyes, meaning, “If you smoke tonight, my heart will break.”
“Let’s take a ride,” David said.
The garage lights were bright as a near-death experience. The ’Vette and the Maserati slumbered side by side. David’s motorbike was next, sharing a stall with Rose’s egg. At the end was his Cadillac Nightbird.
David loved to drive. It tantalized him. The pressure pushing him into his seat was like a barrier he dared himself to break through. He drove faster, pushed harder, wanting to find out what was on the other side.
Soon they were out on the dark road. David took the first bend at sixty.
“Isn’t this fun?” David said, pushing the pedal toward the floor.
“Yes,” Rose said tentatively.
The dark trees flicked by, becoming indistinguishable from one another. David knew these roads by muscle memory and
made the slightest adjustments, coaxing the car, soothing it, giving it what it wanted. He wondered if this was what sex was like.
David felt something brush his knee. Taking his eyes off the road at this speed was insane, but he glanced down long enough to see Rose’s hand clasp his knee. Hot panic coursed through his body. Shock him now and they’d be wrapped around a tree before he could say “ouch.” But there was no shock, just the pressure of her hand and the whisper of her breath.
Finally, David slowed and pulled onto a rocky side road. David grinned. “Was it good for you, too?”
Rose was flush, her breathing labored in an excellent simulation of human terror. Her hand remained clamped to David’s knee.
“We could have crashed.”
“Not likely,” David said. “I’m pretty in control of this thing.”
“We could have crashed,” Rose said, lingering on the new word. Could. “We could have stopped functioning.” Die, her mind embellished. Deactivate. Decommission.
“Yeah. I guess. That’s part of the excitement, though.”
David brought the car to a stop and killed the engine. “Come on. We walk from here.” They climbed out of the car. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“It’s just excess adrenaline. It will dilute momentarily.”
“Well, come on.” He took off into the woods. Rose followed. The lake’s black smear was visible through the trees. Her brain assembled another simile, folding its edges together. She trembled . . . like water rippling.
On Friday nights, David, Clay, and Artie met at the campsite. It was a few miles northeast of the lake, no houses around. To David, it was evidence against Dr. Roger’s and his parents’ diagnosis.
“They think I’m all zombied out by computers and the net.”
“Zombied?” Rose asked.
“Brain-dead. But me and the guys chill here and get back to nature. We connect out here, you know? But not in a queer way.”
“Queer?” David’s usage conflicted with the definition she had.
“Gay.”
Deeper into the woods, lights flickered and voices bounded through the trees.
“The point is, I’m not disassociated. Though I don’t mind having you around.” He stopped and turned to her. “They can think I’m crazy if it means I get something as sweet as you.”
Rose’s blush was invisible in the gloom. David leaned in, but she ducked away, nearly stumbling over a tree root.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Not yet.”
“Shit.” David kicked the ground, and grit and pebbles sprayed her ankles. “All right. I guess I’ve had to wait before.”
“Before?”
David resumed walking, and Rose hurried to catch up. “Oh, and listen. The guys don’t know you’re a Companion, and I’d like to keep it that way. They’d think I was nuts. Or so lame, my parents bought me a sex doll. So just pretend you’re from out of town, OK?”
“Ii yo.”
David stopped again. “Wait. What’s that?”
“Nihongo wo hanashitara dou darou?”
“Are you speaking Japanese?”
Rose nodded.
David laughed. “Not that out of town. American.”
“OK.”
“Great,” David grumbled, making for the campsite. “I’m sure this will work.”
Farther on, they came upon another car parked in the weeds. It was black like David’s, but less shiny. A girl was in the passenger seat, her head flopped to one side, eyes closed.
“Clay’s sister,” said David. “It’s her car. Clay doesn’t have his license yet.”
“Is she recharging?”
“She’s passed out.” He shook his head. “Come on, it’s just down here.”
The campsite was an abandoned house foundation. Cement stairs descended to an overgrown pit with chunks of rock and slabs of iron. In the center a fire threw crazy shadows on the walls. Three people sat on the iron I beams — Clay, Artie, and a figure in a hooded sweatshirt.
“The Sun God arrives,” Clay thundered, getting to his feet. “How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
Clay punched David in the shoulder and jumped back into a boxer’s stance. He was quick for a big guy.
“Come on, Sun. Let’s go. You and me. I’ll pummel that swimmer’s ass.”
“Get out. You’d have a coronary before the first bell.”
Clay laughed and handed David a beer. Artie nodded hello.
“Who’s the redhead?”
David put his arm around Rose’s shoulder. “Boys, I’d like you to meet Rose.”
“Charmed,” said Clay, bowing.
“I’m from out of town,” Rose said.
“Well, welcome to our humble village.” Clay spread his arms like a carnival barker. He was already drunk. “Lovely Westtown. The place so dull its name is a reference to someplace else. I’m Clay, and the guy impersonating Humphrey Bogart is Artie.”
“I thought you were grounded.” Artie was talking to David but staring at Rose.
David sat across from Clay. “Time off for good behavior,” he said, gesturing for Rose to sit. David popped a beer and took a long swallow.
“Where you from?” Artie asked Rose.
“Osaka.”
“Vermont,” David added quickly. “Osaka, Vermont. She just moved to town.”
The person in the hoodie sipped from the bottle. A few dark strands of hair dangled free from the hood. Shapely pale legs tapered to pink flip-flops. “You gonna go to Saint M’s?” Her voice was sweet, but her words were slurred.
Signs of intoxication, read the message beamed to Rose’s CPU. Forbidden. Red halos danced around the beer cans, vodka, and Artie’s cigarettes. No. No. No.
“Rose is homeschooled,” said David.
“Why don’t you let Rose answer for herself?” the girl said.
David looked at Clay. “Who brought Ms. Personality?”
“Becks is my sister’s friend.” Clay glared in her direction. “Hey, Becks, why don’t you share the potato juice?”
“How about I don’t?” she returned. “And it’s Rebecca, John.”
“Becks is in a bad mood,” Clay said. “She’s feeling sexually frustrated. That’s why she won’t share the vodka.”
He went to tickle her, but she batted him away.
“I’m in a bad mood because my ride passed out, and now I’m stuck here with you.” Rebecca nursed her bottle. Her body curved in on itself, a closed loop. The arrow in her brain had no one to point to.
“Where is your boy?” Rose asked.
David, who’d been saying something, stopped midsentence. The boys stared at Rose, then at Rebecca, who held the bottle an inch from her parted lips.
“Why don’t you mind your business, smartass?” she said at last.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to —”
“The hell with this,” Rebecca said, getting to her feet. “Nice friends, John.”
“She’ll be fine,” Clay said once she’d gone. “She’s just drunk.”
“And we’re not.” David reached for the cooler at Artie’s feet. “So let’s correct that situation.”
“Hell, yes!” Clay shouted.
Rose shrank in her seat — body language communicating regret, shame. David didn’t notice. He was crushing a beer can on his forehead. She felt sorry she’d upset the other girl. But David was happy. That was the important thing. The only important thing.
An hour later, Rose had not moved. Her epidermal sensors registered the night chill, but she had nothing to cover up with. David looked warm on the other side of the fire. His cheeks and neck were flush, and ringlets of damp hair clung to his brow. The boys talked loudly and hit each other, laughing. She wished David would put his arm around her.
Artie wasn’t drinking. Instead he smoked and stared at the fire, tossing his butts into the flames. Finally, lighting his sixth or seventh cigarette, he said something.
“Hey, red. What’s with the scowl?”
“Why so glum?”
“I’m not glum. I’m waiting.”
Artie offered Rose a smoke, but she shook her head.
“It’s funny, Dave’s never mentioned you before.”
“We just met.”
“Really? Because you seem really close.”
She smiled warmly. “Really?”
“You guys hooking up?”
“Hooking up?” Train cars coupling, a fish caught on a line. This couldn’t be what he meant. Artie drew closer, sitting beside her.
“Listen.” His breath stank like tobacco. “David and I, we share everything, you know? What’s his is sort of mine. Because we’re best friends. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Again, Rose shook her head. A new feeling bubbled inside her — like what she’d felt in the car, only subtler.
“So tell me, what gets your motor running?”
He reached to touch her knee. A voice came from behind them.
“Hey, Stubb. I know this is a campsite, but go pop a tent someplace else, huh?”
It was Rebecca, cradling her bottle.
“What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have problems. I solve them.”
Artie stood and stretched. “Whatever.”
“Go bond,” Rebecca said, nodding toward the others. “If you’re looking for someone to grope, try David. He’s the one you’re in love with.”
“Bite me.” Artie stooped to grab his pack of cigarettes and headed for the stairs.
“You wish,” Rebecca muttered. She took Artie’s place on the I beam. “Hey. Sorry about him. He’s just a perv.”
“Thank you for making him go away,” Rose said. “He makes me . . . uncomfortable.”
“No surprise there.” Rebecca stared through the flames at the other boys, who were having a thumb war. “Look at them. You and me, babe, we’re totally invisible.”
“What do you mean?’
Rebecca clinked her bottle with one lacquered fingernail. Rose noticed there was a donkey on the label in a bowler hat. A smartass?
“It’s all one big circle-jerk, anyway. They think they’re oh-so-funny. We’re just here to be the audience.”
Rebecca’s face was heart-shaped, with pretty, tired eyes. A red bird-shaped brooch was pinned to her sweatshirt.
Girl Parts Page 5
