More Happy Than Not

by Adam Silvera

  Leteo is this place of second chances. I read a lot of the stories provided online through Leteo’s site, all names and intimate details redacted, of course.

  A soldier known only as F-7298D was crippled by post-traumatic stress disorder until Leteo stepped in and buried the worst of his memories. Now F-7298D isn’t suffering from disturbing dreams and sleeplessness. A mother of twins, M-3237E, was afflicted with agoraphobia after witnessing a bomb go off during a marathon. Leteo hid the memory away so M-3237E no longer fears the outdoors and can open more doors for herself and her children.

  And they take care of kids like me, too.

  A seventeen-year-old girl, S-0021P, was sexually abused by her uncle and even though he’s in prison, she began burning her thighs. Leteo gave her the power to move on and trust her family again by suppressing past events where she blamed herself for leading her uncle on. Another seventeen-year-old, J-1930S, suffered from crazy panic attacks and always assumed the worst scenario possible if his family wasn’t home when he returned from school. Leteo figured out the source of his problems and healed him.

  Leteo takes our stories seriously.

  But that’s not what has me itching for the procedure.

  I stumbled on a story of a fifty-year-old father in Russia, A-1799R, who realized he spent half his life being someone he isn’t, and a quarter of that time married to a woman he doesn’t love—can’t love. But he couldn’t uproot his family, couldn’t abandon them or abandon Russia for a more accepting country, so he flew out here and asked Leteo if they could make him straight. And Leteo played with his head and did it. I followed that article to another about a nineteen-year-old teenager, P-6710S, who wanted to escape bullying and this feeling of wrongness. After her parents tried everything in their power to make her feel accepted, they turned to Leteo who “straightened her out.”

  I don’t want to be me.

  I don’t want to second-guess if my friends are going to be okay with me being me, and more importantly, I don’t want to see what happens if they’re not. I don’t want to be someone who can’t be friends with Thomas, because if there’s anything worse than not being able to be with him, it’s knowing our friendship will ultimately have an expiration date if being around him becomes impossible.

  I know not being me will be a lie, but I know I’m doing myself a favor in the long run if I can somehow book a Leteo procedure. Because as I stand now, I have so much bullshit to look out for.

  Happiness shouldn’t be this hard.

  The downside to this whole Leteo pursuit: you need an adult if you’re a minor seeking a consultation. I’m already down one parent, and I’m sure as shit not asking Eric to accompany me, but this means I’m going to have to tell my mom what kind of Leteo procedure I want, which sort of feels like when she used to take me to the barbershop and would tell the barber what kind of haircut I wanted. Except Leteo isn’t a barbershop—it’s more of a tattoo removal clinic, if anything—and this means I gotta tell her everything.

  I run to catch her at Washington Hospital before she can leave for her night shift at the supermarket. Considering she’s only right across the street, this is hardly the most difficult thing I’ve done today. No, that would’ve been when I was working a morning shift at Good Food’s and I smelled Thomas’s cologne on a customer and my heart just fucking hurt. Surviving that was today’s battle. I’m done fighting.

  I get to Mom’s office where she’s ending a call with someone. “Aaron . . .”

  I close the door behind me and sit down. The truth is kind of, sort of, insanely crushing—but if I tell her and she gets behind my plan, which she will because she wants what’s best for me, then I can make a happy liar out of myself. Best of all, I’ll probably forget this awkward moment ever even playing out.

  “What’s wrong, my son? Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, and okay feels like too strong a word because I’m not even that. It’s all hitting me hard right now—the rejection, the fear, the uncertainty. So thank God I’m here with my mom because I might need one of her hugs that always made me feel better as a kid, like that time I got in trouble with security for running in the hallways, or when Skinny-Dave’s father made fun of me for being a waste of height during a basketball game, or every other time I was feeling ashamed or worthless.

  “Talk to me,” Mom says, sneaking a peek at the clock on her monitor screen. I know she’s not rushing me, especially when she has no idea what the hell I want to say, but our bank status is no doubt still on her mind as it has to be.

  “I want a Leteo procedure.”

  I have her full attention again. Her stare is so intense I look around her desk, wondering when she took down the photo she had of me as a kid on Dad’s shoulders with Eric in his lap, the three of us in my grandpa’s recliner chair. “Aaron, please, whatever it is—”

  “No, Mom, listen, because time is very important here and I’m already feeling crazy and scared of what might happen if I can’t have this procedure.”

  “What could you possibly want to forget?”

  “I hope this isn’t hard to hear, but I sort of have—had something . . .” I thought I would spit it out, but no matter the possibilities of forgetting this moment, living in the now with this weight still feels pretty impossible. “Um, I had something going on with Thomas. Maybe you guessed that because you have eyes.”

  She rolls her chair over to me and grabs my hand. “Okay . . . but what’s wrong?”

  “Me.”

  “You’re not wrong, my son.” She gives me a side hug, resting her head on my shoulder. “I don’t know what you were expecting would happen. That I would hit you with a belt? Maybe rub some cleansing oil on you?”

  “I wish you could.” I cry, because there’s nothing like my mom telling me I’m okay the way I am to really scare me about living with this heartache forever. “I want a reboot, Mom. It’s not working with Thomas. I know I said I would be more open after what I put you through in April, so I’m telling you now: this whole thing with Thomas was a major awakening for me. But he’s still sleeping and I’m not sure I can do or say enough to wake him up.”

  “What are you asking of me?”

  “To make me right.”

  She’s sobbing a little too, and she squeezes my hand. “Thank you for being honest with me, Aaron. I have said it before and I’ll say it always, but I’ll love you however you are. You’re being impulsive about Leteo. We can talk this over or schedule another appointment with your therapist—”

  “Dr. Slattery is a joke! He’s a waste of your money! Leteo is the real damn deal, Mom. They say you can’t choose whether or not you like boys or girls, but you can help me get back on the right track.” I move out from under her head because she’s making me feel like I’m begging for a new Hess truck at Christmas. Kids my age can be impulsive, I get that, but when your son who almost killed himself asks for a better life overnight, your job as a parent should be as simple as signing on the dotted line.

  “No, Aaron.” She lets go of my hand and stands. “I have to go to work. We can talk about this later tonight and—”

  “Forget it.” I storm out of her office, speeding up when she calls my name over and over. I only wipe the tears from my cheeks when I reach the street corner.

  I pull out my phone. I really want to call to Thomas or Genevieve but I can’t. I can’t hit up Brendan either because I’m pretty sure he’s pieced together all the Thomas-shaped pieces of my cataclysmic puzzle. The same goes for the other guys. I go through my phone book, scrolling past Baby Freddy, Brendan, Collin, Dad, Deon . . .

  I call Evangeline. She doesn’t pick up.

  I sink against the wall, wondering where the fuck my place is in this fucking universe that fucked me over. Thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking creep up on me. They’re telling me to seek out oblivion where rest and happiness await. I cry harder be
cause it’s not what I want, but once again I am beginning to feel like it is the only solution.

  My phone rings. It’s not Thomas or Genevieve but it’s the next best hope. “Evangeline, hey.”

  “Hey, kiddo. Sorry I missed your call.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I need to ask for a favor.” And in that moment, I realize that one lie will help me reach my life of lies, my only way out. It’s not like this lie would hurt anyone. “I’ve been talking with my mom about getting some Leteo work done but she can’t come with me. Are you around this afternoon?”

  She’s quiet for a bit. “I’ll meet you in an hour. Grab a spot in line, okay?”

  There’s a chance for my happy oblivion, after all.

  I’ve been in line on the corner of 168th Street for close to an hour now, waiting to get into the Leteo Institute. I got bored and asked the older man in front of me what he was here for, and he told me he wanted to forget his cheating ex-wife before he kills both her and the twenty-year-old she slept with.

  After that, I let a couple of people skip me.

  When I finally get inside, I grab a ticket, and sit down in a waiting room as big as the one at the DMV.

  On every wall there are two TVs, all rolling out the same Leteo videos.

  QUESTION: Is this procedure total bullshit?

  ANSWER: No, this procedure is NOT total bullshit.

  Okay, the last one is in my head, but it’s exactly the wise-ass type of question I would’ve submitted back before Kyle pulled this little magic trick on himself. The ticket queue is only on 184 and I’m 224. At least that will give Evangeline some extra time to get off the line outside and in here. Seriously, the amount of lines in this place alone makes me think that if you knock one person into another, it’ll create a crazy domino effect and we’ll all be amnesiacs by the time the last person falls.

  There you are,” Evangeline says, sitting down beside me. She’s in this silk vest that reminds me of the one Genevieve wore on a movie date last year. But she’s still the same old babysitter I knew. “Care to catch me up?”

  “Everything’s a shit show. That’s pretty much it, Evangeline.”

  “Language,” she says. “Talk to me.” Her eyes dart around the room. I can’t blame her. Mine did, too.

  “When I was younger, did you ever think that I might be . . .” I thought I’d be able to spit this out. “Did you ever think that I might like other guys?”

  “Not at all. Why do you ask? Do you believe you might be gay?”

  “I am . . . but I don’t want to be. I want to be made straight.”

  “Why do you believe being gay is the root of your problems?” she spitfires. I almost feel like she’s judging me.

  “I had a girlfriend who loved me and good friends. Now I don’t. And that all changed when I met an idiot with zero direction in his life.” I’m trying not to sound defensive. If this procedure means I can forget my feelings for Thomas and the pain that would come from a goodbye, I need it. “I’m not happy with who I am. That’s enough, right?”

  Evangeline searches my face. “Listen, kiddo. Even if what you’re asking of me is possible, and if you had every last penny needed to cover the costs, this isn’t a facility you can simply walk into and schedule work to be done this weekend. Your mother needs to sign off on everything, for starters, and they would force you to speak with therapists over a stretch of time first to determine if your feelings can be resolved over time.”

  I don’t answer.

  She massages my shoulder, and I flinch because it’s the same thing I did to Thomas on Friday before kissing him; this is one of many memories I need to live without if I’m ever going to be able to live at all. “I know the pain you’re going through, Aaron,” she says.

  “Yeah, because you’re older, and I’m just a fucking kid, right?”

  “Language,” Evangeline mouths.

  We sit in silence while I wait for my number to be called. Then she straightens. Someone is waving to her from the other side of the room.

  “Do you know that woman?” I ask.

  “Stay here,” she whispers. “Don’t leave.”

  Yeah, like I’d leave the place that has my ticket to Elysium, a place of perfect happiness. I watch as she checks on this woman before returning my attention to the FAQ slides. Evangeline is back at my side a few minutes later and I ask her again if she knows that person.

  “Sort of. She interviewed me for an assistant job at Hunter College’s Department of Philosophy. Didn’t realize she was pursuing a procedure. Apparently she’s on her sixth and possibly final appointment to have memories altered about her husband’s affair before he died so she could remember the good and only that. Funny, huh?”

  “More like messed up,” I say. Guess philosophers are pro-Leteo. My number is finally called and I speed-walk to the HELP window, almost knocking into a crying man.

  A brunette in a gray lab coat—Hannah, according to her name tag—clears the screen on her sleek tablet and smiles at Evangeline and me. “Hello. Welcome to Leteo. How can I help you?”

  There must be cameras on her because no one working a customer service counter is ever this nice.

  “I don’t have an appointment or anything, but I want a procedure.”

  “Absolutely. May I see your ID?”

  I pass her my ID. The photo of me is in desperate need of a haircut.

  Hannah punches in some keys at a crazy speed and after some chimes, she looks up at me again. “All right, Mr. Soto, what distresses bring you to Leteo today?”

  “I’m not feeling very happy,” I say, and then I do something that is really downright despicable of me: I place my arm on the counter and I make sure she can see the smiling scar on my wrist in the hopes she’ll take me seriously.

  “For how long have you been feeling this way?”

  “A while.”

  “Could you be a little more specific, Mr. Soto?”

  “A few days, really, but it’s been building for months.”

  “Did any event precipitate these feelings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you be a little more specific, Mr. Soto?”

  “Are you going to be the one who handles my altering?”

  “No, Mr. Soto, I’m simply collecting information for our technicians.”

  “I’d rather keep my secrets as secretive as possible, if possible,” I say.

  Hannah turns to Evangeline. “Are you his relative?”

  “Family friend,” Evangeline says.

  Hannah plays with her tablet some more. “I can schedule a consultation for Mr. Soto with our team for the twelfth of August at noon.” She reaches into a drawer, pulls out a folder, and slides it toward Evangeline. Before I can demand to be seen sooner, she says, “I’m afraid that is the earliest we can do at this time. We look forward to seeing you in August.” She calls the next number, and Evangeline leads me outside.

  I’m in a daze, looking up at the squat building in the summer heat, not sure how to process what exactly happened just there.

  “I’m sorry that didn’t go the way you wanted it to,” Evangeline says, looking pretty defeated herself. “This will give you some time to make sure this is what you really want.”

  “It’s not only what I want,” I say. “It’s what everyone wants.”

  I hide the folder under my mattress like it’s porn or something, and I go outside to grab an iced tea at Good Food’s. I’m about to pay Mohad when I catch Brendan in the pastries aisle stuffing coffee cakes into his pockets.

  “Do you need a dollar?” I ask, and he jumps. “I can spot you a dollar if you promise not to hit me.”

  He doesn’t flip me off or tell me to go fuck myself, so I walk over and hold out the one-dollar bill.

  “I have money,” Brendan says. “I’m trying to save up.”


  “Okay.”

  “You going to snitch and get me banned?”

  “Not if you let me buy that for you. Truce?”

  Brendan smirks and hands me the coffee cakes. “Truce.”

  I buy everything at the counter from Mohad. I feel something like hope as we leave the store together. There’s always an awkward silence after our fights. It happened in third grade after he dissed me in front of the entire class for sleeping in the same bed as my parents; it happened again on Christmas morning a few years ago, when he stole a controller my mom had gotten me out from under my tree and claimed his father had gotten him the same one. And even though Brendan was the one who attacked Thomas, I’m guilty for not choosing his side.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “My bad too.” Brendan tears open the coffee cake and asks, “You want to play manhunt? I was thinking about getting a game going.”

  We go to the first court where everyone is gathered around the Skelzies board. They’re talking about how to get a girl wet with only their fingers and how you don’t need a condom if you’re hitting it from the back. I don’t try to fake a laugh or chime in. I wouldn’t do that, anyway, and this way it’s natural: I can look and feel the same, like I’m still one of them. Brendan nods, as if to say I’m cool again, and all is good.

  “Fuck Skelzies. Manhunt time. Aaron already volunteered to be hunter.”

  “Asshole,” I mutter as everyone runs off into different directions.

  I check underneath cars for Skinny-Dave, but he must actually be sober because he wasn’t dumb enough to hide there today. I do a quick sweep for where Me-Crazy might be hiding down here. No luck and I’m cool with maybe never solving that mystery because spending more time with that insane bastard isn’t high up on my to-do list.

  I get back to the courtyard and spot Fat-Dave up on the roof and he moons me. I flip him off. I see Nolan and Deon and chase them as they run out of the gates. They split up right when I see Thomas walking toward me, and for a second I think about catching him until I remember he’s not part of the game.