Tonight We Rule the World

by Zack Smedley

  “The school is required to keep the report private,” Mom reminds him.

  “I don’t care if they’re required to keep the report locked in the Cheyenne Complex, okay. Come Monday morning, kids are about to start getting yanked out of class by the boatload. Each one will be marched down to the admin wing, where Officer What’s-His-Nuts is going to roll up in his Columbo costume, wave his plastic badge, and ask, Hey there, Mary Sue, do you know anything about a violent crime that happened to one of your classmates on a field trip? If you think Mary Sue doesn’t immediately text her fifty closest friends about that, boy do I have a wonderful bridge to sell you.”

  “You don’t know—” Mom tries to interject, and I can tell Dad is about to shush her again when I say, “He’s right.”

  They both turn to look at me. I hate not backing up Mom when she’s looking out for me, but he’s right.

  She just sighs.

  “It’s not ‘if,’ it’s ‘when.’ So that’s item number one,” Dad says, counting on his fingers. “Item number two is that the school’s going to write its report, which will get kicked over to a gaggle of higher-ups during their weekly OFAT.”

  That one is a favorite of his—Obligatory Fucking Around Time.

  “From there it’ll get brought up at board hearings, where I guarantee it’ll get turned into a whole song and dance. Item number three is something we need to get squared away immediately, and by immediately, I mean in-the-next-hour. Before we do anything else, you need to get tested for STIs.”

  My mouth starts to work, but Dad’s hand snaps up a second time.

  “Whatever you’re going to say, save it. Doesn’t matter. Happened a while ago? Doesn’t matter. You think the guy was clean? Don’t know, don’t care, don’t want to hear it; doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m not going to the hospital,” I say. Sharply, this time.

  “Your mother said you’d say that.” He nods to Mom. She reaches for the grocery bag beside her—I hadn’t even noticed it—and withdraws three different boxes. Testing kits.

  “Brought the party to you,” she says. Her grimace is infused with apologies.

  I twist in my seat.

  “Did you call the hospital like I said?” Dad asks her. “What’d they say?”

  “They, uh …” She closes her eyes, snapping her fingers. “They said the window on DNA is around seventy-two hours, and five days for other forensic evidence. So we missed that. We can still get a kit done if we want, or they said Owen could follow up with his PCP for a general exam. Whatever he wants.”

  “Nothing.” I say it automatically. “I’m fine. I’ll do the tests tonight, but—”

  “You’ll do them right now,” Dad says.

  “I don’t have to pee.”

  “You’ll drink water. Two of them are spit swabs, anyway.”

  I yank the bag off the couch without looking at either of them. I go to open it when my phone starts to rattle, ringing facedown on the table.

  “Can I go?” I ask, feeling my stomach flip over.

  “We need to finish talking,” Dad says. “Why don’t you stay put.”

  “Steve, let him—Owen, do you want to answer that?” Mom asks.

  Buzzz, my phone says a second time.

  “We’re going to finish talking,” Dad says.

  It’s probably Lily, Mom mouths to him.

  “And he can talk to her later.”

  Buzz!

  “Can I please go?” I plead.

  “No one is going anywhere.”

  Buzz!

  “Give him five minutes—hon, you want five minutes to get that?” Mom says, talking over everyone.

  “No, I want to go.”

  “How about you stay here but your dad and I step out for a sec; that way you can answer that and—”

  “No—fuck, just drop it! CHRIST, Mom!”

  I bite my tongue half a second too late, feeling like an asshole as soon as the words are in the air. I’ve never yelled at either of them before, and the realness of it—the stunned look on Mom’s face and the wide-eyed rage in Dad’s—is ugly enough to make me want to crawl into a hole. Instead I do the next-best thing and palm my phone, rubbing my eyes with shaky fists as I head for the hallway.

  Once I turn the corner, I flip the phone over to look at the screen. Telemarketer.

  SIX

  November 28th—Freshman Year

  Dear Diary,

  I’m very scared!

  Last night—forty-eight hours after my email all-nighter with Lily—she called me. Yeah, called. Who the heck does that?

  “Owen, hey,” Lily said, once I gritted my teeth and picked up. “What’re you doing tomorrow night?”

  I froze in place. It was one of those movie moments, those no-way-this-is-happening instances. Was she about to ask me out?!

  “Um, are you free?” She was still waiting on an answer. “I’m doing a Friendsgiving dinner at my place with some of the other people in the neighborhood, so … you know. You should come.”

  Friendsgiving? I murmured. She couldn’t hear me, so I had to say in a louder voice, “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never heard of it? Friend Thanksgiving. Except a few days late.”

  I scratched the side of my thumb. “I’m not sure. I don’t like strangers.”

  “The people are really nice. Beth Lieberman, Vic Parmar, Austin Lambert … know them? Even if not, trust me—you want to do this. Listen to Lily. LTL.”

  (LTL. And I thought Dad was the one with acronyms!)

  “I just don’t do well with new people,” I told her.

  “Hm.” She took a long pause. “What if it’s just you and me? Is that okay?”

  I paced in small circles, swooping around my room. “Really?”

  “Sure, it’ll be fun. Is that okay?”

  “I’m just surprised you want to … spend time with me.”

  “Oh my gosh, yeah, sure. What are you talking about?

  Silly.”

  I smiled to myself—I didn’t say anything, but I felt invincible.

  “Like, we’re literally neighbors,” she pointed out, yawning. “I’ll text the address. See you tomorrow!”

  I barely slept last night because I’m so nervous. I made myself a schedule for today, so I know when to start getting ready. I’ve done everything I can do to prep: I looked up the walking route to Lily’s house, I picked out my clothes, I even listened to some Killers songs to distract myself. But I keep checking my watch, counting down the hours—equal parts exhilarated and terrified. It’s a rush, but I’m also seeing a minefield full of problems. New setting. New situation. New rules.

  This is where being on the autism spectrum gets in the way sometimes, especially with new people. Whenever I walk into a room, the first thing I’m doing is collecting information. It’s like this: Imagine that you open your eyes, and you’re in the middle of playing a complicated board game with a group of people you’re eager to impress—classmates, coworkers, whatever. Now imagine you’re the only one who wasn’t given a rulebook. Panic, right? It’s your turn to play. Go on—it’s your turn, dude! So you make some excuse. “Skip over me for now.” People give you weird looks, but they move on with their mysterious game. Strike one. Okay, how does this game work? We can do this … let’s figure it out. It’s not like you can’t adapt, but it’s an exercise in reverse engineering—like eating a cookie and trying to deduce the recipe. You’re able to piece things together and basically participate in the game. But the thing is, it never feels like you’re participating authentically. You’re always on the lookout for some new twist you haven’t seen before that’ll require adapting.

  And on the off chance all this goes perfectly, the whole exercise still saps the energy out of you. You go to bed drained, and you wake up every day to the same choice: fit in, at the price of doing this draining cycle, or stay isolated and enjoy some peace and quiet.

  All this because you didn’t get a rulebook. But here’s the clincher: imagine, n
ow, that everyone thinks you did.

  I have to get ready now. Please, please let me have my rulebook tonight …

  Nervously,

  O

  November 29th—Freshman Year

  Dear Diary,

  Oh my gosh!! You’ll never believe how it went yesterday!

  I was incredibly nervous during the walk over—it was thirty-eight degrees outside, but I was soaked in sweat. When I got to Lily’s house, I heard the bustling sound of activity through the screen door—chatter, the TV going, the kitchen fan whirring and clanking of cookware.

  (Don’t screw this up!)

  Just as I lifted a finger to ring the bell, Lily’s father opened the door.

  “Captain Turner on deck! How the heck are ya!” He held out a hand, which I firmly shook, as Dad taught me.

  Mr. Caldwell, as I immediately learned, was the whitest dad in the history of white dads—like if a riding mower and a rotisserie grill had a human baby. Standing a head taller than me, he was wearing a cooking apron—the kind that had a spatula on it with the caption “This Guy Is Flipping Awesome”—over a pair of loose faded jeans and a Penn State sweatshirt.

  As he led me into the house, I was hit with a million smells—the sweetness of yams, the yeasty scent of fresh biscuits, the warmth of gravy and lit candles. I’d never experienced the scent outside my own house before.

  “Now, Owen, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Mr. Caldwell said, raising his eyebrows at me.

  I gave him a deer-in-the-headlights look.

  “I said I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” he repeated. “Because let me tell you something: no matter what day or time it is, that girl of mine … wherever she wandered off to”—he craned his neck before turning back to me—“does not stop running her mouth about you.”

  Oh, I murmured.

  “Ah—I know, right! That’s always what you want to hear, right, Owen!” he ribbed, clapping me on the back hard enough to nearly knock the wind out of me. “No, it’s all great stuff. And don’t worry about me getting in everyone’s way tonight—I’m done in the kitchen, so I’ll be upstairs. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  (Hold up—everyone?)

  I entered the kitchen to find two girls—neither of them Lily—bickering. One of them was tall with pale skin, offset by shoulder-length hair that was completely turquoise. The other was Victoria Parmar—a short Indian girl with cropped hair and a nose stud—who I recognized from second period.

  The one with turquoise hair was holding up a can of green beans and saying, “Vic! I told you to bring fresh green beans. Fresh.”

  “These are! No, it says so right on the can, look,” Vic said. She repeatedly stabbed the label with a black-painted fingernail. “Made with farm FRESH goodness!”

  “I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “Mommy, Daddy, please don’t fight!” said Lily’s voice, and she appeared on the other side of the kitchen with a can of soda in her hands. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid, and she was dressed in a dark green blouse with a red skirt. Holiday attire.

  “Oh my God, hi!” she said when she spotted me. “Come here. Guys, this is Owen. He’s a couple streets down.”

  The two girls gave me friendly greetings that I didn’t respond to. Then a third stranger appeared—a guy our age with braces, thick-framed glasses, and messy red hair. His shirt—a long-sleeve blue one with the Superman logo on the chest—had three labels for canned yams stuck to the back.

  “Austin!” Lily called. “Say hello to Owen.”

  He saluted me. “Hello to Owen!”

  I bolted out of the room without saying anything. My hands were moving around too much, so I folded them under my armpits.

  “O? Hang on, where are you going?”

  Lily caught up to me in the front hall, wide-eyed.

  “Listen—okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, stepping close so she could lower her voice. “I felt weird telling them not to come when I already invited them, but I really wanted you to meet them. Come on—O! Come on.” She took my hand off the doorknob and held it in hers. “Just stay for dinner. That’s it. I swear.”

  I stared at the door. Lingered on how nice her fingers felt in mine.

  Then I asked, Why does Austin have canned food labels on his back?

  “We’re seeing how many we can put on him before he notices,” Lily whispered.

  I cracked a smile, and she tugged my hand again. “Can you please stay? For me? We’re about to eat; you can leave in twenty minutes if it’s weird.”

  I was still shaken up by the change of plans. But she looked at me with wide eyes, and I felt doused in warmth by her concern: She did this because she wanted me here.

  I said okay.

  Cut to: back in the kitchen, a few minutes later. As I sat down next to Lily at the dinner table, she explained to me that Beth—the girl with colored hair fretting over the green beans—was an aspiring chef. For that reason, she supervised all the cooking for group events like these.

  The table setup was fancy with folded cloth napkins and everything. Holiday decor had been brought out early, and the ledge decoration—a set of alphabet blocks that were supposed to spell “Merry Christmas”—had been rearranged to spell “Mrs. Creamy Shit.”

  Austin, Beth, and Vic sat facing Lily and I, heaps of food piled between us. Lily, at my request, gave me three small plates so I could separate my food. I expected someone to comment on this as we all served ourselves, but the rest of the group either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to ask about it. Beth had included several side dishes her family normally made for Hanukkah—things like tzimmes and latke cups—and politely explained to me what each of them were.

  “Hey, new guy—” Austin said to me.

  “His name’s Owen, dude,” Lily said, giving him an are-you-kidding glare.

  “Owen … my bad. I just wanted to say I hope we didn’t wig you out too bad earlier. We can be a weird group.”

  I blinked at him, and he held up a hand to add, “I’m being serious; I’m not making fun of you or anything.”

  I tried to give him a polite nod. I murmured, You can make fun of me if you want.

  Everyone swapped puzzled looks.

  (Fuck I’m bad at this.)

  “That’s what we have him for,” Beth said, taking Austin’s hand and giving me a small smile. Vic reached to pat him on the back, depositing a sticker for jellied cranberry sauce.

  “On that note, I’m sorry in advance if my girlfriend poisoned us,” Austin said, jerking his head toward Beth. She gave him a chef’s kiss that turned into a middle finger.

  “Hi, by the way!” she said, giving me a vigorous wave with her free hand. “I never said hi—so hi. I’m Beth.”

  “Well, now you’ve said it three times,” Vic pointed out. Then she asked me, “Aren’t you in my Geometry class?”

  I nodded.

  “Thought that was you.” Vic shook her head at me, her face blank and voice flat. “Aren’t those kids obnoxious?”

  I chuckled quietly, not sure how to reply, but she gave me a wry smirk and added, “I mean, they’re so obnoxious.”

  “You guys have Mr. Adler?” Lily jumped in.

  “Yep.” Vic tapped her temple as she took a sip of water. “He didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know.”

  (Mr. Adler used this phrase five to eight times per week.)

  “What’s a turnip truck, anyway?” Austin asked. “It’s a truck,” Lily explained, very slowly, “for turnips.” “Oh my God, thanks. I meant where does the saying come from?”

  “How should I know?” “You’re the writer!”

  She drained her soda, waving him off. “Hey, who’s the other teacher that uses a really weird expression? Something about like … chicken dinner.”

  “Winner, winner, chicken dinner?” Vic suggested.

  “Right, but like, she doesn’t say that! Oh … this is going to bother me now.”

  “Ooh—no, I know who you’re
talking about!” Beth jumped in, almost knocking over her glass. “It’s not a teacher; it’s one of the librarians. Whenever she’s looking for a book and she finds it, she—okay, I think she’s trying to combine ‘ding-ding, we have a winner’ and the thing you said. So what she says is—”

  Lily, suddenly remembering, finished the sentence as she pounded a triumphant fist on my thigh: “Ding-ding, chicken dinner!”

  The whole table erupted into laughter. It felt like my face might not ever become unstuck from how hard I was smiling. I marveled at how easily these people could bounce off each other—like they already knew how the rest of the room would react to whatever they were about to say. I’d never seen anything like it.

  Once we all finished eating, Vic said, “Are we ready to head down now?” Then, to me: “Are you joining for the fire?” Then, to Lily: “Did you tell him about the bonfire?”

  “Hey, Owen, we’re doing a bonfire down near the playground,” Lily said through cupped hands. “Unless you want to go home.”

  I shook my head so hard it almost fell off.

  “Called it.”

  Cut to: Lily’s yard ten minutes later, where our group was marching down the driveway with armfuls of old magazines and a bottle of lighter fluid. I followed them across the street to the wooded part of the neighborhood playground, which had a fire pit I’d never noticed. Vic—honorary fire wizard of the group—got a flame going, and we all collapsed onto the stumps circled around the pit. Everyone was chatting, bantering, and I sat there soaking it all in.

  I came to learn more about each of them: Austin was the comedian of the group, always smoothing moments over and rolling with anything that was thrown at him—even jabs about how obsessed he was with marching band.

  Beth, his girlfriend, was pure bubbliness … someone who laughed way too loudly and hugged way too tightly, but would keep looking at you while you told a story to a group of people who weren’t paying attention. Vic, Lily’s best friend, was the polar opposite: She liked video games more than people (her words) and spent most of her evenings streaming from her gaming emulator until Lily dragged her outside. She was the coldest member of the bunch—the least talkative and often in anti-people mode—but it was obvious she and I shared an appreciation for bluntness, so I liked her the best. And at the center of it all, Lily: organizing hangouts, stirring up conversation … constantly conducting the orchestra.