by Zack Smedley
And don’t get me wrong; my dependence on them scares the shit out of me sometimes. It’s like having explosives strapped to your neck and trusting other people to reset the timer every morning. You’re always checking your watch, waiting for when this perfect little miracle runs out of days. In our case, we have three months until everyone disbands. None of us will be on the other side of the country, but we’ll all be hours apart: Vic will be down at Johns Hopkins for systems engineering, Beth will be starting the culinary program at Johnson & Wales in Rhode Island, and Austin—following in the footsteps of both his parents and older brother—is set to attend UVA with an undeclared major. I’ll be at Lanham, and Lily will either join me there or stay down here.
“Tell us what’s new with you, O,” Beth calls to me from the treadmill. “You seem quiet. How’s your week been?”
I shut my eyes and pick up the weight to curl it again. “Boring.”
TEN
March 23rd—Freshman Year
Dear Journal,
I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written—I’ve been busy with my new FRIENDS!
The next time I hung out with them after the Friendsgiving event was a few weeks later, when we got back together for a holiday celebration (Pancha Ganapati for Vic, Hanukkah for Beth, and Christmas for the others). The hangouts became weekly after that.
For the first time in my life, I felt things. I looked forward to waking up so I could see what morning meme Vic had put in our group chat. I was excited to get my homework done on a Saturday so I could walk over to Lily’s house, where she was always organizing some activity for the group. School was fun now. Because even if it was an awful day—the kind where you miss your bus or get slapped with a reading assignment—I had people to roll my eyes with, to complain to, to bond in solidarity with. I had friends.
That’s them calling me now … got to go!
Sincerely,
O
April 9th—Freshman Year
Dear Journal,
Lily and I just had our first date, and I can’t sleep because I’m still thinking about it.
I asked her out via text, so I could lay out my thoughts. I spent about an hour on online forums, getting a general sense of what a good text would look like before I stitched one together:
Hey sorry if this is a little awkward but do you want to go out sometime?
And she said yes!!!
It was a very typical first date activity—dinner at one of the local sit-down restaurants—but I was a nervous wreck the entire afternoon leading up to it. I sat in the Studio all day counting down hours, just like before Friendsgiving back in November.
Then I got a message from her two hours beforehand, and my heart plummeted. She’s backing out, I thought. The only question was whether this was a rescheduling or a cancellation. Then I read the message.
SO. FRICKIN. NERVOUS!!
I remember still smiling at it when she sent a follow-up.
AHHHHHH!!!
(Me, making Lily Caldwell nervous … unbelievable. Last year’s version of me would be on the floor laughing at the thought.)
But the date went exactly as expected—neither a fairy tale nor a disaster. At the end of the night I stuttered out asking if she wanted me to be her boyfriend—me!—and she said YES. And five minutes ago, she re-posted a quote on her blog: “You have me. Until every last star and the sun all die. You have me.”
I’m somebody’s boyfriend now!
AHHHHHH!!!
Sincerely,
O
October 2nd—Sophomore Year
Dear Journal,
I’m looking back on my entries from ninth grade, and it’s kind of astonishing how much I sounded like a little kid. Then again, I’ll probably think the same thing next year when I look back at this … so beat that with a stick.
How to describe the past six months? It’s like I’ve discovered fire. A year ago, a Friday night would involve me playing board games with my parents and passing out by nine o’clock. Now, it’s all Lily. Weekdays are for hanging out with the group; Fridays are for her and I. Those are the ones I look forward to the most. Unsurprisingly, Lily—already kicking ass at her new job of class president—is constantly suggesting new activities for us to try. Always planning, organizing, setting things up. We’ve walked around parks I’ve never heard of. We’ve tried new coffee shops and attended a river concert and gone to a corn maze to pick out pumpkins. And when we’re apart during the week, we’re texting. At first I kept waiting for her to get bored with messaging me, but she hasn’t yet. (Knock on wood.)
That’s the part I love most about our relationship: how invested we both are. She’s not just the popular girl going on a few pity dates with the quiet loser. She’s active—she messages me good morning with cute animal emojis, and tells me how much she misses me, and continues co-writing dark comedy sketches with me because she knows we both love it. It’s such a high to live out what I dreamed about for so many years … being in a real relationship. Knowing you’re growing up and stepping into all those milestones you see on sitcoms and read about in books. The certainty that what’s supposed to happen is happening. This is happening!
For the first time, I had some serious self-confidence. I talked more. I worried less.
Even two days ago, when my mom borrowed my computer and saw the extremely R-rated messages Lily and I had swapped the previous night. Obviously, this was mortifying. To say nothing of the stone-faced be-smart-about-sex speech I got from Dad, during which he grilled me with the basic questions: “Is this the first time you two sexted?” (no); “Have you done anything in person?” (not really); “Do you promise to be safe when you do?” (obviously).
But as embarrassing as it was, I was also a little proud, you know? It was invigorating to have a guess-what-happened story to share with the group, especially when it involved me getting (virtually) laid.
“How bad were the messages?” Austin asked, when Lily and I shared the story with everyone. We were walking around the mall, so I was a little on edge from all the crowds, but Lily’s hand on my arm helped.
“Wait—oh my God, were there pictures?” Beth asked, covering a horrified grin with both hands. “That’s illegal.”
“No, no,” said Lily, sounding none too remorseful. “No pictures, no videos.”
“Thank God. Holy shit, I’d leave the country if my parents saw my dick,” Austin said.
“This is why we save ourselves for marriage,” dead-panned Vic. She held her fingers up in an X. “Harlots.”
“So wait, was it just words?” Beth asked. “That’s it?”
Lily and I shared a smug look, and she said, “These were really, really bad words.”
“Like ‘poop,’” Austin suggested.
“No! Ew, what is wrong with you?”
“That’s such a writer thing to do,” Vic muttered, then mimed typing a message. “I loved exploring your ample bosom, as it … protruded in the moonlight.”
“That’s not what they said!” Lily insisted, as everyone else cackled. But she gave my arm a squeeze, and I grinned even wider.
Sincerely,
O
October 16th—Sophomore Year
Dear Journal,
It’s 2:00 a.m., and I just got back from my first Homecoming dance. My heart feels like it’s pounding its way out of my chest!
It’s kind of funny to think about, because originally I wasn’t going to go at all. Of course I wanted to spend an evening with Lily; but with my ASD, she might as well have been sticking me in a war zone. The crowds, I could deal with … it was a big gym. But bright lights and loud music are murder on my sensory overload.
I guess you could say we’d had our first fight about it—she explained to me why it was rude to suggest that she go alone, and my defense was basically, “Yeah, but I don’t want to go.” She came up with a compromise where she bought me a set of earplugs and sunglasses I could wear and promised we could leave if it got to be too much. I
told her, but no way was I wearing that shit for the night—it’d feel like everyone was staring at me no matter where I went.
That pissed her off even more—because she was “trying to work with me!”—so finally I gave in and agreed. Earlier this morning, she dragged me to the mall to get dress clothes and a haircut. I tried to fight her on it, but she pulled the “Trust me—LTL” card again.
And the thing is, it became impossible to fault her wardrobe decisions once I’d gotten dressed for the dance. There’s no other way to say it: I looked good. My new short hair worked with my glasses to frame my face perfectly. My shirt was the proper size—hugging my body in the right places, the sleeves neatly rolled up. I wasn’t jock-cool, but I was nerdy-cool—a guy who walked with a clean edge; someone who smelled good and wore a leather watch instead of a Velcro one.
Our group met up at Lily’s house before the dance to get pictures. Her yard was all decked out in Halloween decor—remnants of the yard-decorating contest the five of us had held earlier in the month. I stepped around the light-up pumpkins onto the stoop and saw Mr. Caldwell, who gave me the usual as soon as I got inside.
“Captain Turner on deck! And whoa—look at that head of hair! Barely recognized you there, dude.”
I was in the middle of saying hi back when Beth and Vic, both sparkling in their silver dresses, poked their heads in the hall.
“Hi hi—dude, your hair!” Beth squealed at me.
“Damn,” Vic added. “Looks legit.”
Lily had a similar reaction when I found her in the living room.
“Whoa! Oh my God—whoa!” she said. I took a second to marvel at how beautiful she looked—her eyelids glowing with glittery eyeshadow; her dress the same dark green as the tie we’d picked out earlier.
“You look nice,” I told her.
“Me? How about you!” She stood on her tiptoes to prop an elbow on my shoulder. “Whoever picked out your clothes really knows what they’re doing.”
“This is true,” I murmured. But as we all took pictures in her living room and piled into Mr. Caldwell’s SUV, I felt myself starting to sweat. I could either spend three hours getting my eyes and ears brutalized, or be the guy answering “why are you wearing sunglasses?” all night. Maybe I’d flip a coin.
Lily noticed how zoned out I was during the drive and put her hand on my leg. I put mine on hers, which helped distract me a bit … especially when she slipped her hand into my pocket. I made a little squeak, and we swapped surreptitious looks. It was dark enough for me to hide my boner, but Austin noticed Lily’s hand and shook his head.
“Hey, Mr. Caldwell!” he called through cupped hands, and our fingers jumped off each other as he said, “Can you turn down the AC?”
Lily flipped him off as Beth and Vic snickered.
I tried to laugh with them, but I felt my anxiousness climbing. By the time we all piled out of the car in front of the school, I was squeezing my shoulders and covered in sweat.
“You have the stuff?” Lily asked, tilting her head.
I really started to get worked up—pacing, muttering incoherently, snapping the stim bracelet Lily had given me for my birthday. The bass from the music was pounding through the walls, people were pouring into the school, and everyone in the group was looking at me. I dug the sunglasses and earplugs from my pocket but didn’t put them on.
“Hey,” Lily said, watching me pace and trying to meet my eyes. “Let’s get some more pictures.”
I shook my head, muttering some half-assed version of “don’t want to.” God damn it, this was a mistake.
“Just one,” Lily insisted.
“Stop—” I turned to her and was about to tell her off when I saw her eyes. Or rather, I didn’t. Because she was wearing a huge pair of pink sunglasses, and a pair of earplugs to match.
I started to say, “Wh—” when I looked over to Austin, Vic, and Beth. Each of them had put on a huge pair of shades and were in the middle of sticking in earplugs like Lily’s.
“Wh—” I started to say again.
“Come on, dude, get your stuff on,” Lily said impassively. When I didn’t move, she laughed at the expression on my face.
Meanwhile, Austin turned to the others and yelled in an exaggerated voice, “AM I TALKING LOUDER THAN NORMAL?”
“NO YOU SOUND GREAT!” Beth shouted back through cupped hands.
“WHAT?” screamed Vic.
I wanted to say something, but my eyes welled up and my words got lost. Lily just pulled me in for a hug and whispered, “So, is this a little better?” and I nodded against her and said how much I loved her, and she said the same back.
It wasn’t the first time I’d said it to her. But God damn, I’d never meant it more.
Sincerely,
O
ELEVEN
STUDENTS START GETTING PULLED OUT OF CLASS BY the end of the week. At first it’s inconspicuous—a teacher getting a phone call here and there to send a kid to the front office. They’re clearly trying not to make a big deal of it. But by the time it’s happened four times in one morning, word gets around: The senior class is being interrogated.
They say there’s a drug search coming.
They say a cheating ring was busted for the AP exams.
They say people were zip tied and hauled to jail in a paddy wagon.
No one in the group brings it up directly, but I still skip out on the gym with them for the next week.
My father, meanwhile, has started roaming the house at night. I hear him pacing around our main level for hours on end—lumbering from one room to the next with his distinctive, thunderous limp. The thing about Dad is that he’s an attack dog. Everything is pure mission with him—he throws himself into every task he locks onto. Right now, it’s this. Every day when I get home, the first thing he asks is if the school found anything yet.
One Sunday, I’m locked in my room when I hear his huge footsteps approach.
“Owen?” Dad barks from the other side, followed by two acute raps of iron knuckles against my door. THUDTHUD. “Car repair in ten minutes, remember. We have a lot of work to do.”
I hear my mom shout from upstairs that he should give me a break and let me skip out.
“This was our plan, and we’re sticking to it,” Dad shouts so we both can hear him. “We agreed on this.”
Saying that I agreed to help Dad replace his car’s AC system is a bit of a stretch. It’s more along the lines of, “Dad makes me work on projects with him to hone my life skills.” As he likes to say, “You’re not going to be one of those entitled college pricks who barely knows how to turn a wrench.” So I don an old set of work clothes, he does the same, and we meet up at the hood of his ten-year-old RAV4.
“Before we do anything else, let’s go over our preemptive plan here,” Dad says. He leans into the hood and hooks his wrench on the axle of a small black disk. “Try and turn that for me.”
I do.
“Go ahead, give it all you got.” It doesn’t budge.
“Stuck, right? Therein lies our problem. That black cylinder—pay attention now—that’s the compressor to the air conditioning, okay. It’s supposed to turn freely. It gets jammed, and the whole thing goes TU.”
(Tits up.)
“Our task today is to replace this sucker. Now, this can either be work, or it can be a lot of work. It all depends on you, and how solid your strategy is.” He frames his hands above the compressor like he’s about to throttle it. “The trick is to be smarter than the item you’re messing with.”
After a few more lines like that, we roll up our sleeves and get to work. Dad puts on the usual classical music—you’d think a guy like him would put on hard rock or something, but he hates loud noises even more than I do. He almost never uses power tools—he even gets his wood pre-cut—and he only does his shop work to classical. So we’re serenaded by an upbeat Tchaikovsky ballad as we disconnect electrical wires, pry off the fan belt, and drain fluid using Dad’s homemade refrigerant recovery machin
e. (“Retail pricks’ll charge you an arm and a leg to buy one. That’s how they get you.”)
I can’t lie, there’s something soothing about working on Dad’s projects … at least at first. In the beginning part, when I’m only sweating a little, and the symphony is in full swing, and we’re just going through the motions. All kinetic; all tactile, no thought. Dad’s version of zoning.
“Don’t forget, you start your driving practice in this thing next month,” Dad reminds me. “I just need to replace the tires first—no one but me drives it until then. These ones are so bald you can see the air in them.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes, you have to. Don’t forget, you’re required by law to pass your driver’s test before college.” “Wait, what law?”
“That’d be the ‘You Live Under Our Roof’ clause,” he says, fiddling with the hose with a joyless smirk. “Under subsection, ‘You Do as We Say Until You Pay Your Own Bills,’ of the Turner Family Constitution. When you get behind the wheel, you’re taking a two-ton hunk of metal and moving it at deadly force. That’s a weapon you’re driving, and you’re going to learn how to do so safely. This isn’t optional.”
I’ve wanted to put off driving for as long as possible. For me, it’s sensory overload. I’m constantly checking and re-checking everything that’s going on. When is your turn? Okay, one mile. What happens after that? Which lane do I need to be in? Stop grabbing the wheel so tight. Check your mirrors. Breathe.
It’s a lot.
“Damn it. This little shit.” I think Dad’s talking to the compressor. No—something next to it. “The power steering pump is in the way.”
“Do you want a wrench?”
“What I want is to meet the brain-dead asswipe that engineered this.”
It’s important to understand that Dad wasn’t always this perpetually pissed off. I have memories of moments from when I was little … like the time he brought a hand-decorated sign to my first-grade talent show, or when he pranked my mom on Thanksgiving by hiding the fancy plates. Somewhere under all that skin is a real human—or there used to be, at least.
