Tonight We Rule the World

by Zack Smedley

  I blink twice. Two blinks—I’m back at that day when she and I laid on this floor after losing our virginities and watched the sky before it was inked out by this ugly gray. How hilariously young we were … everything so simple and genuine. No fighting. No hurting each other or staying up until 3:00 a.m. wondering if I can keep doing this. Just bright, blissful existence of being.

  The hand that takes mine is cold, but I pretend it’s hers. Not the girl beside me—the girl from back then. I pretend I’m the boy from back then. I imagine that I can blink us back in time, to that era, to the covered-up concrete and the sameness of our hearts.

  Beneath the moonlight, the girl beside me says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I wonder if intentions can change who we are.

  I wonder if everything I’ve ever felt will drain out of me someday.

  “Why couldn’t you just stop?” I whisper. She turns her head to frown at me in confusion. “Do you want me to say sorry again?” she asks. “Is that what you want me to do?”

  I shake my head, eyes sealed shut. “I just want to sleep.”

  “Will an apology fix this?”

  “No.”

  “What will?”

  “Nothing.”

  I feel her eyes on me, but I don’t open mine.

  “You know,” she says. “Every day since I met you, I’ve spent half my time wanting to kill you and the other half wanting to hug you.”

  “I know.”

  She tries to hug me. I don’t let her, so she hits my shoulder instead.

  And there we lie.

  “When I was younger,” I say slowly, “starting probably when I was around ten, I started going to sleep thinking about what it’d be like to be somebody’s boyfriend. I’d listen to slow songs and picture someone to dance with.” I snort. “Sometimes I’d grab my pillow—the big one—and hug it, pretending it was a person. There was even this one time, I held my own hand and I acted like it was someone else’s.”

  The girl squeezes my fingers and gives a small sound that I think is a laugh.

  “And eventually I’d need to let go of the pillow or my hand or stop the slow song and there was this comedown that was just so lonely. It was like a reminder that this would never actually happen.”

  “And then it did,” she whispers.

  (And then it did.)

  “What did you think?” she asks.

  “When it happened?”

  “When it happened.”

  I lean away from her. “I kept thinking it was too great to be real.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I guess not.”

  “What do you want, O?”

  I stay silent, listening to the rain and the night noises around us. Feeling my achy bones and the enormous cavern in my chest—a hole where my heart feels like it was hacked away months ago.

  “At this point, I just want something to turn out the way I’m picturing it in my head,” I say. “That’s no fun, though.” “But it’s predictable. And safe.” “Nothing is predictable or safe.”

  I wait a long time before voicing the next thought that comes into my head. The one that’s been lingering there for a while.

  “This used to be,” I tell her. You used to feel safe.

  And what I almost add, but don’t: I feel even more alone now than I did in my bedroom as a kid. Because at least then I had someone to wait for. A fantasy girl instead of some shattered illusion, splintered and skewed by the harshness of knowing unknowable things.

  I feel a hand—hers—come to rest on my chest, just above my heart. She keeps it there, applying pressure so light that her fingers are almost floating above the fabric of my shirt. I inhale for as long and slow as I can, then exhale as long and slow as I can.

  I think of those two little kids lying on the ground, and I want to exist Nowhere and Everywhere at the same time. I feel the overwhelming urge to be alone, but I can’t stand the thought of not having someone next to me. I picture what it would be like to leave this whole body. Pulled out of it until I’ve separated from every drop of blood and piece of bone. Lifting me through the roof and the rain until I’m Everything and Nothing at the same time. Tinier than a molecule but all around in the air and the clouds and the stratosphere. A sky soul. Nothing. Everything. Nowhere. Everywhere.

  I open my eyes and find Lily staring back at me. Not upset, not smiling, not brimming with a single unspoken thought. Just locking her empty eyes with mine.

  Finally she whispers, “Look at us.”

  I do. And this time, I’m looking down at the children on the concrete. They look just like us. They’re smiling at each other—laughing, teasing, discovering life—searching for their future with wide-eyed wonder. And I feel so fucking sad for what they’ll find.

  PPP

  ONE

  April 12th—Senior Year

  Journal:

  Our town’s pride festival was held at one of the local parks. The parade was the day before, but this was more of a low-key event with booths, food vendors, live music, games for kids … stuff like that. Mom was thrilled to drive me over, but I told her I was meeting up with Lily and the others. I waited until her car disappeared to pull out my phone and message Dewey that I was at the main entrance.

  I pulled at my bracelet as I waited for him, thinking over all the logistics. Where were we going to do this? I’d checked the park map, and they had single-use bathrooms on site, but I didn’t know how clean they’d be. Who was going to do what? And all this was assuming this dude was even 1) real and 2) here.

  I looked up from my phone and noticed a guy about my age staring at me from the park entrance. I was pretty sure it was him, but he wasn’t moving. Then he sighed to himself, like he’d just made a command decision, and started walking in my direction.

  I took a second to size him up. He was around my age—a Latino boy with neatly combed black hair and wide brown eyes behind a set of thin-rimmed glasses. Between his face full of acne and awkward slouch, he wasn’t exactly cute, but not bad either. His fingernails were painted a metallic blue, and he wore a white V-neck that read Choose Books Not Bigotry in rainbow text. As he got closer, I saw that he had a bi pride flag drawn on his right cheek with face paint.

  Definitely him.

  He was a few steps away, typing on his phone, when his foot caught a stray tree root on the ground. His march devolved into a stumble as he was sent careening right in my direction, barely catching himself before he ate shit.

  I was trying to figure out whether I should say something when he held up one finger and said to the grass, in a mortified voice, “I meant to do that.”

  As I blinked at him, he turned his phone to show me a message he’d been typing in our chat thread:

  I’mmm heeere!

  I turned on social mode. “Hey, careful not to trip.”

  “That’s my second time today, believe it or not,” he said. He had a nice voice—a little soft and subdued, but with an upbeat edge. Like nothing could ruin his day. “I was carrying a box of books the first time, though.”

  When I didn’t respond, he said, “Should I ask if you remember me?”

  “Huh?”

  “Okay, didn’t think so.” He chuckled. “I live in your neighborhood. I’m the guy in the green house, like one street over? We had a conversation in the locker room one time about autosexuality?”

  “Oh. Oh, wow.” I looked him up and down again. His hair was different than before—the mop was chopped off, and his glasses had changed—but now that he’d pointed it out, I put two and two together.

  “I recognized you while I was walking over,” he said. “Good to see you again. Thanks for making the drive here.”

  “I was dropped off, but yeah.” “Ah. Still.”

  “Where are we doing this?” I blurted out. For some reason, I trusted him even less than before. Had he been stalking me? It felt like he was trying to cover something up. I wanted to get this over with.

  “O
h.” He blinked, clearly thrown. “Is it okay with you if we walk around for a few minutes? Just so I can make sure you’re not a serial killer or anything. Sorry if that’s weird.”

  “Any serial killer could pretend they’re not one for a few minutes,” I pointed out.

  I could tell from his face that this was not the right thing to say, so I just told him fine.

  As we made our way into the park, I got absorbed by trying to take everything in. A stage was set up near the center of the park with a live band singing a Lady Gaga cover. Food trucks and pride gear vendors lined the paved pathways, which snaked all the way around a lake. It was late in the afternoon, so the sun was out but hidden behind the trees. The air smelled like spring. Clusters of all types of people—families, couples, groups of friends, organizers—were all over the place, most of them decked out in pride gear. Suddenly I felt out of place in my plain blue T-shirt, but the vibe was so electric, I didn’t even mind.

  “Is this your first pride event?” Dewey asked, noticing the look on my face.

  I nodded.

  “Neat! Same here.” He jumped on that, giving me finger guns. “I’ve been manning the library booth for most of the day, though, so I haven’t gotten a chance to walk around yet. This is nice.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Do you mind if I ask if you’re like …” He glanced at me, lobbing his head. “Gay, or bisexual, or …?” “Bi.”

  “Neat! Bi-five.” As soon as he held up his hand for a high-five, he cringed at himself and lowered it. “Oh my God. Ignore me. I’m already regretting that. Sorry.”

  “You’re fine.” Once upon a time, this awkwardness would’ve had me falling head over heels. Now, though, it just pissed me off. Nice try, but I’ve seen this shit before. I’m enlightened to the fact that no one hauls out their real face at first. I know what you’re doing and I know how this works.

  I tried to get us back on track.

  “So what’s our plan?” I asked him. We looped around the path, so we were walking parallel to the lake. “Where did you want to do this?”

  “Hm. Right here!” His voice went higher. “No, I’m joking. Actually, do you mind if we talk a little longer first? Sorry. I really don’t mean to, like—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Well I mean, I can tell you’re kind of annoyed, dude. And I appreciate you working with me.” He fiddled with his glasses, drifting a few inches away from me as we made our way past a pack of college kids. “I don’t want to be one of those guys that talks a big game and says, ‘Yeah, let’s do this!’ then flakes for no reason.”

  “Can’t stand that shit,” I said. “Why does everyone do that?”

  “You know, I have no idea. I think about that a lot.” Dewey’s face scrunched up. “I mean, the answer is because we’re on an app to interact with strangers. There’s that weird sense of entitlement when you’re behind a screen. Right? I know I sound like I’m forty, but isn’t there?”

  I just nodded. He stopped to grab a smoothie from a nearby vendor, and we plopped down in the grass near the stage.

  Get this over with.

  “But yeah, I’m not on any social media,” he continued. He held out his smoothie. “Want a sip?”

  “I’m good. You don’t have any social media?”

  “Absolutely none, nada. If someone wants to say something shitty, they need to either have my phone number, or else say it in person. Which isn’t much better, but—”

  “I think it is,” I cut him off. “If someone’s going to do that, I prefer in person.”

  “Oh, I disagree. If someone yells at me in person, that’s like … oof.” He thumped himself in the chest. “Just the worst feeling on Earth.”

  “But texts stay there,” I pointed out. “You can look at a text an hour later and it’s like you’re re-experiencing it.”

  “This is true.” He nodded. “But I think in person is worse because then they can really have a tone. You know? That leaves more of an impression on me, anyway.”

  “People are just assholes.”

  “Which people?” “People.”

  He scoffed, playing with his straw. “And yet, you and I and a lot of other folks download those apps, and talk to the assholes, and give the assholes the time of day …”

  “I didn’t say it was a working system.”

  “No, I mean, I’m as guilty as anyone with this, right? When I was younger, if pretty much any cute stranger was nice to me, I’d just want to throw everything at them and be like … fix me! Hey. Do it now. Did you do it yet?” He gave an exaggerated, hammy smile, then dropped it. “So you try to make it work because hey, you got this far. Sunken cost fallacy and all that.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Oh—sorry. I guess an example would be what my dad did with his old jeep. The thing was probably worth, what, like … five thousand bucks? But if you look at the past ten years, he’s probably spent twice as much on repairs to keep it running. Why would he do that, right?” He answered his own question, leaning back. “It’s because each repair on its own is only, like, a few hundred bucks. So you get in this weird position where you’ve put all this money into something when you would’ve been better off in the long run just junking it. Hence the name, ta-da: sunken cost.”

  I chewed on that.

  “Anyway.” He fought off a mouthful of brain freeze, then stood. “Sorry for getting philosophical. I know it really sets the mood.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. And I realized that I really didn’t. Even if I still couldn’t pin down what I thought of him.

  He leaned to toss his cup in a nearby trash can, pumping his fist when it landed. “Hey, I need to run some of our booth supplies back to the library at five … so basically, now. Do you want to just come with me? It’s just up the road. I can run us back here afterward.”

  “Isn’t the library closed on Sundays?”

  “That’s why I’m asking—I have the key to the building, but it’ll be empty. We can maybe … use the bathrooms there? Or …” He cringed. “We can figure it out from there. Is that cool?”

  I still couldn’t figure out this guy’s deal, but I didn’t see a better alternative. So I told him sure. We made our way to the library booth, and I hung back awkwardly while he helped a few other volunteers pack up supplies. He hugged them goodbye, brought a stack of boxes over to me, and we hauled them to his car along with leftover reward pizza.

  The walk was long, hot, and humid.

  “I apologize in advance if I smell like sweat,” Dewey said, as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  “You and me both. Also, aren’t there security guards?”

  “It’s a county library, not the Lenin Mausoleum. No cameras in the main area either … there’s this big debate about customer privacy. We’re all set.” He cranked up the air conditioning, then his radio. I almost asked him to turn down the volume because it was too loud, but I didn’t want to be that guy.

  Instead I asked, “What group is this?”

  “Isn’t it good? Love these guys. This is Fleet Foxes.” Dewey leaned back in his seat, grinning at the windshield. “Have you heard of the singer Father John Misty? His real name is Josh Tillman, and this album—Helplessness Blues—is the only one to have his backing vocals on it.

  I started listening to them a couple years back. ‘Mykonos’ was the first guitar cover I learned. Yes, I’m one of those guitar douches. That should say a lot about me.” I didn’t respond.

  “Though I don’t play at parties,” he assured me. “I mean, I could, but I don’t.”

  “Maybe that’s how Josh Tillman started out.” “That’s a good point! Very true.”

  We pulled onto the main road, trees blowing by us overhead. Dewey cracked his window, drumming the steering wheel to the beat of the music.

  I bit the bullet. “Can you turn it down a little?”

  “Oh, sure. Sorry about that.”

  “I’m just over-sensitive to sound. I
’m on the spectrum.”

  I don’t know why I told him—I hate telling people about it. It feels like I’m trying to score sympathy points. But I guess he didn’t strike me as the type of person who I had to worry about that with.

  “Just making sure, you mean the autism spectrum, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got it.” He paused. “Sorry … I don’t know what the right thing is to say to that? Like, I didn’t want to be like …”

  “Congratulations!” I said in an exaggerated game show host voice.

  Dewey laughed, high-pitched and squeaky. “You’re the lucky winner!”

  “One time I told a teacher; I had this teacher, Mrs. Pettrey, and I told her about it, and she said … here’s what she said: Oh … I’m sorry.”

  “She’s like, I sincerely apologize for this unfortunate incident.”

  “Right? I wanted to be like, Why are you apologizing? What, did you personally give me autism?”

  “Just gave it to you wrapped up in a gift box and everything.”

  “You can return it if you don’t like it.”

  “I stapled the gift receipt to the card!”

  “Man, that secret Santa is a BITCH.”

  “We said a FIVE-DOLLAR LIMIT, Mrs. Pettrey!”

  I couldn’t stand how much fun I was having.

  Dewey was fighting for air, one hand on his chest as he laughed himself silly. “Holy shit. Listen, I’m so sorry if any of this is like, over the line, or …”

  “Don’t worry about that around me.”

  “Worry about what?”

  “Hurting my feelings with what you say. You’re not going to.”

  “Noted. I also got made fun of in middle school a lot, so I just want to be careful of that.” I scoffed at him. “What? What’s funny?”