Tonight We Rule the World

by Zack Smedley

  “I don’t know.” I tried to come up with something that wasn’t dickish. “I thought I was the only one who got made fun of in middle school. I wouldn’t have thought you were.”

  “Oh, yeah, you kidding? First of all there was all the racist Mexican bullshit. Most of it wasn’t even directed at me, but it was just like, stuff kids would joke about to each other. Super, right? And then I got called Lover Boy from … I want to say, the middle of fifth grade all the way until we left middle school. Yeah, it lasted a while.”

  I made a face. He made one back, his cheeks boiling.

  “Should I ask why you were called that?” I said.

  “I mean, there’s not a lot to the story. It was my first crush… . I think I was ten. And I kind of wanted everyone to know I liked her? Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I was just an attention whore.” Then he raised an eyebrow and said, “And now I’m being … a different kind of whore! So anyway.” He staged an awkward cough. “So I started just telling people I liked her.”

  “You told her?”

  “No, that’s the thing; I told everyone except her. I mean, she obviously found out. But my classmates made fun of me forever for that.”

  “Did she like you back?”

  “Who, the girl? Of course not.”

  “… oh.”

  “Yeah. I have a real problem with impulse control. Telling people … not a great decision.”

  “Well, at least you also got nothing out of it.”

  He laughed again, giving me a conciliatory nod. His casual vulnerability was so strange to me. From the moment I met Lily, she knew exactly who she was. This guy had confidence, but it was so unassuming. He owned how unsure of himself he was, and somehow that felt stronger.

  A new song filled the car now. The best way to describe it was … dreamlike. A lot like my ambiance songs. There were lyrics, but they were spaced between this ethereal background chorus. Melancholy, but softly wistful. We sat there with our eyes forward, watching the road as the sounds and sunlight washed over us.

  “What’s this song?” I asked.

  “The group is called Beach House—they’re easily in my top three. The song is called ‘PPP.’”

  “Huh?”

  “Literally the letter P three times. Unless it’s pronounced ppppppt.” He blew a raspberry into his palm. Then, “That’s what I like about it. They don’t tell you what the letters mean; it’s up for interpretation. Some fans think it stands for ‘Piss Poor Planning’ and is about a failing relationship. The band said it never stood for anything. It was always a placeholder, and it’s just PPP … it means whatever you want it to.” He looked to me for a long second. “That’s a good theme for today, right? Just letting it be whatever it wants.”

  “It could be, ‘Pretty Philosophical Pride.’”

  “That’s good. I like that. How about you? What does it make you think of?”

  I closed my eyes and thought about it.

  “Victor Hugo,” I told him.

  “Is that an ex?”

  I winced as I remembered that first email conversation with Lily. “He was an 1800s French writer. He had this quote: It says, ‘A writer is a world trapped inside of a person.’”

  “Oh,” Dewey said after a long beat like, is that it? “So what does that mean?”

  “I … don’t know. No one’s ever asked me that before.”

  “I’m just picturing that as one of those quotes you’d Photoshop over a mountain range or something, but it doesn’t mean all that much. I’m not an author, though, so ignore me.”

  “No, it’s … I guess I just like the idea that everyone has their own world in them. And we express it in different ways.” I gestured with my hands, then let them drop. “I don’t know.”

  “No, that’s valid,” he said. “I’m going to tell you a secret and say that this isn’t my first time sneaking into the library after-hours.”

  “Oh.”

  “The reason isn’t sketchy or anything,” he assured me. “What you said just reminded me of that. There’s this sitting area with a penny fountain where I can listen to music and stare at the water … calm myself. The whole place kind of feels like my world when I do that. I don’t know. But I also feel like—I’m going to get philosophical again for a sec, sorry—I feel like we’re going to get more of that control as we move out and get older? Like we can pick our house and our job and which people we surround ourselves with. So in that way you’re in tune with your life, and now you feel good, and everything’s dandy. Does that make sense?”

  I nodded. “This is going to sound weird, but I like talking about this sort of stuff.”

  “Dude … you’re really weird!” he said, wide-eyed, but his face gave way to a grin. “Just kidding. Also: Can I ask you something I probably should’ve asked sooner?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was trying to think of a good way to bring this up, but. I realized earlier.” He grimaced. “I don’t know your name.”

  “Well … shit.”

  “That’s a weird name.”

  “Har har.” I rolled my eyes. “I guess it’s only fair that you know mine since I know yours.”

  “Huh? You don’t know my name,” he said. “Why, did I tell you earlier?”

  “No, it was on your profile. Dewey, right?”

  He laughed. “Dude, you’re supposed to use a made-up name. That’s just what I call myself on there. Because of the library. Books, Dewey Decimal system, yada yada.”

  “Wait. Hold on … so your name’s not Dewey?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “Sorry, man, that like … didn’t even occur to me. No, my name’s Lucas Delgado—people call me Luke. Good to meet you.”

  “Owen. Good to meet you too.”

  We pulled up to the rear entrance of the building, and Dewey Luke directed me on where to put the boxes inside. It was strange seeing the library like this—silent and empty, with all the lights off. Once we finished unloading, we plopped ourselves down at a table near the circulation desk and munched on our pizza.

  “So,” Luke said politely, between mouthfuls, “are you graduating this June too?”

  I nodded.

  “Insanity, isn’t it?”

  “I’m dreading it.”

  “Dreading? Why’s that?”

  “I’ve been dreading it since ninth grade.” I faltered, gauging how much to share with him. “I’m … I have a tough time with things changing. So going to college is going to be a big shift. I have this friend group … they’re like my family—”

  “I know who they are,” he cut me off in a level voice, nodding. “I’ve seen you guys. You look like you’re really close; it’s sweet.”

  I looked away. I waited for him to bring up the elephant in the room: that Lily had tried inviting him to hang out before she met me. That he could’ve been our sixth member, but he was the boy who never waved back.

  “Which school are you going to?” he pivoted. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Lanham.”

  “Ah. Well, that should be fun too, right? Like, you’ll probably make new friends there, but you’re still a comfortable distance from home.”

  “It just feels like part of me is getting … left behind, I guess.”

  “Hm. What do you mean by that?”

  I studied his face, trying to get a read on whether he was making fun of me. But his smile was the same as before—serious and earnest. He really was curious about this, and that was that.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s the whole ‘next chapter of your life’ thing. I figure everyone worries about that.”

  “Hm. I don’t, but I’m also doing community college for two years, so I’ll be staying put.”

  “Are you doing something with music?”

  “I would like to. My dad’s making me do something with STEM, because money, so I’m majoring in Computer Science. I figure that’s close to music tech, which I guess is what I want to do right
now. I’m reminding myself that the lead guitarist of Beach House started out with a degree in Geology.” His face scrunched up again. “Do you know what you want to study?”

  “Something with writing,” I said. “I thought my parents might make me do STEM, but they’ve been pretty supportive. My mom cried when I got my acceptance letter.”

  “That’s sweet.” He smiled. “My parents have this weird way of being supportive, but also strict. Like, they’ll expect me to get high grades, but then they’ll still be all ‘oh my gosh that’s so great!’ when I do.”

  “My dad does something similar,” I said. “He’s supportive and stuff, but starting when I was in elementary school, he’d tell me, ‘Always remember: You’re not special.’”

  Luke frowned. “Oh. Ouch.”

  “He didn’t mean it in a ‘you’re a failure’ kind of way,” I clarified. “I think he just didn’t want me to get a swelled head about stuff.”

  “Hm.” He considered that. “I think it should be a balancing act. Personally. I don’t mean to be a downer here … but, like, okay. I’ve written four of my own songs, my grades are decent, and I got a job at the library at sixteen. And on one hand, that’s pretty awesome—like, that’s a solid resume. But I guarantee there are a bunch of other teenagers out there who write music, or get good grades, and have probably just as many accomplishments as me. But on the other hand”—he took a breath—“if you get too self-conscious of that, then your brain just shuts down. You know what I’m talking about? Like you say to yourself, ‘Why the hell am I writing this song? So many other people write songs every day.’” He shrugged. “I think my parents did a good job of that—praising me but also keeping me in check. It’s probably one of my favorite things about them.”

  I didn’t have anything to add to that, so we ate the rest of our pizza in silence. Soon the windows darkened and we were covered in shadows all over. The only light source was the blue emergency glow strips that ran along the floor. It reminded me of a movie theater.

  Stop getting comfortable.

  I stood. “Not to be rude, but what’s our plan?”

  “Right—not rude at all; I’ve kept you waiting a while. Let’s do this.” Luke stood too, clicking his tongue and surveying the empty library. “The question is … where do we go?”

  “We could do it in your car.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Uh, there’s a lot of stuff back there.”

  My phone buzzed with the usual evening text from Lily:

  Hey, I hope you had a great day! I love you :)

  As I typed back a

  You too!

  I told him, “Let’s just use the bathroom, then.”

  He didn’t seem sold on that idea either, but neither of us had a better one.

  The bathrooms were single-occupancy, so we were able to shut ourselves into the small space. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the mirror. Luke was only an inch or two shorter than me.

  “Autosexuality,” he said with a nudge, trying to reference the old joke. I jumped at his touch and swiveled myself around so I faced him instead of the mirror. My whole body started to shake like I was freezing—I bit down to stop my teeth from chattering. This was it.

  Stay calm. Stay in control.

  It was just us and way too little space and way too much silence, until Luke tilted his head and tried to look at me and said, “You’re cuter than I was expecting, by the way.” He did his best to make it sound sexy, but he squeezed his eyes shut and said, “Sorry, that … sounded like a compliment in my head. I realize it didn’t totally translate.”

  Control.

  His aw-shucks-awkwardness wasn’t cute anymore. I didn’t want his distractions and I didn’t want his jokes, so I didn’t respond. Instead I put my hands on his jeans and moved them to the right places.

  “Oh,” he said. “Just checking, your profile said no kissing, right?”

  “Right.” I tried to sound authoritative, but my voice was unstable. I only realized now how wildly unprepared we were—aside from the condom in my wallet, we had no supplies; no plan, no prior discussion of how far we wanted to go or who would be doing what. But I was hell-bent on powering through this, breaking through these goddamn obstacles, so I started undoing his belt until he backed away a half step and said, “Are you feeling okay?”

  Don’t screw this up; almost there, don’t screw up.

  “Do you want to sit back down?” he tried again.

  I told him I didn’t, and I almost had a hold of myself again when something slithered across my skin, and I stiffened. Luke’s fingers were tentatively wrapping around mine.

  I closed my eyes, trying to ignore it, but—nope, I didn’t like this. The images were changing now; my wrists being held down, Lily on top of me; Luke on top of me; stop, stop,

  “Stop.”

  “Oh.” Luke’s hand sprung open, untangling itself from mine. “I’m sorry—shit, okay. That was stupid.” He said it bluntly, sounding flustered. “That was stupid of me.” “You’re fine. I’m being weird.”

  “No, but, okay… . That’s not weird, is it? You barely know me, and I just …” “Got the impulse?”

  “I … was thinking about doing that for a while, actually. If I’m being honest.” He clapped his hands together and pulled them apart into two fists, lips folded. “Listen, I’m thinking we should do this another time.”

  There it was—the letdown.

  Knew it.

  (No one is honest.)

  “It’s not that I don’t want to do this.” He was trying to meet my eyes again, clearly concerned. “You just seem kind of—I don’t know. I think it’s best we hold off.”

  “You don’t have to lie,” I snapped. “You don’t want to do this; that’s fine, just don’t feed me some bullshit about why.”

  “I—fine.” He looked irritated by that, and I felt a surge of satisfaction … now we were finally dropping the act; leveling with each other.

  “I’d love to keep hanging out here.” Luke was still trying to make eye contact. “We could stay as long as you want and talk some more. I was enjoying that. But if you want me to run you back to the park, your call.”

  “Would hanging out more increase the chances of you wanting to hook up tonight?” I asked the sink.

  “I’m not going to say there’s no chance, but—probably not, sorry.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to lie.”

  “Yeah.” I scoffed. “Okay.”

  He got the hint. “I’ll drive you back.”

  We left the bathroom. I slammed the door behind us as hard as I could, wincing at the sound of my own strength. It’s rare that my plans are changed on the spot in public, but when they are, those outbursts are always the worst.

  I watched Luke waddle over to a sitting area and collapse onto one of the couches, rubbing his face and telling me he’d be ready in a second. I couldn’t stand the brutal thoughts brewing in my head—images of me grabbing his hands, holding him down and telling him I knew he wanted to do this, we said we were going to, so we were going to. I wanted to put a fist through all his politeness, take total control. The past few hours had been some of my favorite ones in a while, but I’d felt these butterflies before—with Lily. And seeing this headed south in the same way made me want to nuke the whole night.

  I blinked the images back.

  “Just give me a second and I’ll be set,” Luke repeated.

  I shuffled over to the sitting area. The couch sat facing a small penny fountain—a simple stone basin about five feet in diameter and a few inches tall. Water trickled to the gentle hum of a pump. A neon exit sign hung above the door beside us, bathing the entire area in blended light: green from the glow above our heads, blue from the floor strips under our shoes.

  I collapsed onto the couch beside Luke. We both stared at the pennies beneath the surface of the water.

  “Before we go, I wanted to say sorry again,” Luke said. He turned toward me. I could only see part of his face, but it was filled with
regret. The pride paint on his cheek was smeared. “I really did come here wanting to do the stuff we planned. But this is also my first hookup, ever, at all; which you could probably tell—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pretty obvious, right? And—I’m just going to preface by saying this—I’m not, at least, I don’t think …” He showed his teeth, his eyebrows perched. “… very good at this.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Let me just—okay.” He raised both hands. “Here’s why I’m here. Not to overshare, but the short version is I’ve been dealing with really intense social anxiety for … I want to say at least five years now? So like, let’s say I’m working the front desk over there … I’m helping out customers, and I’m a-okay. It’s great, it’s good, it’s all peachy. But if someone were to walk up and invite me to hang out, my brain would just …” He mimed crushing his own head. “Right? And the frustrating thing about that scenario is like, people are going out of their way to try to include me, and … if I’m being honest, I don’t have a lot of friends? And it’s because of this; like, I swear I’m not a—”

  “Serial killer?”

  “Right. Exactly!” He shrugged and held it there, his eyes darting back and forth. “And I’m not. But you remember I mentioned earlier that I have problems with impulse control, which has led to stuff like that Lover Boy incident, or me blurting out stupid shit. So any time I get the urge to do something, my anxiety shoves that right out the window; it’s like, ‘get out of here, we don’t want you back here.’ Even if I’m just getting asked—‘Hey, come do this thing! We won’t hurt you!’—I just, I fucking freeze, dude. I catastrophize, and I avoid; because at the end of the day, it feels so much easier to isolate and just stick with … you know. Doin’ me. And I don’t think being alone is necessarily a bad thing. But.” He dropped his shoulders, really looking at me now. “It’s very tough to come out of that.”

  I thought again about the day Lily waved to him when we were younger. Or the time he tried to start a conversation from nothing in the locker room. The ignored invites. All the assumptions.