Chapter 8
SILAS
I don’t really enjoy eye contact, but I don’t want to fail in front of Oakley. I shift on my feet for a few seconds, delaying the inevitable. I glance at his heavy, muscular frame and relax a little.
Finally, I meet his eyes.
They’re so kind.
“Thank you.”
Oakley pauses, and I die in that small eternity.
He smiles.
“You’re a goddamn miracle, Sy. And don’t ever let anyone, including my dads, make you feel otherwise.”
I swallow thickly. I wasn’t expecting him to be so…approving.
But of course he’s like that. He’s Oakley. When I feel like I’m gonna lose control of my temper, it’s him I think of.
“Do you think I can give you the test today?” he asks gently. “It’s okay to say no.”
I check in with myself, like Hedy tells me to. It doesn’t feel like an immediate no.
“Yes. I’ll take the test.”
He quietly hands me a sheet of paper and a pencil and turns around, facing away from me. Like he understands that I’ll feel more comfortable this way.
God, I love you so much.
I focus on the paper in front of me and get started. I feel like I’m taking forever to fill in my details, but I want to make sure I’ve got it right. The only sound is the scratch of pencil on paper.
Ugh. I hate it.
I put the pencil down. Rub the back of my neck.
“Can I use a pen instead? Like an old-school gel pen, if you have it?”
He turns to the side, his smile visible in profile. “Would you like to start over?”
I look at my half-written name.
“Yes, please.”
Oakley reaches into his desk and retrieves another sheet of paper, along with a box of gel pens.
He holds it up. “Any particular color?”
“Blue, please.”
He fishes it out, a surprisingly delicate move with his large hands. He pushes the pen and the fresh test across the desk, along with a yellow notepad.
“In case you want a softer surface.”
“Thank you,” I say, arranging everything in front of me.
After setting the test on the notepad, I fill in my name.
Much better.
I carefully read through the entire test.
“Should I answer these questions like I’m having a good day? A bad day? Somewhere between the two?”
“Are most of your days good or bad? Do you ever have an in-between day?”
I think about his question. “No, they’re usually either good or bad.”
He pulls out another testing sheet. “Do both then. Good and bad.”
“Can you also give me a black pen?”
“Sure.”
He hands over the pen and doesn’t seem to judge me.
Like he said he wouldn’t.
I write GOOD in blue at the top of the first sheet and BAD in black at the top of the second.
Having both options instantly makes me feel better.
I take my time answering the good-day questions, and I’m able to get through the bad-day questions a little more quickly.
I reread through my answers very carefully, then cap my pens.
“Okay, I’m done.”
Oakley takes both tests. “You can either stay here while I review your tests, or if you wanna go get a soda, that’s fine too.”
I get up. “Do you want anything?”
“If you’re going to the cafeteria, a chocolate milk would be great.”
I leave and take the stairs to shake out some of the extra energy. Miss Odeal smiles when she sees me coming.
“Need a snack, baby?”
I love how older women call me baby. It makes me happy.
I grab a Dr Pepper and a chocolate milk from the ice bin. “I wasn’t thinking of a snack, but if you’ve got something…”
I pop my brows, and she laughs at me. She reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a plate with an enormous slice of chocolate cake.
“Saved this for you.”
I do a little shoulder shimmy, slip the soda and the chocolate milk into each of my cargo pockets, take the plate from her, then grab two forks.
“Thanks, Miss Odeal,” I toss over my shoulder as I make my way out of the cafeteria.
“Happy to, sweetheart. Don’t go causing too much trouble now.”
I turn around, walking backward. “Me? Never.”
She shakes her head, laughing.
I start my run up the stairs, then remember I’ve got soda in one of my pockets and slow down. When I walk back into Oakley’s office, he’s smiling.
“Is it that bad?” I ask, putting down the plate of chocolate cake. I slide the drinks out of my pockets and set them on the desk. “Are you actually laughing at me?”
“Absolutely not.” He holds up both sheets of paper. “I was not expecting this.”
“But you do have a diagnosis, don’t you?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I have a theory.”
I sit with a heavy sigh. Taking one of the forks, I cut off a big bite of chocolate cake and shove it into my mouth. “Let me hear it.”
Oakley laughs, grabs the other fork, and takes a bite for himself. He takes his time, waiting till he swallows before talking.
“What’s kind of great about you is that the DSM has no clue how to properly diagnose you.”
“Fuck the DSM,” I growl, shoveling another bite of cake into my mouth.
He crosses his arms, his eyes roaming from the top of my head all the way down to my biker boots, stopping at each tattoo along the way.
“Well?” I fucking hate the warble in my voice.
Oakley grabs the bottle of chocolate milk and shakes it.
“While this isn’t what I tested you on today, I’d say we’re looking at an unspecified trauma-related condition with strong antisocial traits.
” He breaks the seal and takes a swig. “There are hints of what some may call callous-unemotional traits, but…nah. I don’t buy it. ”
I open my mouth, but Oakley holds up a finger.
“Not done yet.” He scans me again, tip to toe, giving me his best scholarly look.
I stifle a shiver. “Oak…”
“Based on what I saw in Mav’s initiation, and in those old body-cam videos, I’d say you’re a genetically modified rage organism. You suffer bloodlust the way others suffer hunger, yet somehow, you’ve learned to aim it at the right people.”
“I—”
He talks over my attempt to respond. “I take that back. Somehow is dismissive of the incredible effort it must’ve taken to get you to this point. And God only knows how hard you’ve really worked. You choose to aim all that rage and bile in the right direction. That’s the miracle.”
His words make sense individually, but all together…I’m lost.
He’s not done though.
“Also? You’re not a psychopath.”
I jerk back, surprised. “I’m not?”
Oakley raises his brows. Like maybe he isn’t surprised in the slightest. Huh.
I gesture to myself. “I mean, I know I’m not, but I figured your test would…say otherwise.”
He doesn’t look too happy with that assessment. He sits a little taller. “This is a very good test.”
“Okay…”
“But I’d like you to take another if you’ll indulge me.”
Tension tightens my jaw. “Another psycho test?”
“No, but I don’t want to explain it too much in case it sways your answers. This test isn’t trying to determine whether you’re fucked in the head or whatever else you might be thinking. This is just a hunch.”
Oak reaches out, giving my hand a quick squeeze and my heart a few hundred palpitations.
“Um…sure?”
He opens his desk drawer and pulls out the new test. Then holds up his finger and grabs another copy.
“So…you don’t like giving these tests digitally?”
Oakley shakes his head. “I don’t yet trust this organization. Hedy thinks the paper-and-pen route is quaint, and for now, I’ll let her believe I’m just weirdly old-fashioned. The reality is that anything we do digitally is available to a larger number of people than I’m comfortable with.”
“Oh.” My eyes catch on his sweet smile. The fact that he’s this protective this early on feels really good. “Thank you.”
Oak turns around again. I look over the new test, confused by the questions. It’s asking about my daily habits, about things that bother me, about things that distract me. Weird.
“I don’t think I need a good and bad version of this test.”
“That’s fine.”
I can tell he means it.
Refocusing on the questions, I carefully fill in each answer in blue. In all my years of being poked, prodded, and questioned, I realize that with Oakley, I don’t feel rushed. He really seems okay with me taking as much time as I need.
This questionnaire goes more quickly than the first.
“I’m done.”
He spins around and takes the paper from me, a grin forming as he scans my answers. About halfway down, he laughs, shaking his head.
“I knew it,” he murmurs.
I’m desperate to ask him what he knows, but Oakley isn’t the kind of guy to tease a result. So, I let him finish his review unbothered.
If I happen to take the opportunity to enjoy the way the sunlight streaming into his office turns his beard red, that’s no one’s business but my own.
I get a little lost in the process and startle when he sets aside the paper.
“And?”
He leans forward, clasping his hands on his desk. “As I said, you are not a psychopath. You are, however, on the autism spectrum.”
For the second time in several minutes, I’m shocked by what he’s telling me.
“Autism?” I tap my lips, trying to remember. “Are you sure? Wasn’t I tested for that early on?”
“You were.” He tilts his hand side to side.
“However, it’s well documented that trauma can skew multiple test results.
Not just psychiatric test results, but endocrine, growth, inflammation…
It screws everything up. And what that means is that for a long time, you probably had a trauma diagnosis, and the people closest to you operated from that vector.
Which was appropriate in its acute stage.
You should have been retested, though, when you hit puberty. ”
Oh.
“What’s this look?” he asks, pointing at my face.
“This genetic modification?” I start, letting my eyes turn black. “It intensifies during puberty. I’m guessing the test results at that point would have been bad too.”
Oakley takes a deep breath.
Damn.
“Sorry if the eyes weird you out,” I say, switching back.
“Don’t apologize. Do what comes naturally, and I’ll get used to it. Promise.” He drums his fingers on the desk, then nails me with brief but intense eye contact. “Say more about how puberty intensified things for you.”