Chicken Shit and Combine Parts #2
"Human-Robot Interaction. This morning. It was more theoretical. A lot of questions about user interface design and accessibility considerations, and there was this one question about the trolley problem in autonomous vehicle programming, and I argued that—"
"Max, honey," Stella interrupts, laughing. "We have no idea what you're talking about."
Max blinks. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He grins sheepishly. "I get excited."
"We noticed," Isaac says dryly, and Max goes back to his potatoes.
Owen's watching me. "You're studying?”
"Theoretical Physics."
"Smart kid." I can feel my face flush. Before I can respond, Max says casually, "Leo's brilliant. He knows more about probability theory than anyone I've ever met. And he's really good at—"
"Max." Isaac's voice is dry. "Let the man eat."
"Oh. Right. Sorry." Max goes back to eating, already distracted by something else. I stare at my plate. He called me brilliant. Like it's easy. Like everything between us is still easy.
Max hands me a napkin before I can use my sleeve. "We're at a table, Leo." Right. Friends do that.
"How's the harvester?" Isaac asks Owen.
"Fixed." Owen cuts his roast. "Your brother's modifications actually work. Once you understand what he did."
"I left notes," Max protests.
"You left a napkin with a drawing and the words 'made it better' scribbled on it."
"That's notes!"
Stella laughs. "Max, honey, you can't modify farm equipment without proper documentation."
"There was a drawing! With arrows!"
"A stick figure with arrows is not documentation," Owen says, but he's smiling.
Isaac shakes his head. "Remember when he was eight and took apart the combine right before harvest?"
Max groans. "We're not telling that story."
"We're absolutely telling that story." Isaac looks at me. "He was eight. Dad's about to start harvesting, goes out to the combine, turns the key, and nothing. Completely dead."
"Took me three hours to figure out what was wrong," Owen says, grinning.
"Because little Max decided the combine would run better if he upgraded it. Took apart half the electrical system. And then, this is the best part, he lost a piece."
"I didn't lose it," Max mutters. "I hid it."
"Why?" I ask.
All three of them look at me, and Max's face goes red. "Because I thought if I hid it, they wouldn't know I'd taken the combine apart. No evidence."
"Honey, the combine was in pieces," Stella says, laughing. "That was the evidence."
"I was eight! I wasn't thinking strategically!"
"Where'd you hide it?" I ask.
"The chicken coop." Isaac loses it. "Dad's been tearing apart the barn for two days, and the part is sitting under a chicken."
"I forgot where I hid it!" Max is laughing now too, squirming in his chair. "And when I remembered, it had chicken poop all over it, and Dad was so mad—"
"I wasn't mad," Owen says. "I was impressed you got it apart at all. Most adults can't figure out that electrical system." He pauses. "I was furious about the two days of harvest. And cleaning chicken shit off a relay switch."
The whole table's laughing, all of them, easy and warm.
The kind of family moment I've never had.
Max is different from them. Smart in a way they're not, genius-level, prodigy, whatever label you want to put on it.
He's been different his whole life. Started university at sixteen.
Thinks in systems and algorithms while they think in seasons and soil.
Just like I'm different from my family. But the difference is they love him anyway.
They laugh when he goes off on tangents they don't understand.
They hang his terrible felt robots on the tree every year.
They let him modify their equipment even when it causes problems. They make space for his weird brain and his chaos and his midnight projects.
They love him because of who he is, not despite it.
My parents love the idea of having a smart son. The bragging rights. The full scholarship and how universities recruited me are something they can mention at dinner parties. They don't love me. Max's family loves him.
Sitting here, watching them laugh about chicken shit and combine parts and eight-year-old Max's terrible logic, I want this too. Not just Max. I want a family. My throat's tight even as I'm laughing.
Max's elbow bumps mine as he reaches for his water glass. He smiles at me, and I try to smile back.
Stella brings out a pie, apple with ice cream, and sets a generous slice in front of me before I can ask. "You're too thin. Both of you. I swear, they don't feed you at that school."
"We eat," Max says. "Just not home cooking."
"Well, you're home now." She squeezes my shoulder. "Eat."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Stella," she corrects. "Or Mom, like I said." My face goes hot. Max is already devouring his pie, not noticing. But Isaac is watching me, eyes narrowing slightly before they flick to Max and back again.
Shit. He knows something's wrong. I focus on my pie and try to look normal.
Stella's telling a story about the church Christmas pageant. How the Johnsons' kid tried to bring his pet snake as "baby Jesus," causing a minor riot. Max is laughing. Owen's shaking his head. Isaac's smiling, but his eyes keep flicking between Max and me.
"So," Isaac says when there's a lull. "You boys want to go to Badger State tomorrow night? Been a while since we all went out."
Max lights up. "Yes! Absolutely. Leo, we have to go."
"Sure," I manage. "Sounds good." Isaac brought us takeout from there last year and the year before. The cheese curds are fantastic. But I'm mostly focused on the way Isaac's still watching me, like he's working something out.
"Alright," Stella says, standing. "You boys go on up. I'll clean up down here."
"Mom, we can help—" Max starts.
"No. Long day. You're tired. Go to bed."
"I'm not tired."
"Max." Owen's voice is firm. "Listen to your mother."
Max sighs. "Fine. But I'm not actually tired." Stella kisses the top of his head. Then mine. "Sleep well, boys."
Max's room is exactly like I remember, posters of robots and space shuttles, a shelf of model rockets, everything neat except his desk, which is buried in sketches and half-finished projects. "I'm gonna shower," Max announces, grabbing clothes. "Be right back."
I sit on my bed by the window and stare at his across the room. The shower turns on down the hall, and I can hear Max humming happily off-key.
Isaac knows something's wrong. Max is treating me like nothing happened, except he keeps asking if I'm okay, so either he's pretending everything's fine and hoping it'll fix itself, or he's already past it.
Already put me back in the friend box while I'm still stuck on what we did.
I don't know which is worse: the pretending, where we both know what's changed but won't say it, or the being over it, where I'm the only one who isn't.
Either way, I'm in Wisconsin, sleeping across the room from him for a week, and I have no idea where I stand. I lie back and stare at the ceiling, pressing my hands over my eyes until it almost hurts. I want to be over there. With him. Stop it. Wanting things doesn't make them possible.
The shower shuts off. Max returns, hair damp, wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants, smelling like soap, and flops onto his bed. "Man, I love that shower." He pauses. "You okay? You were quiet at dinner."
"I'm tired."
"Makes sense. Long day." He yawns. "Wake me up if I snore."
"You don't snore."
"I might." He grins, rolls over. "Night, Leo."
"Night, Max."
The lamp clicks off. Max's breathing evens out almost immediately. That man can fall asleep anywhere, and here I am, listening to it in the dark