Chapter Three September 30 #2
He laughs again, studying me like he’s trying to figure out if my attempt at humor is on purpose or if I’m just awkward. In this situation, it’s likely my autism.
“Your parents are hipsters, then?”
“No. There’s nothing hip about my parents. And technically they’re Gen Xers.”
“Then why Lennon?” He clenches his jaw in this masculine way that sends a pulse of something unfamiliar through me.
“My dad is a big Beatles fan.” My answer comes out dry, like I expected him to have pieced it together by now. I’m always doing that. Expecting too much from people. “And I was born on John Lennon’s death day, December eighth.”
A laugh escapes him. “That’s morbid as fuck.”
“I think so too,” I say, trying my best not to laugh or smile.
It’s this personality I’ve built for myself.
Distant. Tough. Very different from the role I play at home.
And it has never made me the most-liked girl in my grade.
Elementary school was hell. Once I finally learned why it was so much harder for me than others, I stopped trying to be like everyone else.
My autism diagnosis by the end of sixth grade was a relief. But it also made me guarded.
“Want to know something funny?” He shimmies himself closer as if he’s about to tell me a secret. His knee comes into contact with mine and it’s exciting in a way I hate myself for admitting. “My name is John. So, like, together we’re…”
“John Lennon,” I say, completing his sentence, as deadpan as possible.
It’s either that or let my mind decide we were destined to be together.
There’s a romantic in me. I try to tame her but she’s annoyingly persistent.
“Awesome.” I hold in another smile while ignoring the warmth quickly rising up my body.
“Do you have any siblings?” he asks. “And are they also named after members of the Beatles?”
I can’t tell if his question is him being a smart-ass or if he’s genuinely interested. I decide to answer because something about him intrigues me. “I have an older sister. Her name is Georgie, but she’s not named after George Harrison. At least that’s what my dad tells my mom.”
“Then who’s she named after?”
“My dad. George.” I say it without much inflection because talking about my dad to this very attractive boy is weird. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t do.
“And what’s your mom’s name? Yoko?”
I give him an unamused look. “Mary.”
“No way. My mom’s name is Mary.”
“No way,” I repeat with less emotion than John.
He smiles, and I smile back because my body sometimes acts of its own accord and betrays me by responding to stimuli without checking in with my brain first.
“My dad is James. My sister’s Valerie and my little brother is Mikey.”
“Any pet fish you want to tell me about?” I instantly regret the sarcastic tone of my question. Sometimes the words slip out before I have a chance to think about how they might sound out loud. I wish I weren’t like this, but also, I don’t know how else to be.
“I did have a fish named Harvey when I was younger. But he’s dead,” he answers.
“RIP Harvey.”
John leans in slightly, a smile decorating his face like the smallest but most beautiful ornament on a Christmas tree. “What was that song you were singing?”
“I wasn’t singing any song.”
“So, you’re not going to tell me?”
“No.” I grin. “I don’t share secrets with people who cut in front of me in line.”
He sizes me up, his mouth forming an O as if he’s just realized his blunder. “What can I say? I was looking for an in.”
“False flattery doesn’t work on people with more than two brain cells, Mr. Brody,” I say, mocking Ms. Weaver’s tone.
“I’ll wear you down one way or another. Besides, you can’t deny all the coincidences.
We’re connected.” He leans in slightly as his eyes sear into mine.
It makes me forget how annoying he is. Because he’s not annoying.
He’s challenging me in a way I’m not used to.
And maybe, in some small, dark corner of my mind (or body), I don’t want this ride to be over so soon.
I want to stay in this moment. The moment before I have to get off this bus and enter my parents’ car, breathing in the stale air left behind on my ride to school yesterday.
I kind of want John Brody to keep asking me questions.
To keep “accidentally” pressing his thigh against mine.
To keep me from remembering who I really am.
“John.”
His eyes peel off mine and he jerks his body toward the aisle.
The blonde, Avery Morgan, from the back of the bus, stands there with red-rimmed eyes.
We’re in two classes together. She’s the kind of pretty that an instruction manual on how to be a perfect girl would use as a model.
Hair this way. Makeup like this. Dress in these clothes. Warning: results may vary.
“Will you come sit with me again?” She pouts and stretches her hand out.
John exhales as he rises, taking her hand. He looks back at me. “I’ll leave you to your music. Or whatever it is you’re not listening to.”
“I guess you’ll never know,” I say, biting back a smile as he begins to walk away.
John stops and releases Avery’s hand before turning to me. He lowers his head and says, quietly, “Someday I will.”
Before I can muster up another clever reply, he’s already at the back of the bus. He shoots me a grin as he places his arm around Avery’s shoulders. I turn around and sink into my seat.
Someday.
Doubtful.
I bet that’s the last time the two of us ever exchange words.
People like John don’t make friends with people like me.
“Connected” or not.
We’re as far apart as the moon and the ocean. The sky and the sea. He’s up there and I’m…I’m down here. Behind iron gates.