Symptoms of Being Human

  DEDICATION

  To my parents,

  who told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up.

  Sorry I kept you waiting.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Author’s Note

  Resources

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  NEW POST: ONE OR THE OTHER

  OCTOBER 1, 6:55 AM

  The first thing you’re going to want to know about me is: Am I a boy, or am I a girl?

  I STOP TYPING AND STARE at the cursor, which flashes at me incessantly, as if mocking my inability to write one stupid post.

  “Riley!” It’s my mom, calling me from downstairs in her singsongy voice. “If you still want to be early, you’d better come down for breakfast!”

  I glance at the clock. I’m not really running that late—but I want to get the lay of the land while the campus is still mostly empty. “I’ll be down in a minute!” I say, then click Delete, slam my laptop shut, and slide off my bed.

  At least I can tell Doctor Ann I tried.

  I stop in front of the mirror to examine myself. I don’t know if this look will help me blend in at my new school, but it definitely exudes a sort of existential punk vibe, like, “I care so much, I don’t care,” that feels distinctly me. As a last touch, I mash down my bangs so they hide as much of my face as possible. It’ll have to do.

  Downstairs, my mother gives me a wide smile. “First day!” she says.

  I manage to smile in return, and then I grab a box of cereal from the pantry and sit down at the table across from my dad.

  “Ready to conquer Park Hills High?” he says. Then he looks up from his tablet, and his smile wilts as he notices my outfit.

  I’m wearing a pair of jeans and my dad’s old Ramones T-shirt, which I’ve modified to fit my smaller frame. Black Doc Martens—synthetic ones, no cows were harmed in the making of my shoes—round out the ensemble. I’m grateful that I don’t have to wear a uniform anymore—I remember how suffocating it was to be confined to the same identity day after day, regardless of how I felt inside.

  But the truth is, it still doesn’t matter how I feel—because however I show up today, people will expect me to look the same tomorrow. Including my parents.

  So my only choice is to go neutral.

  “Is that my Ramones shirt?” Dad says.

  “Once upon a time,” I say.

  He clears his throat. “Riley, are you sure that’s how you want to present yourself on your first day?”

  I open my mouth, then close it without saying anything.

  Dad gestures at me with his grapefruit spoon. “You only get one chance at a first impression.”

  I want to scream: Like I don’t know that! But instead, I say, “I guess I’m hedging my bets. I want to see how the kids dress at public school. Don’t want to overdo it and end up looking stupid.” Dad seems to consider, then nods his head approvingly. By appealing to his sense of strategy, I’ve averted the Inquisition.

  For now.

  Ten minutes later, the three of us pile into Mom’s minivan. I’ve agreed to let both parents escort me on my first day, but only on the condition that we not take the black Lincoln. I don’t want anyone to see Dad’s government license plates and connect Riley Cavanaugh with Congressman Cavanaugh. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but that kind of notoriety is the last thing I need on top of . . . well, on top of everything else.

  We turn out of our gated community and onto Imperial Highway. The closer we get to the school, the more butterflies flap around in my stomach; I don’t know what to expect. At Immaculate Heart, it was impossible for someone like me to avoid being singled out; the school was just too small and too conservative. Maybe the people here will be more open-minded. Or, at the very least, maybe I’ll be able to blend in.

  Finally, we reach the top of Lions Ridge, and Park Hills High School comes into view. It’s a massive, U-shaped, concrete abomination, surrounded by wrought-iron gates encrusted with ten years of accumulated green paint.

  “Hey,” I say. “You can just pull over and drop me off here.”

  “It’s a steep walk, honey,” Mom says. “We’ll drop you at the front.”

  “Mom, we talked about the ‘honey’ thing.”

  “Right,” she says. “Sorry.”

  “Please, you guys, I just want to walk in.”

  “You mean you want to make an entrance,” Dad says, a smile turning up one corner of his mouth.

  I blink at him. He couldn’t misunderstand me more if he actively tried. But if believing that will keep him from making a scene out of my arrival, I’ll fake it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess I do.”

  Mom glances at me in the rearview, her eyes narrowed, and I get the feeling she sees through my lie. She starts to say something, then seems to change her mind and just presses her lips together instead. Dad pulls to the curb and turns to face me.

  “You’re smart and resourceful, Riley,” he says. “Put yourself out there, and you’ll be an asset to this campus.”

  But I don’t want to be an asset; I want to be invisible.

  As they pull away, Mom gives me an ironic princess wave, and Dad makes devil horns with one hand. I roll my eyes, wait impatiently for the van to turn the corner, and then look around to get my bearings.

  I’m about fifty yards from the school entrance, where a few clusters of students are beginning to form. I let out a long, slow breath and start toward the gates.

  A green SUV pulls into the circular drive, and a blond girl in a short skirt climbs out. As she approaches her friends, she walks past a circle of guys passing around a basketball. One of them wolf-whistles at her, and she gives him the finger.

  Then it’s my turn to walk past them. My heart beats faster as I get close; I keep my head down and try to blend in with the concrete. To my relief, no one says anything to me; I’ve dodged the first bullet.

  I’m only a few yards away from the big green gates now. All I have to do is make it past the group of girls, and then I’ll be on campus, where I can disappear into a crowd.

  But as I draw closer, two of the girls look up and notice me. I glance away, but I feel their eyes on me, scrutinizing, categorizing. I’ve been through this before, and it shouldn’t get to me—but today, it does. My skin breaks out in goose bumps, and I wrap my arms around myself and walk faster.

  “Oh my God,” one of the girls says, and my head involuntarily turns to look at her. She’s got long brunette hair and a small, perfect nose. “Holy shit, you guys.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper, but I can still hear what she says:

  “Is that
a girl, or a guy?”

  A fit of giggles erupts from the group around her. My face goes hot. I walk faster, trying to escape the whispers.

  “No,” another girl says. “That has to be a . . .”

  “Yeah, but look what it’s wearing.”

  It. She called me it.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE FIRST DOOR I COME to is a restroom, and I burst in and lock myself in a stall. For a moment, I just lean against the cold metal door, staring at a patch of discolored grout on the tile wall.

  It.

  I’ve been called worse—much worse—but somehow this comment stings more than the rest. I haven’t been here five minutes, and the harassment has already started. I even made an effort to dress as neutrally as I could stand—but it doesn’t matter. My differentness is impossible to conceal. I feel a familiar heat behind my eyes and the beginning of a quiver in my bottom lip, but I bite down on it. I can’t give in this easily. I can’t let one bad moment ruin my chance at a fresh start. I close my eyes and take three long, deep breaths. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to normal.

  I pull out my class schedule and check the map on the back: my first class—AP English/Room 207—is on the other end of the campus. Class starts in fifteen minutes; if I want to avoid the rush, I’d better go now.

  The quad at Park Hills High is approximately nine hundred miles from end to end and feels just like “the yard” in some old prison movie. I entertain a brief escape fantasy in which I’m shanked from behind and bleed out before the first bell rings so I don’t have to face the rest of the day. No such luck—but I make it across without incident, push open the door to the language arts wing, and start down the hallway. I stop outside room 207 and peer in through the window, one of those tall, narrow ones with chicken wire between the panes. I can’t see anyone inside, so I open the door and enter.

  The empty desks are arranged in a grid, and I take a moment to consider my options. The front rows are no good, because I’d be on display for everyone as they come in—and, after the morning I’ve had, I’d rather avoid the scrutiny. But the last few rows are out, too, because teachers love to call on kids who sit in the back.

  I choose a desk in the center of the room, drop my bag next to it, and slide into the chair. It’s new; there’s hardly any graffiti at all, only the word “penis” etched in one corner. Briefly, I consider inscribing “vagina” on the opposite side, just to balance it out.

  Then the door bangs open and a huge guy lumbers into the room. He’s at least six feet tall, probably over three hundred pounds, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt depicting Darth Vader clutching an ice-cream cone. His nest of messy black hair is clamped under a pair of red headphones, and he appears to be playing an air guitar solo as he walks down the aisle, eyes closed, face contorting in an apoplexy of rage or ecstasy—it’s hard to tell which. He goes up on tiptoe, pinwheels one arm to strike a triumphant chord on his imaginary ax, then falls to his knees and throws his hands up like he’s taking in the applause of a stadium crowd.

  After a long, gasping moment, he gets to his feet, slides into a desk right across the aisle from mine, and begins rummaging through his dilapidated backpack. I clear my throat to get his attention, but he doesn’t respond; he probably can’t hear me with those headphones on.

  Finally, he turns his head to crack his neck. He opens his eyes, sees me—and flinches in surprise, knocking his backpack off the desk. His belongings spill into the aisle between us: books, papers, a Yoda pencil case, and an avalanche of small pink candies.

  We stare at each other in wide-eyed silence for a long moment. And then the guy speaks, his voice about forty decibels louder than necessary.

  “Jesus Christ on a cupcake! You scared the crap out of me!”

  I gesture for him to take off his headphones.

  “Oh yeah,” he says too loudly. When he pulls them off his head, his hair springs up, giving him an electrocuted look. He stands and retrieves his backpack, while I slide out of my chair to help collect his belongings.

  The candies turn out to be strawberry Starbursts, dozens of them. When I’ve picked up the last one, I drop the pile onto his desk and meet his gaze. His eyes are large and dark, and he stares at me for a long time, not saying anything. Part of me wants to turn away, to pull out a book and bury my face in it—but there’s something about his presence, a gentle goofiness, that makes me take a chance.

  Tentatively, I break the silence. “I’m Riley.”

  He blinks. “Solo.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “That’s what people call me,” he says. “Short for Jason Solomona.”

  Solo snatches one of the Starbursts from his desk, unwraps it deftly, and crams it into his mouth. After a few hearty chews, he says thickly, “Want one?” I don’t, but I feel like telling him no would be tantamount to refusing a peace offering from a foreign diplomat.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, and take one. It’s sweet, and immediately adheres itself to one of my back molars like quick-dry cement. Solo stares at me for a moment, his eyebrows drawn together. He starts to speak, but hesitates.

  My heart sinks; here we go. Come on. Let’s get it out of the way.

  Finally, he seems to make a decision, and says, “You’re new.”

  “Yeah,” I say, relieved.

  “Where are you from? Wait,” he interrupts himself, “don’t tell me.” He glances at my shirt, then leans into the aisle to look at something on the ground. My shoes? He straightens. “Midwest,” he says.

  Half amused and half confused, I tilt my head to one side. “Why the Midwest?”

  He points to my Doc Martens. “Boots, not very practical for Southern California.”

  I start to retort, but he’s already moved on.

  “Authentic vintage Ramones shirt, not something you can just pick up at Hot Topic.” He inclines his head as if waiting for confirmation.

  My heart gives a pleasant twinge; the guy doesn’t seem put off by my appearance at all; in fact, he seems genuinely interested. “Go on,” I say.

  “Unusual haircut. Rebellious air about you.”

  “Why does that make you think I’m from the Midwest?”

  Solo shrugs. “Where else could you develop such contempt for traditional American values?”

  That makes me smile. He smiles back.

  “Now,” he continues, putting a finger to his lips in a cartoonish imitation of a TV detective, “your vampiric Irish pallor suggests north of Indianapolis.” He sits back in his chair and folds his enormous hands. “Chicago. Am I right?”

  “Not quite,” I say.

  “Detroit!” he replies.

  “Nope.”

  “Madison?”

  I shake my head.

  He throws up his hands. “I give up. Where?”

  “Park Hills. About a mile from here.”

  He sags back into his seat, deflating like an enormous car dealership balloon that’s been punctured by a sharp rock.

  “Damn,” he says. “I thought I had you pegged.”

  I shrug. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  He laughs. “Not disappointed, just surprised. You look . . .”

  He pauses midsentence, and my heart sinks again. All the words I’m afraid he might say rush in to fill the gap in his speech: Weird. Freakish.

  Wrong.

  But then he does speak, and he doesn’t say any of those things. He says, “You look . . . too exotic for Park Hills.”

  Something inside me seems to swell and grow warmer, and I’m surprised when a weird laugh escapes me—something between a bark and a giggle. At the sound of it, Solo laughs, too. Caught up in the moment, I sort of flip my bangs back and say in a low voice, “Exotic, am I?”

  Solo’s smile falters, and the silence that ensues is so awkward that I want to climb under my desk and die. Solo flushes a deep brown, and I drop my gaze to my lap.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’m so desperate to make a friend that the second I get comfortable with someone, what
do I do? I make some weird, embarrassing joke, and he interprets it as flirting. Ugh! It was the wrong thing, the wrong energy to send out in that moment. And despite my feeling neutral today, this guy clearly sees me as a guy; I can tell by his uncomfortable reaction to my unintended flirting. Now, there’s a palpable weirdness between us, and I desperately wish I could take back that stupid hair flip and just keep my mouth shut.

  Much to my relief, Solo starts speaking again as though nothing happened. “If you’re from Park Hills, why am I seeing you for the first time a month into junior year?”

  Eager not to make an ass of myself again, I execute the most nonchalant shrug in the history of shrugging. “I transferred from Immaculate Heart,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them. If he asks why, what am I going to say? That I’m my father’s political pawn? Or that I was trying to escape from a place where I was harassed and bullied on a daily basis? Charming small talk for a first conversation.

  But Solo doesn’t ask—he just glances down at my boots, then up at my hair, and says, “Catholic school. Of course. That would give anyone contempt for traditional American values.”

  I smile. “You were right about the Irish part, though.” That seems to cheer him up.

  The classroom door opens and two girls enter. I recognize the shorter one: she’s the brunette with the perfect nose who speculated about my gender when I walked on campus. The one who called me “it.” Hastily, I lean over to pretend I’m pulling another book out of my bag, surfacing only after the girl and her friend have taken their seats. As the classroom fills up, Solo sets about putting the Starbursts back into his backpack and stowing his headphones, and I bury my head in my AP English textbook.

  I actually enjoy my first class. Miss Crane has a round, pleasant face, and turns out to be a total book geek; she makes multiple Harry Potter references and takes note of who gets them. She catches me snorting at one in which she speculates how an appearance by Ginny Weasley might have altered the plot of Sense and Sensibility. When the bell rings, I take my time packing up; I’m not eager to leave Solo or Miss Crane’s Sanctuary for Geeks. I’m relieved when Solo tells me he has AP Government second period—because I do, too—and we head to class together. Or, more accurately, I follow him through the halls, walking in his considerable wake.