Symptoms of Being Human by Jeff Garvin Read Free Book Online

dysphoria, I’m not sure which—recedes slightly, but it doesn’t quite disappear.
    I feel Solo’s eyes on me as he walks into AP English, but I don’t meet them. Why did he bother pretending to be nice to me yesterday, only to ignore me in front of his friends? I avoid looking at him for the duration of the class—and when the bell rings, I’m the first one out the door.
    Ten minutes into AP Government, the buzzing sensation starts to intensify. My arms feel particularly wrong—too skinny and angular for how feminine I’m feeling—so I pull my hoodie out of my bag and put it on, tugging down the sleeves. It doesn’t make much difference. I cross my legs at the knee—sometimes a shift in posture helps—but today, it’s not bringing any relief.
    French passes in a blur. All I can think about is trying to cross the quad feeling like this—or worse, walking the Gauntlet. My heart is beating in my throat now, and a numb tingling blossoms in my cheeks and the tips of my fingers.
    It’s starting.
    But I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to close my eyes and picture the whiteboard. I’m supposed to paint it black with my mind until there’s nothing left but a calm, quiet void.
    I close my eyes. I dip my imaginary paintbrush into the surrounding blackness and begin to paint the board with long, slow strokes. Long, slow strokes. I’m three-quarters of the way to the right edge, almost done, when a patch of white appears on the left border. The black is dripping away, revealing more and more of the whiteboard beneath.
    This always happens; I’ve never once succeeded in painting the whole board black. Sometimes the exercise manages to calm me anyway—but this time, it’s not working.
    My face is completely numb now, and the tingling has spread through my hands all the way up to the wrists. My shortness of breath must be audible, because the pretty girl with long blond hair who sits in front of me, Casey Reese, keeps looking over her shoulder at me.
    As I pass her on my way out of class, she asks, “Ça va?”
    â€œYeah, thanks,” I reply.
    But I’m not okay.
    My vision is starting to tunnel. I’m not thinking, just putting one foot in front of the other—and before I know it, I’m halfway down the stairs to the cafeteria. When I realize where I am, ten yards from the Gauntlet, part of me wants to turn and run; but I don’t. I continue forward, eyes on the ground, drawing my shoulders up toward my ears as if I’m bracing for impact.
    I’ve covered most of the distance to the cafeteria line, and there have been no taunts yet, nothing thrown; maybe the novelty of harassing the new kid has worn off. As I pass Solo’s table, I’m tempted to glance over and see if he’s watching, but I keep my head down instead; it’s not much farther. My heart thuds against my rib cage.
    And then I’m through. I make it to the outdoor hallway and break into a run. The concrete wall of the auditorium blurs past as I round the corner. Just ahead, there’s a wheelchair ramp by the side stage door. It’s protected by a low wall about two feet high—just enough to conceal me if I lie flat on my back.
    Finally, I make it, Doc Martens squeaking as I come to a stop on the smooth concrete. I bend over, chest heaving, hands gripping the aluminum safety rail. I try to slow my breathing.
    But then a hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch hard.
    â€œTake it easy,” a voice says.
    My eyes are blurred with tears, and I draw one still-numb hand across them to clear my vision: the figure standing before me is the pale boy from Government I saw sitting with the Hardcores yesterday—the one with the long nose and the lip ring. He’s standing on the ramp, hands up in a gesture of surrender. Despite the heat, he’s wearing that same black coat. Circular sunglasses with mirrored