Symptoms of Being Human by Jeff Garvin Read Free Book Online Page A

lenses obscure the blue eyes I remember from yesterday, and I can’t tell if the look on his face is more surprised or amused. There’s something soft about the curve of his jaw, and the neck of his T-shirt is cut low to reveal—
    And that’s when I realize: He’s not a boy. He’s a girl.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says, lowering her hands slowly, “but you’ve discovered my secret lair.” She gestures at the ramp. “And now, I’m afraid, you’ll have to pay the toll.”
    I stare at her, speechless, gasping for breath.
    â€œI accept juice boxes, Amazon gift cards, and narcotics,” she says. Then, in response to my blank look, she adds, “For the toll.”
    I recognize that it’s a joke, but I don’t manage to laugh. My face is still numb, and my heart is beating a frantic tattoo against my breastbone.
    The girl seems to realize something is wrong, because her expression softens. “Hey,” she says, pulling down her sunglassesto regard me with those bright-blue eyes. “Hey, sit down.” She moves to help me sit on the ramp—well, it’s more like I fall and she catches me—and then she pulls off her backpack and produces a juice box. “Here, drink this.” She punches in the straw and hands it to me, and I drink. My heartbeat slows. The tingling recedes a little.
    She sits there, watching me patiently. I expect to find her gaze invasive—but there’s no threat in her eyes, just curiosity, and . . . something else. Something strangely comforting.
    Her voice is high-pitched and doesn’t match her punk-boy wardrobe, but despite my initial mistake, I’m certain she identifies as a girl. Maybe it’s the confident way she wears her low-cut shirt, or the angle of her neck as she cocks her head at me—but beneath these superficial observations, there’s just a strong intuition.
    What I’m not certain about is how she views me. When a girl sees me as a guy, I usually feel dismissed as unworthy or, at best, as nonthreatening. When a girl thinks I’m a girl , I get the feeling she’s comparing and judging me. But this girl isn’t doing any of those things. Her posture is open, her body relaxed. And even though her eyes are hidden behind mirrored lenses, there’s an intimacy about her expression that penetrates my wall of anxiety and sends a shiver through me—but a shiver of what? I don’t know.
    â€œAre you diabetic?” she says.
    I shake my head. She frowns.
    â€œAre you having a psychic vision?”
    I shake my head again, feeling the hint of a smile curl the corners of my mouth. “I can wait,” she says, glancing at herwrist in a gesture of feigned impatience.
    A slurping sound informs me that I have finished this juice box, which is odd, because I don’t remember tasting it at all. The girl pulls another out of her backpack and offers it to me. I reach for it, but she pulls it back.
    â€œI require a name,” she says.
    I smile. “Your parents didn’t give you one?”
    She opens her mouth in mock surprise and leaps to her feet.
    â€œThe creature speaks!” she says, standing and shouting down at the parking lot below. “I hath revived it with mine purple potion!”
    I glance up nervously, checking to see if anyone’s looking at us. Is this girl making fun of me? I can’t tell. But the last thing I want, the last thing I can handle right now, is more attention.
    â€œListen,” I say. “Please don’t—”
    But Lip Ring Girl is now making a four-point bow, blowing kisses to an imaginary audience. “I’d like to thank the Academy, my fans, my team at Minute Maid who—”
    At this point I reach up, grab her by the sleeve, and yank her back down onto the ramp. “Riley,” I say, exasperated. “My name is Riley. Please, just don’t attract any more