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

attention.”
    â€œRight,” she says, straightening her collar. “Riley Cavanaugh.”
    She knows my name, too?
    At the look on my face, the girl puts up her hands again. “I’m not a stalker. Brennan said your name in Government yesterday.” She leans in. “He called on you, and I tried to bail you out, remember?”
    I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
    â€œThen you pulled that obscure factoid out of thin air. Maybe I ought to make you tutor me, as partial payment.” She tilts her head and squints like she’s examining me. After a moment, she nods. “I’m Bec.”
    I blink at her. “Short for Rebecca?”
    She closes her eyes for a moment and lets out an exasperated sigh. “ Le bec ,” she says, “is French for ‘beak.’” She gestures to her face. “I have a large nose. Beak-like, one might say. Therefore, Bec. ”
    I frown. “Who could’ve possibly given you that name? Some mean French kid?”
    â€œAbsolutely not,” she says. “I gave it to myself.”
    I shake my head, incredulous.
    â€œNot everyone is born a Riley ,” she says. And then her thin lips form a delightfully crooked smile. It’s contagious. She offers me the second juice box, and I take it.
    â€œDid you . . . follow me behind the building?”
    â€œYes, I did,” she says, sounding completely unperturbed.
    I take a long sip through the straw. “Why?”
    â€œAfter yesterday, I didn’t think you’d come anywhere near the caf again. I told myself that, if you did, then you were the kind of person I wanted to meet.” She inclines her head like a Renaissance courtier. “Well met, Riley Cavanaugh.”
    She noticed me? Two days in a row? I gape at her, then realize what I’m doing and clamp my jaw shut.
    â€œSo,” she says, glossing over my awkwardness as though this sort of thing happens to her all the time. “You’re a transfer?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhere from?”
    I hesitate, then say, “Immaculate Heart.”
    Bec starts to laugh, something between a giggle and a chuckle. I feel myself blush. I start to get up, but she grabs my hand. Her fingers are cold, her palm smooth, and her touch sends goose bumps up my arm.
    â€œI wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. Look.” She pulls open her peacoat, revealing the graphic on her T-shirt: a large black cross inside a red circle with a diagonal line running through it. Above that, the caption reads: BAD RELIGION. “I was laughing at the irony,” she says, “that I’m welcoming your defection from Catholic school wearing a Bad Religion shirt.”
    â€œOh, right,” I say, relieved, “the band.” When she lets go of my hand, I feel a pang of disappointment. She pats the ground next to her, and I sit. “I thought maybe you were referring to my school’s unfortunate nickname.”
    Bec leans in. “You realize you’re going to tell me, right?”
    I sigh. Of course I am. “Instead of Immaculate Heart, they called it ‘I Masturbate Hard.’”
    Bec laughs. It starts out as that low chuckle, but quickly becomes a full-on guffaw. Now, I start laughing, too.
    â€œSounds like my kind of place,” Bec says, finally regaining her breath. When I realize what she’s implying, I feel myself blush for the nine thousandth time in two days. Our laughter fades, and I notice that, though my heart is still beating harder than usual, the tingling in my hands and face is almost gone.
    â€œWhat’s your real name?” I ask.
    But Bec speaks right on the heels of my last word, as if she didn’t hear me.
    â€œSo, you’re not diabetic,” she says. “Were you, like, about to have a seizure? Is it epilepsy?”
    I open my mouth to reply, and then the bell rings, a long, ugly wail. It’s how I imagine the lights-out buzzer sounds at Folsom