• • •
THE SECOND WE’RE in the truck I take off my Converse, push the soles of my feet against the dashboard, and— Quasimotoes in full sight—I explode.
“I cannot believe it!”
“Mm?”
“It’s unfathomable. We should make a damn case study out of this.
Science would publish it. Nature. The New England Journal of damn Medicine. It would get me a Nobel Prize. Marie Curie. Malala Yousafzai. Bee Königswasser.”
“Sounds lovely. What’s ‘it’ again?”
“At the very least we’d get short-listed! We could take a trip to Stockholm. See the fjords. Meet up with my wayward sister.”
He turns up the AC. “I’ll take you to Stockholm whenever you like, but you’ll have to give me a topic if you want me to follow this conversation.”
“I just cannot believe how—how well-adjusted you are! I mean, okay, you and I have had our . . . issues when it comes to social interactions, but I’m befuddled that you haven’t turned out a titanic psychopath despite the family you came from. There has to be a miracle in there, no?”
“Ah.” He half smiles. “Do you want to get ice cream?”
“You had neither nature nor nurture on your side!”
“So, no ice cream?”
“Of course yes ice cream!”
He nods and takes a right. “There was some therapy involved.”
“How much therapy are we talking about here?”
“Couple years.”
“Did it entail a brain transplant?”
“Just lots of talking through how my inability to functionally communicate my needs stemmed from a family
that never allowed me to. Same old.”
“They still don’t allow you! They’re trying to—to erase you and turn you into something else!” I am incensed. Enraged. Incensedly enraged. I want to mutate into Beezilla and pillage the extended Ward family at the next Thanksgiving. Levi better invite me.
“I’ve tried to reason with them. I’ve yelled. I’ve explained myself calmly.
I’ve tried . . . a lot of things, believe me.” He sighs. “Eventually I had to accept what my therapist always said: all you can change is your own reaction to events.”
“Your therapist sounds great.”
“He was.”
“But I still want to commit patricide.”
“It’s not patricide if it’s not your own father.”
An angry scream bubbles out of me. “You should never talk to them again.”
He smiles. “That will send a strong message.”
“No, seriously. They don’t deserve you.”
“They’re not . . . good. For sure. I’ve considered the possibility of cutting them off many times, but my brothers and my mom are much better when my father isn’t around. And anyway . . .” He hesitates. “Today wasn’t that bad. It might have been the best dinner I’ve had with them in a long time.
Which I’ll chalk up to you telling my father to can it and shocking him into temporary speechlessness.”
If that dinner was “not bad,” then I’m a K-pop idol. I gaze at the dusky Houston lights, thinking that the way his family treats him should diminish him in my eyes, realizing the truth is just the opposite. There’s something patient about the way he quietly stands up for himself. About the way he sees others.
Another pang near my heart. I don’t know what they’re about. I just really . . . “Levi?”
“Mm?”
“I want to tell you something.”
“I told you: your lungs are not shrinking because you’re training for a 5K—”
“My lungs are totally shrinking, but that’s not it.”
“What, then?”
I take a deep breath, still staring out the window. “I really, really, really like you.”
