How to Repair a Mechanical Heart (24 page)

A joke.

I step up on the little wooden bridge that arches over the huge clear koi pond in the lobby. The blue and gray tiles on the floor of the pond are littered with pennies, dimes, quarters; my father would say
That’s a lot of money to throw away on wishes.
I’m jittering my fingers on the wooden railing, watching a pure gold koi get jostled by his big spotted pondmates, when a small dark silhouette ripples beside me. I hear the crunch of a plastic snack bag, catch a glimpse of an amber ring.

Now that she’s here, I think about running. But I don’t.

“Gummy bear?” she says.

I whisper, “How old are you?”

“Guess.”

“You look twelve.”

“I’m seventeen. But thanks. That never gets old.”

I shake my head. I can’t look at her. “Your profile picture‌…‌”

“Some random artist. I was in Baltimore last year and she let me take photos at Artscape. Gorgeous, right? I hate dreads and neck tats in general but on her‌…‌?” The bag crinkles and she says her next line with her mouth full. “If you’re going to be fake, at least be a badass, right?”

My tongue goes numb. I want to sit but my legs won’t move.

“You’re not going to sue me, are you?” she says. “I don’t think that’s legal.”

“Why would you do this?”

“You want me to like, explore my psychology?”

“Yeah. Please.”

“What am I, a Bond villain?” She drops a gummy bear into the pond and watches it sink to the bottom. “I don’t know, Brandon. It started out like, just making fun of Missy and her whole stupid shipping thing in the most ridiculous elaborate way, and then actual people started joining the community‌—‌like, who knew you had fans for real?”

“Thanks.”

“And so they like worshipped my fic and they started calling me their fearless leader and no one’s ever done that before because Missy always butts her way to the front of everything. It was like crack. Just
having fans,
you know?‌—‌Yeah, you do. So I just kept going bigger and bigger and deeper and deeper with it and‌—‌you know where this is going, right? Standard drunk-on-my-own power narrative?”

I glance at her. “I guess.”

“I feel like crap. I totally told whispering!sage I’d meet her at the Long Beach con. Like, why did I do that? You lie enough and all of a sudden it’s like lying is the language you speak and your first language starts to disappear.” Her eyes get bright and hungry. “God. That’s good. I wish I still wrote fic.”

She tries a smile. I can’t.

“Look, I said I was sorry,” she sighs. “What do you want? Money? I’m completely broke.”

“No‌…‌no.”

“Seriously‌—‌you can’t be surprised. Not really. People pretend all the time. You live online, pretty much everyone’s a character.” She points an eyebrow. “Even you. Right?”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because shit got real and you’re all
in love
now?”

“Italics not necessary.”

“Oh, Brandon.” She crunches up the gummy bear bag. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but as the Internet’s foremost expert on you, I think you need some therapy.”

“Really.”

“I mean, whatever: you guys are pretty hot together. I’ll admit. I wouldn’t have kept writing that silly fic if you weren’t, you know‌…‌
compelling
in some way. But taking your past into consideration?” She makes a dismissive
tch
sound. “I don’t think you’re ready for a relationship.”

I feel six inches high. “That’s‌…‌mean.”

“No it’s not. Look, I freaked when I saw your schmoopy post that night. It was a total what-have-I-done, Frankenstein’s-monster moment. I had no clue it would go this far.”

“Yeah, well, we would’ve‌—‌”

“Hooked up anyway? Maybe, maybe not. It’s a bad idea regardless. I’m a screwed-up Catholic too, you know? I sympathize. I mean, Missy’s too full of herself to have hangups but I’m a total chickenshit in real life, to the point where I’m too chickenshit to even deal with being chickenshit, which means I’ll never get anything figured out.” She pops a handful of gummy bears. “I’ll probably be a virgin till I die. I think I might be a lesbian. Or maybe I’m bi, I don’t know. I don’t have any answers.”

“Oh.”

“Like, all that stuff I spouted in my fic, how God didn’t make us to suffer?
Pfft
. How would I know? Maybe he’s like Xaarg and he uses us for his sick amusement, you know? Maybe he thinks it’s hilarious that I’m attracted to people, but then I sort of feel like throwing up when they touch me, and I’ll probably end up dying alone in a studio apartment with a Chihuahua eating my face off.”

I study the railing. “You won’t.”

“Don’t be so sure. Honestly, I don’t think people ever get un-screwed-up. I think it’s just, how well can you pretend to be someone else, and how long.”

Two businessmen in suits clomp across the bridge. The koi startle and scatter. Abel appears across the lobby, scanning with the bewildered concentration of someone trying to find someone.

My time with her is almost up.

“So, ah,” I draw in a breath that makes my throat ache. “Guess you weren’t really sent by God?”

I try to keep my voice light and jokey, but it splinters on the word
God
. She flicks one last gummy bear off the railing and stares down into the clear trembling water.

“You’ve thrown a lot of pennies in ponds,” she says. “Haven’t you.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

I don’t want Abel to find me. Not yet. I duck down a corridor, slip into a quiet stairwell.

I don’t think people ever get un-screwed-up.

My heart pummels so hard I expect to hear an echo.

I don’t think you’re ready for a relationship.

I lean over the railing. My head swarms. I wish I was good at dismissing people. I could be like Nat: What a bitch. Screw her. Who does she think she is?

I don’t have any answers.

My phone goes off. I jump. HOME CALLING.

I sink down on the steps and pick it up, not thinking it through. All I’m thinking is yes, please, I need home.

“Thank
God
,” Mom says. “Brandon, we were worried!”

“You haven’t called for days,” Dad snaps. “We just get one email, four words long‌—‌”

I feel like crying. “I’m sorry.”

“You could’ve been kidnapped. Maybe someone was impersonating you. How would we know?”

“Did you really think‌—‌”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter! The point is, you made your mother lose sleep.”

“You’ve just been having fun with Becky, right, Brandon?” Mom says. “That’s all.”

I drop my head on the concrete step behind me. “Yeah,” I get out. “It’s been really great.”

“That’s so wonderful. See, Greg?”

“Did you take her out for that dinner?” Dad harrumphs.

“No, but I will.” I close my eyes. “Maybe tonight. I think tonight we will.”

“Okay. All right,” Dad says. I sense the anger funneling out of him and for now that’s enough, making him okay with me again. “I told you, I’ll pay for it.”

“Sure.”

“Wherever you two want to go.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks.”
I’m a total chickenshit in real life.

“Brandon?” says Mom.

“Yep.”

“Are you all right, sweetie? You sound‌—‌far away.”

“I am far away.”

“I know this is such a‌…‌confusing time for you, but‌—‌”

You have no idea.
“I’m great, Mom. Don’t worry, okay?” She sounds so sad. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Maybe you’ll come to the St. Matt’s Funfair on the Fourth?”

“‌…‌Sure.” No.
No.

“You’re a good kid, Brandon,” Dad says.

I’m not stupid. I hear how he says it: like a command, not a compliment. But his words work on me, independent of the tone, and I want it all back again. I want to be the good kid. I want to be the kid who never made them worry, the one who was safe in his bed while Nat was off at Rocky Horror throwing toast and making out with A.J. Brody. I want to believe what they believe, to feel Mom’s smiling eyes on me while I strum “Be Not Afraid” at the Folk Mass, to ask Dad for advice when he stops by my room to say goodnight. Except now my problem is
I’m afraid I’m going to break my boyfriend’s heart.
And even if I got brave enough to ask, I don’t think he’d sit down on my bed and ruffle my hair. He’d just turn off the light and walk away.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Our clothes tumble together in a dented old dryer at the Compass Creek Campground laundry room. Abel and I sit on molded plastic seats the color of pea soup and watch. I spot my
Castaway Planet
shirt and keep my eyes on that, watching it get tossed and battered and tossed again.

Nothing’s changed.

I tell myself that, over and over. Nothing’s changed. I’m here in a laundry room doing a quick load of darks with my boyfriend, and then we’re going to take a walk in the woods and play WordWhap with Bec and have late-night cherry Pop-Tarts in bed like we’ve done every night since Long Beach. I tell myself that, and then Michelle Arnott’s face pops up and I start breathing faster, bracing myself for all the other bad things to come back. It’s like that scene in the cave when Cadmus lit a match and the crystal spiders all started crawling out of secret dark places, hissing closer and closer.

I joggle Plastic Sim in my hand, lose myself in the machine’s warm mechanical hum. I want to disappear into Sim again. I want the simple ease of clean robot fantasies that fade out with kissing and don’t come with a crapload of complications.

“Brandon,” Abel says. “You sneaky bitch.”

“What?”

“You’re having a relapse.”

“Huh?”

“It all makes sense!” He waggles a finger at me like I’m a Scooby-Doo villain. “You were like a billion miles away at the go-kart track.”

“Sorry.”

“And I made you my world-famous kitchen-sink nachos and you completely failed to rhapsodize.”

“World-famous?”

“Well. Susannah likes them.”

I force a shrug. “Too spicy.”

“Surprise surprise.”

Five seats over, some grizzly guy in camo pants is chomping a chalupa and waiting for his afghan to dry. He gave us this
look
when we walked in. I think back to three or four years ago, when Dad’s remote stopped at
Project Runway
for five seconds. “What they do is their business,” he’d grumbled. “But why are they all so
loud
about it?”

“I’m okay,” I lie. “No relapse.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“What’d what’s-her-face say to you at the hotel? Just tell me.”

“I don’t want to.” I slouch down in my seat. “I just want to forget her.”

He cracks into a two-pack of snack cakes. “It’s
almost
kind of funny. If you think about it. Cupcake?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“Right! I know.”

“Like, have you ever seen
Dumbo
?”

“Uh‌…‌yeah. Ages ago.”

“Remember when he thought he could fly because he was holding the magic feather, and then one day he loses the feather and‌—‌what happens?”

“He panics.”

“You would remember that. He flies anyway, dumbass.”

“Right. The gritty realism of Disney.”

“Don’t be cynical. It’s ugly on you.” He pokes my belly button. I poke him back and then he’s tickling my ribs, swooping in to nibble a kiss on my neck.

“Abel‌—‌” I murmur.

“What?”

“That guy’s giving us looks.”

“So? He’s probably jealous.”

“He looks like a gun nut or something.”

“Oh, they’re all secretly closeted. Haven’t you heard?” He studies the guy’s profile and leans close to me, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “Twenty years may have passed, but still he longs for Joe, his truck-driving partner with the sexy sideburns and the shapely‌—‌”

I smack him. “Sto-op.”

“He still remembers that fateful night‌…‌hauling a truckload of tennis balls through Tuscaloosa‌…‌”

“Oh my God.”

“The tape deck was playing‌—‌help me, Bran.”

I roll my eyes. “Journey’s Greatest Hits.”

“Brilliant.” He grins and slides a hand up my thigh. I feel my muscles loosen a little. “Joe’s face in the silvery moonlight had never looked so enticing‌…‌they sang ‘Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ together, their voices entwining in unexpected harmony.”

“They pulled over at a rest stop.”

“Yes.
Hot
.” He nests his chin on my shoulder. “For twenty stolen minutes, under the stars in a dense patch of forest, they‌—‌”

“Twenty minutes?”

“No?”

I’m grinning now. “You’re, ah, selling their passion short.”

“You’re right. For shame.” He nips my ear. “For forty-five stolen minutes, they unlocked the secrets of each other‌…‌their cares melting away as they whispered‌—‌”

“Take it somewhere else.”

I jump. Camo Pants is right in front of us. He’s chewing on a toothpick and standing like the football players at school did before a big game: fists on waist, legs planted far apart. I go cold.

Abel smiles, still in fic-land. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

“Yep. I said, take it somewhere else.”

Abel flutters his lashes. “Like where?”

“Anywhere I don’t have to see it.”

Shut up. Please shut up,
I message Abel, thinking of the call to my parents:
“I’m so sorry. Your son was shot to death in a campground laundry room.”
But the guy’s done for now. He clomps off to the soda machine, shooting a glare over his shoulder.

Abel snorts and swallows a giggle. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“What a goon.” Abel elbows me.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hey.”

“What.”

“I want to take you on a date,” he says. “Like a cheesy old-school restaurant date.”

My heart’s still hammering. “When?”

“When we’re back on the road, like in Nebraska or Iowa. Some weirdo small town where we’ll never ever be again. We’ll find someplace good.” He hooks his fingers through mine. “Say yes.”