Symptoms of Being Human by Jeff Garvin Page B

Bloglr.com/genderbender, and also QueerAlliance.org. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.
    I reread my response, consider deleting it again, and then finally click Post. I sit back in my chair and frown at screen. I feel unsatisfied, like I just brushed someone off. I find myself second-guessing myself, wishing I had shared my original response after all.
    My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the garage door.
    My parents are home.
    They’re waiting for me in the living room when I come downstairs. My mother is stationed on the long sofa, her face tight with worry, her arms and legs crossed as though she’s trying to tie her whole body in a knot. Dad paces in front of the coffee table, stopping when I enter.
    â€œRiley,” he says. “We need to talk to you. Sit down.”
    His voice is even, but I can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s really angry. I approach and sit in a chair facing them.
    â€œWe got a call from school,” Dad says. “They said you weren’t in class after lunch.”
    I nod.
    â€œYou want to tell us where you were?”
    â€œI ditched with a friend. We went to Fullerton.”
    â€œWere you drinking?” my mother asks.
    â€œWhat? No. I had water. We were just talking.”
    Dad moves toward me. “Let me smell your breath.”
    And just like that, we backslide. The trust I’ve worked so hard to rebuild over the last month is gone in one afternoon. And the stupid part is, I was never even into drinking—it was just that one time. The time. But even after six weeks in Pineview, they’ve never forgiven me, and they’ve never forgotten.
    Dad leans forward, and I exhale in his face. He nods, satisfied, and moves to sit next to my mother.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say. “I know I shouldn’t have ditched. But I needed to get out of there.”
    â€œWe’re going to need more of an explanation than that,” Dad says.
    I look down at my lap. “I was having a bad day.”
    Dad exhales through his nose. “You can’t walk out of school just because you’re ‘having a bad day.’ You have to—”
    But Mom lays a hand on his knee to cut him off. “Tell us what happened, honey.”
    I think about Vickers demanding to know whether I was a dyke or a faggot, but I can’t tell them that. So, I say, “Some kids were making me fun of me.”
    Dad throws up his hands. “And?” His face is the color of beets, and I feel myself shrink from him. At my reaction, he folds his hands and softens his voice. “Riley, listen. Words can hurt. I get it. Jesus, right now, there are consultants being paidthousands of dollars to write bad things about me. But you can’t just walk out. You have to keep your chin up.”
    I feel tears stinging my eyes, and I clench my jaw. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to break down in front of them.
    â€œWhat did they say to you?” Mom asks.
    I shift in my seat. I have to tell them something. “They were making fun of the way I dress.”
    Dad shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. Mom reaches out to put a hand on his knee again, then thinks better of it and folds her hands in her lap. “We’re just concerned,” she says. “You spend all your time shut up in your room on your computer. And . . .” She looks me up and down, and I just know she’s about to make a comment about my clothes. “When you were at Immaculate Heart, we thought . . .” She glances at Dad. “I mean, we thought you were just rebelling against all that structure. The uniform, and the strict rules, and everything.”
    â€œBut now we don’t know what it is,” Dad says.
    I hear Doctor Ann’s voice in my head, telling me to take a slow, deep breath. I try, but find that I can’t; my chest is too tight. My fingertips are beginning to tingle.
    Mom picks nervously at her cuticles. “You