The Probability of Awkwardness is High
I’m still down the math corridor when I spy my missing coworker, Isaiah Rowsey. Or rather, I spy his afro bobbing along over the heads of other students. I watch his hair come nearer and nearer, and step out of the way only just in time before he's in front of me, half jogging while twisting the buttons on his shirt collar so insistently I dunno how he hasn't pulled them off-he's just as ADHD as me.
“What’s good, Dev?”
“Isaiah,” I have to shout to be heard because school hallways are somehow the nosiest places on the planet. “Why’d you no show? I had to work the register alone! Our customers were getting ready to rend me limb to limb." I let the ‘again’ go unsaid.
He really does pop one of the buttons off his shirt at that. “Sorry, man. Mom slept through her alarm. She didn’t have time to get me to school so I had to take the bus.”
I should have known. Isaiah’s mom is infamously unreliable. It’s not her fault; she’s a single mom with two kids, one of whom is six. And she works unpredictable retail hours at Home Depot. I doubt I’d be doing better in her position. Most likely, I’d be doing a lot worse.
Which doesn’t make it any less frustrating to continuously find myself running the cafe alone when I’m supposed to have help.
“Where do you live?” I demand as we maneuver our way out of the math corridor. “Maybe Mom and I can pick you up on the way here.”
“Thanks, man." Isaiah gives me a smile that causes guilt to eat at me. It's not like my offer was selfless or anything. “That’d be such a load off. Mom tries, but she’s got a lot going on."
Don’t I know it; he’s only given me a running update on everything going on in his life every day for the past two weeks. I don’t even have to ask questions. It all comes out whether I participate in the conversation or not.
"I'll ask her," I promise, hoping she'll agree instead of asking why I volunteered her without asking her permission beforehand. But those concerns walk right out of my brain when I spy Shuvam Adhikiri at the far end of the hall.
Stupid, adorable Shuvam who dresses like a Banana Republic model, has this perfectly coiffed black hair, and has eyes the color of...I have no idea because I’ve never looked directly at his face. Probably honey or topaz or some poetic shit like that. Not that it's important.
What’s important is he’s hot. And basically the nicest person in this whole school.
Like Kadarius, Shuvam is in Advanced Placement. But Shuvam is a King among AP and gifted kids, because his entire personality doesn’t revolve around being smarter than the rest of us. He certainly doesn’t rub my stupidity in my face. And sometimes? Sometimes he even acknowledges my existence. Like right now, when he waves to me.
Idiot that I am, I wave back, forgetting that the hallways are not the place for us tall people to be moving our arms away from our torsos. So it really is entirely predictable when my hand hits something cold and nose-shaped. I whirl to face some guy exactly my height but about three times wider and with an expression on his face even I can tell means danger.
“Watch it,” my victim snarls, taking a step forward. Which is not the direction I’d be going if someone hit me in the face.
I put the appropriate distance between us on his behalf. “Sorry!” I shout, not looking behind me on the theory that if I don't see him coming after me, he won't be coming after me.
Embarrassment (and, let's be honest, a tiny little bit of fear) transforms the environment and people around me into an insubstantial blur. The unexpected fuzzy outline of another person looms in front of me as I turn a corner, too late to turn aside or slow down. Windmilling my arms keeps me upright, but Riley Aguilar falls on her butt. Her friends let out synchronized shrieks. It's like they've practiced or something.
Of course, Riley and her friends are theater kids. They probably have practiced this.
I shout another apology, this one drowned out by the late bell. The corridors rapidly empty, leaving me one of the few students still scurrying toward class. Teachers on hall monitor duty snap contradictory messages.
“You’re already late.”
“Don’t run in the halls.”
“Stop lollygagging and get to class!”
When I slink into class everyone turns to look at me. I try to ignore the anxiety this gives me as I drag myself to my desk.
At least I know Ms. Torres won't lecture me, because she's sunshine in human form. She has bubblegum pink dreads, the energy of a cartoon character, and I've never seen her without a smile, not even at Nesbit Lake Dance Studios where she teaches hip-hop because apparently she doesn't get enough teaching during the day. Not that I'm complaining; I love her as a dance teacher, so I was ecstatic to get her for ELA this year.
“Morning, Devin,” Ms. Torres says with her characteristic smile. “We were just about to find partners for group work.”
The phrase ‘group work’ floods me with regret. I should’ve been tardier.
A lot tardier.
Like, absent kind of tardier.
Other people arrange themselves into teams with enthusiasm while I simultaneously panic over who to ask and avoid catching anyone’s eye. Not that this saves me from group work.
No, Micah Lahey marches straight over as if I need more gifted kids in my life. He sits on the edge of my desk and dramatically flips his long blond hair over one shoulder. “Looking for a partner?”
The answer to that is no, I'm not, but since Ms. Torres does expect me to end up with a group partner I decide not to correct his assumption. "Yeah," I mumble while simultaneously shrinking away from him.
"Awesome," he says. "I'm Micah."
"Uh. Don't worry," I say, leaning away as he thrusts a hand into my face. "I know who you are." It's unfortunately impossible not to know who he is. Theater kids have a perpetual spotlight on them like that, and the gifted ones are even worse.
“Everyone have a partner?” Ms. Torres glances around the room like it's super important we're all saddled with someone to blame if our project goes sideways. “Great. Now, I’m assigning each group a different theme, and I want y’all to discuss how this theme is approached in of Mice and Men. We’ll be taking turns to share our thoughts later in the week.”
She ambles down up and down the aisles, handing out neon pink laminated papers. Micah turns ours over. It reads: LONELINESS in large black letters cut out of construction paper.
I risk a glance at Micah's crocs. "Uhhh. This applies to, like, all the characters," I say. Read: How are we supposed to decide where to start?
"Of course it does," Micah agrees. "Existence is an inherently lonely proposition."
That’s the most depressing thing I’ve heard all day. Thanks, Micah.
There's a period of silence while we both contemplate loneliness. Then Micah says, "That's even more true when you're AuDHD. You are AuDHD, right?"
"It's pronounced ADHD," I tell him. You'd think a gifted kid wouldn't have trouble pronouncing ADHD. I mean, it's not exactly complicated.
“AuDHD," he repeats emphatically. "You know." He lifts his shoulders and gives me this look that makes me think he's trying to communicate telepathically. There's an awkward couple of seconds of complete silence before he realizes telepathy is a wash and clarifies out loud. "Autistic and ADHD.”
So it’s not a terrible pronunciation. It’s a terrible portmanteau, and Micah ought to be charged with a hate crime for it.
“Oh. Why didn't you say it like that in the first place?" I ask, annoyed that he expected me to understand his stupid fake word. Because now I feel stupid again, and I kind of hate that. "But yeah. Both of those," I admit reluctantly, bracing myself for one of three reactions:
1. You must be a genius! (I wish.)
2. I have a non-verbal cousin. Why do you have the same diagnosis? (Ask the people who make decisions about the DSM, not those of us afflicted with their labels.)
3. In my day, we had accountability, but now everyone wants to be special and also to excuse bad behavior and also what else do you expect from boys, doctors want to medicate them into compliance. (If all boys were like me–even leaving aside the sexuality thing for obvious reasons–humanity would be extinct by now. Just a thought.)
It turns out there's a fourth possibility, one I’m entirely unprepared for.
“I knew it. Us neurospicies need to stick together, am I right?”
And then he winks.
I squint at him, trying to decide if he's making fun of me, but since I'm not a telepath, either, this doesn't reveal the truth. Deciding we'd better actually work on our assignment, I flip open my copy of of Mice and Men. It may be depressing, but it's a lot less confusing than Micah.
“How’d you get an assessment?" he asks, apparently determined to avoid our project. "I can’t convince my doctor I need one.”
I shrug. "I was three."
Meaning it wasn't my idea and I don't remember anything about it.
Micah leans nearer, his hair brushing my shoulder. “Everyone keeps telling me I’m too smart to be Autistic or ADHD.”
I rapidly tap my pencil against the edge of my desk. “I wish someone would tell me I’m too smart for my diagnosis," I say sourly.
What other response is there? So glad I’m stupid enough doctors were willing to diagnose me? What the hell are you talking about, half the people I meet assume that being Autistic is a synonym for savant and then are disappointed I'm not one?
"Oh, no, but you're so lucky," Micah assures me. "At least you got a diagnosis. But even now that there's this greater awareness that gifted classes are where all the neurodiverse kids end up everyone still treats us like we're making it up."
I increase the speed of my pencil tapping until it’s a miracle it doesn’t break. "I thought Sped was where they normally put us. But go off, I guess."
"Well, sometimes we end up in special ed," Micah concedes, sitting up a little straighter, which is a relief since it means he's no longer crowding me. "But not most of us. Heaven help you if you're not a typical straight white boy. The establishment treats you like you're an impossibility."
Micah looks like a fellow white boy to me, but I’m not gonna ask. If he says he’s a quarter Cherokee I’ll be tempted to ruin my decade-long no-biting streak, and that might get me suspended.
“Huh,” I say. “The neurologist's crystal ball was broken when I got assessed.”
That derails Micah from his complaints. “What?”
“You said they don’t diagnose you if you’re not straight. So they didn’t do a good job predicting my future.”
"Oh." Micah straightens and leans so far into my face I practically fall out of my chair trying to get away from him. “Are you non-binary or pansexual or…?”
“Uhhhh. I’m gay," I say.
“Yeah, but, what kind?” he persists.
“What kind?” It's becoming increasingly apparent that Micah and I don't speak the same language. “The kind that only likes guys.”
“Ohhh. That kind," he says this as if there was some other kind of gay I might have meant. "Me, too." He breaks out into a toothy smile. "I didn't realize how much we have in common."
The bell saves me from having to respond to that, and I make a hasty exit without looking back. It's not until I've reached the end of the ELA corridor that I realize something both important and so, so horrible my stomach sinks right through the floor.
Micah and I started zero of our group work.
Reluctantly I glance over my shoulder, resigned to inflicting Micah on myself for the good of future Devin. But Micah has vanished into the throng.
And I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
When B lunch arrives I make my way to the back parking lot. When the weather cooperates I eat out here along with Jayla Deloach--influencer wannabe, energy drink addict, and self-described ‘basic off-white girl’. She’s also my best friend, primarily because of all the dance comp duets we've performed over the years. Of course, it helps that she’s also ADHD, although she hasn't needed an IEP since ninth grade. Lucky.
The late August humidity and temperatures are so high they ought to be outlawed. Sweat drips down the back of my shirt. The ornamental crepe myrtles planted along the sidewalk aren’t close enough to the picnic tables to provide any respite from the midday sun. Still, it's worth a little sweat to escape the cafeteria, which is always so crowded I don't know how anyone stands it. Out here the only sound is the steady background hum of suburban traffic and the occasional inexplicably screaming jock.
I sit on the end of the bench, stretching my legs into the sidewalk instead of folding up underneath the impossibly small space beneath the table and lay my hoodie on the bench beside me: It’s too hot for black or hoodies. Not that I’ll ever admit that to my parents, who nag me about it before school every single day.
“Green apple cherry,” I read as Jayla pulls a can of Celsius from her purse. “You’re not supposed to drink those at lunch, are you?”
“A girl’s gotta drink,” Jayla says. “And Celsius is proven to raise your metabolism.”
I squint at her as I take my gallon-sized water bottle out of my lunchbox. “You don’t need that.”
“We’re not all blessed with your tall-boy-metabolism.”
She always complains about my metabolism, but I don’t know what she expects me to do about it. It’s not like I can let her borrow it.
I toy with the crack in the rubber straw where I’ve chewed too hard, still moody over the morning’s math-tastrophes and Micah freaking Lahey. But I don't want to spend my whole lunch period grouchy so I ask, “Did you hear Chloe got contacted by the Rockettes?”
Jayla sits back abruptly. “What! No way! How—?”
I shrug and pull lunch out of my bag–slices of oven-roasted turkey, which I swear isn’t as boring as it sounds. It’s what I have every day, because that reduces the number of choices in my life. “TikTok, apparently. She went viral or something.”
“Are you for real?”
I roll up a slice of turkey. “Ava told me.” And," I add emphatically, ripping the turkey in half. "I’m gonna get Jackson for not telling me himself."
Jayla squeezes her eyes shut with a groan.
“You’re not happy for her?” I ask. Jayla’s not one of Jackson’s exes, so she doesn’t have a reason to hate Chloe.
Jayla evidently doesn’t see it this way. She drums her fingers against the table. “Why can’t any of our videos go viral? Chloe barely ever posts to her stupid TikTok!”
She says ‘our’ but that’s way misleading because social media is her thing, not mine. Well, obviously, I have social media. If she texts a link I’ll check it out, and if the link is to her content I’ll hit like. Maybe she’ll even get a rare comment from elusive social media cryptid BetterOffDev07. That’s the extent of my socmed use. This should surprise nobody, given the whole, you know, social part.
“Maybe post more on TikTok and less on YouTube?" I offer.
She ignores my suggestion. “We’ve gotta up our game, Devin. We’ve gotta brainstorm. We need to think of the perfect, most viral video concept ever."
“Uh huh, sure,” I say, not really listening because my attention has been diverted by Shuvam Adhikiri and his gaggle of well dressed friends.
“Yo. Dev. Are you with me?” Jayla snaps her fingers in my face and I realize I haven’t listened to a single thing she’s just said to me. She’s got that expectant look like she asked a question which is never a good sign.
Although I don't want to admit I wasn't listening, I fail to conjure up any hint of what she might have said so I settle for answering with an eloquent, "Huh?"
“I lost you there for a minute,” Jayla says.
“No, you didn’t. I’ve been right here.”
“Not that mind of yours, though. You looked like you were having serious thoughts about joining the film geeks over there.” She nods in the direction Shuvam and his friends vanished.
“I only have room in my life for one extracurricular,” I say. A shockingly high number of company dancers are in other extracurriculars, but I don’t know how they manage. Even more shockingly, the more extracurriculars they have, the better their grades. My best guess is they don’t need food or sleep, unlike the rest of us, who are mortals.
“Sooooo." Jayla draws the vowel out in a way that makes me want to bolt. "Which one is it? Leo Suarez? He’s a hottie.”
“You think Leo is hot?” I ask. I mean, he is, but I’m pretty sure he hates me, and if I’m gonna have fantasy relationships I’d like one person involved to like me.
My deflection attempt doesn’t work, which I should have expected. All the Deloaches are obnoxiously persistent.
“Not Leo?” She props her chin on her fist, staring at me with one of those mindreading looks other people sometimes get. “Hmm. Ankit! No, no, Ankit is too loud, isn't he. Oooh. Shuvam?”
Since I'm determined to keep my private relationship fantasies private I keep my gaze firmly on my lunch. Like hell am I telling her she's right. She'll never let that go. Not that it matters because unlike me and Micah, Jayla is telepathic.
“It is Shuvam," she squeals, applauding her own guesswork.
“I didn’t say you were right," I say, toying with my straw again.
“Aw. It’s written all over your face,” she says. She claps her hands together again--only once this time--and says breathlessly, “You should link him to our Vlog.”
I tense. “Why would I wanna do that?”
“Because we want more viewers," she says shamelessly and utterly predictably. Then, just to annoy me, she adds, “And so he can see your sexy moves.”
“Oh, nooooo, no, no, no," I tell her, shaking my head vigorously. "I’m not hitting on a straight guy, Jay.”
“He might not be straight."
“Somehow I'm not interested in taking that risk. But you can hit on Leo."
Neither of us has ever had a boyfriend, but she has a higher chance of obtaining one than I do. It's not that there are no other gay kids—Nesbit High has about a hundred students per grade, so I’m definitely not the only one, but the only ones I actually know are Kadarius and now Micah, and I don't spend time with either of them on purpose. Plus the one time I tried to attend GSA was a major bust. First of all, it was mostly girls and most of those were straight girls. Second of all, it turns out their whole deal is ‘advocacy’ and I barely manage the amount of advocacy my IEP requires of me. Why would I want to do more of it on purpose?
Jayla looks over her shoulder in the direction Shuvam and his friends disappeared. She drums her fingers against her celsius, presumably lost in thought about asking out Leo. Then she turns back around. "Hmmm. I gotta do everything around here, don't I?"
If she's calling me a coward she's absolutely right, but I'd honestly rather talk about her scary social media obsession than the many ways in which I'm failing at life. "Soooo. TikTok?" I prod, hoping to get her back onto a more familiar topic.
She takes the bait. “Right! Guess I'm gonna have to suck it up and make an account. You'd think after three years of regularly uploading dance content to YouTube dance scouts might have noticed me by now! Or you,” she adds in what is clearly an afterthought. "But fine. If TikTok is where they're at then TikTok is where I'll be. Our future dance careers depend on it."
“Placing at regionals will help our future dance careers.” And we probably have more control over that than we do over whether Jayla’s Vlog goes viral.
She waves her Celsius airily as the bell rings. "We can do that too."
I hope she’s right. My parents were Mr. and Miss Teen Dancer 1995 and I long to live up to their legacy.
Even if I fail Algebra and never get into college, I want them to be proud of me for something.
Is that too much to ask?