Never Always Sometimes - Adi Alsaid Page 0,23
jokes.” She spun
around to face Dave and propped her feet up on the corner of his
bed, placing his computer on her lap. Her soles were permanently
gray and callused and Dave loved the sight of them, even if they
were, objectively speaking, gross. “Some of these are seriously awful.
If ours is this bad I don’t care how many people vote for you, we’re
committing seppuku at graduation.”
“That might be an overreaction.” He sat up, his back against the
headboard, rolling the soccer ball back and forth on the bed until a
bad spin caused it to fall to the ground. “I hate to admit it, but we
might need Brett’s help.”
“Now you’re talking. To think like them we have to associate with
their kind.”
“Your word choice has been concerning lately. You sound vaguely
fascist.” Julia stared him down and Dave sighed. “Throw me my
phone, I’ll see if I can bribe Brett with pizza to get him to help us out.”
Julia reached for his phone on his desk and tossed it at him, then
turned her attention back to prom campaign videos. He wasn’t quite
used to the pink hair yet, but her face was still as beautiful as it always had been. Sometimes, Dave wondered if maybe he saw more beauty
DAVE 81
in it than others did, if it was love alone that attracted him to her.
Why other guys weren’t constantly chasing after her was impossible
to understand, though it wasn’t something he questioned either.
Sure, she’d seen a couple of guys over the last few years. But she did
not receive the kind of attention he thought she deserved.
“How many times do you think I can use ‘bro’ in one text without
him thinking I’m making fun of him?”
“Two, tops.” She brought her index finger to her mouth and
absentmindedly chewed on her nail. “Actually, he might get offended
if you don’t ‘bro’ him a few times.”
“‘Hey, bro. Julia and I are doing this prom king stuff and need your
help, bro. . . .’ Ugh, I already want to punch myself in the face.”
He deleted the message, checked his e-mail and social media, then
opened up the text function again and retyped the message as it was.
“Wouldn’t it be interesting if every text message you received told you
how many times it’d been edited before being sent?”
Julia shivered. “Don’t talk about that stuff. It makes me get
existential.”
“How do text messages make you feel existential?”
“I start thinking about exactly that: how people can edit a thought
before sending it out to the world. They can make themselves seem
more well-spoken than they are, or funnier, smarter. I start thinking
that no one in the world is who they say they are, then my mind goes
to how I also edit myself, not just online but in real life, except for
those rare instances like right now where I’m ranting—even though
that’s a lie because I’ve had this train of thought before and damned if 82 NEVER ALWAYS SOMETIMES
I didn’t tweak it in my head a few times to make it sound better—and
then my mind starts racing so furiously I can’t control my thoughts,
and I start thinking about robots and wondering if I’m even a real
person. Then I have to watch cartoons to shut my brain off.”
Dave blinked at Julia. “Sometimes I forget how truly insane you
are.”
“That’s what I’m saying! Sometimes I wonder why I’m so popular at
school.” Julia clicked a few times on the computer. “There are far too
many prom king campaign videos that involve white kids rapping.”
“White kids are allowed to rap.”
“Not like this,” Julia said.
“Speaking of popularity, have you noticed people being more
talkative with you in class since the Kapoor party? It’s like we
accidentally initiated ourselves into a higher level of acceptance just
by showing up there.”
Julia glanced up at him over the top of the computer. “Maybe with
you, flip-cup champion. People still avoid me like a slightly more
contemporary version of the plague.”
“You sure you aren’t insulting people somehow? Giving off a closed-
off vibe by, I don’t know, puking on them or something?”
“Puking on people is not an insult.”
Dave stood from the bed to go retrieve the stuffed soccer ball.
While he was up the doorbell rang, not that pleasant one-two chime
that other houses had but a horrifying singsong melody that stretched
out far too long. Dave ran out his bedroom door before whoever was
there had a chance to ring again. He jostled down the stairs, steadying
DAVE 83
himself with the handrail in case his socks and the hardwood floors
decided to conspire against him.
When he reached the door he took a second to catch his breath,
chastising himself for being out of breath from going down the stairs.
Why