How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,18
was a genie who could vaporize and hide inside. Ryan Dervitz. His moonface pale against the school’s dark brick. The shock of his soft lips brushing my skin. The little-kid crack in his voice when he yelled after me—Hey! I’m sorry!—and I just kept running and running.
“Can we not talk about that?”
Abel looks surprised. “Why?”
“It’s too…um.”
“What?”
“Sacred.”
“Effing Zander.” He shakes his head. “That guy. The sex must’ve been—”
“Spectacular.” My leg jitters. Can he tell I’m lying? I picture it with Sim, how it would be to lie with him under cool white sheets. “Like, intergalactic.”
“Did you kiss him first or did he kiss you?”
“I don’t—”
“I’ll tell you about my first time with Kade. We were at his parents’ pizza place at two a.m., and they have one of those kiddie rooms with the plastic balls, and—”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Whatever! Just tell me one place you did it.”
“In the silken softness of beach sand, under three alien moons.”
He squints. “Is that from a Cadsim fic?”
“Yep.”
“You asshat.”
He cracks up and kicks me under the table. Abel has perfect teeth, which is annoying, and now I can’t unsee the Olivier/cockatoo thing. He does kind of look like an old-timey movie actor. Broad rounded shoulders, strong straight nose, subtle chin divot, green-gray eyes that are probably capable of smoldering under the right circumstances. And the white hair does look feathery. I never looked at it for this long. I wonder what it feels like. If it’s soft and floaty or stiff with mysterious product. If I touched it—
“Oh my God.”
He’s staring at the bar. His jaw cranks open.
“Ohhhhhhh, shit.”
Hell Bells.
My skin prickles. I keep my eyes on my beer.
“What?” I whisper.
“This is it. It’s fate, Brandon.”
“What’s fate?”
“Don’t. Look.”
“Who is it?”
“That guy.”
“Who?”
“Him. Team Android Shirt! From the Q&A.”
“Ugh, you scared me.”
“You should be scared. He could be your destiny—don’t look!”
“You said we’d forget that stuff tonight.”
“Yeah, but this is too perfect!…Omigod. Omigod, he sees you.”
“So?”
“You have to talk to him.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“Yes. Yes. After the Bill Debacle? Prove you can do this.”
“My knee hurts.”
“What are you, eighty? Here, drink the rest of this. It’ll help your personality.”
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Don’t do that! He doesn’t want to think about you peeing.”
“I don’t care what he thinks!”
“He’s getting his drink…Oh, Brandon, a Kamikaze? He’s a total Cadmus.” He drains the beer, slams the bottle down. “Trust me, Tin Man. You need this.”
Abel gets up and cracks his knuckles. I say no, I feel like I say it a hundred times but he isn’t hearing. He’s loping to the bar with that casual Cadmus swagger and lighting up a smile and the guy in the black Team Android t-shirt—cute, with wavy blond hair and multi-pierced ear—smiles back right away. I watch them talk, my heel hammering the floor. It’s so stupidly easy for him. He could do this any day of the week. Maybe he’ll change his mind, keep this one for himself.
The guy looks over. He nods and gives me a little wave. I wave back. I’ll kill Abel. Absolutely murder him.
Team Android starts over to the table. Status: All systems destabilized. Meltdown approaching.
Bree LaRue cries, Sim is completely asexual! Father Mike opens to Chapter 3 of Put on the Brakes!: When you feel “temptation devils” dancing on your shoulder, just imagine a life alienated from God, full of cheap, temporary pleasures that leave you more and more hopeless and empty. Is that what you really want?
“Are you Brandon?”
I open my eyes.
Say something. Be calm. Be Sim.
“I am. Yes.”
“I’m Ian. Saw you at the Q&A.”
He holds out his hand and gives me a big friendly smile. A real flesh-and-blood boy with kind eyes and a Celtic cross necklace and really, really nice forearms. His presence thrums through me. If I wanted to, I bet we could be kissing in an alley before the next jukebox song is done.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Yeah…”
I feel my back against a brick wall, my shorts unsnapping.
“Yeah you mind, or yeah you don’t?”
“Um…”
Ian blinks twice, waiting. His eyes are gray, almost Sim-silver. The back of my throat goes sour.
“You okay?” says Ian.
“Yeah. Sure. I just—” I feel myself blushing again, which makes me blush more. His weirdo-detector starts pinging, you can tell.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
At the bar, Abel raises a bottle and an eyebrow. I want to explode his head, burn his $600 fake python boots and his cheap Cadmus shades. I hate Cadmus. Hate.
“Look, I’m really sorry,” I blurt. “My boyfriend’s twisted.”