Page 4 of Summer of the Boy

“You grabbed my hand, not my arm.”

Ah, yes. I hadn’t realized I’d done that until just now.

Time for a subject change. “How about this,” I say, moving my hand from my neck to run my fingers through my shaggy hair. I get it now. We all have ticks. He might open and close his hands, but how many times have I run my fingers through my hair when nervous? “What if I meet you at work? We can hang out, even get lunch together so you don’t have to worry about Gabe Cera or his friends starting crap. Besides, I’m in the market for a new friend.”

“Okay.”

“Sure? You don’t mind being seen with a purple-haired freak?” He laughs, deep and beautiful. I like the sound of it maybe too much.

“I think the purple’s sexy.” And there, I get the full on smile back. So I return it with one of my own. “Leif,” he says and pauses a long effective pause. Ridley knows my name? How does he know my name? We didn’t go to school together. I think I’d remember not just someone who looks like him, but him period.

Finally, he finishes his thought, “Mom homeschooled me, but I used to watch you play ball.”

Well, one question answered.

“So are we friends now?” he continues.

“Do you want to be?”

“Yes.”

Good, yes. He wants to be my friend. Friends are workable. But god, his gorgeousness knows no bounds. And that smile. What about the laws? Can a non-autistic date an autistic? Would I go to jail or some shit?

This is where my mind wanders when we hear, “There you are.”

Mr. Trucker, the boss, startles us both with his too gruff for dealing with an autistic kid who’s prone to freaking out voice. I jump. Ridley does too. And then I notice his arms go straight, rigid at his sides. His hands opening and closing. Open. Close. Open. Close.

He mesmerizes me and I can’t help think the guy could probably hypnotize me into clucking like a chicken if he keeps it up.

“Your mother is here, Mr. McAllister,” Mr. Trucker continues. “You,” he turns on me. “Are you harassing this boy?”

What? “No. I’m helpingthe man. He needed—”

“Then that’ll be all. I have him from here.”

“He’s my friend,” Ridley chimes in. “He can walk with me.” I see the panic forming behind his hazel eyes which refuse to look directly at Mr. Trucker. And I might be mistaken, but it doesn’t seem he’s ever stood up for himself or talked back to an authority figure before.

Who wouldn’t be proud to inspire someone’s independence?

“Please, sir.” Pricks like him love words like sir. “He trusts me,” I say. Not saying the obvious,he doesn’t trust you. It really seems like Mr. Up-his-own-ass is going to send me off. Take some kind of glory for saving Ridley for himself. There should never be glory for helping another person. Brightside, sometimes even men like Mr. Trucker surprise me. Which this time he does, nodding his head in a nonverbal agreement.

“Come on, then.” The boss man ushers us away from the abandon automaton and underutilized restrooms. Ridley’s hands still open and close at his sides, but as we fall in step next to each other, they slow considerably.

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