Chapter 1, Part 2 "Sam" Monday, May 23, 2033
"How did you like the first day of class?" I ask Javier as we walk towards the L-train a few blocks away. The aroma of a nearby hot dog vendor makes my stomach growl as the mid-afternoon heat and humidity slowly drain my energy.
"It was okay."
"Are you hungry?" I ask, hoping Javier will join me for a late street lunch.
"No."
I let it go and decide to eat when I get home. I understand why Javier doesn't make eye contact. Donkey sandwich. Asperger's. And so instead of taking offense, I sense his frustration about wanting to communicate, but not understanding how. My dad's a psychologist, so I know a little about Asperger's. I'm reminded of one of my dad's favorite old songs called People.' The singer is Barbara something. Anyway, it was before my time. I hear it sometimes when my dad plays it in his office at home. I like the lyrics. There's this one line in the song that goes, People who need people are the luckiest people in the world.' That's really all I remember from it. Does Javier need people? I'm sure he does. He just doesn't know how to show it. He seems to respond to me on some level. Suddenly I get an idea, and I say, "Javier. Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Can you look at me?"
Unsure at first, he slowly looks at me, then quickly looks away.
I reach out to touch his arm, but he shirks away.
Pausing to carefully consider my words, I say, "You don't like being touched, do you?" In some strange way, this makes sense to me. People. I find myself searching for a connection between Javier and that song.
"No," he responds. We've stopped walking for the moment. Still looking away, Javier seems lost in his own world. Then I calmly ask, "Will you try looking at me again?"
Slowly, even more slowly than before, as if his trepidation has increased, he looks down into my eyes, and this time he doesn't look away.
"I know you don't want me to look away," Javier says, maintaining his gaze into my eyes as a few strands of jet black hair drop down over his face. Wavy hair covers his ears and shimmers in the afternoon sun, parts of it looking more white than black with reflected light.
"Do you still trust me?"
"Yeah," Javier says and seems to relax a little.
We gaze into each other's eyes for more than a few seconds. I love his eyes. They have a dark mysterious quality to them. His thick eyebrows angle slightly up and out causing him to appear more serious than he really is, giving him a strong face that belies his obvious inner turmoil. I'm loving this, not only because of his gorgeous eyes, but also because I'm beginning to connect with him, something I imagine most people are never able to manage, probably because they don't care or don't have the patience. Suddenly catching myself in mid-thought, I wonder why I would think he needs my help. Maybe he thinks I need his help. Why not? After what seems like several seconds, I say, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Javier doesn't look away. Neither do I. Then Javier surprises me by reaching out and placing his hand on my upper arm. Even more surprisingly, he leaves it there.
Feeling emboldened, I ask, "Can I do that?" There's something about physical contact. To be touched. To be caressed. Last summer, I took a massage class just for fun. Physical contact has deep emotional implications. "I won't if you don't want me to."
After pondering, Javier says, "I want you to."
"You're feeling brave, huh?" I ask with a smile.
"Yeah."
I reach out, just like before and gently wrap my palm and fingers around his bare upper arm, bare because he's wearing a tank top. Instantly I feel his inner tension, like when a masseuse tells you how tight your muscles are. In Javier's muscles, I feel not only tension, but also strength. I wonder if he's aware of the strength he conveys, not just physically, but emotionally. He lets me keep my hand on his arm and doesn't shirk away this time, but he does look away again as he removes his hand from my arm.
"Javier ... ," I whisper. He slowly turns and looks into my eyes without my having to finish the sentence as I caress my hand up his arm to his shoulder. "I like you." I'm not lying. I do like Javier. I know that I can be direct with him, and this actually makes communication easier because I don't have to be coy or flirty at all. In fact, coy flirtation would most likely be lost on Javier. His predictable personality is refreshing in a world where people can be unpredictable more often than not.
"I like you, too," Javier responds after a few seconds, completely devoid of emotion.
Javier's honey brown skin is surprisingly smooth, almost like glass, as if he's spent most of his life indoors. Not a mole or freckle in sight. I can feel some slight moisture from the warm Chicago afternoon which could be from my sweaty palms as much as from Javier's arm. As my hand runs down his arm, my thoughts ramble to the many times my pale skin has suffered sunburns after having spent too much time on the beach or in a pool. I'd trade my skin for Javier's in a heartbeat. My hand reaches his, and I squeeze, leaving no doubt in Javier's mind that I'm not letting go. He doesn't squeeze back, but he doesn't pull away either. Still looking into his eyes and feeling like the rest of the world is slowly beginning to disappear around me, I smile. I can see he's also trying to smile, but only slightly. More importantly, I see in his eyes the hint of a smile. I'd miss it if I weren't looking for it. Sometimes we experience moments that could last forever. We don't want to leave. This feels like one of those moments.
Coming back to reality, I say, "This afternoon sun's getting hot," as I turn and start walking, still holding his hand, our fingers now interlocked. Humidity fills my nose with the strong fragrances of window-box flowers outside the first-floor apartment windows of little old ladies and the pungent scent of drying asphalt after a brief afternoon rain while we were still in class. The old neighborhood is alive with the sounds of people and traffic moving about in all directions. I like this. I don't want words to intrude as we stroll along, holding hands, like one of those couples in a romantic movie. Sometimes more can be spoken in silence than with words, but usually it takes knowing someone longer than I've known Javier. He's different. In fact, everything's different now ... somehow. Eventually, curiosity gets the best of me, and in an effort to converse as well as get to know Javier better, I say, "So, tell me about your family."
"Mom, Mateo, Maxime," he responds and then adds, as if suddenly realizing that his words were a bit truncated, "Well, Maxime is my friend, not my family."
"I'm an only child. What about your dad?"
"He died when I was young." Javier sounds as if he doesn't want to elaborate, so I don't press him. "What does your mom do?" I ask.
"She's an agronomist."
"What's that?" I can guess what it is, but I enjoy listening to Javier's voice. It has a low-pitched husky quality that's incredibly soothing. He'd be great at reading bedtime stories. I like to watch his Adam's apple move when he talks.
Looking off into the distance, Javier says, "She works for a consulting company primarily on government land reclamation projects."
"Oh?"
Javier is silent. He didn't catch my rising intonation. He doesn't know I just asked for clarification. This time I press him for more information. "What's that all about?"
"It's the recovery and protection of land for long-term natural resource development and preservation."
Good answer. Very textbook. "Cool." Changing the subject, I ask, "What about Mateo?"
"My brother's 17, but I spend more time with Maxime. He lives next door. We've been friends since kindergarten."
I'm glad Javier has a friend. I know it's hard for him to interact with people. We walk in silence until we reach the stairs up to the train platform where he lets go of my hand. As we climb up, not at all in a hurry like I usually am when catching the train, we seem to be savoring these last few minutes together. At least I am. At the top, Javier notices that his train is next. The overhead marquis says mine is 12 minutes after his. As Javier's train approaches, I turn back to find him looking at me.
"Thank you," he says matter of factly. Still no smile.
"For what?"
"For being nice to me."
"You've been nice to me too," I say.
"I'm sorry."
"Why?" I ask, genuinely wondering.
"I'm not very good with people."
"I think you're just fine with me. Okay?"
"Okay." Then after a short pause, he says, "I really do like your hair."
"Thank you. Why do you like my hair, Javier?"
"Why do you like my eyes, Sam?" Javier asks with what sounds like sarcastic humor.
"Answering a question with a question. I like that. Your eyes reach out and captivate my attention. You should make eye contact more often. You have the kind of eyes that people love to look at."
"I understand. People have told me that before, but not in those words. I like your hair because it's blond, different from mine," he says, alternating between looking at my hair and into my eyes.
The arriving train is getting so loud that I have to raise my voice. "I like you," I say for the third time today. Suddenly feeling bold again, I stand on my tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss Javier on his cheek, more out of curiosity to see what he'll do than anything else. But I really do like him. In what way, though, I'm not sure yet. Javier simply stands there, looking off into space, neither accepting nor rejecting my advance. The train comes to a stop, the doors open, and I say with a smile, "See you tomorrow."
"Yeah," he grunts as he turns towards the train and walks through the doors, not looking back.
I watch him through the windows, wondering what's going through his mind right now. At first he's looking away from the window, away from me. Then, just as the train pulls away, Javier turns and looks out the window at me, and smiles. Anyone else would say it's an awkward smile, but I think it's the sweetest one I've ever seen.