Carry the Ocean: The Roosevelt, Book 1 (3 page)

“You—practiced?”

“Yes. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

“You…wanted to meet me?”
For a long time?

“Yes.” He rocked on the seat, moving his gaze to a tree. “I wanted to make a good first impression, but I gave you a panic attack. I’m sorry.”

Shame filled me, thick and unpleasant. “You didn’t do that. I’m…a mess. I was embarrassed to admit I didn’t want to go to school.”

“It’s a big transition. You should tell your parents you need to move more slowly.”

My bitter laugh caught at the edge of my throat. “My parents tell me I need to get over it.”

“I’m sorry. That’s a mean thing to say.”

I don’t know why I did it. Even as the words formed on my lips, part of my brain tried to shut me down, but Emmet scrambled all my expectations and assumptions, and apparently when that happens, my sensors get tripped. Instead of making an excuse for them, instead of murmuring
yeah, tell me about it
or something else like that, I said, “I have depression.”

“Oh. Do you mean MDD? Major depressive disorder? Clinical depression?”

I nodded, ashamed to my toes. “I…had a breakdown at school. I didn’t go to class for the last two weeks. I graduated, but since I didn’t go to the ceremony, sometimes I’m not sure it actually happened. I’m still stuck in the front of the class, blacking out because I’m not getting enough air.” The memory of that horrible day hung on me like fog. “My doctor wants me to take drugs, but my parents won’t let me.”

“Modern antidepressant medication increases monoamines in the synaptic cleft, and they’re clinically proven to elevate mood and alleviate depressive symptoms in many cases. Sometimes it takes time to find the right drug, and for some people they never work, especially without the addition of talk therapy, but they’re effective for a number of patients.”

This was the same thing the doctor said to me, I was pretty sure, but I didn’t understand it any more now than I had in May. It kept weirding me out how smart Emmet was—he
seemed
like someone I should have to compose small sentences for, but obviously that wasn’t the case. I wished I could ask him about that, but all I could think of was
what is wrong with you
, which was awful.

“How do you know so much about depression?” I asked instead.

“I read about it. I had a depressive episode when I was thirteen, so I researched my condition. Drugs aren’t advisable for teens except in severe circumstances, so I practiced mindful meditation and exercised. I also started homeschooling, which helped. Sometimes I have anxiety now, but most of the time I can make modifications to my daily life and avoid stressful situations.”

How was he rattling all this off like it was no big deal? Both the technical mechanism of depression and how it took him out of school? “Modifications?”

“Yes. I have a lot of modifications. I have a regular schedule and signs I use with my family to let them know I’m getting upset. At school it’s harder, but mostly I keep to myself and don’t talk to other people, and they leave me alone. Since I’m a genius, my professors like me and help if other students are mean. My peers call me names sometimes, but I put my earbuds in so I can’t hear them, and it’s fine.”

“Why…do they call you names?”

“Because I have autism.”

I don’t know what I’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. I’m pretty sure I stared, possibly with my mouth open. “You—you’re autistic?” I bit my tongue before I could add,
you can’t be.
Something was off about him, yes, but…autism? Weren’t autistics unable to speak, unable to touch people?

Emmet kept staring at the tree. “Yes. I have autism spectrum disorder. My brain is wired differently than most people’s. But it’s not like depression where they think it’s about monoamines. It manifests as social disorder and in how my body behaves, my mannerisms. I’m intelligent, more so than most people, but I have a hard time interacting with others. So most people act like there’s something wrong with me, that I’m stupid.”

Which is basically what I’d done. I felt awful. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They’re the ones missing out.” He paused again, but this time I was pretty sure he was working out what to say, not waiting because he felt he was supposed to. “I was hoping you’d want to be friends with me.”

I remembered he’d said he’d been wanting to meet me for a long time. I realized he’d worked up the courage to introduce himself to me, as if I were someone people clamored to get to know. The thought made me feel wonderful and self-conscious at once. “I’m not interesting. I…don’t have many friends.”

“Me either.” He turned his face so he almost looked at me, and he held out his hand. “What do you think? Should we give friendship with each other a whirl?”

I stared at his hand, unsure of what to do with it. Confused, flattered, terrified, and above all hypnotized, I put my hand in his. When he squeezed my fingers, a thrill raced through me.

For the first time since my meltdown, I wasn’t thinking about how to make the world stop, how to escape the failure that was my life. I thought about Emmet Washington, and physicists, and autism, and monoamines.

I thought about what it would be like, being Emmet’s friend.

C
hapter Three

Emmet

I
was thrilled with how well meeting Jeremey had gone. I’d worried his panic attack was a bad sign, but even that had worked out. Jeremey was everything I’d hoped and
more
.

I felt bad, though, that he had depression and his parents weren’t helping him with therapy. I worried about him leaving for college in the fall, with no friends to help him.

It wasn’t fall yet, though. We’d exchanged cell numbers, and I already had an appointment in my calendar to text him in the morning and arrange a date. Except Jeremey made an appointment to text me first.

I was working some math problems at 9:18 p.m. when my phone buzzed. It was the single buzz that meant someone new had texted me, which meant it might also be spam. Usually I ignore those and let my dad sort them out because once the spam was bad and it upset me. But then I remembered I hadn’t assigned Jeremey a vibration pattern or set up his contact at all beyond his name and number. That was unusual for me, and I don’t do anything unusual.

Jeremey was not usual to me.

I hummed for a minute and rocked in my chair while I tried to decide what to do.

Here’s the thing about my brain—it acts like an octopus, my mom says. This is another metaphor, but unlike the spoons, I understand this one. I don’t actually have a mollusk inside my skull, but part of my brain acts like one. It sits quiet until something pokes it, and then it puts tentacles all over and makes me feel nervous. I don’t like this metaphor. An octopus on your brain is bad, even a pretend one, but Mom says we can’t take it out without hurting me, so I live with an octopus. It’s gross, but I can’t change it. So I hum to it and rock and flap my hands.

I had to do everything—hum, rock and flap—until 9:23 p.m. I wanted to talk to Jeremey, but I couldn’t know if it was Jeremey until I looked to see if it said Jeremey Samson or unknown or nasty bad spam. I could ask my mom, but she would want to talk, and I didn’t want to talk to her right now. I wanted this to be
my
thing, with Jeremey. No Mom, Dad or Althea.

If it is bad spam, I will ask for the foam hammer to bang on my bed with,
I promised the octopus, and that worked. I flipped over my phone and touched the home button.

I saw Jeremey’s name and number appear in the preview notification with the word
hi
.

Now I hummed because I was happy. I unlocked the phone with my fingerprint, and when I opened the text app, I laughed. There was my text to myself, my joke I’d sent when I’d entered my number into his phone and sent a text so I’d have his number in mine.

Hello Emmet, this is yourself from Jeremey’s phone.
It was still funny. I tell good jokes.

I wanted to text back, but first I filled out his contact information and gave him a vibration pattern so I would know it was him when he texted next time. I gave him the heartbeat pattern because he made my heartbeat go funny, and because I wanted him to be my boyfriend. You use hearts for boyfriends. Or girlfriends, if you’re not gay or if you’re lesbian.

I hoped Jeremey was gay. I wished I could ask him, but Dr. North and my parents all told me with serious faces I could not ask people that right away. It is something I don’t understand. If it’s natural and okay to be homosexual, why is it such a big deal to ask if someone is or not? Except they tell me it’s because of the people on the TV and in the bad churches. Their hearts are sick, which they can fix but they usually don’t want to. It’s dangerous to be around them. They project hate onto people they don’t understand, and it can hurt me and other gay people. Some countries kill gay people.

I’m glad I live in Iowa, not those countries, and I’m glad our church is not a bad one. Iowa is a good state with lots of equality. It has same-sex marriage and had the first female lawyer and said people of different skin colors could get married to each other before the Civil War happened. Iowa is a good place. Some people here still have sick hearts, but most people are okay.

I worried if Jeremey was okay. I would need to use the foam hammer for a long time if he had a sick heart.

I was done entering Jeremey’s contacts, so I texted him.

Hello Jeremey. This is Emmet.
You don’t need to say it’s you in a text, but I prefer to. I like the way it looks, as if I’m there in the words.
I’m glad you texted me.

He didn’t text back right away, but I was patient because he might have had to go to the bathroom, or his bedtime might be earlier than mine. But I didn’t wait long before I felt the heartbeat vibration in my hand.

Thank you for introducing yourself today. I enjoyed meeting you.

The text made me smile. Not as big as when he wanted to be my friend, but it was still a nice stretch on my face. I hummed as I replied.
I would like to meet you tomorrow. What activities do you enjoy? What time are you free?

I wanted to see Jeremey tomorrow. I had several open spaces in my schedule. It could work.

He replied again.
I don’t have anything going on. Wide open.

I hesitated as I tried to understand what was wide open. Before I could figure it out, he texted again.

What do you enjoy doing?

I relaxed. I understood this question.
Many things. Math is wonderful, but so are computer games. Sometimes I make computer games. Minecraft is good, but not on the server. I don’t care to shoot things in games. I like reading. I enjoy poker, but people don’t want to play poker with me.

Why not?
he texted back.

They don’t like it when I count the cards, but it makes me nervous to play without counting.

Huh. Well, I don’t know how to play poker anyway. I play some computer games. But I like old ones, like Pharaoh.

I put down the phone and Googled
Pharaoh computer game
. You have to add computer game, or it will tell you about Ancient Egypt. I looked at the game pictures and read some reviews, then texted Jeremey.
I found it online. It looks fun.

Do you want to come over tomorrow and see it?

Also a hard answer. Yes, I did, but I got nervous thinking about going into Jeremey’s house. I would rather he came to mine. But Pharaoh was a PC game, and I only have Apple products, because they’re better. I hummed and rocked while I tried to think of what to do.

Jeremey texted back before I could answer.
Or we can go to your house.

That made me feel better. But I remembered Jeremey had panic attacks.
Will you be nervous to come here?

Yes, but I’m nervous all the time.

It made me sad to think Jeremey was always nervous. His brain octopus must be bad. I wanted to say I could go to his house so he wouldn’t be nervous, but I didn’t think I could. We were stuck. I didn’t want to go back to only watching him in his yard when he mowed the lawn. If it didn’t rain, he only mowed once a week, and never in a scheduled pattern, so sometimes I missed it.

Then I had an idea.

We could meet at the train tracks. Whoever is less nervous will go to the other person’s house.

Jeremey wrote back in thirty seconds.
That could work. What time do you want to meet?

I opened my calendar to my schedule. It’s always full, but the events are colored. Red events can’t be changed. Like bedtime. Yellow events mean I have to talk to my mom before I alter them. But green events are okay, and I can change them on my own. I had green events at nine, ten, eleven, one, two, three and four. I wanted to maybe use several events to be with Jeremey. So I would pick an early one. But I didn’t know if it should be morning or afternoon.

Do you wake up early, or do you sleep late?
I asked him.

Usually I sleep late, but I can set an alarm.

It made me feel good to think he would change his sleep schedule for me. Though he shouldn’t. Sleep was important.
Let’s meet at 1 p.m. Does that work with your schedule? I am free until 5 p.m.
I wanted to explain I go shopping for dinner with Althea at five, but this is extra information, and people don’t always want to know. Plus I’d have to explain Althea, and that’s not always easy.

One o’clock sounds good. I’ll meet you at the train tracks.

I smiled. I had a date. My first date. But then I remembered the train.

Sometimes there is a train at 1 p.m. They have an irregular schedule, but sometimes there’s one at the time we agreed to meet. If a train comes, wait in your yard and we can meet when it’s over. You shouldn’t go too close to trains. Accidents can happen.

Okay. I’ll watch for the train. And for you.

My mom knocked on my door—four knocks, so I’d know it was her. “Bedtime, sweetheart.”

She was right. My 9:50 p.m. alarm was about to go off to tell me to brush my teeth, get into pajamas, lay out tomorrow’s clothes and go to bed. I texted Jeremey.
I need to get ready to sleep now. I will see you tomorrow.

Okay. Good night. Thanks for talking with me.

Jeremey could make me smile so much. My smile made my face stretch as I replied to him.
You can text me in the morning if you want, if you don’t sleep too late. I can’t talk at noon because it’s lunchtime, but I have a vibration alert for you, and I will always know when you text me. I’ll answer unless I’m in a place inappropriate to answer a text.

I wanted to tell him about the heartbeat vibration pattern, but it was extra information. It also would mean I would have to explain I wanted him to be my boyfriend. Which it’s too early to say out loud, even I knew that. Sometimes feelings have to wait.

Jeremey texted back.
Thank you. Maybe I will text you.

Good night, Jeremey.

Good night, Emmet.