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“What else does everyone do that I don’t?” I tease back. “I’ll take a list, June.”
We’re now both sitting against the sides of my truck, facing each other, legs stretched out as we eat pizza and the sun goes down, the river rushing by the boat launch a few dozen feet away.
We didn’t even discuss whether we should eat together in town somewhere. June’s positive that Marjorie Thompson, the harridan at the Historical Society, won’t tell anyone that we were together, but anything else feels too risky.
June doesn’t want Silas knowing that we’re spending time together like this. I don’t want him knowing.
“Eat meat,” she says, turning her half-eaten piece from side to side, like she’s deciding the best plan of attack. “Watch football. Own a television. Eat at fast food restaurants. Have a cell phone.”
I wonder if everyone else really does have napkins in their car and if it’s really that strange that I don’t.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d be the odd man out in some small, insignificant way. It might not be the hundredth, because to be honest, I stopped counting years ago.
I don’t eat meat. I read too many books. I haven’t played a video game in years. I don’t watch sports. I don’t even own a television.
Sprucevale’s my home, and I don’t see myself ever leaving. There’s a lot I love about this place and I can’t imagine being anywhere else. I don’t even feel like a square peg in a round hole.
I’m more of… an octagonal peg in a round hole. I almost fit.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll work on becoming a Big Mac-chomping football fan. Maybe I could wear some camouflage and shoot some guns while I’m at it.”
June looks at me for a moment, her face unreadable, her slice of pizza hovering uneaten in front of her mouth.
“It’s not a bad thing,” she says. “I’m sorry, Levi, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m kidding,” I say softly.
“I like that you’re different,” she says, her voice matching mine.
My heart flares, beats faster, and there’s a bright moment where this seems possible, where June and I could simply stay in this truck and eat pizza together and never deal with other people or the future.
“I have a cell phone,” I tell her instead, taking another bite, and the moment’s over. We are who we are, and we can’t be anyone else.
“I’ve never seen you use it,” she counters, attacking her slice from the side.
“You called me on it,” I point out.
June frowns, thinking.
“I thought that was your land line.”
“Why would I answer that at ten a.m. on a Tuesday?”
June chews, swallows.
“All right, fine,” she says. “You’ve got a cell phone and that makes you extremely average and normal.”
“That’s a big statement,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “You sure you want to go that far?”
I pull out my phone.
June starts laughing.
“I take it all back,” she says. “Is that an antique? Does it work?”
“Am I still average and normal?” I tease, waving my silver flip phone.
“Definitely not,” she says, tearing at the crust with her teeth. “You’re an alien. The government should abduct you and study you to see how you survive in Earth’s atmosphere.”
“I sleep in a recharging pod in my basement every night,” I tell her, putting my phone back. “Takes me half an hour every morning to put my human suit back on.”
“You’ve got a recharging pod, but not a smartphone?” she asks, taking the last bite of her pizza.
“I’m a complicated alien,” I say.“Thanks for the ride,” June says as the truck pulls to a stop alongside her car. “And the pizza. And entrusting me with the truth about your otherworldly origins.”
It’s dark out, nearly ten at night, because after we finished eating pizza we sat in my truck for another two hours, letting darkness fall over us while we talked.
We talked about aliens. We talked about Alaska. We talked about tree murders, and Silas, and pirates, and whether anyone’s ever actually found buried treasure.
June maintains that no one ever has. I maintain that someone has, just never the treasure they were hoping for.
We sat there, and we talked, and we pretended that our knees weren’t touching. I pretended that I’ve never kissed her, that I’ve never wanted to kiss her, and by the time we got into the cab of the truck so I could drive her back to her car, it felt like it was working.
But now she’s sitting next to me, her blue eyes still startling in the dark, and she’s looking at me like she remembers, and it feels nearly impossible to pretend.
“As long as you can keep the secret,” I say.
“Of course I can,” June says, the hint of a smile in her voice, in her eyes. “I’ll never tell a soul, Levi.”
There’s a pause, a heavy moment where I feel like we’re strung together, like there’s something between us more than words and air.
