Page 98 of Seven Days in June

“I don’t know. I’m not good at normal-people small talk. I always want to get weird. Start a conversation about wildly unfounded conspiracy theories. Liminal spaces. Dermoids.”

“Shoulder muscles?”

“No, that’s deltoids,” said Shane, taking a gulp of seltzer. “A dermoid is a medical phenomenon. Sometimes an embryo’ll eat its twin in the first trimester. After it’s born, it grows dermoids, or pieces of the other baby, in inconvenient places. Fingernails, eyebrows. Teeth.”

Horrified, Audre clapped her palm over her mouth.

“Imagine living your whole life with a blinking eyeball in your liver,” he said, delighted at this captive audience.

“Do you have a dermoid, Mr. Hall?”

“Nah,” he said sadly.

“In social situations, my impulse isn’t to get weird. It’s to get deep. Like, hi, I’m Audre, and I’d like to pick your brain on religion, the trans military ban, homelessness, taking a knee during the anthem…”

Shane was blown away. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Yes!” She punched the air. “Religion?”

“Religion. Hmm. I guess it’s like fire. In good hands, fire can be used to do positive things, like keep you warm. Make s’mores. In bad hands, it can burn a witch at the stake. Lynch a Black body.” He shrugged. “When used for good, religion’s cool.”

“Well put. Trans ban?”

“Barbaric.”

“Homelessness?”

“Been there. No clue how to fix it.”

“Fair. Do you recognize the national anthem?”

“As what, a marketing scam?” Shane shook his head. “Miles Davis said there are two categories of thinking: the truth and white bullshit. The national anthem is white bullshit.”

“Wow, okay.Retweet.You passed.”

Shane’s phone buzzed in his pocket for the fifth time. With a quick apology to Audre, he checked the call log. It was Ty, phoning him to death—which was a little much, given that they’d just talked that morning (yet another frustrating, lengthy debate about Ty’s hypothetical rap career).

I’ll hit you back, Shane texted.

“Mr. Hall, what’s the source of your social anxiety? This party is full of writers. These are your people.”

“You’d think so, right? Here’s the thing. They all know me, but I don’t knowthem. Or I’ve met them but don’t remember. A long time ago, I used to…” Shane stopped here, knowing he couldn’t tell Audre that he’d spent most of the past fifteen years blackout drunk. “My memory is not the greatest. So I never know who I have a past with. It’s disorienting.”

“Fascinating. I need an example.”

Shane thought about this, squinting and stroking his chin.

“There’s a dude out there named Khalil who hates me. No idea why.”

“You don’t remember even a small detail?”

“Truthfully, I can’t imagine ever speaking to that guy. He’s the human equivalent of a spam email,” he said with distaste. “I must’ve done something, though. Who knows? I used to be an ass.”

“Listen, I navigate the choppy waters of Cheshire Prep every day,” said Audre. “Adult social stuff can’t be harder than seventh grade. It’s not hard to make friends. Just be an active listener. If you listen hard enough, you can tell what a person needs from you. And if you give them what they need, you’ve got a friend for life.”

Shane couldn’t help but chuckle at this tiny wise woman. “You’re terrifyingly astute.”

“I know.” Audre grinned, her dimple popping like Eva’s. With an indulgent sigh, she lay back into the pillows, gazing off into the greenery-packed backyard beyond the terrace. “It’s a burden, if I’m honest.”

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