How to Make a Human

I've made some stupid decisions in my lifetime. For example, when I was twelve I chewed a whole pack of Fizzies with my neighbor and pretended to have rabies in a public hospital. But even with that on my record, I think the stupidest thing I've done was to run away from my problems and straight into a seven-by-eight foot room where Shane had been vomiting away.

Shane was leaning against the toilet bowl, his cheek squishing his left eye closed and pulling up his lip. His right eye was struggling to stay open as he fought to stay awake. I pushed the shower curtain back and stepped into the bathtub, reaching to open the miniature window above the showerhead. I cranked the window as far open as it could go with the rusty latch.

"You okay, Olive?" Shane mumbled.

"I think I should be asking you that," I replied, stepping out of the bathtub once I got the window open. The smell was already filtering out, so I could finally take in enough air to speak.

Shane's eyes were closed and he only had the energy to turn the corners of his lips up slightly. "I'm tired as fuck, but I think I've puked most of everything out."

"Good to hear." I flushed the toilet that Shane had been ignoring.

"So, what's up with you? I heard bits and pieces of what Demetri said." He opened his eyes halfway and his smile grew, "What a fucking tool."

"No, no," I defended because my brain is made of poop that is easily sculpted by flattery. "He was just being honest."

"Honestly a dick. That fag-ass doesn't know how to be honest."

"Fag-ass," I mused to myself.

"Yeah, he was being a dip-nugget. You can't fart when you have diarrhea."

"Um. What?"

"He's got major blockage. Always had."

"So… I shouldn't feel bad because Demetri has diarrhea?"

"Metaphorical diarrhea."

"Oh."

"Die-are-he-uh."

"Okay, I got it. You can stop saying that now." I sat down and leaned against the wall parallel to him.

"What? Diarrhea? Would you prefer I say the runs?"

"No… could you just… not say it? Please?" I cringed. Really, this was the last thing I wanted to talk about in a barf-y bathroom.

Shane used what little strength he had to push himself off of the toilet. "Here's what I mean. So let's say you have the runs in class--"

"Okay, just say diarrhea."

"So you have diarrhea in class, right? You have to fart, but you can't because you might poop--"

"Where are you going with this?"

"Just listen. Let's say Shane's emotions are poop."

"Ah, so true."

"And friends fart together-- you know?"

I didn't know and Shane could tell, so he elaborated, "Farting is like… talking. You hang out and you say, 'shit dude, I had a bad day,' and you talk about it, but, you know, it's not that lame."

"So… if Demetri farts he might accidentally poop."

"Exactly! It's like he bottles everything up because he might just let it all out by accident. He feels like if he says one thing, everything else will come out."

"That's revolting."

"No, it's a social disease. You're awkward, he's secretive, I'm obnoxious. It's not revolting, it's the human condition."

"No, the poop metaphor was revolting," I explained.

"Well, yeah, but you get it, don't you?" Shane began pushing himself off of the ground, slowly but surely.

I also pushed myself off of the ground so that I could help him up. "You're surprisingly deep in a gross way."

"Only when I'm high, Olive, only when I'm high."

"Speaking of, how are you feeling?"

He blinked several times and shook his head once he gained his footing, "Dizzy, hungry, tired, and like a schoolgirl with a crush."

"We made a bed out for you on the couch," I told him, opening the door and ushering him out so that I could spray some Febreze without the smell making him puke. Shane nodded his head and stumbled down the hallway. I began sanitizing everything Shane had even looked at in the bathroom.

Demetri leaned against the door frame and watched me. "Are you mad?"

"Psh, why would I be mad?"

"I don't know… because girls are crazy."

I huffed, "Yes, I'm sure that's it, and it has nothing to do with the fact that you're socially retarded."

"I'm not socially retarded!" he defended, "If anyone is socially retarded, it's you!"

"Well, at least I can admit it!" I shot back. As usual, I couldn't think about what I was saying, I just said it accidentally. I sighed, "Listen, I don't want to waste my life arguing this, because if you fart you'll probably shit," Demetri gave me an odd look but I ignored it, "I'm not mad, but you could have stopped after, 'I don't like you.' I didn't need to know the back-story." I set the Febreze by the sink and left the bathroom to meet Shane in the living room. Shane was already asleep on the couch when I got there, so I pushed his feet aside and sat next to him while he snored softly.

Mae Beth (who had claimed the only chair, the sneak!) gave me a calculative stare, "What were you and Demetri talking about?"

"Cats." The response was immediate and for the life of me I cannot explain why I thought that would be a believable lie. "Like the musical. Not the animal. You can't have a stimulating conversation about the animal," I added because I must be drunk and, oh yeah, I'm brilliant.

Mae Beth knew I was simply a dumb ass who couldn't think of a good lie if it jumped in my pants and forced me to dance, but Ben was dense enough to believe (or humor) me.

"I beg to differ. I could talk about cats, the animal, all day. I would start with saying 'cats are little bitches,' and I would finish by saying 'when I was eight I hit my neighbors cat while riding my bike and I don't feel bad.' " I like the phrase "little bitch," so I stored it in my mind for later use.

Shane snored loudly and we all turned out attention to Iron Chef. Demetri entered the room short after and took a seat on the floor next to Ben. I knew that Mae Beth could sense the tension, she could freaking spidey sense this shit, but she was kind enough to not say anything.

"Bobbie, can I see you in the kitchen?" Oma's voice chimed from the kitchen. Oh, how the anxiety filled my head and pressed against my skull. I debated whether or not to pretend that I didn't hear her before I decided to bite the bullet and join her in the kitchen.

"Have a seat, Bobbie." Oma gestured to one of the stools surrounding the kitchen's island. Opa was sitting on a stool across from mine, chowing down on the sandwich Oma had made for Shane. I took the seat and eyed Oma skeptically as she placed a Pepsi in front of me and poured half of it into a glass with ice.

"That’s name brand." Oma nodded proudly. Both Oma and Opa took name brand items as a huge luxury. I'm not sure if that's an old person trait or a German trait, but it had rubbed off of me and I was excited to drink "fancy soda."

Oma took a seat next to Opa and folded her hands on the table. "So, Bobbie."

"Yeah?"

"We're going to give you the opportunity to defend yourself, so go on. Defend," Oma commanded. Opa was too involved with his sandwich to even care.

"Well… um, I'm not the inebriated one, so it's not like I have consciously made any wrong decisions… and I think Shane is a nice guy who made an accident… and uh," I paused to think. Was there a reason for me to defend myself? Was I defending Shane? What the hell was I supposed to do?

There is one thing that stands strong and true for all mothers and that is this: They can play mind games like nobody's business. They were born for it. Now, imagine a grandmother. These old betties have twice the experience and and an air of frail innocence that you just can't beat. The "grand" in "grandmother" doesn't stand for old, or whatever you have been taught. It stands for "War-tactic-using-manipulating-master." It's true. Look it up.

So, when faced with my Oma, who raised four of her own children plus me, I only had a few options. I could

A.) Tell her the honest truth. I had no idea Shane was a junkie and I didn't know my judgment was so off.
B.) Lie. Lie. Lie. Shane was drugged by a classmate, the poor dear, he didn't stand a chance.
Or C.) Be painfully honest. Tell her everything. Disregard relevance. It's unnecessary. Break down entirely and make an ass out of yourself.

I don't know why, really, I don't, but I decided that option C would be superb. I must have caught Shane's high from standing too close to him. That has to be it. I'm not a moron.

"I don’t know how to defend myself here, Oma!" I gurgled. "Let's face it: I have never been good at making friends! Ever! Name one friend besides Shane and Demetri who you have met! Even in my old school! It's pathetic really! I was just… gah! I don't know, excited. I had a friend and we were… friends and friends are friendly and they hang out and they laugh together and do stuff together and Shane says they fart emotionally together and I thought that was awesome! And then it wasn't awesome because I thought Shane was cool and now he's a junkie or something and Demetri's just a little bitch. I know, I mean, I really know that I shouldn't be friends with… well, Shane, I guess, but, come on! Who else do I have?"

There was a long awkward silence where I heard the TV's volume click on. Apparently everyone in the living room is an eavesdropping ass. Yay for me.

"Bobbie," Opa swallowed a mouth of sandwich and began to say sagely, "If you're only friends with Shane because you feel like you have no other options, then you need to rethink your friendship."

"And no one said that you shouldn't be friends with him," Oma added. "I know he's a nice boy. I lived through the sixties, I've seen your father go through worse then your little ginger-friend. As you said, he made a mistake."

Ben entered the kitchen , "Do you think I can join the conversation?"

"No," Oma, Opa, and I said in unison.

"Damn it," he mumbled, shuffling out of the kitchen and resigning himself to simply listening in.

"Your Opa is right though," Oma continued, "If you don't really want to be friends with Shane, don't use him because you're lonely. That's not how your parents--"

"And us!" Opa grunted.

"And we, as well, raised you. "

"I really do like Shane. He's… Shane. I can't imagine myself not being friends with him," I mumbled. I didn't want it to sound like I was using him because I'm not. At least I think I'm not.

"Then what about Demetri?" Opa asked. "What did you call him?"

"A little bitch!" Ben called from the living room.

"Oh, yes. A little bitch." Opa nodded. "If you think this, then why do you hang out with him." It wasn't a question.

"Can we not talk about this when everyone in the living room is listening?" I groaned.

"I don't get why you would hang out with him if you hate him." Oma tittered, ignoring me. "I would never do that. Not if you paid me. It is like compromising my morals. You know, when I was a little girl, my friend, Ariana, had a friend who was a real brat. And you know what I did? I put glue in her hair."

"Okay…" I responded, unsure of how to respond.

"But this is the boy who punched the pudgy ginger-boy," Opa reminded, holding up a finger.

"Oh, yes… How can you not like him after he punched the pudgy ginger-boy for you?" Oma asked.

"Trust me, I disliked him before," I mumbled under my breath.

From the living room I heard Ben, “Wait, Demetri, what the fuck did you do?”

Oma waved away my comment, "If you don't like him, then don't hang out with him."

"She should hang out with him! He punched the pudgy ginger-boy!" Opa sounded resolutely.

"That doesn't make them friends, Rolland!" Oma snapped.

"Um… can we please talk about this later?" I repeated my previous question.

"Fine. Will Shane tell his parents or shall we?" Oma questioned sternly.

"Uh… neither, please?"

"Bobbie, your Oma and I consider ourselves fairly reasonable people, but we cannot not tell his parents. That is where we take our stand," Oma said sagely.

"Omaaaaa," I whined, dropping my head on the table.

"Be thankful! Some parents wouldn't let you even talk to the boy after this mayhem! Now we are being as understanding as we can be at this age! We still have our morals and we expect you to respect them!" Oma snapped, standing up and taking Opa's plate to clean it.

"I'll call them," Shane mumbled, shuffling into the kitchen. "That seems fair enough."

Ah, what a surprise, he was also eavesdropping.

"When you are done, I will need to speak to them," Oma told him, handing him the phone. Shane nodded and Oma and Opa left the room to give Shane his privacy while he made the call.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, looking at the cold linoleum floor and curling my toes.

"Nah, I am. This has gotta be a pain in the ass," Shane shrugged, looking at the phone sadly.

"Well… I'll leave you to it then," I said for lack of something else to say. "And Shane, even with this, I'm still glad we're friends."

"As am I, Olive. Now get out of here so that my mom can rip my head off via phone." Shane smiled but, I think he was serious.

I joined Ben and Mae Beth on the couch, while Demetri sat in the cushy chair.

"So were you all eavesdropping?" I asked even though I knew the answer.

Mae Beth and Ben stared at the TV and pretended they didn't hear me.

"You think I'm a 'little bitch'?" Demetri asked.

"Are you surprised?" I retorted, crossing my arms, still a bit butt-hurt about my previous rejection.

"Well… no, but a little bitch? Really?"

"I wouldn't have said it if you didn't act like one."

It was like every motion I just went through was surreal. And then I said that, and it wasn't surreal any more. It was real. I didn't say that because I was trying to sound cool or because I was so pissed off that I couldn't stop myself. Every other time I snapped at Demetri, I couldn't really help it. I said that because that's what I was thinking and because I wanted to say it.

It may not seem much, but that is definitely a step. And quite possibly a big one.

".. If I didn't act like one?" Demetri mused to himself. "I could do that."