A tray clattered down on the table opposite him, jolting him from his trance.
"You're a million miles away, Bruce. Come back."
Ruth.
She was the one exception to his entire, silent life. She was his neighbor, his "yard away" girl. Where he was dark and still, she was a chaotic splash of color—bright red hair, a loud laugh, and a complete, baffling immunity to the "freak" label that clung to him. She had decided, when they were six, that they were friends. Her decision had been final.
She was the only person in the world who could make the hum quiet down. Her presence was like a grounding wire, drawing the frantic, buzzing energy out of him.
"Just... thinking," he muttered, closing the sketchbook.
"Thinking," she snorted, pushing a sandwich at him. "You call it 'thinking,' I call it 'full-on astral projection.' You were gone." She leaned in, her voice dropping. "Did you finish the history paper?"
"Last night."
"Thank God. I'm completely stuck. You're coming over tonight. You can 'inspire' me."
"Your mom's making that tuna thing again, isn't she?"
"Do not slander the casserole," she said, deadpan. "And yes, she is. We can order pizza. My treat. As long as you explain the entire Louisiana Purchase to me like I'm five."
He gave her a small, rare half-smile. "Deal."
For a few minutes, sitting there with her, the noise of the cafeteria faded. The hum in his bones receded to a manageable throb. He felt... normal. Or as close to normal as he ever got. He was just a guy, sitting with his girlfriend. It was a lie, but it was a good one