By John Adams
“Impostor Syndrome.” Tommy’s voice cracks on that last syllable. “Thinking you don’t deserve good things you’ve earned.” He doesn’t look at me, hasn’t looked at me since our friends left. “I… have it too, Natalie, sometimes.” He fumbles with the zipper on his letterman’s jacket.
I want to hold his hand.
I want him to hold my hand.
But he doesn’t.
“I tripped,” I say. “During cheerleader tryouts. I still got on the squad, and—”
He looks at me.
He takes my hand.
And within my synthetic human-suit, underneath my oozing true skin, my seven scaled hearts flutter.
John Adams lives in the Kansas City area, where he produces comedy shows and writes to amuse himself.