List of Ten

by Halli Gomez

  But I couldn’t do it now. I wasn’t ready to face those cards. My hands tightened into fists and my fingernails dug into the palms. I dared them to bleed.

  I took a deep breath and clicked on the paper-and-pencil icon again. On a new page I made another list: Methods to Die.

  1. Gun

  I didn’t have to try and buy one or steal one. There was a handgun locked in a gray metal box on the top shelf in Dad’s closet. I found it by accident when, six months ago, I was looking for a hat. It called to me even then, just a whisper because it wasn’t the right time.

  But it would be soon.

  I stuck out my pointer finger and thumb in the shape of a gun like I’d done so many times when I was little and playing cop. Now I knew there were more uses for a gun. I opened my mouth and jabbed the “barrel” to the roof of my mouth. Placement was the difference between living and dying. I pulled the “trigger.” The bullet traveled up to my brain.

  Pow!

  FEBRUARY 2

  Whatever clueless administrator decided we should have four seventy-five-minute classes a day clearly never sat through English with Mrs. King, had ADD, or planned his or her life around talking to a girl.

  So, thanks to this A-day, B-day schedule, I didn’t have science today and wouldn’t talk to Khory until tomorrow. But to get her to kiss me, I needed as much time as possible. All I had to do was figure out her schedule and a way to be in the same hallway as her.

  The schedule was the easy part. We both had Mr. Nagel for math. I had him third block, and Khory and I had science together fourth, so that meant she had math first or second block.

  Since Mr. Palmer, my second-block Introduction to Engineering teacher, handed out bathroom passes like candy on Halloween, I tried him first. Ten minutes before the end of class bell rang, I was counting and bending across the school to the only possible hallway Khory could take from Mr. Nagel’s classroom to the cafeteria.

  I got there just as the bell rang and leaned against a locker hoping the owner didn’t show up. Someone being freaked out by my bizarre behavior might influence Khory in the wrong way. My neck twitched; I counted to ten and squeezed my hands. I repeated it three times before Khory darted around a group of people hanging out and blocking the hallway. She was headed this way. I put a hand on the locker to steady myself.

  “Khory,” I choked out, barely loud enough for me to hear. I cleared my throat. “Khory.”

  She turned toward me and tilted her head. Maybe she didn’t remember me. I ran my hand through my hair and thought about letting this chance pass. Face the locker, pretend it was mine, and let her think she was hearing things. But time was running out. I had a sixty-four-day deadline.

  I waved her over. She leaned toward a girl with long brown-and-green hair, then stepped toward me.

  “I just wanted to say I’m good in math.” Math, yes. Conversation, no. “I mean, if you need help.”

  I cringed as the words came out of my mouth. Would she think I called her stupid? And why did I assume she’d want my help? Khory peered down the hallway, then back at me and smiled.

  “I’m supposed to meet my friends for lunch. Come on, we can talk there.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Then I realized what I agreed to. I almost died during the last seat change, and now lunch with a thousand more people? There was a reason I’d picked out my seat at the beginning of the year and did everything except carve my name in the table to make sure no one else sat there.

  Just like in Science, I preferred an out-of-the-way place. The back corner. I wasn’t completely alone. Riley and Nicholas were near. Not close enough to touch their trays, but close enough to debate DC Comics versus Marvel.

  Did her friends have lunch trays? They would have to, or brown bags. Something for me to reach out and touch. I squeezed my hand. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Air couldn’t find its way to my lungs. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Why did I think HQ’s technique would work one day?

  I forgot what to do. Breathe? Khory moved to my left, closer to the middle of the hallway where people with coordination texted and sprinted past the slow kids. Just as on the highway. I breathed in. Then out. Repeat. We started walking. I focused on ten steps and breathing. When I got to ten, I bent down and touched the floor. The dark spots on the white-and-tan swirly tiles were not part of the design. Whoever invented portable hand sanitizer was a genius.

  When I stood, she was still beside me.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “My friends will save us seats.”

  I gasped. I couldn’t look at her. Or talk to her. My neck twitched faster. Talking about it would come. It had to, it was on the list, but right now I stared straight ahead and focused on the path. We made a right turn and went through the lobby. I could see the cafeteria doors. Images of lunch trays invaded my mind. My hand reached out like I could touch them.

  I took a breath, but the air didn’t get past my throat. I sucked in some more. A drop of sweat trickled down my face. We were at the cafeteria doors.

  My regular seat called to me like a brand-new video game. I needed a good excuse to decline her invitation and find comfort in the corner, but everything I came up with was crap. Even I would have told myself I was full of shit.

  I followed Khory to the short line for drinks, grabbed a bottle of water for each of us, and paid the cashier.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  She scanned the cafeteria. I held a cold water bottle against my chest in an effort to jump-start my lungs. I was on my eighth round of ten when she pointed to a table in the middle of the room. Of course, the middle. I put the bottle to my forehead and followed her again. This time to my doom.

  Khory stopped next to the girl with brown-and-green hair. “Hey, guys, this is Troy. He’s going to tutor me in math. Troy, this is Rainn and Jay.”

  Rainn’s love of green didn’t stop with her hair. She wore a lime-green blousy-type shirt over a darker green tank top. It wasn’t bad. Then she pulled out a green lunch box. That may have been overkill, but who was I to judge? My clothes and lunch box were bland and blue.

  She leaned forward and studied me from head to toe. Her nose crinkled, and her lip curled like she’d drunk spoiled milk.

  “Hi,” Rainn said to me, then shifted toward Khory. “Math tutor?”

  Khory hit her arm and turned away from me.

  Jay sat across the table. He was black with short hair, pretty much shaved, and a patch of chin hair that made the five sprigs on mine look like Charlie Brown’s head. He glanced at me, then down at his food.

  My neck twitched nonstop. I stared at my empty seat in the corner. If I ran to the back, Khory would never kiss me.

  “Sit,” she said.

  I sat next to her. Jay shifted in his seat and pulled his lunch bag closer to him. I put mine down, and even though my stomach was rolling like storm waves, I pulled out my sandwich. I needed to keep my brain busy.

  “So, what’s up, girl?” Rainn asked.

  “Same,” Khory said. “Mr. Granieri gave us too much homework, as usual. How are things with Diego?”

  Rainn sighed. “He’s not nurturing my dreams,” she said. “Plus, he’s a Scorpio.”

  I knew better than to get in the middle of a boyfriend/girlfriend conversation, especially when I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what was wrong with being a Scorpio. I sat back, tempted fate with both hands on the table, and tried to ignore the drama.

  “You’re a math tutor?” Jay asked.

  I didn’t know what to say. Technically no, but I couldn’t admit I used it as an excuse to get close to Khory. I nodded.

  “We’re in the same math class.”

  I nodded again. That meant he’d most likely caught my touching act during class, which was why he pulled his lunch bag closer to him.

  Khory mixed dressing into her salad and faced me. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  I stared at my sandwich. Ham and cheese with
lettuce and tomato on wheat bread. I’d read somewhere that processed foods made tics worse, so I compromised by not eating white bread. And it was rough.

  “So, about the math, you should give me your phone number since we’ll have to work on it after school,” Khory said and took out her phone.

  I gave her my number and watched her punch it in then press the green button. My phone vibrated in my pocket.

  “Now you have my number, too,” she said. “Can you come over after school today? The sooner I learn this stuff, the better I’ll do on the midterm.”

  A girl’s number and an invitation to her house all in one conversation? If I wasn’t sitting, my legs would have given out.

  “Yeah.”

  I smiled and took a breath. Her hair smelled like coconuts. It bounced around her shoulders as she moved. Then the bubble popped.

  “Actually, I can’t. I babysit my brother after school.” I clenched my hands, and my neck twitched at the memory of Jude’s tiny hand in mine. “Can you come to my house?”

  Was I crazy? The only girls who came to our house were eight and dumped their dolls to play with a real baby.

  Khory stopped eating, fork halfway to her mouth. A piece of lettuce teetered on the edge. Of course she couldn’t.

  “I’m not allowed to go anywhere after school.” Her shoulders slumped, and the sadness in her eyes overshadowed everything.

  Jay stared at the table and gobbled his stiff slice of pizza. Rainn frowned. Clearly I’d missed something. For years I’d believed every denied invitation or nearby laugh was about me, but this time I knew it wasn’t.

  “We’ll work something out.” She picked up her fork and nibbled on the lettuce.

  When the conversation between Khory and Rainn turned back to boys, I pulled out my phone and typed COMPLETED next to the task of asking Khory about math. I wanted to fist bump the air, but settled for a smile hidden behind my disgusting sandwich.

  . . . . . . . . . .

  A rare event occurred on this Tuesday afternoon: I finished my homework before Dad got home. That hasn’t happened since the day I started Patrick Henry High School. I planned to celebrate with hours of video games, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept replaying today’s lunch. And it wasn’t an OCD thing. It was a girl thing.

  Something about Khory made me feel electric. The way her hair glistened in the sunlight definitely did something to me, but it was more about the way she stayed with my ten-count-bend-down pace and asked me to sit with her and her friends at lunch. And she still wanted my phone number.

  I guess we didn’t really know anyone. The school was full of different kinds of people: guys and girls who cared about fashion, the drama club, band members, and the random kids who didn’t belong anywhere. But really, that was all surface. For the first time I realized it went deeper. Like the sadness in Khory’s eyes. And me, as exposed as I was, still hid so much more.

  I was a frequent lurker in the online TS groups, so I knew people hid the same things I did. Some probably had their version of the List of Ten. Not that I was interested in sharing. I didn’t need to be overwhelmed by talking-me-off-the-ledge comments.

  “You have so much to live for.” As if they knew anything about my life.

  “We’re here for you.” You don’t know me.

  “Please talk to someone. Call the suicide hotline.” Okay, this one did have a point.

  But how could they be “here” when they were faceless usernames floating through the internet? For all I knew, they could have typed the hotline number with a loaded gun in their lap.

  They weren’t all wrong. I needed someone here. Physically here. To tic along with me, grimace in pain, and fill that empty space that’s been growing since April 6.

  I opened my laptop, went to the internet, and typed in “Tourette syndrome support groups Richmond Virginia.” I held my breath as the blue bar traveled from left to right. How did the groups work? Would we be able to hear each other if we all mumbled or yelled? I may not have met anyone else like me since Mom left, but I’ve seen enough videos to know there were a lot of tics out there not as quiet as mine.

  A list popped up. Richmond, Virginia Support Group Mid-Atlantic Chapter, Virginia Parent Support Groups, Find a local chapter: Tourette Association of America.

  I clicked the first one.

  The Tourette Association of America logo popped up along with pictures of smiling people. I sighed. I knew it was just a picture, “on the count of three, say cheese,” but I could never fake it like that. I scrolled down to the list of services. Social and educational events, donate, youth ambassadors, and support. I clicked on the last one.

  A support group, open to everyone affected by TS, met every other Thursday at the main branch of Richmond General Hospital. The next meeting was February 4. This week.

  I opened the List of Ten. Under number two: meet someone with Tourette syndrome, I typed the date and address. I would be there.

  I closed my computer. Too much stress and planning wore me out. I forced myself up, went to the bathroom to take my medicine, then got into bed and waited for the medicine to kick in and my body to relax. Door closed. Lights off. Goodbye, day.

  Then my phone rang.

  I jumped so high I practically smacked the ceiling. The only people who called were Dad and Terri. I glanced at the phone. There in big white letters was the name Khory Price.

  “Hello?”

  “Troy? It’s Khory.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I counted to ten.

  “Troy? Are you there?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. What’s up?” My conversation skills were lame even on the phone.

  “Since you can’t come over after school and I can’t go over your house because my parents are crazy overprotective, can you come over Saturday? After lunch. Maybe one o’clock?”

  Overprotective? That was her excuse and why everyone’s mood changed?

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ve been reading over the units so I won’t seem like a complete idiot.”

  And I actually paid attention to Mr. Nagel’s lecture on trigonometric functions, so I’d be able to help her. “Okay. I’ll bring my math book,” I said.

  “Thank you so much for this,” she said. “I’ll text you my address so you’ll have it. It’s in the Thornhill neighborhood.”

  I could hear her smile through the phone, if that was even possible. I smiled too and sank into my pillow.

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Well, I should go. But you can call me whenever you want.”

  “Um, okay.” Call her? I could barely put two words together around her.

  “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Then she hung up.

  The red button disappeared, and my screen faded to black. She couldn’t have actually meant call her anytime. No, she meant for math only. Yeah, that was it. I was just the math tutor. My neck twitched. I squeezed my hands together. Stress was stress, even if caused by a beautiful girl.

  My mind wandered like a dream. In it, we were talking on the phone. It was late. Our houses were dark and quiet. She fell asleep, and I spent the next few hours listening to her soft inhales and exhales.

  My hand squeezed the phone and brought me back to reality. A dream. That’s all. I opened my notes, went to the First Kiss list, and typed COMPLETED next to number two, the place to meet. Now all I had to do was kiss her.

  FEBRUARY 4

  Tonight was the support group meeting. I had to leave at six. It was five fifty-seven. My heart thumped harder and my neck twitched faster as the minutes ticked by. I stood by the living room window. Where was Dad? Come on, Dad, you promised. I watched Jude bang plastic cars into each other. I clenched my hands together and fought back the memory and sensation of his hands and hair in my fists. The tingling came anyway. I grabbed my own hair, but, not a surprise, no satisfaction.

  The hum of an engine got my attention, and I turned back to the window in
time to see the trunk of Dad’s car disappear into the garage.

  “Bye, Jude, see you later.”

  He glanced up, gave me a big grin, and slammed the cars on the carpet.

  I rushed past Dad in the kitchen. “Math tutoring, remember?”

  “Yes, you told me five times,” he said. “Where’s Jude?”

  “Family room. Gotta go.” I burst through the garage door. I had eight minutes to get to the bus stop. No bike. Only the power of my two feet.

  As soon as the garage door closed, I ran. Past the school bus stop, then up the hill to the main road. If I missed the city bus, I’d have to ask Dad to drive me, which meant a big explanation. Or wait until the next meeting, which I didn’t want to do.

  Tonight would be the night I met someone like me.

  I ran along Elm Lane, my focus on the mall lights in the distance. I breathed in and out, pumped my arms harder, and ran faster. Despite being a little pudgy, I wasn’t in too bad a shape, cardiovascularly. Shocking since I didn’t go out much.

  At the mall, I dodged cars driving through the parking lot and made it to the side of the bus shelter. I huffed and puffed and tried to catch my breath, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and shook out my shirt. Then I checked out the other people waiting with me. They sat on the bench or leaned against the shelter’s wall staring at their phones. None of them moved or twitched.

  I’d never ridden a city bus, but I knew the issues would be the same as the school bus. Except with complete strangers. My chest tightened as if a giant hand wanted to squeeze the life out of it. My neck twitched faster. I dug my fingertips into my left shoulder blade to ease the shooting pain, but that wouldn’t help a seventy-on-the-rate-the-pain scale. I tried to get air into my lungs for the twelve ten-counts it took for the bus to come.

  People rushed the doors as soon as the bus screeched to a stop. Apparently, their dads didn’t teach them manners like mine did. I stayed on the side until it was my turn, but that probably meant my chances of getting a window seat in the back were busted.

  When it was my turn, I climbed the steps and started down the aisle, my neck twitching and face scrunching. I wrestled the urge to bend down, even halfway. But with each row I passed, and the closer I got to ten, the stronger the itch got until I thought I’d explode.