by Halli Gomez
“Good,” I mumbled and cut my food into ten pieces.
“Anything going on at school this week?” Dad asked. “Wednesday is a teacher workday, remember.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I can tell something is bothering you,” Terri said. “Did something happen with Khory?”
My fingers crawled close to Dad’s plate. Then closer. They touched the edge, then scooted back across the invisible line that delineated everyone’s personal eating space. I peeked at him. He alternated between eating his food and making sure Jude didn’t throw his across the room.
“Everything’s fine.” I stabbed a piece of steak and stuffed it in my mouth. As I chewed, my hand crept out again.
Touch.
Back.
Touch.
Back.
“Tell us about your other friends,” Dad said. “We’d like to meet them.”
“Not much to tell. There’s Khory’s friend, Rainn, her boyfriend Diego, and Jay, a kid in my math class.”
I picked up my steak knife to cut ten more pieces. Slice. Back and forth. Slice. Repeat. The motion felt good. My hand turned like it had a mind of its own and tried it on my left arm. Lightly like a feather. Slice. Back and forth. Slice.
I stole a peek at Dad. He glanced up at me. Eyebrows raised. I dropped the knife. Usually the urge came before the tic, but this just happened. I stared at the knife, hoping for an explanation, but it just taunted me. The slicing felt good, and I knew it would feel even better harder.
I drank some milk, stabbed green beans with my fork, and stuffed them in my mouth. I focused on Jude, happily eating yogurt and puff cereal, and relaxed enough to pick up my knife again. This time I felt the urge, the itch that builds and screams to be scratched. I put my hands under the table and scratched the itch. With the knife. Ten times. Each one harder.
Dad leaned around the table and yanked the knife away. Then he grabbed my arm and examined the marks. There were three red lines, no blood or broken skin. My neck twitched. I should have paid more attention and made it an even number. Dad got up and tossed my knife in the sink. Terri pushed her plate away, pulled mine toward her, and cut my food into bite-size pieces. I sighed and leaned back in my chair.
“Can I be excused?” I asked.
“No,” Dad and Terri said that the same time.
“What’s with the knife thing? Is that a new tic?” Dad asked.
I cringed at the comment. We didn’t talk about it. But I nodded.
Dad took a deep breath. “Are you sure that’s what it is? Were you thinking about slitting your wrists?”
“What? No, I wasn’t doing that,” I insisted. “I couldn’t help it.”
“We should look at your medication. Maybe change the dose,” Terri said. “I can make an appointment for you for this week.”
Slitting my wrists? Up my medication? My fingers tingled. I wanted to pull out my phone and add to my list. Methods to die number three: slit my wrists.
“Sure,” I said.
We finished dinner, and I escaped to my room. I’d heard of people who ticced and hurt themselves. And others who cut themselves on purpose. They claimed it relieved the pressure that tried to suffocate you. I wanted the pressure to stop, the urges, the stress, but I needed someone to tell me how, someone besides a quack whose treatment ideas came from an obscure comment in a book published in 1950.
“Troy?” Dad called and knocked on my door.
“What. I’m doing homework,” I said, then spied my backpack on the floor across the room.
I leaped toward it when my door opened. Dad scanned my room and lingered again on the clock and book on the floor.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. “If there’s anything you want to talk about, I’m always available.”
Great offer, but he wasn’t qualified either. Talking wouldn’t take the pain away.
“Thanks. I’m good. Really,” I said.
Dad stared at me, studied me. “Okay. Don’t stay up too late.”
He closed the door. My fingers traced the red marks on my arm. They tingled. Tickled. Like someone had rubbed a feather on my skin. I had to scratch it. Do it, the urge whispered. It will feel amazing. I went to my desk, rummaged in the drawer, not caring that I mixed up the pens and notecards, and pulled out a pair of scissors. I traced the marks with the blade, gently at first. I didn’t want to break the skin.
But it was like the feather. A tease. I pressed harder. And harder. It hurt, but I could breathe. A drop of blood seeped out after another pass with the blade. I squeezed my hand open and closed. My veins bulged, and another drop of blood bubbled out.
This was a new side of me. A bad one. Worse than the side I already hated. If you asked someone who always frowned if they liked being that way, I bet they’d say no. Even Darth Vader didn’t fully accept the dark side, which was why Luke was able to turn him back. Maybe he just forgot what the good side was like. I didn’t want to forget. I wanted to be happy and enjoy the time left on this Earth, not be murdered by the dark side.
It wasn’t time yet. I focused on the big blue vein that ran up my arm. Long ways. That was the way to do it. Quicker to bleed out and harder to fix. I’d go to sleep and never wake up. After I completed one through nine.
I opened my desk drawer to put the scissors back. What if Dad didn’t believe I was fine? Would he take all the sharp objects out of the house? I moved to my clothes drawers to hide the scissors. No, too obvious. The closet? Also obvious. I went to my bed, lifted the mattress, and placed the scissors in the middle. I retucked the sheets, straightened the blanket, and counted to ten.
Then I twitched, squeezed, and scrunched until I collapsed on the floor from exhaustion.
MARCH 8
I woke up sweaty and in my clothes. The light was off, the shades were closed, and somehow the clock had made it back on my night table. With the alarm set. It buzzed and pissed me off. I rolled over. Pain shot through my neck and back. The muscles in my forearms ached. I closed my eyes and sank into the pillow. The smell of sweat engulfed me.
It was so tempting to say “screw school” and go back to sleep since I wouldn’t be using Pre-Calc or Chemistry much longer, but my OCD fought me. I got up, took a shower, and trudged to the bus stop.
Wedged between the bus window and a short kid with a poster-board project bigger than he was, I pulled out my phone. Khory had sent several texts after I had bolted from her house. Usually I sprang to the phone when her face popped on the screen, but the Troy she knew hadn’t been around last night.
Today was a new day, which meant it was closer to April 6. I couldn’t waste my time being whiny and pitiful, and I refused to let the dark side get me too soon. I grasped the light and texted Khory.
When I got to my locker, she was there. She leaned against it, her attention divided between her phone and the hallway. I counted faster. Walked faster. Until I was close enough to grab her hand.
She smiled at me, but there was sadness in her eyes as they searched mine. My neck twitched, and my hand squeezed hers. Hard. I dropped her hand.
“Sorry. And sorry I didn’t call you back.” I glanced around the hallway. No one paid attention to me, and if they did, they kept their distance. “It took me by surprise. Hearing her voice. I didn’t think I’d freak out like that.”
“Are you sure you want to see her? Maybe it’s better if you don’t.”
“I have to,” I said. She’d understand if I explained how it fit into my list. Actually, she probably wouldn’t. I tried a different way. “You know how you want to speak at the guy’s hearing? Why is that?”
“To get things off my chest. To tell him what he did was not just to Krista, but to the rest of us,” she said. She nodded. “Ah, I get it.”
“Maybe by the time I see her, it will be easier.” Doubtful, but I had to end it.
Ms. Migloski wasn’t as strict about our phones, so in Spanish, I researched how to get to Schenectady. I had three choices: a plane,
a train, or a bus. My neck twitched at the thought of being squished next to strangers, and an urge to flap my arms tingled and grew. Would they make a scene when I touched their tray tables? My hand reached out to touch the back of Riley’s seat.
But a plane was the fastest way. I typed in routes. Richmond to Schenectady. Round trip. The progress bar moved like sludge. Then the prices came up.
“Oh, crap!”
Ms. Migloski stopped midsentence and stared at me. Oh, so Riley can spend the entire semester watching Parks and Recreation and you don’t care, but I say one word that’s not even bad, and you notice that. Maybe I should have said it in Spanish.
. . . . . . . . . .
Hundreds of dollars for a plane ticket? That was insane! It was bad enough to be stuffed in a tiny space, but to make me pay for the torture? My chest tightened. Breathe. Oxygen in. Carbon dioxide out.
I pulled out my phone and added to Mom’s list.
5. Plane ticket $500
Dad would be pissed that I found Mom, so I doubted he’d buy me a ticket to see her. I needed money of my own. Looking back, iTunes gift cards may not have been the best payment idea for babysitting Jude, but who knew I’d want real money one day?
What did other kids do for money? I could ask for cash instead of gift cards. Now that I had a girlfriend, I’d want to buy her a birthday present or dinner. Dad and Terri would understand, but there was no way I could raise five hundred dollars in a month.
That left things like washing cars, cutting grass, and walking dogs. Picking up dog poop wasn’t my idea of a fun afternoon, but it couldn’t be any worse than a baby’s, which I did for free. Or almost free. And money was money.
Okay, step one, make a list of jobs. Check. Step two, flyers. After Terri left for work, I brought my laptop to the family room and opened a blank document. Let’s see, how about hardworking kid needs money to complete items on his bucket list? In other words, help me raise money to die. I thought about that for a few minutes. Going for sympathy might get more phone calls, but the suicide hotline wasn’t the type I wanted.
I went for simple and straightforward: hardworking teenager interested in earning money. I listed the types of jobs I’d do, added my name and phone number, and scanned it for errors. I double-checked the phone number, saved it, and pressed Print. Then Cancel. Rechecked the phone number. Then finally printed forty copies.
Jude woke up as the printer finished.
“Hey, how about a little ride in the stroller?”
He reached out to me, and I lifted him out of the crib. After a diaper change and a snack, we were on our way.
“So, I may be gone a little more on the weekends,” I explained as we strolled to the far end of our neighborhood. The farther away, the better. Dad or Terri seeing me wash someone else’s car would lead to an extremely uncomfortable conversation.
“I’m hoping to do some odd jobs to raise money. I’m going to see my mom.”
“Ay wa goo ay,” Jude said.
“No, we have different moms. Mine lives in New York. But your mom is awesome, and I know she loves you. And me.”
I sighed, pushed the stroller, and placed folded flyers into the bottom slot of each mailbox. Then I calculated how many piles of poop I’d have to pick up to raise $500.
MARCH 9
Jay honked his horn. I put my jacket on and shoved my phone into the pocket.
“I know you don’t have school tomorrow, but I have to work and I don’t want to be up all night worrying about you,” Dad said.
“I won’t be late.”
“Why don’t you have your friends hang out here tonight?”
“Well, we already made plans to go to Rainn’s house.”
Then Dad gave me a look. I didn’t know that one, but assumed it had to do with trust. The cop wanted to know if he could trust me. Now that I thought about it, a dad would have the same question. Neither of us was used to a socially active son.
Jay honked again. I opened the front door.
“Sorry. Another time, Dad. I promise.”
“Make sure he’s not in a rush to get there. You know how I feel about teenagers and cars.”
As if I could forget. He’d told me the stories. Repeatedly. A kid talking on her phone ran head-on into a truck. Steering wheel, engine, and the truck’s front fender smashed into her chest. Or the one where a boy took a corner too fast and swerved into a tree. He survived, lucky him, but the front passenger was thrown from the car and his body was found wrapped around a guardrail. Bones weren’t supposed to bend like that, Dad had said. Those were just a couple reasons he wouldn’t let me drive. Tourette was the other. And because of the stories, I almost agreed with him. Almost. Which is why it was on my list. I nodded and closed the door behind me.
“Hey, Jay.” I slid into the front seat. “Did you hear the news? Khory’s parents met mine, and she’s allowed to hang out at my house.”
Jay pulled away from the curb nice and slow like Dad would have wanted and didn’t pick up speed until we were a few blocks away. Then he glanced at me, the message from his smirk clear even in the dark.
“I’d be happy to give you some tips. I mean, if you need.”
I laughed. “Tips? Who’s the one who sits in a chair alone Saturday nights?” I asked.
“Gotcha.” He flipped the satellite station. Nineties rock wasn’t cutting it, I guess.
The truth was I needed all the help I could get. I was freaking out already. What if she wanted to do more than kiss and a little feel under the blanket? What if I had an anxiety attack and passed out?
I took a deep breath and scanned the dashboard. The radio displayed blue numbers and letters, and the buttons below were backlit in the same way. Jay’s 2012 Mustang was a lot cooler than Dad’s 2015 Toyota Camry. Still, I looked past the bright lights and knobs controlling volume, bass, and speakers and zeroed in on the emergency brake. I became obsessed with the one thing that could cause an accident. One yank and we’d jolt to a stop, which would be pretty destructive at forty miles an hour.
My brain and hand worked together. My palm tingled and longed to wrap around it. I shifted closer to the door and sat on my left hand. My elbow jerked trying to get free. I sank my weight onto my hand and tried to refocus by making small talk, but, being the lame conversationalist I was, my mind was a complete blank. I stared at the radio’s volume button and told myself it would be awesome to blast AWOL Nation, but even that didn’t shift my interest from the emergency brake.
What kind of sick joke was this disease? Taunting you with the most inappropriate and dangerous actions. Was this Mother Nature’s way of killing off the weak-minded by having them cause fatal accidents? And if that didn’t work, just have them kill themselves?
“Yo, Troy, you in there?” Jay swatted my arm.
I turned toward Jay. He was smiling, totally oblivious to the fact that my brain was planning to wreck his Mustang and kill us both.
“Have you ever smoked pot before?” Jay asked.
“Huh?” That refocused my brain. Why couldn’t he have asked that earlier?
“Oh, damn! Your dad’s a cop. Forget I asked.” He focused straight ahead, shoulder blades squeezed together, hands suddenly on ten and two, just as in driver’s ed.
I laughed. A throw-your-head-back laugh. My muscles relaxed, and my neck stopped twitching.
“What?” He stole a look at me, then eyes quickly back on the road. “What?”
“All of a sudden you’re a proper driver. Are you now an A student? My dad’s a cop. So what? I’m not going to make a citizen’s arrest.”
Jay eyed me, his head tilted. His shoulders dropped, and he went back to driving with one hand.
“Does that mean you smoke?”
“I never have.”
I’d read about it though. People in the TS chat groups swore by it. It relaxed their muscles and slowed down their tics.
“What does it feel like?” I asked.
“Oh man, you’re so relaxed. Like
you could stare at the stars forever.” He sighed. “Except Rainn. She gets horny. Don’t tell Diego I said that.”
I spun to him. Him and Rainn? I never would have thought that. My body started to tingle. What would it do to Khory? My fingertips rubbed together imagining her silky hair and soft body.
“Open the glove box,” Jay said.
I did and pulled out a plastic bag with pot and rolling papers inside. It seemed I was going to find out.
. . . . . . . . . .
Rainn’s mom pointed to the basement. “They’re watching a movie. Pizza will be here soon.”
“Great Mrs. Levine. Thanks,” Jay said. He winked at me and mouthed munchies.
“Thank you,” I said.
Khory and Rainn were deep into a movie where the girl cries, the guy realizes he fucked up, and they live happily ever after. Movies like this poison girls’ brains. Reality is not like this at all.
“We should have gotten here sooner and picked a different movie,” I said.
“No, this is perfect.” Jay nudged me. “Khory will be so upset when the boy dies, she’ll need you to comfort her.”
“You’ve seen this movie?”
“Unfortunately. It’s what happens when your best friends are girls.”
I had a lot to learn about the whole girlfriend thing. I sat on the couch next to Khory, and Jay plopped into the chair next to us and pulled out his phone. “I really need to get a girlfriend,” he said.
Soon after the boyfriend died, Diego came down the stairs with three boxes of pizza and dropped them on the coffee table. He glanced at the movie, then curled up next to Rainn. My cheeks warmed, my neck twitched, and I put my head down. Diego and Rainn apparently never learned the word discreet.
When the movie was over, Rainn unwrapped herself from Diego and passed out paper plates for dinner.
“Wait. I thought we could go for a walk first.” Jay pulled the plastic bag out of his pocket.
“Sure.” Diego grabbed the pizza boxes, and Khory and I followed the group out.
“Mom, we’re going to eat outside.”
Mrs. Levine nodded without taking her eyes off the TV and Dr. Oz. Khory handed me napkins, and she and Jay grabbed a few cans of soda.
