by Isobel Irons
“I’m getting really sick of this CD, you know.”
I laugh. As usual, my sister’s trademark random dialogue puts mine to shame.
“Want me to change it?”
“Please,” she nods.
“Too bad!” I lean over and poke her with my elbow, before I put the car into drive.
“Typical,” she sighs, turning away to look out the window.
I smile sideways at her as we leave the parking lot. Gen has always been such a shy, sweet kid. Next year, she’ll be a freshman at Guthrie. I worry about that—about her—a lot, especially after what happened to Tash’s friend Margot. Not to mention what almost happened to Tash.
As we pass the gym, my eyes flick toward the spot where Trent Gibson attacked her after prom. I still have nightmares about what could’ve happened if I hadn’t showed up in time. Knowing Tash, she probably would’ve done some damage, but at what cost? Not to mention, it wasn’t the first time. I still catch myself wondering whether or not she told me the whole truth about what happened at her trailer, before I brought her home with me that first night. But we’re not allowed to bring that up, not anymore.
“Hey Gremlin, you feel like getting a snack?”
Gen shrugs. “It’s only eleven. I’m not really that hungry. But whatever, if you must.”
“I must.” I turn the opposite of the way I should, if I was taking us home. “I promise, we’ll be quick. Just don’t tell Mom I spoiled your lunch, or whatever.”
Ignoring Gen’s apathetic grunt, I drive to the Baskin Robbins on 3rd. The parking lot is empty, except for a familiar green station wagon that looks like it’s been to the bottom of the ocean and back. Perfect, looks like she’s the only one working.
I reach over Gen to open the glove compartment, sneaking a mint and a drop of Purell before going inside.
“Really, Grunt? Ice cream for brunch? That’s not desperate at all.”
“Quiet, you.” I put the bottle back, then bail out of the car, using the edge of my shoe to close the door. I wait for Gen to haul herself out before I push the automatic lock button, through my pocket. The car beeps, reassuring me that it’s locked. But I still push it twice more, just in case.
Gen’s used to this by now, so she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just trudges over to the door of the ice cream shop and opens the door. Sometimes, she makes me do it, just to watch me do the contortion thing. But I guess today she’s feeling nice.
“After you,” she says dramatically, as I walk through the doorway. “Your highness.”
I ignore Gen’s weak attempt at being bratty, because just then I see Tash coming out of the back room, holding a huge, frosted cardboard tub. Her hair is hanging down her back in a long, sloppy braid, and she’s singing along with the overhead music. Another ‘modern mix-tape,’ I’m guessing, since it’s obvious she loves this song and knows every single word of it. When she turns toward me, I freeze in my tracks. Her now trademark red lips quirk up at the corners, but she bites down on her bottom lip before it becomes a full-blown grin. I get the feeling that under the brim of her hat, she’s raising an eyebrow in challenge. Which one of us will be the first one to speak?
“Hey,” I say, too soon, too eagerly, breaking the stalemate.
“Ugh, move!”
My attempt at playing it cool is sort of ruined when Gen shoves me from behind, and I stagger forward another couple of steps.
Tash laughs, unsympathetic. “In her defense, you were totally cock-blocking her.” She cringes, looking at Gen. “I mean, you were blocking her from coming in. Through the door.”
“It’s okay.” Gen makes a beeline for the chocolate section of the counter, running her fingers along the glass. Tash doesn’t look nearly as appalled by this as I feel, and yet she’s the one who has to clean it. “I’m fourteen. I know what cock-blocking is.”
And once again, I’m shaking my head at how fast my baby sister is growing up. Not to mention how much more she seems to know about the world than I knew at her age. It’s pretty horrifying.
“So,” Tash says, leaning back against the counter. “What can I get for y’all this early-ass morning?”
“It’s not that early,” I start to say, at the exact same time my sister yells “Triple chocolate!”
Tash smiles at her. “Chocolate for breakfast. My kind of girl.” Then she looks at me. “And just for the record, I woke up like, half an hour ago. So yes, it is that early.”
“Seriously?” How is it possible that a person could sleep in that late?
I watch her scoop a huge ball of chocolate ice cream into a waffle bowl that’s been dipped in chocolate, before she covers it with a scoop of chocolate chips and a huge dollop of hot fudge. My stomach turns just looking at it. So much chocolate. My sister is going to get type two diabetes before the summer’s out. I should probably start leaving her at home when I visit Tash at work.
As Tash leans over the counter to hand the ice cream to Gen, I’m still just standing there watching her like a total stalker. I still remember the first time I saw her, in first grade when she transferred into Mrs. Humphries’ class. I was in Mr. Johnson’s class, but she stood behind me in the lunch line all through the rest of elementary school. It took me at least a year to even say ‘hi’ to her, since she was taller than me back then. Thankfully, I had a growth spurt a few years later, so I caught up and then some.
After Gen scampers off to go sit in the corner with her ice cream, Tash finally comes out from behind the counter. She’s wearing denim cutoffs with her work uniform—which I’m pretty sure isn’t allowed, but she doesn’t care, and I’m glad—and her old red shoes. She glances over her shoulder to make sure Gen isn’t watching, then grabs me by the front of my shirt, pulling me in for a hello kiss.
Zero to sixty, in two seconds, flat. That’s what it feels like, every time. No warning, no games. Just full blast, no-holds-barred, ‘let me prove how glad I am to see you, instead of wasting time on small talk’ interpretive body language. I’ve come to understand that this is Tash’s style, that it’s easier for her to express herself physically than it is for her to say what she’s feeling.
But for a guy like me, it is a lot to handle without warning, especially when my reaction to her can’t be controlled.
Her hands reach around to press against my lower back, and mine leave my pockets to drift down to her hips. She arches her back, leaning into me with her lower body, as her cinnamon-flavored tongue mingles with the spearmint left over from my Tic-tac—fire and ice, just like us. Or at least, like we seem.
The more time we spend together, the harder it is to keep up my ‘strong, silent type’ act. People are always commenting on how calm I am. My soccer coach called me steady; my parents call me dependable; my teachers thought I was reliable. To all outward appearances, I am lousy with self-control. Thing is, appearances lie.
Speaking of which…if she keeps kissing me like this, I’m going to have a hard time hiding how cool I’m really not.
That’s when she pulls back, all businesslike and polite once again. “So, what’ll it be?”
My brain grinds as I desperately attempt to switch gears. “What will...what be?”
Tash laughs. “Ice cream, Grant. Isn’t that why you’re here? Or is it just an excuse to see me?”
She raises an eyebrow, daring me to admit it. But I won’t give her what she wants. Not this time.
I shrug. Two-million and three—ish. “Yeah, it was Gen’s idea. I’m just the transportation.”
“Pants on fire!”
Obviously, Gen’s not too distracted by stuffing her face with chocolate to eavesdrop. I cringe, as Tash chuckles evilly, walking backwards to step behind the counter. She washes her hands, then pulls a big, square blender out of the sink. I fold my arms and watch her for a few seconds, as she washes it with a high-pressure sprayer, which she’s assured me is scalding hot, but it’s not long before I have to turn away. Ignorance is bliss, that’s what Jeanne says. You’d think it wou
ld help to see how things are made, but it doesn’t. I just come up with new details to question. Ingredients, packaging, treatment…the lists of possibilities that add to a contamination obsession are endless.
To distract myself from ritualizing, I go over and sit by Gen. The table looks clean, but it probably isn’t, so I keep my hands in my lap, and go back to watching Tash as she moves around adding ingredients to the blender. My brain wants to count, but I focus on something more meaningful instead.
The first time I realized Tash wasn’t like most other girls, we were in sophomore American History with Mrs. Patterson. Tash sat one seat behind me and to the left. It was a Monday, and our first pop quiz in a long line of pop quizzes. Mrs. Patterson handed out the stack of quizzes, and when my fellow soccer teammate, Matt Holbrook, passed them back to Tash, she looked at them and muttered “Motherfucking Manifest Destiny” under her breath. I had to count to 1,000 to keep from laughing out loud. For the rest of that semester, whenever Mrs. Patterson brought up American exceptionalism, or romantic nationalism, I thought of her.
A few minutes later, Tash comes over with a can of Diet Coke for her and a shake for me, in a disposable Styrofoam cup.
That’s another fun fact about me: I don’t eat or drink anything out of a container that’s been used by another person. Ever. I don’t usually make a big deal out of it, or even really tell people, but Tash is a lot smarter than she wants people to believe. That’s another thing I noticed about her, pretty early on. It’s also why, whenever she makes me a strawberry and peanut butter milkshake, she brings it to me with the top part of the straw still wrapped in paper. One time, she called it a ‘straw condom,’ and I almost passed out from blushing.
“Extra peanut butter,” she says, setting the cup in front of me. “Because you’re gross.”
Gen laughs, as Tash drops into the open chair next to me and pops open her can of soda.
“Why don’t you just try it?” I ask her, for probably the tenth time this summer. “It tastes like PBJ. It’s delicious.”
Tash rolls her eyes. “No thanks, I’m good.”
I’m secretly relieved. Though my OCD seems to have no problem with another person’s tongue in my mouth, the thought of sharing food or drink still gives me the willies. How’s that for irrational?
As I remove the straw condom and take a drink, Tash asks me about my morning. I take my time swallowing, using the opportunity to come up with a lie that’s not really a lie. “Pretty boring. Just running some errands for my parents.”
Gen shoots me a dirty look, but I ignore her. In a way, picking up Gen is kind of like an errand, and therapy really is more for my parents than it is for me. At least, that’s how I feel. Plus, Tash still doesn’t know I have to visit a shrink once a week—and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s not that I like lying to her, it just doesn’t matter. I won’t be going for much longer, anyway. After spending two months in Cadaver Hell, I’ll be leaving for Stanford.
“I can’t believe we’ve only got four more days,” Tash says, like she knows exactly what I was thinking. “I hate that you’re leaving.”
I smile, even though it’s not a happy conversation. Unlike me, Tash feels everything in extremes. Annoyance, happiness, anger…especially anger. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past 91 days, 11 hours, and 47 minutes we’ve been ‘together,’ it’s that she loves just as fiercely as she hates. Maybe more. And unlike me, she never lies about who she is.
“How is Margot doing?” I ask, because it’s easier than wondering if we’re ever going to ‘make it.’
Tash looks immediately pissed off. “I don’t know, I haven’t heard from her since her last postcard. But this Teen Discovery Camp sounds like a gigantic load of bullshit”—she glances at Gen—“I mean, bull crap. ‘Wilderness Therapy for Troubled Youths?’ More like ‘Teen Slasher Movie Waiting to Happen.’ I mean, Jesus! Put a bunch of kids with rap sheets in tents together, outside of civilized society, and someone is bound to get horribly maimed. If high school was tough for Margot, imagine when she gets bunked with some ex-con with a sleeping bag full of crack rocks and self-honed implements of violence.”
“Self-honed implements of violence?” I take a second to figure it out. “Is that what SHIV stands for?”
“Yeah,” she says, looking down at her soda sheepishly. “I looked it up.”
“Relax,” I tell her, even though I secretly find her rage kind of adorable. “I don’t think those are the kind of ‘troubled youths’ they let in.”
“Says you,” Tash grumbles, before taking a sip of her coke, directly out of the can.
“I’ve heard about places like that. They’re probably too busy building camp fires and doing team-building exercises to knife anyone.” In fact, from what she’s told me of this program so far, I’m pretty sure it’s full of a bunch of kids like me. My parents mentioned sending me to a conference once, for fellow kids with OCD, but I told them I didn’t think I needed it. The truth is, I don’t want to know how bad things can get. I don’t want to find out I’m worse off than I think I am.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Gen asks. I get the feeling she’s sick of watching us awkwardly flirt in front of her.
“Go ahead and go past the counter, into the back,” Tash tells her. “It’s the door next to the freezer. You don’t want to use the public one, it’s gross.”
Gen stares across the table at her with huge eyes. “But won’t I get in trouble?”
“Not if you don’t get caught,” Tash tells her, with a totally straight face. “Just make sure to stick close to the walls, Mission Impossible style, so the security cameras don’t see you. If they do, I’ll make sure to wipe them before I finish my shift. And stay away from the safe, cause I am sure as hell not going down for you if you rob the place. Get me?”
“Okay,” Gen whispers reverently, nodding. Then she stands up and ninjas her way across the room with a look of pure determination. I don’t think I’ve seen her get so excited about anything in a while.
When my little sister disappears behind the counter, Tash turns back to me like nothing happened.
“So, what are we doing tonight?”
“Uh….” I search my internal schedule, distracted a little by Tash’s fingers, linking together with mine. Hand-to-hand contact has always been an issue for me, but over the years I’ve learned to cope with socially requisite things like handshakes and holding hands, by telling myself that mycobacteria—the harmful, disease-causing kind—have a harder time thriving on dry skin. So as long as I keep my hands dry, the chances of me catching anything are minimized, unless I get a paper cut or something, in which case I’m immunocompromized and I need to disinfect my hands constantly. Luckily, my dad is a doctor, so he has access to industrial-sized tubs of moisturizing, hospital-grade disinfectants like Avagard. I carry a travel sized bottle in my pocket at all times, and when it comes to using it, I’m like a ninja. Most of the time, I can sneakily sanitize my hands, wrists and arms without anyone even noticing.
When I’m done reassuring myself that no one will die if I keep holding hands with my girlfriend, Tash is still waiting for me to tell her what we’re doing tonight.
“I thought we could see a movie.”
She makes a face. “Another movie? How about you come over to my house instead? We can watch something there, just the two of us. And it’ll be free.”
In case I really am as dense as I seem, she touches my knee under the table. I squirm, slightly. It’s a bold move, even for her, which is why I wasn’t expecting it, why I can’t control the momentary look of panic that flashes across my face.
“Or we could go to the theater, that’s fine, too.” Tash immediately pulls both of her hands away. Her eyes show hesitation. She thinks I’m not interested.
But she couldn’t be more wrong. I’m usually so much better at covering my inner turmoil, at pretending like my zone outs are just pauses required before a well thought out response, like I’ve got nerves
of steel and the world’s best poker face. At best, I’m pensive and cautious. At worst, I’m having what people sometimes call a ‘brain fart.’ But in reality, it’s more like a mini psychotic break.
I force myself to push past the tangle of thoughts, to smile reassuringly at her. I reach for her hands, which are twisting together in her lap, and pull them toward me. With my eyes, I try to broadcast that it’s not her fault, that it’s mine, even as my spasmodic brain works overtime to come up with a reason she’ll even slightly understand. Another excuse. Another lie.
“I like being seen in public with you.” Okay, not a lie, but definitely a cheesy line.
“Right.” Tash snorts, looking down at our hands. “I’m a great trophy girlfriend. ‘Look, but don’t touch.’”
She pulls her hands away, and her fingers slide down my leg for a few inches, purely by accident this time. The slight friction of her touch sends a thrill running through me. But the sensation isn’t as strong as I know it should be, because even as much as it rocks my world, it’s still not enough to overcome the fear, or the fog that masks it. Because of the wires in my brain that are misconnected. Because of the pills I take to keep the all-consuming anxiety at bay. My body still responds to stimuli like pleasure and pain, but most of the time it’s like everything is on mute, like a dream: odorless, tasteless, colorless.
Suddenly, I have an idea.
“I mean, I’d like to watch a movie at your house,” I say. “But I’ve already bought these tickets for Starry Night, so….”
Starry Night is this black and white movie thing they do at the park once a month. It’s super girly and romantic, just the sort of thing Tash would pretend to hate, but secretly love.
“I mean, it was supposed to be a surprise,” I lie. My mom works with the charity that runs it, though, so I’m pretty sure I can get tickets.
It works. Tash’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. She doesn’t even bother to pretend this time.
