OBSESSIVE (The Issues Series)

by Isobel Irons

“Seriously? That’s awesome!”

  Beneath the tightness in my chest, my heart flips over. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, so I don’t know what to call it. It’s too soon to be love, but too profound for a crush. Tash is getting to be like a drug for me. But not like the kind I already take, not the kind that dulls. A counter-drug, an antidote.

  She brightens me. She makes me feel everything more vividly. I just wish I had the ability to filter, because once I start feeling, it’s really hard for me to block out the bad. Imagine living like that, without any barriers between you and such a dazzling, dangerous thing. Bright, colorful, overwhelming, all the time. Nothing to keep you from being burned or blinded.

  Her smile widens, soft red lips stretching over slightly crooked, but beautiful teeth. My chest feels like it’s swelling.

  “Will there be blankets?”

  I shrug, playing dumb. “I guess so.”

  More importantly, there will be other people. Lots of other people, young and old. Witnesses. Chaperones. In a public place, where nothing bad can happen.

  “Perfect,” she says, and her smile promises danger, but I can’t say anything else, because Gen is finally returning from her top secret mission to pee. Tash leans over to plant a quick kiss on my cheek, using the opportunity to whisper softly in my ear. “Can’t wait.”

  Then she stands up and takes her soda can and Gen’s abandoned, decimated chocolate ice cream container to the trash.

  Behind my smile, I grit my teeth and start counting.

  PART II: FUNCTIONAL

  In first grade, I was officially ‘tagged.’

  When my parents asked the school counselor what that meant, she explained that the school district had recently been granted funding for special, extra-curricular programs for students who fell outside the boundaries of what they considered ‘average.’ According to my test results, she said, I was ‘academically gifted,’ which meant that I was one of those kids who just naturally took to learning, problem solving, and following directions.

  Two years later, in what was either a stunning coincidence or a sick cosmic joke, my little sister was also ‘tagged.’ Only instead of ‘gifted,’ Gen was labeled as ‘special needs.’ They spent the next five years trying to figure out where she fell on the special needs ‘spectrum’; if she was severely ADD or mildly autistic. Either way, Gen didn’t learn things as quickly as other kids seemed to, and unlike me, she couldn’t handle studying for hours on end.

  One thing we did have in common was that we both got pulled out of class twice a week, in front of all of our fellow students, and taken off to our own ‘special’ classrooms. But I got to do complex scientific experiments, and Gen got to practice reading from her textbooks through different colored panels of cellophane. Apparently, seeing the words in yellow or blue instead of plain black and white was supposed to make it easier for her to retain facts. That was around the same time I started highlighting my homework—in addition to taking copious, meticulous notes.

  Fortunately for me, because I had the ‘gifted’ classification, my excessive note-taking was chalked up to being an exceptional student. That was another thing the counselor told my parents about me. I’m what psychologist types like to call ‘exceptionally socially intuitive.’

  If you ask me, that’s just a P.C. way of saying that everything I do or say is an act. A lie, custom tailored to whoever might be watching, to make sure no one ever figures out the true motives behind my actions.

  But like most things about me, even that label is a lie. The truth is, I’m exceptional in the same way chameleons seem exceptional to the average, uneducated observer. For chameleons, blending into their surroundings isn’t exceptional at all. It’s not a magic trick, meant to impress or delight. It’s not even about showing off or attracting a mate. It’s about survival.

  I read this article once, about a drug addict who kept his habit a secret from everyone in his family for almost 30 years. One thing he said really stuck with me:

  “I was the world’s greatest actor, in the world’s worst play.”

  I never thought I’d have so much in common with a junkie. But that quote pretty much sums up every waking moment of my life, up to this point.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tash drops into the passenger seat of my car with a loud sigh.

  “Hey there, handsome. Long time, no see. Sorry it took me so long to get ready.”

  I stifle a nervous laugh. It’s been exactly 37 minutes since she got off work, 23 since she went into the house. I know because I got here at exactly 8:00 PM, then sat and counted the minutes. (But I did keep myself from counting the seconds, so that’s something.) In that time, she seems to have showered, blow-dried her hair, changed her entire outfit, brushed her teeth, and even put on a little bit of makeup.

  She leans back in her seat, way back, to give herself enough room to cross her long legs without letting her short, ruffled skirt ride up too far.

  The long stretch of smooth, bare skin gleams at me from across the car. And she shaved her legs. Isn’t that supposed to take forever? I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, and not just for the obvious reasons. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a shower that lasted less than 45 minutes, let alone gotten dressed and brushed my teeth in under an hour.

  I’m impressed, and also kind of ashamed. I’ve never had a serious girlfriend before, but I’m pretty sure it’s against some kind of guy code to have your girlfriend beat your personal grooming speed record.

  And once again, I’m letting myself get caught up in my head.

  “You look amazing,” I tell her, and mean it. She does that girl preening thing, then kisses me on the cheek. I smile, and back out of her tiny driveway, heading for the park.

  Speaking of guy code, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be thinking about manlier things than primping, since I’m on my way to a very important date. In fact, I’m pretty sure if I were to write down every thought I ever had in Jeanne’s therapy journal, she’d be blown away by how girly it all sounds.

  ‘Do all guys secretly have this many feelings?’ she’d wonder. ‘Or is Grant just extra insecure about everything, because he’s living this super elaborate lie?’ The answer to that question is one I’d really like to know. But it’s not like I can just turn to one of my soccer friends and go, ‘Hey man, have you ever gotten so stressed out about whether or not your socks match that you can’t leave the house?’ Or, ‘How often do you bleach your combs and replace your hair gel? Like, once a week?’

  As I drive, Tash goes off about her latest fight with her mom. Apparently, things have been even tenser between them since Tash decided to stay for the summer and keep working at Baskin Robbins, partially to save enough money for a deposit on an apartment in L.A., but also to wait for Margot to come back from camp.

  “So, I’m pouring cereal into a bowl at 10:45 AM, which is not an unreasonable time, for most people—and it’s Rice Krispies, for fuck’s sake, so it’s not like they’re even that loud—and she comes tearing out of her room like the place is on fire, screeching about how she just got to sleep and I woke her up. I swear to God, the whole dynamic is just so ass-backwards.” She makes a sound that’s half exasperation, half laugh. “I mean, correct me if I’m wrong here. But isn’t it the teenager who’s supposed to be staying out partying with my boyfriend all night, getting hammered and sleeping in until noon? Not the parent?”

  I nod, because I don’t really know what else to say. I try to imagine what it would be like if my dad was gone and my mom wasn’t around most of the time, but I can’t. I can’t even remember the last time my parents raised their voices at me. Also, I’ve never broken curfew. Not once.

  “And then when I’m getting ready, she picks another fight because she’s going to be late for her date with Dale, and I’m like, ‘Well, maybe you should’ve showered before I got home. You had all damn day, you know.’ Ugh, I just…I can’t even deal with her right now. The sooner Margot gets back, the better.�
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  I glance over at her, but I’m splitting my concentration between what she’s saying and tapping my left foot every time we pass a traffic sign. There are a lot of them on the way to the park, so it’s more distracting than usual. Of course, that means I pause too long before answering.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, before I can tell her it’ll all be okay—even though I’m not sure if it will be. “I shouldn’t be bitching about this, not when we’re supposed to be having fun. You’re leaving for North Carolina next week, and I don’t want your last thought of me to be about my stupid mom. Let’s talk about something happy. Or better yet, let’s not talk.”

  She reaches for the radio, cranking up the music. The CD she made for me is still in the player, and it makes her smile. I can feel her watching me as I drive, so I try to make my tapping more subtle, make it seem like I’m just rocking along with the beat.

  “You know,” she says, turning down the music. “I just realized something. I’ve never really asked you what kind of music you usually listen to. What’s your favorite band? Did you bring your iPod?”

  Instead of waiting for me to respond, she just leans forward and opens the glove compartment.

  “Wait, no—” I reach toward her, but it’s too late.

  “What the…Oh my God, Grant! Are these condoms?”

  Wait, what? I almost swerve off the road trying to figure out what she’s looking at. I know, down to the last Q-tip, what’s in the glove box. And that is not what’s in there.

  But she’s laughing, holding the box of antiseptic wipes I keep between the giant bottle of sanitizer and the pack of bleach wipes, which are for the inside of the car, and various door handles.

  “No,” I tell her, relaxing a little. “They’re alcohol wipes, for first aid.”

  Technically, that’s not what I use them for, but she doesn’t have to know that.

  “Oh. I guess that makes more sense.”

  Is it just me, or does she look a little disappointed? I hope it’s just me. Glove compartment condoms…straw condom…why does that word keep coming up?

  Thankfully, we’ve reached the park. I pull up to the side of the street and parallel park, careful not to ding any of the other cars. The movie starts at nine, so we’re still a little early.

  “Jack White,” I tell her, trying to bring the subject back to a more comfortable place.

  Tash looks at me, confused.

  “Jack White is probably my favorite artist. I’ve always really liked blues, because it seems really messy, but it’s more like a really complex mathematical equation. The oldies are good, but the lyrics aren’t as relatable to now, at least not in my opinion. The White Stripes, The Dead Weather, The Raconteurs, all their songs are about imperfections, perceptions and lies. And they all have Jack White, who is like this insane, misunderstood guitar genius.”

  She blinks, then smiles. “Wow. That was a lot of information.”

  I shrug. “You asked.”

  “I should really ask more often.” With that, Tash grabs me and kisses me. Once again I’ve done something right, by accident.

  We get out of the car, and I get the blanket and some bottles of water and a bag of individually wrapped, fun sized candy out of the back. When I asked her to help me get tickets for tonight, my mom offered to pack a picnic. But then we realized we couldn’t think of any picnic food that would fit all of my rules, so she said I should just tell Tash that we had a special family dinner planned, and go pick her up right after. She’s a great OCD wingman, my mom.

  In spite of Tash’s grumbled protests, I choose a spot toward the front of the crowd, right in the middle, where everyone can see us. Then, I pretend to be disappointed that I forgot to bring a second blanket for us to cover up with. I tell her if she starts to get cold, she can have my jacket. She glares at me suspiciously for a few minutes, but then when the movie starts, she cuddles down next to me to watch.

  Tonight’s Starry Night movie is Casablanca. Sitting outdoors, watching it projected up on the side of a big white brick wall, it kind of feels like we’re back in time. Maybe in the 1950s, or something, when things moved a lot more slowly and life was a lot more simple. To anyone watching, Tash and I could just be a normal guy and a normal girl, on a normal date.

  As the credits roll, Tash rests her hand on my chest and starts drawing little circles with her fingertips. It feels nice, and a part of me loves it. But after a few minutes, I catch myself counting the circles, tracking the shapes to see if there’s any kind of pattern to her motions.

  Through the speakers set all around the park, the famous song starts to play.

  You must remember this…a kiss is just a kiss. A sigh is just a sigh….

  What would it be like, to see a kiss as just a kiss, instead of a gateway to disaster and chaos?

  I close my eyes and focus on pretending to be a normal, teenage guy. This is the closest I’ve ever come in my life to having a perfect moment. It’s the one thing I’ve wished for, as long as I can remember. One single moment where I’m not counting, or sanitizing, or worrying, or ritualizing…just 60 seconds where I’m perfectly free from my compulsions. Where I’m truly normal.

  Almost the exact second the wish forms, I feel the first raindrop fall on my hand. In that moment, I know with a certainty that this is my fault. I wished for more than I deserved, and I ruined this perfect moment, before it even had a chance.

  “Seriously?” Tash squints angrily at the sky. “Fuck balls.”

  Her reaction makes me smile, even as my anxiety grows. I really couldn’t have said it any better myself.

  The raindrops keep coming, until one by one, everyone around us starts to leave. They gather up their blankets and loved ones and make for their cars, then for the safety and dryness of indoors. I stand up and pull Tash to her feet, and she holds my coat over her head as the rain falls harder and harder, as I snatch up the blanket and move toward the car. She grabs my hand, and I pull her along with me, too distracted to worry about hands. I’m just trying to make it across the park before we’re both soaked. When she’s safely in the passenger seat, I circle around to my side and jump in, then lock the door behind me, one, two, three times. Just to be sure.

  My breath goes out of me in a disappointed sigh, as I turn to look at her.

  “Well, so much for—”

  I don’t notice the ravenous look on Tash’s face until it’s too late, until her warm, dry hands are touching my rain-dampened face. She climbs into my lap, surprisingly graceful in avoiding the stick shift. I can’t do anything but lean back and let her. Outside, the world is dark, the windows blurred with running water as heavy rain pounds on the metal roof. Somehow, its rhythmic pounding silences the voices in my head. I stop thinking about numbers, and mycobacterium, and intrusive thoughts of accidental violence, and give in to the surreal feeling of being in the eye of a storm.

  Everything is muted now, except feeling.

  Warmth, pressure, friction.

  Her body moving against mine, her fingers in my hair, her legs around my waist.

  My hands on her knees, her bare thighs, sliding higher.

  Soft skin, deep breaths, lacy fabric. Heat-seeking fingertips. Perpetual motion. Grinding, pulsing, exploring.

  What will happen if I….

  Tash gasps. A thrill goes through me. I’ve done something right, by accident. I do it again.

  “Grant,” she whispers. “Oh, my God.”

  My body takes over, instincts I never knew I had kicking in. I move with her, guiding her to somewhere I’ve never been. A place I’m not even sure I understand. All I know is, I want to take her there.

  Her fingers fumble with the button on my jeans, but she keeps kissing me, keeps moving, trying to do everything at once. There isn’t enough space. What’s happening is too big, too important for the front seat of my car. I want to help, but I don’t know how. I reach for the lever that will push my seat back, but my hand is sweating, and I can’t get a grip.

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sp; The rain slows to a trickle, then stops. Without the noise outside, everything happening inside the car suddenly feels louder, sharper, closer. More real.

  Too real.

  Hearts racing. Blood pumping. Bodily fluids being shared, cells dividing, bacteria growing. Images flashing through my brain, a microbiology class film playing on repeat. Disease, infected flesh. Death.

  Tash unzips my jeans, and in the new silence, the sound is like a machine gun. I freeze.

  “Wait, Tash, we have to stop.”

  “What?” She pulls back. Her breathing is ragged, like mine, but her lungs aren’t gearing up for an attack, like mine. Her hands are shaking too, but not from terror, like mine.

  “I…I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  I try to put words to the storm happening in my brain, but I can’t do that, either. So I just shake my head. Everything is falling apart. What started out as amazing, and life-changing, and earth shattering, is quickly degrading into destructive, apocalyptic, anarchy. And yes, of course I’m being overdramatic, and I know it. As Jeanne is so fond of telling me, it’s not OCD unless you know the thoughts you’re having are irrational. It’s the ultimate psychological Catch 22. You’re not crazy if you know you’re crazy. But you can’t stop feeling like you’re crazy, because knowing you’re having insane thoughts and not being able to stop makes you feel like you must be crazy. What other excuse is there?

  “Tash, please.”

  I close my eyes, begging through gritted teeth for the strength to help her understand. I’m still frozen, paralyzed by fear at the thought of hurting her, even as my brain assaults me with images of me wrapping my hands around her throat, slamming her head against the window. I picture myself hurting her, over and over, in a hundred different ways. If I move even one muscle, all of those things could happen. Maybe secretly, I want them to happen.

  Slowly, carefully, she climbs off of me and lowers herself back into her own seat. But she doesn’t yell at me or demand an answer. She just sits there, looking at me like she’s waiting for me to turn back into the strong, steady, calm guy she thinks is the Real Grant.