by Isobel Irons
Then, as I sat there, trying to figure out what to say—or if there was even anything in the world to say to that—he stood up and headed for the door. But right before he left the room (and closed the door behind him) he stopped. Smiled, awkwardly.
“Just don’t do it too much, or you might go blind. Okay, kiddo?”
Looking back, I honestly don’t think my dad meant to terrify me into never touching myself in that way again, but it worked, nonetheless.
Even later, after I’d sat through that incredibly awkward 1960’s film in health class—‘Billy Becomes a Man,’ or whatever it’s called—even after I realized that there was no actual, scientific connection between frequency of ejaculation and loss of eyesight, even though deep down I knew my dad’s comment was a joke…the fear remained. I added it to my ever-growing list of bad actions that would cause catastrophic results, and that false belief became a part of my life.
There’s this saying, about how your worst battle is between what you know, and what you feel.
That’s what it feels like, being me. No matter what I can prove, my instincts always prefer to latch onto the option that causes the most pain, and provides the most fear. It’s worse than self-destructive. It’s self-flagellation, only preemptive. You’re spending every waking moment, punishing yourself in advance for something you might never even do.
So you keep not doing anything new, because you’re too afraid to test your own theories, to prove yourself right.
CHAPTER FIVE
On Monday morning, I get up at 8:00 AM—two hours later than usual.
I shower, shave, brush my teeth—the usual routine, except I skip taking my morning meds again—then I dress in a crisp white shirt, gray slacks and a red and blue striped tie.
My dad has already left for the ER, so I don’t have to worry about running into him and hearing about how the call with Duke went. I’d rather not know. Ignorance is bliss, or so they tell me.
I drive to City Hall, cranking The Raconteurs as loud as my stereo will go. The beats give me strength, and the ironically angry lyrics make me feel like I’m doing something dangerous. Even though, in reality, what I’m about to do is only scary if you happen to care about things like status, and prestige. And legitimacy. Which I do, unfortunately.
I park in front of the mayor’s office, and lock the car three times. Inside, there’s a receptionist sitting behind a desk. I search my memory for her name…Barb.
“Hi, Barb.” I give her my best Former Student Body Vice President smile. “How are you doing today?”
She doesn’t smile back. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if Mayor Golden was around? I was supposed to be doing a summer internship here, with him....” I trail off, before mentioning the part where I gave up the internship back in April, when I agreed to go to Duke for the anatomy course instead. It’s not really lying, I tell myself, just omitting a part of the truth.
If I ever write my autobiography, that will be the title: Lies of Omission by Grant Blue.
Barb—which I can only assume is short for Barbara, which has seven letters in it, so this approach has to work—stares at me like she’s waiting for the punch line. I slide my hands into my pockets and stare back, smiling expectantly, like I already told it. I’m just waiting for her to laugh. I learned that a long time ago, that if you stay quiet long enough, it makes people uncomfortable. Even if the conversation ball is in your court, they’ll forget because the urge to keep playing is stronger.
That’s how I usually end up winning arguments with Tash, because she gets irritated and talks herself out of things, while waiting for me to respond.
I’m hoping that will be the case with last night’s non-argument, but I’m not really sure. It’s the first time she hasn’t just broken down and yelled at me about what’s bothering her. Almost eleven hours have passed, and still no yelling. No angry voice mails, no text message apologies. No confessions. Just silence. The discomfort I’m feeling after not hearing from Tash for 635 minutes in a row is probably similar to what Barb is feeling now.
Finally, she breaks. “The office is on the fourth floor, kid. What are you waiting for?”
“Oh.” I look behind me, toward the elevator. But then I look back, dismayed. “Don’t I need an ID card or something?”
“No, you don’t get a badge,” she says, kind of bitterly. “Those are only for actual employees, not interns. You guys just pretty much come and go freely, as far as I can tell.”
I smile, already backing away. “Thanks, Barb. That’s all I needed to know.”
As I head for the elevator, I feel kind of victorious, like I’ve wrestled a dragon or something. Being the son of a doctor has taught me a lot about things I never wanted to know, but it’s also taught me that getting people to respect you is 90% about acting like you know what you’re doing. Which is why my plan for getting into the mayor’s office is simple: I’m just going to walk in there and pretend like I belong there. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m an intern. If they ask me about missing the deadline to accept, I’ll just act like I don’t know what they’re talking about. Like it was a clerical error on someone’s part, and I’ve been planning on interning this whole time, but no one ever called me to tell me when to start work. Again, not lying. Not dishonest. Just using the convoluted and notoriously disorganized bureaucracy of government to my advantage.
Nixon would be proud.
I hit a slight snag when I realize that the elevator is empty, and one is an odd number of course, so that’s not going to work. Luckily, I spy a stairwell at the end of the hallway. Even better, it’s got those bar handles on the doors, the ones you can open by leaning on them with your hip instead of touching them with your hands.
I’m going to fit right in here.
As I enthusiastically tackle all eight flights of stairs leading to the fourth floor, I have a brief moment of concern over the invincible euphoria I seem to be feeling, but then it passes. Confidence is a very important trait to have in politics, even if it comes from a place of uncertainty. The important thing, I tell myself, is to fake it until I make it.
Maybe if I tell myself I can do anything, I’ll start to believe it. Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong my whole life. Maybe my OCD is like a superpower, something I can use to my advantage. I can replace the bad thoughts with useful thoughts. Inconvenient rituals like counting and sanitizing can be replaced with organization and punctuality, charm, success. It’s not that far of a logical leap. Why not?
When I get to the mayor’s office, there’s another receptionist guarding the way. This one is much younger, around my age, with copper colored hair and a bright yellow sweater. And pearls. She kind of reminds me of the cute school counselor on Glee, but younger and probably less OCD.
“Hi…Can I help you?”
I can definitely sense an ‘interested’ vibe coming from the buttoned-up redhead. Normally, I tend to ignore that kind of thing. But today, my instincts are heightened, hormones in high-gear—probably a side-effect from last night. But hey, if the mayor’s secretary thinks I’m hot, she’ll be more likely to help me. I’m on a roll now, in full Nixon mode, so I smile and reach out to shake her hand.
“Hi, I’m Grant Blue. I’m supposed to be starting an internship for Mayor Golden.”
“I’m Melody.” She holds onto my hand just a fraction of a second too long, smiling just a little too widely. Her teeth are perfectly straight, unbelievably white. I can smell her perfume, even from across the desk. It’s fruity and sweet, like punch. Biting her lip, she reaches her other hand toward a desk phone. “That’s funny, he didn’t say anything about a new intern.”
“Really?” I put on my best confused face. “That’s weird. I applied for the internship back in January, do you think maybe he forgot?”
I’m pretty sure I’m stretching the boundaries of omission now, but I can’t bring myself to care. It’s exhilarating, bending the rules. Striking out on my own, final
ly becoming my own man. Taking risks, just like a normal teenager should.
“I don’t know,” she says, with a voice like cotton candy. “Let’s ask him.”
But instead of picking up her desk phone, Melody stands up, straightens her polka-dot skirt, and walks around the desk toward me.
“His office is this way.”
I follow her back, behind the desk, through a short hallway lined with dark wood and framed pictures of important people. I glance at them as I pass, recognizing some of the top lawmakers in the country. What if someday, that could be me? Instead of cutting people open, I could spend my career making laws, influencing change. Solving complex problems faced by society, instead of dealing in sickness and death. I’ve never really let myself want it before, thinking it was better to just stick to the plan my parents have laid out for me. But what if I could show them another option? What if I could prove to them that I’m better suited to this path?
In front of me, Melody swishes her hips with every step, heels thudding delicately against the carpeted floor. I try not to notice, but it’s like a switch has been flipped in my brain. I put my hands in my pockets and count our steps, to distract myself. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…One, two, three, four, five, six, seven….
Three more steps and we’re at the end of the hall. I tap my left foot, four more times, to finish out the sequence. Twenty-one is a Fibonnaci number, a Harshad number, a Motzkin number, a triangular number and an octagonal number, as well as a composite number. It’s proper divisors are one, three and seven. It’s also the sum of the first six natural numbers, one through six. That makes it a triangular number. Twenty-one is a good number. That means I’ve done something right.
This is going to work out, I know it.
Smiling up at me, Melody knocks on the heavy oak door, three times. Another good sign. I smile back at her, excited to see if my new hypothesis will be proven.
“Come in,” a man’s voice says, from behind the door.
Melody opens the door, and I follow her into the room. It looks like a normal office, with a big wooden desk and filing cabinets against the walls, but for some reason it just feels more impressive. Even if it is just the mayor’s office in a small town, it’s the first step to something greater. Behind the desk, a man sits with his shirt sleeves rolled up, just like mine. His tie is even blue and red striped, like mine. Another good omen. I smile.
“This is Grant Blue. He says he’s supposed to intern for you. I think he’s lying.”
My smile evaporates, along with my burst of false confidence. My eyes dart frantically toward Melody the backstabber, then to the mayor, who’s looking at me with eyebrows raised, then back at the redheaded betrayer again.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I can’t speak. My tongue feels like it’s made of lead.
The mayor stands up and circles his desk. “Don’t be ridiculous, Melody. Why would someone lie about interning? It’s hard enough to hire someone to fetch me coffee and run documents around, let alone getting a willing mark to do it for free. That’d be like sneaking into a work camp.”
He reaches out, and I shake his hand, without even thinking twice about it. “I’m glad you could make it, Grant. I understand you were class valedictorian at Guthrie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What a coincidence. So was I. We beet diggers have to stick together, am I right?”
I nod. “Absolutely, sir.”
Clapping me on the shoulder, the mayor smiles. “Enough of this ‘sir’ business. You can call me Patrick.”
I blink in surprise. Mayor Golden’s first name is Patrick? As in, P-A-T-R-I-C-K, with seven letters?
That settles it. This man is officially my ticket to future glory and success. Today, mayoral intern. Tomorrow, President of the United States. Why not?
With that, he turns back toward Melody. “Sorry about my daughter. She likes to give the new interns a hard time.”
Daughter? Uh-oh.
Behind the mayor’s—aka her dad’s—back, Melody gives me a self-satisfied smile.
“That’s because most of the interns you hire are useless.”
Wow. Okay, so maybe she only looks like a nice girl.
I decide not to let her obvious dig get to me. The odds are in my favor. I just have to keep believing that I’m going to succeed, and I will.
“I really appreciate the opportunity, sir—I mean, Patrick.” I purposefully ignore Melody’s gaze. “What would you like me to do first?”
“Actually,” the mayor looks at his watch. “I’ve got a lunch with the district governor at the country club in fifteen minutes. You know what? Why don’t you come along? We can get to know each other a little better, and you can keep me from being too bored with all the talk about budgetary concerns. Melody will get a time card set up for you, and you can officially start working in the office tomorrow morning. Sound like a plan?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. “That sounds great.”
Best. Internship. Ever.
As I wait for the mayor—who is quickly becoming my personal hero—to grab his coat, Melody leads me back into the front office and hands me a sticky note.
“Write down your phone number and social security number please, so I can put you in the system.”
“Okay.” I pull a pen out of my pocket—because I don’t like to use other peoples’—and write down the information. Everything seems to be happening so fast, it feels so surreal. But maybe this is what life is like when you stop overanalyzing everything. Things just work out on their own, like magic.
When I hand the note back to Melody, her fingers brush mine. I make a mental note to excuse myself to wash my hands the second we get to the country club, so I don’t smell like fruity perfume for the rest of the day. Then I kick myself, because my OCD is making me paranoid again.
“See you tomorrow,” she says, smiling.
I smile back, even though I know I should be careful not to let her get the wrong impression. Plus, if Tash finds out I’m working with a cute redhead who happens to be my new mentor’s daughter, she could get upset. I know I should be cautious, and make sure not to cross any lines.
But on the other hand, I’m freaking sick of playing it safe all the time.
CHAPTER SIX
As I leave the country club, I decide that today can’t possibly get any better.
But the New Grant, confident and optimistic as he is, wants to see if he can keep the good luck train rolling. So instead of driving home, I drive to Tash’s to tell her the good news: that I’m staying for the summer.
By the time I pull into the driveway next to her trailer, I’ve got it all figured out. The perfect spin for what happened last night. I freaked out because I didn’t want to get serious and then leave her a few days later. Just like last time, the day before prom. Except now, I won’t have to leave. She’ll forgive me when I tell her that I gave up the summer course at Duke. She has to.
Unless she doesn’t.
I shake my head to clear the clouds. Things are looking up. I feel more alive than I’ve felt in forever. I’m young, healthy—at least physically—and I’ve got the rest of my life ahead of me. I deserve to live it.
Don’t I?
After locking the door three times, I climb the rickety steel stairs to the green-plastic carpeted porch. Why anyone would want their front porch to look like it has plastic grass growing on it is beyond me, but everyone else’s looks the same, so maybe it’s a trailer park thing. The blinds are drawn on the living room windows, but Tash’s car is parked on the street. I knock on the screen door, four times.
No answer.
Using my foot, I pull open the screen door and knock again, louder.
One, two, three, four. Then, I count to three and do it again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
The door wobbles open.
I step back, expecting to see Tash or her mom standing there. But there’s no one. I realize it was me, knocking hard enough that th
e door opened on its own. It must not have been latched properly.
Feeling like an intruder, I shoulder it open a few more inches, until I can see most of the living room and part of the kitchen. Everything is draped in shadow, like the inside of a crypt. I consider turning around and leaving. Maybe Tash’s car is having trouble starting again. Maybe she caught a ride to work with Ramona, or her mom. But I could’ve sworn she said she was off today.
“Hello? Mrs. Bohner? Tash? Is anyone home?”
If Tash was here, this is where she’d jump out and try to scare me. Or maybe she’d make a joke about how I sound like a character in a teen slasher flick who’s about to die. Maybe both.
But nothing happens, and after a few seconds I decide I’ve missed her. I reach for the doorknob, because there’s no way I’m going to be able to shut the door with my foot and make sure it latches properly—luckily, I’ve got a three month supply of hand sanitizer in my car, so no worries—and that’s when I hear a crash from the back of Tash’s trailer.
My stomach clenches. Suddenly, an image of Trent Gibson’s face flashes across my mind. Glaring in hatred, with his fat fingers wrapped around Tash’s neck. Ripping her dress with his other hand. Hurting her. Then I’m standing above him. Hitting him. Kicking him. Punching him over and over, until his ugly face was a bloody mess. Until he stopped moving.
I’d never even hit anyone before that day. My intrusive thoughts used to be about accidentally harming people. Loved ones, strangers. Damaging property. Hitting a pedestrian in my car. That kind of thing. But after prom night, the thoughts turned more and more violent. It started with Trent, for obvious reasons, but eventually my OCD turned on me, like it always does. It started supplying me with images of torture and cruelty, designed to horrify me in the most personal ways. Tash, my mom, my dad, Gen, even people I barely knew, like Margot. I’ve seen myself become every type of monster.
But none of those things have ever really happened. None of the images are real. At least, not yet.
