OBSESSIVE (The Issues Series)

by Isobel Irons

  “But I did.” As weird as it is talking about this stuff to my kid sister, my urge to argue with her is stronger. “I told her I loved her. Or weren’t you eavesdropping on that part?”

  Gen rolls her eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything, you dork. Anyone can say that. Boys at my school say that to girls all the time, right before they dump them. You have to prove it. You have to say it more than once, in a bunch of different ways. Maybe even with a special song you wrote just for her. Or you could hire a band and sing to her in front of a bunch of people. Or something super cheesy like that.”

  “Oh God,” everything she’s saying reminds me of Tash. “Have you been watching 80s movies?”

  “Nope. I’ve been reading books. You should try it sometime.”

  I’m tugging on my hair so hard, I’m pretty sure it’s standing straight up. “I do read books.”

  She scoffs. “Obviously not the right kind of books.”

  I shake my head, admitting defeat. “I guess not.”

  “Hang on a second.” She puts down the container of ice cream and races out of the kitchen. I can hear her running up the stairs, and I can’t help wondering if she bothered to take the spoon out of her mouth, so she doesn’t fall and impale herself. A few minutes later, she comes back, holding her spoon in one hand and a worn paperback book in the other.

  “Here, use this.” She tosses it onto the table in front of me.

  I pick it up. “The Princess Bride? Didn’t they make this into a movie?”

  Gen is glaring at me, dead serious. “What? It’s just like studying anything else. Sometimes, you just need to see an example of what happy ever after looks like. That way you know it’s possible. Plus, this book has one of the best ‘I love you’ speeches in the history of ever.”

  “You know this isn’t real, right? This is fiction.” I shake my head, but deep down I know she has a point. At least, about the figuring things out thing. I never thought in a million years that a bunch of YouTube videos could change my outlook on life, but here we are.

  After a few seconds of staring at the kind of girly looking book cover, I smile. “How did you get so smart? You’re like, twelve.”

  “I’m fourteen, Grunt. And I’ve always been the real smart one. You’re just a show off.”

  For that, I stand up and hug her.

  “Okay fine,” I say. “I’ll try it your way.”

  Feeling like a giant dork, I take the book and go up to my room. A few minutes later, Gen knocks on the door. She’s brought the good paper, the kind that looks like parchment.

  “Use this,” she tells me solemnly. “It’s mom’s special stock. She uses it for her charity invitations.”

  “I’m not inviting Tash to a silent auction, Grems.”

  “Just trust me.” She sighs loudly, rolling her eyes. “Ugh, why are boys so dumb?!”

  When she leaves, she slams the door behind her.

  I sigh equally loudly, staring down at the blank, fancy paper and wishing I could go take a three hour long shower. But I don’t, because the thought of writing my feelings down has always made me uncomfortable, even when it was for therapy. And look how that turned out—disastrously.

  This time, the stakes are even higher. I have to find some way to tell Tash how important she is, how sorry I am, and how stupid I’ve been for the past two months…or eighteen years…all in one letter.

  I think I’m going to need more paper.

  In the end, the OCD prevails, and I end up practicing on plain lined paper first. But I can’t seem to get anything to sound right. Even the beginning feels wrong.

  I started off with ‘Dear Tash,’ but that just felt too formal. Then I decided to cut right to the point and start off with ‘I’m sorry.’ But then the whole thing took a turn into some very dark, very awkward territory and I realized she was probably going to stop reading before she got to the important part at the end.

  By 9:30, I’ve officially skipped dinner and my recycling bin is full of crumpled paper. Of course I have a recycling bin. Because I care about the environment, and I don’t enjoy sorting my trash after the fact.

  Anyway, the letter. It’s pretty much a complete fail. Until about one in the morning, when I have an epiphany:

  If I want Tash to know that what I’m saying is true, I have to do this my way.

  So I go to my closet and pull out my highlighter collection. Then I start again.

  By the time I’m finally finished, it’s almost three in the morning. But I can’t wait. I drive to Tash’s house and leave the letter in her mailbox. Her car is still gone, but it’s Friday. She should be back by Sunday night, at the latest, if Margot’s camp is taking the term ‘Family Weekend’ literally.

  I can handle a few more days of torture, I decide. It’ll be good for me.

  When I get home, I can’t sleep. So I end up reading Gen’s princess book, cover to cover. By the time I finally fall asleep, I’m pretty sure I’m a little bit closer to understanding what girls really want. The problem is, I don’t know if I could ever wrestle a 300 pound rat, even if they were a real thing.

  So I guess I’ll have to find something else semi-heroic to do.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It’s Monday.

  I’ve been driving by Tash’s house at least twice a day, but she’s still not back. I’m starting to worry. She doesn’t answer any of my calls, and her mom is never home during the day.

  It’s ironic, because in this day and age, we should just be texting each other back and forth or talking online. But because Tash doesn’t have a computer, and she hates using her ‘shitty, Back to the Future-style brick phone,’ my life this summer has started to feel a lot like those 80s movies she loves quoting so much. It’s like we spend so much time trying to connect, trying to get on the same page. But she couldn’t reach me in my fortress of solitude, and now I can’t reach her.

  They say timing is everything. But I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of pretending I’m fine without her.

  By about 2:00 in the afternoon, I’ve gotten desperate. I google the phone number of Margot’s Teen Discovery Camp and call them to see how long family weekend goes.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know where you’re getting your information,” the lady at the camp tells me. “But we don’t do a family weekend. Visitors aren’t allowed until the end of the program.”

  “What?” I’m sure I must have heard that wrong. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, well…thank you, anyway.” I hang up, confused.

  There’s no visitors allowed at Margot’s camp? That means Tash lied to Nana and Dottie. Why would she do that? Where did she really go?

  My anxiety level immediately starts climbing again. I’m learning to rank it now, on a scale of one to ten, instead of trying to ignore it. Ever since I wrote the letter to Tash, I’ve been hovering around about a seven. Because even though I have no idea where she is, or what she’s thinking, or how she feels about me right now, I keep asking myself the same questions over and over:

  What if she came home and saw the letter, but didn’t read it? What if she read it, but it didn’t make a difference? What if something bad happened?

  And now, there’s a bunch more questions to add to the loop. Like:

  What’s going on with her? What is she hiding? Why didn’t I notice? Why wouldn’t she tell me?

  Not knowing the answer to any of these questions is driving me insane. Or, more insane. But I can’t think of anything to do about it, short of going full stalker and hiring someone to track her down. Or driving up to Margot’s camp to see for myself if Tash is on the lam, hiding up there among the troubled kids. Maybe she’s infiltrated the place to bust Margot out. But that wouldn’t make any sense, because as much as Tash misses her best friend, I know she wants her to get better.

  All of my scenarios lead nowhere, and each time I come up with a new one, it seems less likely.

  Yesterday I started running again, just t
o have something to do. I’m really out of shape, and my pace is slow, but I kind of like the feeling of being sore. Like I’m accomplishing something, because at least I can do something to affect the way I feel, even if it’s just physically.

  It helps that I’m back on a more normal dose of meds now. I’ve even started doing some research into new meds I can try, and my dad says he’s going to look into finding an OCD specialist for me. When I told him about the videos I watched online, I think he went and watched them too, because he keeps bringing it up and using all the right terms now. Like ‘habitualization,’ and ‘exposure,’ instead of saying things like ‘Try to calm down,’ or ‘Remember son, it’s all in your head.’

  After dinner, we start talking about maybe getting me into this therapy program in Seattle. But it’s nine weeks long, so I’d have to defer my enrollment by a semester. If I’m still going to Stanford. I haven’t figured that part of my life out yet, either. But I can’t really think about that until I get my other goals in line. Like, what I want to accomplish, besides being normal. Or respectable. What do I actually want to do, every day, for the rest of my life? Not just big picture stuff, like ‘change the world’ or ‘help people.’ But the in-between now and then parts. Do I want to work in an office, or travel? Do I want to try something really out there, like politics and public speaking—with all the handshakes those jobs entail? Or would I maybe be happier doing something more behind the scenes, working with numbers and crunching data in front of a computer?

  I’ve given so much thought to what I don’t want to do, what I don’t want to become, that I never really tried to visualize what a happy life might look like. Not someone else’s version of happily ever after. But mine.

  At this point, all I know is that my immediate future needs to include Tash.

  I can’t stop thinking about her, no matter what I’m doing. She’s the one intrusive thought I don’t mind having, even if it hurts to think about the fact that I might have lost her. Even if I can’t control my feelings, I wouldn’t want them to go away.

  At 9:35 on Monday night, I get a text message on my new phone:

  WHAT THE HELL IS THIS FUCKING LETTER, GRANT?

  I almost drop my phone. I’m so happy, I don’t even care that she’s swearing at me. All I can think is, she’s back. She’s talking to me again. I immediately drop what I’m doing—which is making a pro and con list of college majors and future careers—and run downstairs to grab my mom’s car keys. I pass Gen in the kitchen, and she gives me this look like she knows I’m about to do something stupid. Sometimes, she’s like a mini version of my mom.

  “Don’t crash this time,” she calls after me, as I race out the door.

  “I won’t.”

  When I pull up in front of Tash’s house, the porch light is on, and her car is in the driveway, but the rest of the house is dark. I knock on the door, but there’s no answer again. Where is she? Did she go over to Margot’s? I shudder at the thought of going over there and facing down Dottie’s creepy stare, but for Tash I’ll do anything.

  Then I remember, she actually texted me for once. I’m so used to her ignoring my phone calls by now, I didn’t even think to try texting her back.

  Hey, where are you? I’m at your house.

  I wait for a few seconds, debating whether or not to start walking down the street, just in case. But she responds pretty quickly. Especially for her.

  Why are you at my house?

  Why? How could she not know why?

  Because I need to talk to you.

  About what?

  I’m pacing back and forth on her porch, and it’s all I can do not to count the plastic plants, just to calm myself down. But I don’t. Instead, I take a deep breath and spell it out for her, one letter at a time.

  About what I wrote in the letter. About what’s been going on lately. Please, will you just tell me where you are, so I can come see you and explain everything?

  The next pause is so long, I want to give in and let myself do a ritual, just to calm down. But I don’t.

  Okay fine, I’m in my car. Turn around.

  What? I turn around, just in time to see a hand come up from the dark interior of Tash’s car and grasp the steering wheel, before she pulls herself into a sitting position in the driver’s seat. I can’t help wanting to laugh, because of how dramatic it is. But I’m too anxious at the moment, and I don’t want to risk laughing hysterically and ruining the mood, so I don’t.

  I go down the steps, and lean down to look at her through the open window.

  “Why are you sitting in your car?”

  Up close, I can tell that she’s been crying. Her face is pale and her eyes are puffy and red. She’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in a while. I try to find a nice way to ask her if she’s feeling okay. But she beats me to it.

  “You look like hell.”

  This time, I do laugh. “Yeah, well it’s been a stressful couple of days.” I sigh. “Can I come sit with you?”

  She shrugs. “I guess so.”

  I walk around to the other side of the car and get in. She’s got one of those old model station wagons with bench seats, covered in cracked vinyl. The dashboard is always covered in dust, and the floor is usually littered with wrappers and various girl things, like shoes and discarded sweaters. That’s why I usually find excuses to drive, instead of riding in Tash’s car.

  “Why are you still out here?” I embrace the discomfort of the situation, and the germs. I even reach forward and run my finger through the layer of dust, just to see if I can. Tash looks at me sideways, eyes wide, but I don’t comment on my new impervious to dirt act. Not yet. “I’m guessing you’ve been home for a while, since you texted me saying you got my letter. Why didn’t you go into the house?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. She’s still holding the steering wheel, looking down at her hands. I can see my letter crumpled in her lap.

  That’s not a good sign.

  “I guess I was trying to figure out what to do, and this seemed like as good a place to freak out as any.”

  I open my mouth to tell her it’s not safe for a girl to sit alone in the car at night, especially with the windows open, in this neighborhood. But she knows that better than anyone, and I don’t want to remind her of that again, not when she’s so obviously upset.

  “Why were you freaking out?”

  She glares at me, and I rush to explain. My anxiety is through the roof, but I force myself to keep pushing. Keep sharing. Keep doing the thing I’m most afraid of—exposing myself to Tash, in the worst possible way, and losing her.

  “I mean, you can freak out if you want to. It’s just…you don’t usually. Freak out, I mean. Me, I’ve been freaking out for days. Months, really. I’m pretty much always freaking out, at least on the inside. But I’ve been freaking out more often, ever since last month when I stopped taking my meds. I thought it would make me clearer, more able to feel things, you know? And it did. But then, it also made the other stuff kind of worse. And then something happened, and for some reason I freaked out and took too much Klonopin, and that’s when I got in a car accident. And I kind of went a little Howard Hughes there for a while. But I’m…I’m working on it, and I think there’s a good chance I can fight this. I’d really like a chance to start over. I don’t know how I messed this up, but I want to try and fix it. If you’re freaking out because of me…I really want to fix that.”

  “So…” She stops, swallows. “You’re saying that’s why you broke up with me? Because you took too many drugs? Or you broke up with me because you weren’t taking enough drugs, and then you decided to overdose? And was that before or after you slept with Melody? I just…I just want to make sure I’m getting the timeline straight.”

  My anxiety level explodes off the scale. I don’t even know if there’s a number for it. “Whoa, what do you…WHY do you think I slept with Melody?”

  Tash narrows her eyes at me, then pulls something out o
f her pocket. It’s one of those Motorola flip phones that used to be really popular for a while. Still an early model, but not nearly as ancient as her last one. I shake my head, trying to clear it. My mind always focuses on the stupidest things, especially in a crisis.

  “I got this on eBay a few weeks ago,” she says, flipping it open and scrolling through it. “It took me a while to figure out how to work it, but even I know how to open a picture message.”

  She stops scrolling and hands it to me. My eyes widen as I take in what’s on the screen. I can’t even fathom how…but no, actually, I can. It all makes perfect sense.

  “I know this is going to sound like the world’s dumbest excuse… but Melody snuck into my room, after I told her and my mom that you couldn’t make it to dinner. My dad invited the mayor over for dinner—he wanted to find out how I was doing at my internship. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I went up to my room to wash my hands—several times—and when I came out, she was waiting on my bed, right next to where I’d left my phone.”

  I was in the bathroom for ages. It would have been so easy for her to take off her clothes, and lie down in my bed to take this picture with my phone. The caption below it says Good thing you couldn’t make it. I’m better off with what I have right here. The fact that Melody accidentally used the word ‘better,’ which is kind of like a code word between Tash and I, just makes it that much worse.

  “She wasn’t naked when I came out, that much I can promise you.” I hand the phone back, feeling more angry than anxious now. “I kicked her out like five seconds later. You can ask Gen, or my mom. I told her about everything that happened a few days ago, after I quit my internship. My mom actually called her a skank. I thought that was kind of rude, but now I think maybe skank isn’t a strong enough word.”

  “Wow,” Tash shakes her head, pocketing her phone. “I wouldn’t have thought your mom had it in her. And that’s the mayor’s daughter. God knows what kind of things she’s called me.”

  I want to reassure her that my mom doesn’t hate her, but there’s a more pressing issue to deal with. Why would Tash actually think I’d do that to her? Let alone send a picture of a random naked girl, or say something so cruel?