Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  Now that I know that my thoughts are direct messages from God, I have no reason to fear them. They’re not coming from a mysterious monster or some other unimaginable demon in my brain. It’s the Lord. The great I Am, the alpha and omega, and all the other things I’ve learned from my intense Bible reading. He’s got the whole world in his hands, as the song from my childhood says, but I’m his favorite. And if God says I shouldn’t go to Melanie’s party, then that’s that. No questions asked.

  I bow my head, recite the prayer formula, pound my chest twice, and point toward the sky.

  I let out a deep sigh. By now I’m used to this kind of disappointment. It doesn’t sting the way it used to. And, looking down at the invitation on the linoleum, she specifically asks for cocktail attire. I don’t think anything from my bureau would be deemed appropriate. Sara will be there. And the giggling girls who follow her around now. And Jenny and Rebecca. And Kelsey Jameson, the girl who laughed at me in the cafeteria. It’s all probably for the best, I tell myself. At least I was invited.

  This week is final exams, a ten-foot-high wall between me and Christmas break. With a groan and all of my strength, I lurch my book bag up onto the kitchen counter, glitter rubbing from my hands onto its black straps. I’ve started doing all my homework down in the kitchen now, since my desk and chair upstairs have been banned. I stand on tiptoes between the two barstools, which are emitting low-toned static, their version of a friendly reminder that they don’t like to be sat on.

  Samuelson has designed final exams to be one last-ditch effort at dooming our hard-earned GPAs. After months of lectures, homework, and quizzes, 25 percent of my semester grade in each course rides on these final tests. Four months of completing all my assignments, four months of acting interested in class, can all be ruined by one fateful three-hour exam session. Since my nightmare, I haven’t been the same student I used to be. In early October, I ranked in the top ten in my class of more than three hundred students. I now spend my once-focused school days counting my steps, mentally repeating the contents of my lunch, staring at my toes to avoid cracks. With knotted hair and rotting breath, I don’t participate in class. My embarrassment at my appearance keeps me closed within myself. My grades have suffered, obviously, but the strong foundation I set in the first two months of school have kept things more or less afloat. So far. I need to do well on exams or I risk not just hurting my GPA but ruining it. A semester of anything more than one or two Bs will dash any hope I had of an Ivy League education, the chance to leave this sleepy town and experience the world. I’ve done the math. I need to ace all my exams if I want a chance of getting above a 3.0 GPA this semester.

  Exam week is a rigorous five-day marathon. Each day is segmented into two exam slots, and every student’s seven classes are divvied up among the openings, rotating the exhausted student body systematically through the week. In a cruel twist of scheduling, I have my two hardest classes, chemistry and precalculus, on sequential days. Chemistry is tomorrow, precal on Friday. My shoulders sag under the weight of my future. It’s going to be a long forty-eight hours.

  I lean down and work to pull my chemistry binder and textbook out of my overcrowded backpack. The bag is stuffed so tightly that when I am finally able pull them out, my English book and two decaying sandwiches follow along and flop onto the floor. Flipping open the binder, I’m attacked by a heavy odor of rotting food. I gag violently and take a few steps back, eyes watering. The edges of all the notes clasped in the binder are tainted a watery brown. A mixture of old spilled Jell-O and the mystery juices that have seeped out of sandwiches, blueberries, and oranges crushed under textbooks. The smell is overwhelming. Even breathing through my mouth, I can feel it stinging the inside of my nostrils.

  I pull out the final-exam study guide Ms. Matthews provided us in class last week. My stomach snarls at me, no longer begging for food but demanding it. I’m light-headed. But I need to study. Final exam tomorrow.

  I flip through the multipage study guide, and as I turn to the last page, the damp, dirty corner of the paper slides across my forearm. Its cool ooze leaves a trail on my skin, thick like glue. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m gagging again as I stare at the phlegmy sludge on my wrist, trying hard to fight back the quick burst of nausea pushing up my throat. My stomach is turning violently, and I step backward, trying to aim my incoming vomit away from my schoolbooks.

  After about a minute the feeling begins to pass, and I straighten up. I fling my arm hard, and the disgusting line of brown mucus flies off it. I haven’t moved back to the counter yet—I’m still recovering with long, slow breaths—when I see my foot. Planted flat. On a crack in the kitchen floor.

  The world stops. Everything is silent. And then—

  CALCULATOR. NOTEBOOK PAPER. APPLES.

  Oh no. No, no, no. Not here. Not here. Not now. My mind races into action, stumbling over itself as it tries to stop the hemorrhaging.

  SHARPENING THE SAFE PENCIL DURING EXAMS. CHEMISTRY EXAM. There is a pause, and I can feel the kitchen being searched for another victim. There isn’t much left. PEANUTS. SALT AND PEPPER. The presence is faltering. Sputtering as the options dwindle. I feel my eyes settle down onto the bright green running shorts I’m wearing under the huge sweatshirt. THE COLOR GREEN.

  And with a release in pressure, just like usual, the tension quickly filters out of the air and I’m left in silence. A heavier silence than I’ve ever known. Without realizing it, I bring my hand up to my head and rub it hard against my forehead and eyes, letting out a long, deep sigh. I’m not able to cry. I just don’t have the energy. But if I could, I know I would be sobbing.

  I look up at the counter, the site of most of the massacre. Apples, peanuts, salt and pepper. They are filed away calmly in my crowded brain next to potatoes, oatmeal, bananas. All the other food items that, while missed, are manageable obstacles in my life. I know there are more victims waiting, big ones I will have to address and figure out how to move past. But I hesitate, holding on to the moment. Do I really want to know the truth?

  Calculator. The idea pushes itself into my mind and I cuss harshly under my breath. Words I don’t think I’ve ever said out loud. I’m on the eve of my two math-related finals, and I’ve lost my calculator. Freaking perfect. I was so proud of my plastic TI-83 calculator when we bought it at Staples over the summer. It’s twice as big as my palm, and holding it made me feel immensely intellectual. Like I wanted to build rockets or solve giant equations on chalkboards. Or at least get an A in precalculus. I look up at the black calculator sitting smugly a foot away, and with a blast of rage, I shove my chemistry binder toward it so it flies off the counter, landing on the linoleum with a loud crack that echoes through the kitchen. Good, I think, it deserved that. I hope it’s broken.

  Notebook paper. My body groans against this one, which pops back into my head with the crash of the calculator. Notebook paper is an essential. Homework, essays. I need it. But, I think with an edge of optimism, I don’t really use notebook paper during exams anyway. It’s most important for homework assignments and taking notes in class. This one can wait until next semester. I shovel it over the fence in my mind. A problem for another day.

  Safe pencil. My brain freezes. Safe pencil. The only writing utensil in the world can now apparently not be sharpened during exams. Over the past few weeks, I’ve written it down to a three-inch nub, barely big enough to grip in my hand. As I stare without seeing at the kitchen counter, I’m also reminded: chemistry exam.

  Chemistry exam? My mind leaps in urgency. What does that mean? Like the whole test? The paper it’s made of? I’m whizzing around the possibilities, each just as threatening as the one before. There is an emptiness in my chest. The feeling of my life melting down.

  What do you mean, chemistry exam? I pose the question in my mind again, like I would have to my monster. But, I wonder, does God hear my thoughts? Does God listen to the confused, whimpered questions of a war-worn fifteen-year-old? I wait in silence, eyes closed,
hoping for some sort of golden, glowing message to float down from the heavens. Tilting my head back in a gesture of openness, I lift my face to the ceiling, asking for an answer. A whisper. Something.

  I stand in this position until my neck begins to complain. And by this time, at least a few minutes later, a growing gurgle of annoyance has developed in my stomach. Helllooooo? I offer into the silence, and it echoes like it would through a haunted house. I am completely alone. Abandoned.

  This is my chemistry final! Worth 25 percent of my grade! What is going on? I am yelling at God, stomping, throwing a dramatic temper tantrum in my mind at his silence. These are my grades. This is my future. And you just mess around with it as you please? Like it’s no big deal? The thoughts flow out of me before I can censor them. I don’t have time to even hear what I’m saying before they’ve been delivered to the creator of the universe. My anger quickly transforms to fear as I realize what I’ve said and, more important, who I’m saying it to.

  I immediately swing my head down to the counter and fill my vision with its vast white nothingness. Although it feels like there isn’t much more in my life to lose, I thought the same thing ten minutes ago and sacrificed my calculator and notebook paper as a result. My mind calms a little looking at the white countertop. After a while, like a small child peeking out from behind its mother’s leg, I tentatively raise my eyes to the ceiling. A quiet plea. Please help me, Lord. Tell me about the chemistry final.

  I feel a sudden warmth in my heart like I’ve just offered up a heartfelt prayer. And within a few moments, he is here. Maybe it’s not God himself, but it’s something special and powerful. I can feel it in the air.

  If you pass your chemistry final, your mom will die.

  The statement isn’t spoken. It just is. Unlike previous messages, it doesn’t appear like an epiphany. Instead it’s revealed as a long-held fact. Something that always has been and always will be true. A rule of Mother Nature.

  And because you questioned me, you must stand on one foot until someone else gets home.

  Or else.

  I flinch at the suggestion, more from confusion than anything. I peer into the white countertop, eyes squinting. Stand on one foot . . . ?

  What?

  I look up at the clock on the microwave. It’s only four p.m. Another two or three hours before I can expect one of my parents to get home from work. I slowly raise my left leg up like a flamingo, unsure of why exactly I’m doing it. It makes no sense, to be standing on one foot in my silent kitchen until my parents get home, but I have to admit that something about it feels right. The sound of two puzzle pieces clicking perfectly together. I wobble back and forth on my right foot, eventually finding my balance. God, it seems, is just as sensitive as my monster. He doesn’t like to be challenged.

  The minutes crawl by as I teeter from side to side. I’m going to fail my chemistry exam tomorrow. On purpose. To save my mother’s life. I know it is both perfect and ludicrous. It is the truth but it’s unbelievable. If I hadn’t heard it from God himself, I think, I might try to fight it. Maybe barter a week’s worth of food in exchange for not having to fail. But this is God. The be-all and end-all.

  The sun dips below the horizon as I gaze out the kitchen windows, still perched on my right foot. I haven’t moved since the warning. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to. There weren’t very specific details provided from the beginning, and it doesn’t seem like it’s okay to ask. So I stand frozen, trying my best not to look at my open chemistry binder and the accompanying study guide spread on top of it. I wasn’t told to not study for the test, but it just seems like I shouldn’t. If I’m going to fail this exam, I want to do it the right way. The honest way.

  One hour and thirty-seven minutes later, as I teeter on my screaming right ankle in the pitch-black kitchen, a garage door clangs to life below me. And I’m free. My knee pops as I lower my leg to the floor.

  I gather myself for a few seconds, tiptoe over to the light switch on the wall, and flip it on, bathing the kitchen in light. I pick up my English binder from the floor and open it across the counter. Lowering my head toward its pages, I pretend to be studying intensely as my dad reaches the top of the stairs coming up from the garage.

  “Honey, I’m home.” He stomps into the kitchen doing his best I Love Lucy impression.

  “Hi, Dad!” I glance at him over my shoulder and force a toothy smile. A grin that means a thousand different things, except the one he would assume. He and I used to have warm, lengthy conversations almost every night after my mom went to bed. As I try to hide my bare face from him, I realize we haven’t really spoken in weeks.

  • • •

  There are only two good things about exam week. First, the tests don’t start until ten a.m., so I get to sleep in. Second, I don’t need any of my school materials for the exams, so I don’t have to lug my giant pile around campus.

  It’s the second point that has me feeling a slight peep of relief this morning, despite what happened yesterday afternoon and despite what I know is ahead. Counting, tiptoeing down the concrete path toward the science building, I am bouncing on clouds. I sway my arms self-consciously at my sides. I’ve forgotten what to do with them when they’re not holding the majority of my life’s (safe) possessions. Do I just let them hang? I lift my hands to my jeans pockets, then remember I’m not wearing jeans but instead a light-blue pair of flannel pajamas. My hands fall back down to my sides awkwardly.

  Squinting into the morning sun, that’s when I see it. Green grass. Green bushes. Green fir trees. Green. Green. Green. Everywhere green. The air is suddenly clogged with a thick, invisible smoke. I take a breath in and almost choke. Holding on to the tiny amount of oxygen I have left in my lungs, I run toward the brick science building and launch myself through the glass doors.

  I’m gasping, drinking in clean air, but the frenzied, tight-lipped stress of my classmates brings my focus to the exam ahead. Everyone around me is staring feverishly down at papers or notes. I count us all to class while trying to catch my breath.

  Preston Lassiter reaches the door of Ms. Matthews’s classroom at the same time I do, and we stop awkwardly, each trying to wave the other person through first. We step forward at the same time again, jerk to a stop when we see the other move, and step back. Preston is my main competition when it comes to nudging myself into the top five in the class. There are some kids I know I can’t pass: Xian, Rodric, Mary Beth. But Preston. Preston with his bowl cut and cargo pants. Him I could catch. I can tell he gets a smug satisfaction from being “smarter” than me, so I make sure to remind him of the time I beat him in the seventh-grade spelling bee almost every time we talk. I get a sudden surge of adrenaline as I look at his untied sneakers, their frayed laces dragging against the floor. I’ll show you, Preston. You’re not smarter than me. Watch me ace this—

  But no. Before the thought is even completed, my mind shuts it down and I’m slapped with reality. Preston and I aren’t competitors anymore. I’m going to fail this exam intentionally. I’m going to get a C, or worse, in chemistry. And English, thanks to that Les Mis paper. I can see Preston’s eyes working, trying to come up with a snide remark to shake my confidence before the test. Dropping my face to the floor, I tiptoe forward into the classroom without acknowledging him, leaving him in the doorway with his mouth hanging slightly open.

  I feel like I’m walking to my own execution as I approach my desk in the third row. No one is watching me, thankfully. They are too consumed with their notes and binders, muttering formulas and compounds under their breath. The wall to my left is usually decorated with a giant mural of the periodic table. But today Ms. Matthews has covered it in large sheets of white paper, making the room feel strangely naked.

  I begin to sit down in my desk, but as my legs are moving toward the seat, I’m hit with the same electricity of the barstool in my kitchen. The same powerful anger and static billowing up from its surface. Involuntarily, I bend my body away from the seat and roll up into a sta
nding position in some sort of awkward hip-hop dance move. The bell rings and I remain on my tiptoes, facing away from my desk with its cancer rays shooting like daggers into my back.

  Ms. Matthews is at the front of the classroom in a thick red sweater. She thumbs through a mound of papers, counting out enough tests for each row, and begins handing them out to the seats in the front of the class. I’m the only other person standing in the room, so we make eye contact and my body clenches hard against her gaze. The expression on her face is some unknown mix of annoyance and distaste. Maybe an edge of nausea. “Allison. Have a seat, please.” She lets out a long, loud sigh, like I’m the problem child, and clears her throat as if trying to keep herself from saying something rude. Ms. Matthews has never particularly liked me. There’s something in the way she says my name that gives it away. But today it’s much more than just dislike. Curious heads are popping up around me at her comment, only now noticing that I haven’t yet sat down. She counts out a few more papers, takes a few more steps, and then looks back at me. Still wavering slightly on my tiptoes. She gives me the What in the world is wrong with you? look and moves her hand to her hip, daring me to speak.