Just a pencil.
Since when is that a sentence? When did that become possible?
I look around the den in near disbelief. That wasn’t easy. Not even close. At the beginning it was terrible. Really horrible. But I did it. And lived. I examine my arms and legs, looking for signs of damage. Everything seems . . . okay? Better than okay. Everything seems perfectly fine.
Oh my gosh. I feel Dr. Nelson’s calm presence on my shoulder again. I can’t wait to tell her about this tomorrow!
• • •
Less than twenty-four hours later, sunshine is bursting out of my chest as we settle into our respective chairs. I can feel the light pulsing out of me, and I’m sure she can see it too. I’ve been thinking about this all day. I did ERP. I aced my homework.
“So, how are you today?” Hand-knit sweater, this time gray. “You look . . . good.” She tries to hide the rise in her voice on this last word. But I can’t blame her for her surprise. I feel . . . good. Maybe. Against all odds. Could that be true? Am I allowed to feel good?
We talk casually for ten minutes before I notice her start to glance at the clock. Her hands are crossed politely over her kneecaps, head tilted to the side, and I know she’s telling me to wrap up my story. I let my last words trail off because as I’m talking Dr. Nelson bends down into her filing cabinet and takes out a fistful of pencils bundled together in a rubber band. Brand-new, sharpened No. 2 pencils. The pencils of standardized tests. The pencils of death.
But I stop suddenly at this thought. It comes automatically, flowing forward out of habit. Pencils, cancer. Pencils, cancer. Except today it falls flat. Like my favorite song being played off-key. It doesn’t feel like it used to. Something’s different.
“Hey!” I jerk upward as a rubber band flies by my face and smacks into the back of the chair. Dr. Nelson is holding her pose, one hand outstretched, one eye closed.
“Aw, man! So close!” She slaps the side of her leg, then arranges the pencils, laying them individually on top of her thighs. They make small wooden noises against one another. If the cancer rays in their tips were turned on—which they aren’t, for some reason—they would be slicing me in half through the middle.
The clamp is tightening on my head, slowly but continuously. In such quantity, the pencils have a Darth Vader-like power and I feel them gripping tightly around my neck from across the room. My muscles cramp into knots and my shoulders rise up toward my ears.
“Don’t worry about the pencils. Allison.” She snaps twice and my eyes are pulled up to her. “Don’t pay attention to them. They’re just sitting here, minding their own business.” Looking me straight in the eye, as if keeping me on course, she asks, “So! Tell me about your homework. How was trying to interact more with pencils? How did it go?”
Oh! I’m torn from my headache and suddenly remember. The pencil. The battle.
“The homework!” My brakes squeal across the carpet and I’ve done a 180. A smug smile spreads across my face. The homework! “Okay, so, I did it. In the den last night.”
“Good! And? How did you feel?”
“Oh my gosh, at first . . .” I yell these words at her, leaning my chest forward, talking with my body. I take a quick breath in. “At first, it was terrible. Sooo bad.” I hold out the “ooo” just to be sure she understands. “Soooooo bad,” I repeat for emphasis. “Like, worse than it was the first time, even. I felt so, just, consumed. I guess. I don’t know.” My voice trails off as I remember myself back on the carpet across from the bookshelf.
“And did it pass? Were you able to keep going?”
Ha! I snap back into the moment. “Yes!” I look at Dr. Nelson, and her eyes are open wide at me like I’m telling the most interesting and suspenseful story she’s ever heard. “Yes! It took a while, you know, a few minutes or so, but soon I really started to feel less . . . I don’t know what. Just less.” I shrug at her, and she nods like she gets it. “And once it kind of got to a seven or so, it got better much faster. It’s that first part that’s really bad.” I move my hand in the air in a straight line and then jerk it diagonally downward to show the path.
She’s smiling and I’m smiling and we nod at each other in silence for a few seconds. “Very good, very good. That’s great to hear! So it may have started out worse than when we did it together, but you see that it still decreases over time. It loses its power when you resist it.”
I’m still smiling at her. “Yep.”
“So, are you ready to get started again?
“Started again with—”
But before I finish my question she’s lifted one of the pencils up off her lap (weird, I think briefly, that I forgot those were there) and is holding it by its eraser so it’s pointed toward the ceiling. My heart leaps like someone has jumped out at me from hiding.
“What’s your rating?”
“An eight!” I say loudly, talking over my muscles. But then I unclench slightly and really look up at it. Yellow paint, sharpened tip. Just like the one from yesterday. “Mm, well. Actually. A seven. No, an eight. No . . . a seven.” The pencil feels angry, but like it’s been wrapped in a few layers of bubble wrap. Somehow muffled. “Yeah, a seven.” I tilt my head and look at it quietly for about five seconds. “Now almost a six.”
“Wow, very good. It’s been forty seconds. Stick with it.”
The clock ticks a handful of times into the silence. “Five.”
“Four.”
“Three.”
I look up at Dr. Nelson and she wiggles her eyebrows at me twice. “Well, check. You. Out!” She almost squeals as she jumps out of her seat and leans forward for a high five. Laughing out loud, I smack her hand with equal enthusiasm.
“Oh my goodness. Way to go! I mean it, Allison. Amazing progress.”
I bloom with pride. Dr. Nelson is happy. Pencils are just pencils. This is happening.
We do two more rounds of ERP. They both start at sixes, quickly plummet, and end with a raucous high five across the carpet. My cheeks hurt from smiling.
“We have one more order of business before I can let you go for the day.” She lifts her hands a few inches and looks down at her paper. “School starts back on Wednesday.” She pauses here, knowing what’s coming, and I let out a long groan.
“Schoooool. Nooooo.” I dramatically flop over onto the arm of the chair. “Don’t make me.”
“Yes, yes. Well, you will understand if I don’t feel too bad for you, because I haven’t had a Christmas break in, ohhh”—she looks down at the watch on her wrist—“twenty, no, twenty-five years.” She lets out a long, melodramatic sigh. “One of the downfalls of getting old.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to wish it on me!” I pretend to balk at her.
Tilting her head, she purses her lips at me, trying to hide her amusement. “I really want to get you off on the right foot this semester. And I think we can do it. No, I know we can do it. But we need to have a plan. So start thinking about what else you want to target. What makes the most sense for your schoolwork, for your happiness? You’ve done so well on pencils, we’ll be running through this list in no time.”
I flinch. “Lists, you mean.”
“Hmm?”
“Lists. It’s lists. Plural.” I appreciate her optimism, but let’s not get carried away here. This isn’t a scribbled to-do list of Sunday afternoon chores. We’ll run though it in no time? Don’t be so casual. I shrink away from her in my seat.
“Yes. Yes, lists, you’re right. We’ve got some big boulders ahead, that’s for sure.” She straightens a few papers against her thigh before sliding them into her folder, aware that she’s struck a nerve. She looks up at me. “And that’s why we’ve got to work that much harder.”
I feel a surge of warmth and nod at her. Much better.
“Also, speaking of school, I’ve spoken with your guidance counselor, Ms. Dickerson, and the vice principal, and I’ve advised them that it would be in your best interest to hold off on retaking your precal exam unti
l later in the semester. I think that at this point it would be a major disruption for you, a major cause of stress that you don’t need. And that, frankly, it would delay our progress.”
My eyes shoot open with the mention of the precal exam. I completely forgot that I’m supposed to retake it. That I hadn’t studied and had no pencil and cried in front of everyone. Craaaaap, I moan to myself. And now I have to go back to school and sit in that same classroom with those same people. How did I forget?
If Dr. Nelson notices my misery, she pretends that she doesn’t and continues. “We’ve also discussed alternative options for you this semester in regards to your schoolwork. Now that you have been officially diagnosed, Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act provides for certain measures that can be taken to help”—she pauses for the right phrase—“ease the load on you.” She makes a gentle hand gesture, swaying her arm to the side.
“For example . . .” She flips over loudly to a full page of notes. I think I see my name written across the top, and there’s a doodle in the corner. She traces her finger through the writing, mumbling under her breath, looking for the information. “Ah, okay, here. So, we discussed extended testing times. Instead of having to complete a quiz or an exam in the usual class period, you will be allowed extra time. I think that will help with your stress level during the test. You will feel less rushed, less likely to get anxious. More time to deal with any OCD issues if they crop up.” She looks up at me and I have no idea what my face is doing. She quickly returns to her notes. “We also discussed alternative testing sites. For example, you might feel more comfortable taking your tests in an empty classroom, in the library. Even at home.”
My stomach gurgles with hunger into the silence. I guess this is good news? Less pressure, less stress. Can’t hurt. But I picture everyone watching me as I walk with my stapled test out of the classroom while they remain seated in cramped rows. They’re going to think I have a learning disability. Or that I’m emotionally unstable. They’ll think I’ve gone crazy and get special treatment because of that legendary time they’ve all heard of when I burst into tears in the middle of a precal exam. Regardless of what they think, though, they’re going to know that something is wrong with me. That I’m different.
“What are your thoughts on all of this?”
I wish I could sigh without her hearing. Thank you, I guess? Yes, this will probably make a difference, in some way. But it’s not going to help my reputation.
“Yeah, uh. Sounds good.”
It’s clear she was expecting a little more enthusiasm, but she only hesitates for a moment before clapping her hands together. “Okay!” she yells happily, mostly to snap me out of my funk, I think. “Back to the fun stuff, right? Have we talked about homework yet?”
I give her a half head shake. I’m trying to feel glum. I want to wallow in my self-pity for a while. School is coming back. And I’m still a freak. But I can feel Dr. Nelson’s enthusiastic eyes waiting for my attention from across the carpet. As much as I want to, I can’t resist.
“No, but we just did three rounds of ERP,” I grunt.
“Yes, but that doesn’t have any impact on your homework. Do you really think I would let you get off that easy?” She acts appalled, her hand to her chest. “We need to keep pushing hard on pencils. I think you saw today that it’s already starting to get easier, hmm?” She cracks a wide smile at me. My faux foul mood evaporates and I grin back at her. And my heart glows. “Let’s keep working on that. Every pencil you see, look at it.” She gestures enthusiastically with two fingers from her eyes outward. “Experience the anxiety. It’s going to come, so just let it. And then wait. Know that there’s an end. That if you just keep staring, keep looking, in just a little while, in just a few seconds, there’s relief.” She’s leaning forward and I’m leaning forward. It’s a pep talk. And I’m into it. “You just gotta stick with it. Like boxing, remember. Outlast it.” We nod at each other.
I sit up, surging with energy. I’m gonna do it. I’m going to seek out pencils and I’m going to stare. Them. Down.
The alarm on the wall chimes gently and Dr. Nelson claps her hands together. “That’s our cue!” She stands up quickly and walks toward the door, my file tucked under her arm. With her hand on the doorknob, she pauses and turns around to face me. “Hey.” I look up from my bandaged fingers at her. “Really great job today. Really great.” There’s a silence, and for a second it feels like we might hug, and I don’t think either of us knows what to do. “One more time?” She’s holding her hand up in the air, and I look at her, pause, then smack it with a surge of happiness.
• • •
“Well, look at you!” My mom pops up out of her chair as I come into the waiting room.
“What?” Lifting my arms out to the side, I glance down quickly at my shirt and legs. “What?”
“You’re just smiling, that’s all!” She, too, is smiling but it’s mixed with confusion or surprise. Like she’s half preparing for me to yell at her. “It’s been . . .” Catching herself, knowing it wasn’t going to come out right, she adjusts. “It’s a very nice thing to see.” She gives an awkward little head nod, almost a bow, and I squint at her.
“Yeah. Thanks.” It comes out drier than I meant it to. But how am I supposed to respond to that? She’s hunched over, digging in her purse, looking for her checkbook, and I feel a strange wave of guilt. She’s just happy to see her daughter smile for the first time in months. Cut the woman a break. I pick tentatively at the stickers in the wicker basket on Dr. Nelson’s desk. There’s a Dory and a Nemo, a SpongeBob and a Squidward. Giant word bubbles exploding with all-capital phrases like YOU DID IT!! and WAY TO GO! I pick up a red-and-blue firework exclaiming YOU’RE THE BEST! and stick it on my mom’s left hand as she writes out the check.
She is mumbling out loud to herself—“Doctor . . . Virginia . . . Nelson . . . January”—but stops when she feels my fingers on her skin. She looks at the sticker for a few moments and then up at me. I bump her gently with my hip and our eyes meet. I haven’t really thought past this part of the plan. I don’t have anything to say. But as we look at each other, she quietly bumps me back, and I dart my eyes up to the ceiling to hold in the sudden tears. Mom. I missed you.
CHAPTER 25
It still smells the same. That unique mixture of old building and cleaning supplies. Walking toward first period, it feels like it’s been both one day and one year since I’ve been here. Passing the colorful bulletin boards and rows of lockers, I’m flooded with reminders of Sara and cross-country practice and openmouthed stares, but so much has happened over Christmas break (Dr. Adams! Dr. Nelson!) that they’re also somehow distant. Almost like a terrible nightmare.
It was Dr. Nelson’s idea that I should leave my pile of books at home, at least for now. “I think you’re already carrying enough, as it is,” she said with one of her meaningful looks. “For the first few days, let’s ease you back in, okay?” A discussion followed:
“But what about my papers?”
“What about your papers?”
“I need them.”
“Why?”
“Well. Because.” I thought about the brown juice-covered stacks of notes with tattered edges. “And my binders! And all of my class notes.” And my mom’s sandwiches, and the paper towels, and the pieces of worthless junk I’d accumulated since learning trash cans caused cancer. But I didn’t mention these out loud. They sounded ridiculous enough in my head.
“It’s a new semester. You won’t need your notes from last semester. And, if we’re being honest here, you won’t need your binders because—and I’m not trying to be rude—you aren’t able to write. Yet.”
My mouth hung open. I thought about being offended (I’m not trying to be rude, but you’re still a freak) but she had a point. There was no use for notebook paper and school materials if I couldn’t use them.
We decided that I would take one binder with me to use as a decoy in all my classes. I could still store any impor
tant handouts from class in my book bag, she assured me. (And loose trash and my lunch, I reminded myself.)
I don’t know what expression I should have on my face as I turn in to first period. Does anyone notice I don’t have my pile? Do they still remember the things I did before Christmas? I’m tiptoeing and counting and I’ve got dreadlocks and screaming acne. But my hands are hanging freely by my side and I don’t smell like rotting lunch meat. Despite the warm stares of my classmates on my pajamas, I feel like I’m floating. No pile. No second bag stained with old food. This is awesome.
With Dr. Nelson’s voice on my shoulder, I scan Ms. Michaels’s art class for ERP targets and find the room miraculously free of pencils. She is introducing a new project, and as she talks, she distributes trays of small oil-pastel crayons to all the tables. She sets the metal tin down in front of me, and to my surprise, I look up at her and smile. An actual smile. It’s the mix of not having a pile, the comforting presence of Dr. Nelson in my head, and Ms. Michaels’s familiar, paint-stained apron. I see her face adjust as she tries to hide her own surprise, and then she flashes a smile back at me, patting me on the shoulder quickly as she walks by. I love art class.
When I look down at the tray of oil pastels, my body flinches and my brain lurches into action. Bad, bad, bad. Goose bumps spread across my arms and my muscles tense, in case I need to jump up and escape. But then, just as quickly as the warning leaped to life, it fades. False alarm. Just an oil pastel. It’s like my brain revs up out of habit: Oh, there’s a writing utensil, time to freak out. But as I look at it, I know it’s just a tiny crayon wrapped in black paper. A week ago I would have heard swarming bees and raging alarms. I shrug slightly to myself. That was before I met Dr. Nelson.
But English class is different. I can tell by the air that the room is filled with pencils. I hear their tiny sharp points screeching against unapproved notebook paper. Ms. Griffin is jumping around in front of the chalkboard in a valiant effort to hold our attention, her hair slowly growing in size as she begins to sweat. I’ve got my sole binder flipped open, and I’m leaning forward, almost hunched over my desk. My eyes are focused downward, staring at an old page of notes, and my neck is beginning to ache. I know what I should be doing. I let out a long breath. Okay, fine.
Obsessed Page 25
