Psych Major Syndrome

by Alicia Thompson

  Even though that was what I had just been thinking, I shook my head. “No, it’s okay,” I said. “I just…”

  I trailed off, and Nathan’s eyes searched mine. And somehow, even though I hadn’t fully formed that last sentence in my head and in all truth had no idea what I was about to say, I felt as if he understood.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asked. His hand was still covering mine.

  “Yes,” I said, but it came out like a whisper. My lips were dry, and so I licked them, trying again. “Yes.”

  “Earlier you mentioned something about robotic babies. What’s that all about?”

  “Oh, that,” I said, choking back an awkward laugh. What had I expected him to ask me, anyway? “It’s a long story.…”

  GARCIA EFFECT: A biological preparedness that associates illness with something ingested and pairs sights and sounds with physical pain

  WITHIN half an hour of eating that BLT, my stomach felt like the raw meat that Rocky pounds before his fights. I pressed my hand against my middle and closed my eyes, hoping it would just go away. The last thing I wanted was to be sick all over Nathan’s car.

  “Hey,” Nathan said, glancing at me. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I just get a little carsick when I read in the car, that’s all.”

  Although he was wearing his sunglasses, I could see his forehead crinkle. “When were you reading?” he asked.

  See, this is why it’s not a smart idea to try to make something up when you’re not in top form—you make stupid, amateur mistakes. Like forgetting that the key to a good lie is that it has to be at least somewhat based in reality. “Uh, the back of the visor,” I said. “That little warning about air bag safety is really riveting.”

  Quickly, I snapped the visor up, hoping that he wouldn’t notice that the warning was almost completely peeled away. Even though we were heading eastward, the sun was still way too bright, and I couldn’t help groaning as a new ripple of nausea overtook me.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “There’s a rest stop in a couple miles—do you want me to stop?”

  “Please,” I managed to croak. How was it fair that we ate the exact same thing, and I felt like complete crap, while Nathan seemed totally fine? Boys and their iron stomachs.

  We reached the rest stop, and I jumped out without waiting for the car to come to a full and complete stop. Unfortunately, there was no way I could make it to the restroom. I barely even made it to the bushes before I threw up my entire lunch.

  Disgusting, right? Not to mention totally embarrassing. Nathan stood a respectful distance away, leaning against his car, but I’m sure he still saw more than he wanted to. At this point, Nathan could make a slide show of my worst moments: getting dumped, crying, being the first Stiles student in history to have her car towed from the school parking lot, and now puking bacon, lettuce, and tomato all over a rest stop. Nice.

  Finally, when I thought I couldn’t possibly have anything else in me, I walked sheepishly back toward Nathan. He held out a bottle of water.

  “It’s warm,” he said. “But I thought you could use a drink.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a large gulp. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I have a whole case in my trunk,” he said. “For emergencies just like this, actually.”

  Wow. I never thought I’d meet someone as conscious of roadside hydration as I was. “Sorry about…everything,” I said. “You must be wishing you’d never gotten involved with this mess.”

  “I should be the one apologizing,” he said, giving me a crooked smile. “I suggested that diner, and I started the BLT trend.”

  “Yeah, and didn’t even have the decency to suffer along with me.”

  Nathan laughed. “I’ll go make myself throw up, if that’s what you want.”

  “Gross,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “And that’s called bulimia, for your information. Or anorexia with purging subtype. You know that a lot of people don’t realize that some anorexics purge, too? They just don’t binge. That’s the difference.”

  “That’s what you want to study, isn’t it?” Nathan asked. “Distortion of body image or something like that?”

  I nodded, taking another long sip of water. My stomach was starting to settle down, but still I frowned, considering Nathan’s question. “Wait,” I said. “How’d you know that?”

  Nathan rubbed the back of his neck. “I pay attention,” he said. “Is that a crime?”

  “No,” I said slowly. “It’s just unexpected, I guess. What else have you noticed, besides my chosen topic of study and my predilection for John Hughes movies?”

  “Come on,” Nathan said, with a short laugh. “It’s starting to get dark. If you’re feeling better, we should really get moving.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but first, just tell me three other things you noticed about me while ‘paying attention.’”

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious.”

  He cocked his head, as if thinking about it. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you three things I’ve noticed about you. But you have to match me, three for three.”

  My stomach was starting to churn again, but this time I didn’t think it was because of the BLT. “Fine,” I agreed.

  Nathan looked considerably surer of himself now. “Let me think,” he said, stroking his chin and smiling to himself. “What else did I notice about you?”

  “And really obvious things don’t count,” I put in, wanting to prevent any kind of trickery. “Like, you can’t say that you noticed I drive a Gremlin. That’s cheating.”

  “Same goes for you, then,” Nathan said. “Okay, I have my first thing. I noticed that you get really emotional over songs.”

  “I do not,” I protested automatically.

  Nathan raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to tell me that you weren’t crying that time ‘Wonderful Tonight’ played on the radio? You remember. You, Andrew, and I were driving to campus to see that student film.”

  I did remember. School had just started, and Andrew and I decided to go to the premiere of one of the film department’s short features. Nathan had kind of tagged along, which I found pretty annoying at the time, considering that it was supposed to be a date. Once we were at the movie, Andrew was more attentive than usual, holding my hand, even leaning over to kiss me through several parts. Now that I looked back on it, it was one of the few times in those last couple of months that he had seemed to remember that he had a girlfriend at all.

  And okay, I didn’t exactly recall crying over “Wonderful Tonight,” but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen. I do tend to cry a lot at songs. I’ve even been known to shed a tear over Blink182’s “Damnit.” Something about the whole I guess this is growing up thing. Now, how does that make sense?

  “So, Eric Clapton’s a genius,” I said. “What else is new?”

  “Your turn,” Nathan said. “Remember, you have to match me, which means it has to be in somewhat the same vein as mine.”

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “Figure it out.”

  It was now truly dark, and at this rate we wouldn’t get to Astral Body until well after eight. But I really didn’t care. I’d called my parents and they knew I was coming late, so they wouldn’t worry.

  “I noticed that you take your anger out on your guitar,” I said finally. “Like, when I ate a bowl of your cereal, you went in your room and started playing like you were in Metallica or something.”

  “Actually, it was Alice Cooper.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. It was a little much, considering all I did was eat a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

  “I wasn’t mad about the cereal.”

  “So what were you mad about?” I asked.

  Nathan looked at me, but with the lights on behind him, his face was cast in shadow. “Nothing,” he said. There was a long silence, and then he said, “You make faces when you read, you know. I can always tell whe
n you’re reading something happy, or suspenseful, or upsetting. Your face shows everything.”

  “Really?” That sounded horrible. “I always thought of myself as having an excellent poker face.”

  “Oh, you do,” Nathan assured me. “Believe me, I have no clue half the time what you’re thinking. But whenever you read, it’s all reflected right there in your face. Like that time you came over, and Andrew was busy studying, so you read In Cold Blood. You were grimacing and flinching through the whole book, as though it was happening personally to you.”

  “So, basically, I’m way too affected by music and books,” I said. “Wonderful.”

  Nathan laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yeah…I guess you are.”

  Another car pulled in to the rest stop, and I watched a woman and two kids get out and head toward the vending machines, more as a way to stall than anything else. Even though he said he couldn’t read me half the time, this conversation was still making me oddly nervous.

  “Are you okay?” Nathan asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, turning my attention back to him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Just checking,” he said. “You looked weird for a second there.”

  “Weird?”

  Nathan ran his hand through his hair. “You know what I mean.”

  He really was better at guessing what was going on in my head than he gave himself credit for. “You run your hand through your hair when you’re nervous,” I said. “Or tired. Or frustrated.”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Yeah, you do,” I said. “Believe me. You reach up, and run your fingers through it, just like…” Before I had time to consider the absolutely idiocy of what I was about to do, I stood on tiptoe, reaching my hand up and letting my fingers slide through his hair. It was thick, and softer than I’d imagined. I cringe a little to admit that I lingered, just a little bit, when my fingers brushed the warm skin of his neck. Then I pulled away. “…This,” I finished.

  I could tell Nathan was looking at me, but I couldn’t make out his expression. He was quiet, and his silence, coupled with the darkness, made me a little nervous that I’d just made a complete fool of myself. “Your turn,” I said jaggedly.

  “Um…okay,” he said, uncharacteristically flustered. “You…smell like rain.”

  Whatever I expected, that hadn’t been it. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Good,” he said. “Definitely good.”

  “You have a very nice chest,” I blurted out, my face immediately getting hot. “I mean, that’s something I’ve noticed. When you aren’t wearing a shirt. Or, you know. Whenever.”

  Great. Now it looked like I was always checking Nathan out. Which was totally not the case—well, okay, not completely. But what was I expected to have done? Look away? I’m not a saint.

  “I bet I don’t smell like rain now,” I said, giving a nervous laugh. “I probably smell gross.”

  Nathan leaned in, and I could feel him brush the top of my head. “You still smell like rain,” he said, his voice raspier than usual.

  He was standing much closer now, and I was suddenly very aware that the woman and her two kids had already driven away. It was dark, and Nathan and I were alone at a rest stop almost a hundred miles from Flagstaff. I was also very conscious of the fact that, no matter what he said, it was impossible that my breath wouldn’t smell at least a little like vomit. Which was a mood killer, if there ever was one.

  “We should get going,” I said shakily. “I don’t want my parents to have to wait up too late.”

  For a second Nathan just stood there, and then he leaned in toward me. Even though it was dark, I closed my eyes, half expecting a kiss. But instead he just opened my door for me. “You’re right,” he said. “We need to get back on the road.”

  I climbed into the passenger seat, and he shut the door behind me before crossing to the other side. I leaned my head back against the seat. This is what I’d wanted, wasn’t it?

  So why did it feel like such a letdown?

  NATURALISTIC OBSERVATION: A type of study where the researcher does not intervene, but rather measures behavior as it naturally occurs

  AFTER the incident at the rest stop, and as if by unspoken agreement, Nathan and I stuck to more casual conversation. I discovered that the “Summer Mix” included such classics as Wilson Phillips’s “Impulsive” and the theme from The Neverending Story, which led to never-ending amusement on my part. By the end of the CD, Nathan was openly admitting that, although his sister had compiled it for him, it was based on his own guilty pleasures.

  The Incomplete Sentences task, which I had originally wanted to crumple back up and just forget about, actually was revived as a source of entertainment as Nathan and I went through the items. I read aloud some of my responses—skipping over the ones where I talked about how strangely sensitive I am and the feeling of dread that I often felt, because, hey, road trips should be lighthearted. When I started thinking of this as a road trip rather than a pity drive one step up from Driving Miss Daisy, I have no idea, but I think it was sometime between “Hollaback Girl” and that moment at the rest stop.

  “So, what do you see in romance novels, really?” Nathan asked, still watching the road.

  “You can read them in one sitting,” I said promptly.

  “That’s it?” Now he turned to face me for a brief second, one side of his mouth curving up in a smile. “I can read a cereal box in one sitting, too—doesn’t mean I’d put it on any recommended reading list.”

  “Of course that’s not it,” I said, and laughed. “But they’re like the perfectly self-contained escape, you know? In just a few hours you can enjoy sometimes-not-so-witty repartee, mostly-but-not-always sizzling sexual tension, and generally satisfying hookups. If they’re good, they’re great, and if they’re not…they’re better. What more could you ask for?”

  “What more indeed?” The exit for our next highway came up, and Nathan expertly maneuvered the car through off-ramps and on-ramps before he finally spoke again. “So, what about your stories?” he asked.

  At first I actually thought he meant my personal experiences of romance. In that case, I would have to say the banter was more wooden than witty, the sexual tension was more tension than sex, and the hookup was…well, nonexistent.

  Then I realized Nathan must be referring to the part on the Incomplete Sentences where I mentioned making up stories in my head, and I felt stupid all over again. “Oh,” I said, blushing a little. “They’re dumb, really. Just typical girlie romantic stuff.”

  “I do it, too,” Nathan said. “Make up stories to pass the time as I lie in bed.”

  “Oh, yeah? What are yours about—cats?”

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, and even in the darkness I could tell that the look Nathan shot me was one of confusion. At least he didn’t seem to make the connection between his cat doodles—which I hadn’t meant to bring up, however obliquely—and my question. I would hate to have had to admit one more thing I’d noticed, especially when it came from me snooping around his room.

  “No…” he said. “Are yours?”

  “No.” I stared out the window, torn between my desire to know more about his bedtime stories and my reluctance to share my own. I’ve never told another soul about the stories I make up while I’m trying to fall asleep, and I would never even consider writing them down. They’re just too personal.

  Nathan fell silent as well, and I realized that maybe I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. I wondered how many people in the world have daydreams spinning around in their heads that they would never put into words. Probably more than you would think.

  We talked about other things—the mentoring program, Nathan’s music, our classes—but we always came back to the Incomplete Sentences. It seemed as if it was our way to avoid the conversation turning to other topics, like where exactly Andrew fit into all of this and why I’d practically caressed Nathan’s ha
ir. Or at least, that’s how it seemed to me.

  “What’s your greatest fear?” I asked him, glancing back at the Incomplete Sentences.

  “Probably that Sydney Belcher will cook my bunny rabbit,” he said wryly. “That girl is intense.”

  I was glad he’d brought her up, so I didn’t have to. Curiosity had been killing me ever since I saw them together at that beach party. “Yeah, what’s up with that?” I asked, in what I hoped was a casual tone. “You hung out a couple times, right?”

  Nathan shrugged. “She needed some math help for her thesis, or so she said. It didn’t take long to figure out that she had a whole different agenda. Who asks a freshman for help with her senior thesis, anyway?”

  I laughed a little too exuberantly at that, so I quickly shifted the focus back onto the psychology assignment. “No, but really. What are you scared of?”

  “Losing someone close to me,” he said.

  For the next few moments, I listened to the sound of the highway passing underneath us and tried to think of something to say. Of course that would have been his biggest fear. I felt like such an idiot. Before I could say something about his dad, though, he brought up mine.

  “So your dad wears an eye patch and your house smells like incense,” Nathan said, raising his eyebrow at me.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said. “Well…I guess it kind of is. But we’re not carnies or anything—my parents run a psychic bed-and-breakfast. The incense and eye patch are just two manifestations of their spirituality, or else gimmicks to sell more spirit bracelets, depending on how you look at it.”

  “How do you look at it?” Nathan asked.

  I don’t think anyone had ever asked me that flat out before. I was starting to think that Nathan’s passenger seat should really convert into a couch in order for me to get the full experience. “I don’t know,” I said. “My mom doesn’t predict lotto numbers or natural disasters or anything like that, but she is good at reading people. And my dad has always said he’s more a filter than anything else. So, if they’re passionate about it, and the tourists seem to have fun with it, why not?”