OCD, The Dude, and Me

by Lauren Roedy Vaughn

  “Remember, you don’t do this and you have to drink toilet water.”

  “I know the rules, Heather,” Jacob said as he got up from where he was sitting. He looked at me directly. To apologize for what was coming? To warn me? I don’t know. Keira looked down slightly and held her hands in her lap. Jacob walked over to me and knelt down almost as if to pray. He didn’t look at me. He looked away to his right. But he did it. He reached his hands out and put them over the T-shirt I was wearing, and which I will never wear again because I burned it in a lawless act outside the hotel room after this happened. He grabbed me where the dare insisted that he grab. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t warm. It was creepy and gross and everything terrible in one small gesture.

  Brian got up and said, “Well, shit.” And then he left. He obviously didn’t know I was the chicken with blood on me in the henhouse. He didn’t know when he saw me in the mini-mart that I was the butt of all jokes in this class, the least likely to be intimate with anyone, but he knew now and when that truth was made abundantly clear, he took off. I’ll never see him again. Fine. I don’t want to.

  The game got broken up at that point because a lady from the hotel came in and said we were making too much noise. You couldn’t break up the party five minutes before, lady?

  Some people have so much. Some have so little. That game encapsulated both truths for me. The kiss from Brian was so much, my cup runneth over. Getting felt up by Jacob and having everyone giggle at the absurdity was throwing that full cup against the wall.

  My mom had called and left a message while we were playing truth or dare. She and Dad were worried about me since they heard from the school that the plane had to land. They wanted me to call.

  I love my parents, and I super hate that I need to write this here, but it is so hard to have parents that are so perfect. I feel like I throw what could have been a great life for them way off balance. It just sucks that the kid they have doesn’t match the people they are.

  I wanted to call them and say, “Hey, nothing much but the usual going on. We landed the plane in Canada because Sara got sick. The boy I’m hopelessly in love with felt me up in front of most of the class on a dare. Don’t worry, it wasn’t sexy. It won’t be a notch on my lipstick case or anything. He pretty much had to do it or else he’d have to drink toilet water. Oh, I did kiss a boy I picked up in the mini-mart. How’s it all with you?” But then they would want me to “talk through it all” and “be honest” with them, and that was just too impossible. I needed to be a private mess for the moment, a secret stain on the carpet. I couldn’t handle them trying to clean me up. I ignored the call.

  *CANADA JOURNAL* 3/4

  #4 Entry: Response to terrible truth-or-dare experience

  I left the hotel room to get away from everyone and because I just couldn’t write in my journal in front of Keira.

  I started thinking about the book A Separate Peace. In it, Gene jostles the branch of a tree that his friend Phinney was standing on. Phinney falls off and, after a time, he actually dies from complications of that fall. It took place during World War II when some countries decided to find a separate peace from all the fighting. Gene, who was battling a different kind of war, a private psychological one because of his guilt, had to learn how to find a separate peace, too.

  I am just like Gene.

  The problem is that I like the idea of a separate peace, that it could exist and all, but I don’t know how you get there. How do you get that peace when you just don’t feel one ounce of peace at all?

  I wish there was a pill I could take to keep me on life’s straight path or a rope that could fall from the sky and once I grabbed it, I could be pulled to safety.

  *JOURNAL FROM A PLANE* 3/4

  #2 Airborne journal

  Have no idea what landmass we are currently flying over

  Completely emotionally spent

  (Need to hate Jacob)

  Eventually, Ms. Harrison came back and told us that Sara’s mom arrived and is staying with her in the hospital while she recovers. She’s going to be fine! Thank God my toxic cloud of hate didn’t do permanent damage to her.

  What kind of person believes she emanates toxic vibes? A weird one.

  I want to be normal. I want that thing to have never happened. I want Emily to come back. Stop writing on this topic, Danielle.

  Instead, I am going to focus this journal on a way to hate Jacob Kingston, which is clearly what I need to do as a rational, functional human being. I must get practical about this. No person should love a boy who feels her up outside her shirt in front of her entire class on a stupid dare. No one should, but right now I still do. For some reason, right now, I still like him, even though he made me sad beyond words, and I snuck off several times in the airport to go into a bathroom stall and cry because I just had to. I don’t know how much the crying helped because I still love Jacob. Now I am going to start trying to not love him. Ten reasons to not love Jacob:

  He loves Keira.

  He felt me up on a dare with no emotion whatsoever, like it was no big deal.

  He doesn’t always brush his hair. (I actually like that.)

  He has terrible handwriting. (Arg, who cares?)

  He sags his pants, which I know is in style but I hate it. (But it actually looks good on him.)

  He doesn’t really talk to me.

  He doesn’t really even know I exist even after he felt me up on a stupid dare.

  He acts like that dare never happened.

  He eats sandwiches on white bread.

  He’s an asshole.

  I might get somewhere with #10. I just need to embellish somewhat, flesh it out, but I think I can go somewhere with this.

  Arrrrg, of all the damn moments to get writer’s block.

  He’s totally an asshole and I totally love him.

  I’m an idiot.

  *CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 3/5

  Journal #1 of the England Trip

  (Covering day one of the trip. Ms. Harrison likes my take on the day. A)

  Danielle Levine

  English 12

  Ms. Harrison

  Period 4

  Ms. Harrison, I am über-happy that you got all of us (well, sans one) to England in one piece. That was quite an experience, which I will remember for the rest of my life. Not many people can say they have been on a plane when it had to land midflight because some kid got sick. Well, this is probably not what you want to read in my journal, as I am sure living the experience was enough for you. From here on out, I will do my best to recount the most memorable parts of the trip for you as instructed.

  I think you’ll remember that the first day started with a trip to Knightsbridge, where I peered in the windows at Harry Nichols and Burberry. Gosh, to be the kind of person who could buy those things. I am not, so I will just move on and attempt to live presently, in the now, instead of wishing. That is something my yoga teacher, David, talks a lot about. He says breathing can only happen in the present. So if you are stressed or worried about the past or the future, you can stop and focus on your breath, which is with you right NOW. You might want to try that given how stressful it is to deal with us. I am, right now, on this very trip, this very second, trying desperately to live in the NOW so that various other things from the PAST exit my brain permanently. Sorry, you probably don’t need to know about that.

  Anyway, after that we drove past the Wellington Arch and on to Buckingham Palace. Outside the palace, there were all these poor guard-type people with huge black hats and red outfits, and they had to stand super-still and not even really acknowledge us. I would be so annoyed with that job, and I would need to up my Adderall dosage for sure.

  After that we went to the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. This theatre was around for 340 years, and it had 1,662 bricks in the building. I was so happy to hear that because I was so tired from jet lag by the time we got to the building that if the tour guide woman, who was dressed in that Restoration-drama outfit, had given out any specific numbe
rs about the building that weren’t even numbers, my OCD would have kicked into overdrive and you might have had to take me to the hospital—LOL—not really, but I might have panicked a little. I just like when numbers are even that’s all.

  Next, we saw street performers in Trafalgar Square. I liked that better than the palace because I saw a juggler. A little weird, right? But, in spite of myself and my mood at the time, this guy made me smile. This man just stood there and juggled. A lot of chaos and noise and shenanigans and stuff were going on right around him and none of it seemed to bother him. A double-decker tour bus spewed a black cloud of exhaust right in his face and he just kept on smiling and juggling, throwing balls in the air like that was what he was meant to do. He calmed me down and I felt something that might actually be described as peace. Amazing, right?

  Teacher comments: Nice job recounting the day. Thanks for reminding me to breathe.

  *PRIVATE TRIP INFO* 3/5

  Journal #1: The real story

  The hotel where we stayed was under construction, and scaffolding was set up outside each of our rooms. Jacob came running into Keira’s and my room, flung our window open, and said, “Ladies, look out here—our own private nightclub.” I leaned out the window with Keira, and we saw all our classmates running around, hanging out, dancing and laughing. James and John were already climbing down the scaffolding on their way to roam free in this foreign city. Jacob yelled down at them, “Hey, J & J, wait up. Let me change and I’ll be right down.” He leaned in to Keira and kissed her and then pulled off his T-shirt. For a glorious never-to-be-repeated second, he stood there bare chested. Jesus. Pause for my jaw to drop.

  Jacob ran to his room and Keira followed him, although she took a second and looked back at me. She hasn’t said much to me since her boyfriend felt me up. It’s kinda awkward for her, too, I guess. Then there was a bustling outside my room as the kids who weren’t already on the scaffolding gathered to get going. Keira said, “Hey, Danielle, come with us. The teachers are asleep; we won’t get caught.”

  “No, Keira, it’s all right. I’m going to stay here.”

  It’s late as I write this, and, pretty quickly after they all left, the hotel floor quieted to a heavy silence. The strangest thought hit me: I don’t like Sara, it’s true, but I feel her missing from the group.

  A soul-size portion of regret rose in my throat. It’s doing a number on my gut right now.

  A part of me wishes so much that I could be bad with them, that I could join the rebel spirit and go exploring in the night just like they were. I am still so envious of all of them. So jealous of their crazy, blind courage because there was a time when I was just like them, but that version of me is gone. The new version, Danielle 2.0, has a lot of design flaws.

  I sat on the floor beneath the open window while the cold night air blew the white curtains above me like giant surrender flags.

  I pulled my black furry hat down over my face and wrapped my arms around my bent knees, pulling them as tightly to my chest as I could and then I cried.

  David would tell me to just sit with this pain, embrace it, live in it, and then something new, by virtue of the miracle of life in the present, would enter. That’s such a nutty idea. But what else have I got going on tonight. I have no idea how to work the television that’s in our room so my pain just might be the only show in town for the evening.

  *CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 3/6

  Journal #2 of the England Trip

  (Covering days 2–4 of the trip. I get another A. Perhaps travel writing is my niche.)

  Danielle Levine

  English 12

  Ms. Harrison

  Period 4

  Over the last few days, as you know, Ms. Harrison, we took long bus rides to places such as Warwick Castle. Boy, were those bus rides long. You may want to reconsider the itinerary to exclude long bus rides. I’m just saying that it can be hard for kids to stay calm and stuff, and they might misbehave while you are sleeping.

  Warwick Castle was really something. We learned about ingeniously cruel ways people were tortured in the past. The tour guide said that people used to have boiling sand poured inside their armor; it often burned people alive. Even without modern technology, people were cruel. How do you like that? Made me feel kinda hopeless that we haven’t progressed much.

  Anyway, moving on . . .

  After Warwick Castle we went to Stratford-upon-Avon, which I just love, and got a tour from a petite woman with a charming British accent who carried a very long plastic daisy (three feet long, at least) in her hand so we wouldn’t lose her. I thought it was cute and incredibly helpful for someone like me who benefits from a homing device. We toured Shakespeare’s school and house and grave. His bedroom and bed were so small I couldn’t help but think about how little people were in the past. If I lived in Stratford-upon-Avon during Shakespeare’s time, they probably would have burned me for a witch or mistook me for a cow and chopped me up and served me for dinner. Aside from terrible recurring thoughts about how fat I am, I had a good day in Stratford.

  The next day we visited Oxford, and all I remember from that old city is that it was infested with rats. I couldn’t hear anything after the tour guide mentioned the Black Death and all the rats. I have to stop writing about that right now. Next we visited Stonehenge—much better.

  Surprisingly, this bunch of big rocks helped me be able to let go of some things I won’t go into here specifically, but, I thought, if something like Stonehenge can exist and the greatest minds of our times can’t figure it out, then maybe all the things about my life that I can’t make sense out of aren’t to be unraveled. Maybe some things are meant to be a mystery. That idea doesn’t solve anything, but it does make me stop and let go, just briefly. I am by no means capable of extrapolating all the meaning from my life situation. Certain things are just there like big, giant otherworldly stones that appeared somehow, obviously, but not by any rational means. What can you do? You can’t bring people back from the dead. You can’t make people love you. You can’t really force much at all. All you can do is just be. (Although, face it, that is easier said than done.) It would be cool, though, if something about me made someone stare in wonder like I stared at Stonehenge. That would be cool indeed.

  Teacher comments: Aside from your thoughts about yourself in Stratford, this trip is giving you good perspective.

  POSTCARD #1 to Aunt Joyce

  Dear Aunt Joyce,

  I am sure you know by now, because it wasn’t on the news, but I did not die in a plane crash on the way to London. Things are manageable, I guess, so far.

  Danielle

  *PRIVATE TRIP INFO* 3/6

  Journal #2: The real story

  On the bus ride out of London to Warwick Castle, Heather and James and Michelle and John played a game called nervous. What is this game? I asked myself when I heard James say they should play it. This is a game you play with someone you like, someone you would love to have touch you. If heaven were a fantasy I could live out, I’d play nervous with Jacob for eternity. But I would not, in no uncertain terms, make it a spectator sport. Just stop it, Danielle. Jacob is a jerk. This cognitive dissonance over him is going to make me need immediate psychiatric care. So, in nervous, one member of the couple (in the case of our bus ride, the guy) starts touching the other person in various places on her body or starts trying to kiss her or make progressively bold, amorous gestures until the girl says “nervous” and then the boy has to pull back or stop or whatever. I could never actually play this game. If a guy just so much as put his hand on my overgrown thigh I’d yell “nervous!” at a decibel sure to break the sound barrier.

  The teachers were asleep at the front of the bus and the driver wore headphones and was completely not interested in any of us or what we were doing. John played this game with Michelle, and I wanted to say aloud, “Hey, excuse me, guys, but Michelle is NOT his girlfriend. Isn’t anyone going to stand up for Sara here?” But what do I know? I don’t know the rules of love. John wa
s actually being really gentle as he brushed his hand along Michelle’s ankle, and she turned red and giggled a little. She didn’t utter “nervous.” She didn’t look nervous, either. She glowed.

  James was trying to play nervous with Heather. You could tell by how committed to the game he was that he was all about touching her. But Heather couldn’t focus because she was talking to Keira.

  “Keira, I don’t know if you’d be cool with this, but for tonight could I sleep in your room? Michelle and I got into a fight because she thinks I took her leggings, which I so didn’t. The ones I’m wearing are mine. Anyway, can I?”

  “I don’t care. I guess. Danielle, do you care if Heather sleeps with us tonight?”

  OMG I totally do! But instead I say, “No.”

  “Awesome. Keira, do you have a razor? I forgot mine and my bikini line is totally out of control.” Heather said that out loud on the bus. Appalling.

  And then the rest of the bus ride I was trapped between watching couples engage in nervous and listening to Heather talk about shaving her lady parts. I thought that was going to be as bad as it got, but, no, when we got back to the hotel I had to watch Heather straddle the toilet and trim her pubic hair with Keira’s razor. I think I stared at her like she was a mutant species. She took it in stride, though.

  “You wanna use this razor when I’m done, Danielle?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  I am having a hard time finding common ground with any of these people.

  POSTCARD #2 to Aunt Joyce

  Dear Aunt Joyce,

  I am learning a lot more than just stuff about England. I will fill you in when I get back because I don’t want random mail people reading the personal junk about my life.

  Love you,

  Danielle