by Alex van Tol
“Were you avoiding me?”
“Not at all,” I lie.
“Why did you run off then?”
I pause, looking at Audrey’s face for a long minute. “Did you read the list called How to Know There’s Something Wrong With You?”
“I think so. Is that the one about making lists?”
“There’s your explanation.”
She’s quiet for a moment. But when she speaks, it’s with curiosity, not wow-buddy-you’re-really-weird-ness. “Why do you make so many?”
I sigh. Where do I start?
She shakes her head. “It’s none of my business.” She bends down and reorganizes the books inside her bag to make room for her pencil case. Her brown ponytail fans out across her back.
“No, it’s…it’s okay,” I say. And it is okay. I feel relieved to finally talk to someone about it. “It’s not your fault. I usually keep them locked up. That big drawer is full of them.”
“I know,” she says, straightening. “You left it open.”
I did, too. Awesome. She must really think I’m a whack job.
I summon every molecule of courage that’s available to me. “Can I walk with you?”
“Sure.” We turn and start down the hallway. “I didn’t read them all, you know,” Audrey says. “I only saw the ones on the desk.”
Oh. Good then. So she saw only, like, fifty of them.
Great.
She smiles and looks at me in that way she has. “You take debating very seriously.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I couldn’t care less about debating,” I say.
“Well. You’re good at it.” She smiles, and I melt a little.
“Thanks. So are you.”
“Why are you in Debate Club if you couldn’t care less about debating?” she says.
“I do it because my dad wants me to.”
“Ah,” says Audrey. “Well, what would you rather be doing?”
I shrug. “I like writing a lot better than debating.”
She looks at me. “Is that why you make so many lists?”
I clear my throat. “Not really. Making lists is a stress-management thing,” I say. “It helps me remember stuff. And it lets me feel like I have some control when things feel out of control.”
“Like, stressful?”
I nod.
“Does your dad stress you out?”
“You could say that. I get stressed out about other things too. But I think he’s at the root of it. I don’t want to screw up and make him mad, you know? So I feel like I have to get everything right.”
Audrey nods. “I get that. My dad doesn’t stress me out, but sometimes other things feel pretty hard, you know?”
I breathe a little. Man, she’s easy to talk to.
“When I feel like it’s really over the top, I go for a run,” she adds.
“That explains those legs of yours,” I say.
She blushes. “As if. But that’s my steam valve. Running.”
“Well, listing is mine.” I can’t believe I said that so casually. Mind you, Audrey hasn’t seen me in a panic. Like, truly listing.
I get an image of a ship tilting in heavy waves, trying to right itself. Huh. That’s kind of perfect.
“I could think of worse ways to let off stress,” Audrey says.
“Yeah…I’m not so sure,” I say. “The urge to do it is pretty intense sometimes. Like, freaky intense.”
I look at her face to see what her reaction is going to be. But she doesn’t look like she’s going to run away screaming. She’s listening.
“Well, so, what’s the big deal?” Audrey asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Like…so what if you make lists?” She shrugs.
I blink.
She shrugs again. “Who cares?” she says. “Everybody has their things, right? I go for a run. Some people need to listen to music. Some people meditate.”
“Um, yeah, but you don’t need to run, like, ten times a day. Have you heard the term obsessive–compulsive disorder?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m a compulsive list maker.”
“So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
“Well, it’s not like you’re washing your hands every five minutes or cleaning your desk with Clorox wipes or anything.”
I shake my head. “It’s not normal.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Chick.”
“What?”
“Who even knows what normal is? There is no such thing as normal.” She gives me a little shove.
“You don’t think it’s weird?”
“Of course it’s weird. We’re all weird.”
“You’re not weird.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know me very well.”
“Yet,” I say. I smile.
She smiles back. “Yet.”
Chapter Ten
Audrey and I agree to meet after school on Tuesday. Debate prep and all.
By the time the bell goes at the end of art class, I’m out the door. I hurry around the corner of the strip mall to the DQ. I settle myself at a table. I should have a few minutes before she arrives.
I pull out my math notebook and flip to the blank pages at the back.
Things I Want to Know about Audrey
1. Do you twirl your hair in class because you’re self-conscious or because you’re bored? Or because you know it looks cute?
2. Do you really like hanging out with Shazia and Maryke? Do they talk about anything else but manga and Liam Hemsworth?
3. Why do you say you’re weird?
I peer around, but there’s no one else here but me. I’ll be able to scribble a few things quickly before anyone else shows up for their after-school junkfest. And besides, Audrey already knows about my addiction. Obsession. Compulsion.
My chest loosens a little.
4. Have you ever stuffed your bra?
5. What’s it like to share a room with your little sister?
6. What’s the most damaged supper you’ve ever made?
I tap my pen on my teeth. We walked to my house last Friday with the idea of working on our arguments for the debate, but mostly we ended up talking. For two hours. Mom invited her to stay for dinner, but Audrey said she had to get home to make dinner for her dad and sister.
7. Where did your mom go? And why hasn’t she ever been in touch? Does it hurt?
8. What is your favorite food?
9. Have you ever been kissed?
10. Do you think about us naked?
I scribble this last one out and replace it with:
11. What part of your body do you like the most?
I’d better stop thinking about Audrey’s naked body. And anyway, this list is finished. Ten is a nice round number.
I flip the page and start a new one.
Career Ideas That Interest Me
1. Author/illustrator: work from home
2. Coast Guard: six weeks on, six weeks off
3. Pro soccer: duh!
4. Game writer: playing games and writing stories all day
5. Geneticist: solving major diseases
“Hey.”
I jump and slam my notebook shut. “Jesus.”
“Whoa! Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Audrey smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I thought you would hear me coming.”
My heart is going a mile a minute. “I guess I was absorbed.”
“I didn’t think Jewish people believed in Jesus.”
“We don’t. Well, we do. We just don’t think he’s the messiah.”
Audrey sits down across from me. “What’s a messiah?”
“A messenger. Why are you asking me about Jesus?”
“Because you said Jesus when I startled you.” She takes off her jacket.
“Oh. Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t.”
She shrugs and smiles. “Doesn’t bother me. I’v
e never met the guy.” She nods at my book. “Can I see?”
I hesitate. “You can see this one,” I say, opening to the page with the career list and sliding it across the table. “Not the one on the page before.”
“Ooh, is there something nasty on that page?” Audrey fakes like she’s going to flip the page. I slap her hand down onto the table, pinning it there.
“Okay, I won’t.” She laughs. “I promise.”
My stomach seesaws as she looks into my eyes. I leave my hand where it is, covering hers. She doesn’t pull away.
She holds my gaze for a moment, and then she pulls the book toward her with her other hand. She looks at the list.
“Coast Guard,” she says. “Nice.” She reads farther. “Pro soccer. Would that fly with your dad?”
I snort. “None of these would fly with my dad. He only wants me to be a lawyer.” Dad lives in daily regret that he missed that boat. But now—hurrah!—he’s got me to sail it.
“Not even a geneticist? That takes a medical degree and everything. And game writers can make, like, more than a hundred grand.”
I turn Audrey’s hand over and lace my fingers with hers. My brain goes all floaty, but in a good way. “Nope. It’s lawyer or bust.”
“Pfft. I’d say bust then, if it was me,” she says. She squeezes my hand, and my heart does a somersault. “Is that why he’s so into you being on the debate team?”
I nod. “Preparation for the real world.” I echo the words he’s said to me so many times. I change the subject. “What can I get you?” I nod toward the menu board.
Audrey looks over at the menu. A bored DQ employee snaps her gum and stares out the front door.
She turns back to me. “Skor Blizzard,” she says. “Kid size.”
“Kid size?”
She shrugs. “Have to watch my legs.” Then she winks.
“As if,” I say. I reach under the table and squeeze her thigh. She squeals. And then she looks at me in that way she has.
I might die of cute overload.
But instead, I stand. “One Skor Blizzard coming up.”
I order her a medium. And a banana split for myself.
“Have you ever stood up to him?” she asks when I bring our food to the table.
“Who, Jesus?”
Audrey laughs. I love the sound of it. She’s so small, but her laugh is this huge throaty thing.
“No,” she says, then laughs some more. “No, silly. I mean your dad.”
I like how she calls me silly.
“What, like told him no?” I take a scoop of hot-fudge-covered soft-serve. “That’s not an option with my old man.”
“Or just tell him what you want to do,” Audrey says. “You don’t necessarily have to say no to what he wants. But you could tell him what you want. You know. Put it out there.”
I watch as she spoons a bit of ice cream into her mouth. I could watch her eat all day.
I shake my head. “You can’t do that with my dad. He’s not what you’d call flexible.”
“My way or the highway?”
“Something like that.”
Audrey turns her spoon around and licks the back.
That is one lucky piece of plastic.
“What about your mom?” she asks.
“What, tell her I don’t want to do what Dad wants me to do?” I ask. “She already knows that. It won’t make any difference.”
Audrey looks at me. “Does your mom do everything your dad says too?”
I think about that. “I don’t know,” I say finally. “I never see them talk. Unless it’s about me or my brother. They never just hang out.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is kind of sad,” I agree. Mom is always so alive when Dad isn’t around. But as soon as he shows up, she turns into this quiet ghost who doesn’t say anything. It’s like he sucks the life force out of her.
“You should stand up to him,” Audrey says.
She makes it sound so simple. Like it’s something I could do.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. He makes my life miserable enough, thanks. I don’t need to add to it.”
“Maybe he needs someone to stand up to him. I think sometimes people like that don’t realize they’re bullies until someone points it out to them.”
“I don’t think standing up to my dad will make him change his ways.”
She shrugs and licks her spoon clean. “You’ll never know unless you try it.”
“I think this is one of those things you can predict without actually having to try it.”
“You have no evidence to base your assertion on,” she says. “It’s all conjecture.”
“Now you’re pulling out the debate speak,” I say. “I should know better than to try and argue with you.”
“You should. I will argue you into the floor.”
“That’s why you’re my partner.” I grin. “You leave no stone unturned.”
She looks at me. “Neither should you. Never concede defeat before you’ve even raised your sword.”
“Is this a challenge?”
“It is now.” Audrey leans forward and snatches a spoonful of my whipped cream.
“Hey!” I bat her spoon out of the way. Whipped cream splatters onto the table.
“Oh, now it’s getting messy,” Audrey says. She dives for more of my banana split.
“You’re going down,” I say, stabbing my spoon into her Blizzard.
“No way!” she shrieks, then giggles wildly.
It takes us a while to finish our ice cream, and we don’t end up doing much debate prep after all.
As I walk Audrey home, I can feel my anxiety cranking up. The pressure is building. I should be enjoying my first real date with my first real girlfriend. But all I can think about is how stressed out I feel at the thought of standing up to my dad.
And all I can hear is Audrey’s voice saying, Never concede defeat before you’ve even raised your sword.
Chapter Eleven
That evening seems as good a time as any to give it a shot.
I launch my first missile as the salad bowl makes its rounds. “So I’m thinking about my options for next term,” I say, scraping a pile of spinach and green onion onto my plate.
Mom holds out the little bowl of nutritional yeast. Hippie dust, my uncle calls it. “Take some, Chick,” she urges. “It’s good for your vitamin B12.”
I dutifully take a spoonful and sprinkle it on my salad.
“And folate. And protein,” Elijah adds. “You need it for your brain, you know.” He speaks in an exaggerated New York accent that apes our Brooklyn roots.
I smirk.
Mom shoots him a look and passes the bowl in his direction. “You too, Mr. Wise Guy.”
This makes Elijah laugh. “Mom. You’re perfect.”
Mom turns her attention to me. “What do you mean, options?” she says. “You don’t start those until tenth grade.”
“Mom, this is Chick we’re talking about. He holds the record for Most Anal Kid Ever to Live,” says Elijah. “He needs to plan ahead. Eighth grade is not a moment too soon.”
“I’m not talking about classes,” I say, ignoring him. “I’m talking about clubs.” I pour dressing over my salad. “They fill up fast, and you can’t always get the ones you want.” So far, my dad has remained stony silent at his end of the table. Nothing new there.
“I always get the ones I want,” says Elijah.
“Well, Introductory Butt Wiping and Whining For Dummies don’t exactly have a lot of competition,” I say.
Elijah boots me under the table. “Fart eater.”
I snort. “They have a club for that too. They’ve specifically asked you to join.”
“Boys!”
But I’ve cracked Elijah up, and he’s not mad anymore.
Dad picks this time to enter the conversation. “I can’t imagine Debate Club being so full that you can’t get in.” He hasn’t touched his fork yet.
And just like that
, my brain tightens up and I can’t get enough air.
“I might like to try something different,” I venture.
“Such as?”
Elijah looks at me, interested in hearing how I’m going to handle this one. He knows better than to get involved when Dad’s talking to me.
An uncomfortable silence follows Dad’s question.
Mom leans forward and picks up the bowl of roasted vegetables. “Elijah, honey, take another scoop.” Her voice is a shade higher than normal.
Her attempt to deflect the tension doesn’t distract Dad. He’s sitting taut as a pointer dog, eyes focused on me with laser-like precision.
“Maybe screenwriting or game design,” I say.
Dad stares. “Screenwriting?”
How is it that the quieter he speaks, the more nervous I feel?
Mom springs up from her end of the table. “Does anybody want more macaroni?”
Nobody answers. Mom is looking at Elijah. Elijah’s looking at my dad. My dad is looking at me.
And I’m looking at my plate. The tops of my ears are burning. I force a deep breath into my lungs.
I can’t possibly do this.
My brain feels all scrambled. The panic starts to rise.
I think about the jar of pens sitting on my desk. I could excuse myself and say I have to use the washroom.
And then I think about Audrey.
No. I can’t give up. I have to tell him I’m quitting Debate Club after this term.
I take a deep breath and look up, straight into his face. I open my mouth. And what do I do?
I chicken out.
“It’ll help me prepare better for my debates,” I say. “Anticipating what the other speakers are going to say.”
Dad looks at me for a moment, like maybe I’m something small and oddly jointed that flew through the open window. Then he grunts. He rearranges his forks with precision before picking one up. Breathing resumes around the table.
Crisis averted.
But I am no further ahead.
Eating, clearing and washing up takes forever, and I’m shaking with rage by the time I’m able to escape to my room. I sit down on the window bench.
I’m barely seated before my hand hits the page, blazing its angry trail of words. I don’t stop until I’ve written down all the things I’m dying to say to my dad.
