by Heidi Ayarbe
I throw myself against the door; it won’t open. And Kasey keeps screaming.
A thud. High-pitched terror.
Muffled sobs.
The violins stop. The speakers boom: Magic Martin! M&M!
“Speech! Speech! Speech!” They chant.
I swallow back the bubbling acid that works its way up my throat.
What if she’d gotten more hurt? What if she’d broken more than her arm?
What if . . .
Stop it.
Stop.
I stare at the numbers on the clock, working them out, making the patterns.
A heavy silence until Jenny Roark talks into the microphone. “Apparently, M&M, the greatest athlete to come out of Carson High, is concentrating? On—” She taps my shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Winding. My. Watch.” I try to keep my voice steady. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
“Winding his watch,” she says.
Luc says, “He’s got to be on time one more day. We’re all responsible for his punctuality today. Who’s going to chaperone Jake to his classes?”
A spray of hands goes up like drowning swimmers—desperate to take on the impossible task of harnessing Jacob Martin’s challenged time-management skills.
Everybody cheers.
I push my chair between Mera and Riley, the saxophone guy. “Can I sit here, please? Just for a second?”
Mera nods and dives into a yogurt parfait, like me sitting next to her is the most normal thing in the whole wide world.
Focus. Focus. Focus. I work out the numbers to try to get ahold of the day.
The room has cleared out. I’m still wedged between Mera and Riley. Tanya stands with Luc and Amy at the door—her arms crossed in front of her chest, eyes all red and puffy. Oh Christ.
“Hey, guevón!” Luc hollers. “You coming?”
“Thanks,” I whisper to Mera, then turn to Riley. “Thanks.”
Mera squeezes my arm. “Are you okay, Jake?”
Are you okay?
No. I don’t think so.
Wrong answer.
I’d nod if I didn’t think my head would explode from excessive movement, so I just grunt, “Uh-huh.” Then Luc corrals me into his car and we leave the Nugget, pulling up to Carson High just a few minutes before the bell.
But I’ve got to get back home—to start the day over.
I have no choice.
Forty-One Merry-Go-Round
Friday, 7:43 a.m.
Seven forty-three. Seven plus four is eleven plus three is fourteen minus seven is seven. OK.
Tanya sniffles all the way to school, pasting a fake smile on her face. She’d probably be a lot less sensitive with a decent meal in her. But I’m smart enough not to say anything. When we get out into the parking lot, Luc pushes me along. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “Are you on something?”
“Yeah. Blackberry protein shakes.”
“Don’t be an asshole. Be on time. Just today, okay?”
“Sure, Luc, I’m gonna blow the last day of classes off before the big game. C’mon, man, give me some credit.” I sound normal. My voice doesn’t even have the slightest hint of panic in it.
“Yeah. Fine.” Luc doesn’t sound totally convinced. He pulls Amy to his side, squeezing her hand.
Tanya walks off at a distance.
Amy and Luc exchange a glance, but right now I’m too tired to play the game. I can’t even muster the strength to ask somebody to give her a fucking Pop-Tart. Or something. Anything with calories.
I need to start the day over.
If I can’t do the things in the right order, everything else gets stuck, in that place between the inside and outside door, a limbo-land where nothing ever happens. And tomorrow is too important for me to be stuck, because everything rides on tomorrow. Everything.
Luc, Amy, and Tanya’s words are lost, floating up to the cold November blue sky, smothered by cartoonlike white clouds. I look up, feeling like I’m in a spinning, snow-globe world, flecks of blue sky being shaken down on top of me. Thoughts, memories, words whirl around my head in chaotic flurries.
Just. Stop. Spinning.
When we were kids, Luc, Mera, and I loved the merry-go-round at Sunset Park. It was one of those rusted ones that have all probably been recalled by now because some kid got tetanus or something just by touching it. Plus it got sizzling hot—third-degree-burn hot—in the middle of summer. It was wobbly, and when we ran to push it, on one side we’d almost blow out a knee because of the funky angle. But then we’d all jump on and lie down, letting the sky spin above us. It was a horrible, good sick feeling being dizzy like that, flat on our backs, feeling like the world was spinning out of control, and the only place that we were safe was on the merry-go-round.
But it was stuck—stuck turning around and around on the same axle in the same place. We never actually went anywhere, so when we got off, it was like “Fuck. That’s it?”
Then we’d do it again because we really believed that one day the spinning would take us where we wanted to go.
I’m still spinning; I’m still stuck.
Today, I need to start over, so I can get to tomorrow and leave the webs and spiders and the tick-tock behind. Tomorrow is my day.
Mental inventory of time available to go home, touch flamingo, get inside, get back in bed, get up, shower, touch grandfather clock. Thirty-five minutes. Lunch. That’s not a problem. I just have to make it through the first two blocks and get a car.
There’s gotta be at least five to six hundred kids in each grade, a third of whom might drive to school, so that leaves me with a possible seven hundred cars that I can use. I only know one guy who might let me use his.
Fuck.
Maybe I should’ve worked on maintenance Kasey style over the past four years and developed an ongoing relationship with somebody, besides Luc, with a car.
In first-period government class, Ms. Baker pairs us up and tells us we have to brainstorm a list of possible senior project ideas to hand in to her by the end of the period. Everything in my body has frozen, replaying the order of the morning, ticking off all the things I left undone.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I can hear the scratch of each pencil, the rub of erasers and swipe of red rubber shavings on the floor. The sounds meld together like the heavy drone of eardrum-blowing cicadas with flicking wings and buckling tymbals. I tap my ears and look around.
Nobody else hears the buzz.
It’s like watching a bunch of domesticated turkeys drowning in the rain because they don’t close their fucking beaks. They’re all suffocating.
They can’t know that everything is wrong because things only work when I start the day right. Today can’t happen until I start again.
What if . . .
They keep gobbling, scribbling, totally fucking oblivious. They all act like it’s okay.
It’s not okay.
I have to start over.
I can’t leave home before dawn—before the routine—because if I do . . . I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
What if we lose tomorrow?
What if Kasey gets hurt because I didn’t touch the grandfather clock?
What if Mom really hits a cyclist or Dad gets in a car accident at work?
We. Can’t. Lose. Tomorrow. Everything I am is riding on tomorrow.
Ms. Baker circulates the room like a predatory hawk; her talons—age-spotted fingers with nicotine-stained nails, ridged and thick—swipe across the desks to look at what people write.
I count, tapping the face of my watch, playing with the numbers raining through gaping holes in my brain.
8:08
Eight-oh-eight. Eight plus eight is sixteen. Eight minus eight is zero. Eight divided by eight is one.
Fuck.
Eight times eight is sixty-four minus eight is fifty-six divided by . . . Fuck.
I can’t get the numbers to work either.
It’s so fucking loud.
“
Jacob, what are you going to do your senior project on?” she says. The sound of her words blends together with the scratch of pencils and rub of erasers until I hear a deafening buzz.
I write “cicadas” on my sheet of paper.
“Bugs?” she says. “You’re going to do your senior government project on bugs?”
“Bugs,” I say. “Cicadas—the Magicicada.”
“Keep your voice down, Jacob. I can hear just fine.”
But how can she hear above the hum—the batting wings and popping tymbals?
“Would you like to tell me why? As your advisor, I need something more concrete than a bug’s name to approve the project.”
“The noise,” I say, leaning my head on the desk.
“You don’t need to whisper, Mr. Martin. I don’t appreciate the attitude.” Ms. Baker takes my paper. “You want bugs, you got bugs.”
I can tell she thinks she’s going to teach me a lesson. Ms. Baker wanders around the room, deaf to the wing-flicking drone. I can’t get rid of the noise.
I write one to five hundred on my paper and go through the algorithm.
When I finish the chart, the primes pop out at me in three dimensions. They float off the page and circle my head like a swarm of bumblebees. When I reach out for them, everything goes back to its two-dimensional reality. But looking close, I can see the bulge of the numbers on the page, how they swell and are ready to float away again.
I mentally check off the things I’ll need to do in the thirty-five-minute lunch break. Because if I don’t do them . . .
Tick-tock.
I just need to start the day over.
Forty-Three Stuck
Friday, 9:37 a.m.
Nine thirty-seven. Nine plus three is twelve plus seven is nineteen. OK.
During nutrition I find Luc. “Luc, man. You’ve gotta lend me your car. I’ve got a killer headache and need Advil or something. I’ll pick it up during lunch.”
Luc shoves his keys into his pocket. “Go to the nurse.”
“C’mon, she can’t give me anything but a Band-Aid.”
“You can’t take anything anyway. Tomorrow’s the big game. Scouts mean peeing in cups. So suck it up and have a glass of water.”
“Luc, I need something.” My palms itch from touching the flamingo this morning and not going back in. I stare down and see the first signs of blisters—pink welts forming. I shove my hands into Luc’s face. “See. I just need to get home to get things taken care of.”
Luc pushes my hands down. “What are you talking about?”
I look down. My palms burn, but the welts are gone. I run my fingers across the tender skin. Nothing.
I’m fucking crazy.
Crazy.
“Can you lend me the Dart or not?” The probability that he might actually say yes is about as great as me having a sexual encounter that doesn’t include Manuela.
“No fucking way. You’re not going to do this to us. If you’re late, we’re screwed. Today, it’s not just about you, it’s about the team. And it’s about somebody here doing something.”
“Don’t say there’s no I in team,” I say, trying to make a joke, keeping my voice steady. “Luc, I’ve got thirty-five minutes. I just need to get some shit cleared up at home.” My palms still burn, but when I look down, the only things I see are the half-moon indentations of my nails.
“Deal with your weird shit on your own time. Guevón, lo que estás haciendo es una chimbada.” And he goes off in Spanish. Luc turns into channel seventy-three, Univision, when he’s pissed.
I don’t even need the translation to know he’s ready to kill me.
Kids stare at us and move away. We’re officially making a scene.
Mighty Luc. Moses. Parting the sea of blue in Carson High’s hallways. I had counted on him giving me the keys. He doesn’t get it.
How could he?
He’s a suffocating turkey.
I push past him down the hall, and he grabs at my shirt collar. “Goddamnit, Martin. What’s your fucking problem?”
I shrug him off. “I’m fine. Just forget about it.” I hear myself speak the words in a normal, unwavering voice. But my pulse thrums against my temples and I can hardly breathe. I need to get my hands under a stream of icy water, and I push to the front of the drinking-fountain line.
9:42
Nine forty-two. Nine plus four is thirteen minus two is eleven. OK.
Some kid says, “Dude, I hope you washed your hands.”
“That’s what I’m doing now.” My voice sounds like I’m one violin pluck away from going major twang. “I burned myself. That’s all.”
Keep it cool.
Things get blotchy, so I splash my face with the metallic water that tastes like ice-cold liquid public-bathroom paper-towel dispenser. I swallow and splash, swallow and splash.
Kids move away.
When I stand up, Luc’s right behind me. He scowls, his caterpillar eyebrows touching. I wait to see if they’ll crawl off his face. “I’ll get you an Advil or something at lunch,” he says.
9:45
Nine forty-five. Nine plus four is thirteen plus five is eighteen divided by nine is two. OK.
The bell rings. “At lunch,” I echo. “Can’t be late.” I head to science, pushing back the webs and buzz, buzz, buzz in between my ears.
Mrs. Hayes has set up one of her forensic labs: death and decomposition. When we walk into class, it’s filled with jars of things we’re supposed to smell. We’re supposed to walk around describing the scents; the last station involves dissecting a fetal pig.
The rat’s chest moves up and down, up and down until it shudders and the rat stops moving, its abdomen pinched in the trap.
I push the memory away and focus on the blue smudge in the upper right-hand corner of the whiteboard. Mrs. Hayes has that excited-to-impart-knowledge look in her eyes. She’s one of those “forward-thinking” teachers. But sometimes it’s just gross.
Mariana Ramirez gets all fainty when she walks into class, and Dawn Washington takes her to the library. They’re doing the work sheet option for this lab. Mera flat-out refuses to do it, saying that it’s wrong to use animals this way, and she snatches another work sheet out of Mrs. Hayes’s hands and gathers things at her desk.
I’m paired with Seth, class president and all-around prick, if you ask me. If you stuck pencil lead up his ass, he’d pop out diamonds. I steady the trembling in my hands, but all I can do is think about getting home.
And not puking in science. Sometimes I wish I could be a chick and get all fainty.
“If anybody else wants to go to the library, raise your hand,” Mrs. Hayes says, kind of last minute, her white lab coat speckled with unknown brown stuff.
My hand shoots up. Death. I already know what it smells like.
Diaz kicks me from behind and says, “Good thing you’ve got a dick on the field.” He and Simpson crack up. Darius Simpson—the eternal bench warmer for the team. His ass is one giant splinter.
Diaz says something else that I don’t quite hear—something about penis size and lack of pubic hair.
Mrs. Hayes hands me a work sheet and hall pass. Mera walks in front of me. I inhale the stale smell of the hallway—sweat socks, BO, curdled milk, normal. Not decomposed bodies. I hurry my pace to walk with Mera to the library.
“I couldn’t do that lab,” I finally say when I know that opening my mouth won’t lead to projectile vomiting.
“Last period,” says Mera, “three kids went to the nurse throwing up. Personally, I think it’s pretty crappy to use a pig like that. It’s just wrong. I’m going to start a letter-writing campaign to Congress in protest so that we stop using animals in high-school labs.”
Mera’s going all PETA now, ranting about animal rights and how if whales and elephants are vegetarians—the biggest mammals on earth—why couldn’t we be? Her face gets red splotches when she’s mad—making her wispy blond hair look almost transparent, like a halo.
“Mrs. Hayes is d
efinitely gonna have a bunch of parent phone calls tonight,” I say when Mera takes a breath. Last time Mrs. Hayes did a “lifelike” lab, it was on evidence collection. She hired some actor to play dead. He looked dead. Real dead—blue lips, stiff, some kid even said he felt waxy. Not likely—I mean the waxy-skin thing. Anyway, someone ended up calling the police because they thought Mrs. Hayes had whacked a guy for the sake of education.
I laugh. A little. The burning in my skull has moved to my gut. The knot in my stomach just gets tighter and tighter until it feels like my colon is going to turn inside out. We sit together at a table—across from Dawn and Mariana. The words in the encyclopedia on decomposition blur together. I stare at the clock. Time ticks away.
Mera’s pencil scratches on her work sheet; Dawn and Mariana are way ahead, working together. I scoot toward Mera.
“Mera,” I whisper, “I need to borrow your car.”
“What for?”
“I’ve gotta go home at lunch. I’ll be back for last block. Please,” I say.
“Have lunch at the cafeteria like normal kids.”
“I need to go home,” I say, resting my head on the cool library table that faintly smells like window cleaner.
Mera’s eyebrows arch. “No. Get over yourself, Jake. I’m not indebted to you because we talked for two minutes yesterday. You have fifteen soccer buddies—all with nice cars. Ask one of them.”
My world is reduced to Luc. That’s all I have. Kase doesn’t count because she can’t drive. Luc. That’s it. Pretty small fucking world. “I can’t,” I say. “I can’t ask them.”
“Shhhh.” Mariana looks up from her work sheet. “Some people are trying to work.”
Mera flips her off. How to win friends and influence people—Mera style.
I swallow a laugh. “You never change.”
“How would you know?” she asks. “It’s not like
we’ve been in touch.”
I tap my pencil on the table and mutter, “I guess I’ve known you since I was old enough to know things.”
Mera smiles.
“So?” I say.
“Why?”
“Because I need to start the day over.”
