Compulsion

by Heidi Ayarbe

  Her screams have stopped. I don’t know what’s worse, the screaming or the way the house creaks in the wind, the tick-tock of the grandfather clock with its heavy pendulum swinging back and forth, pushing through the thick silence of the house.

  “Kasey! Kasey, answer me!”

  I stand up, pushing myself off the ground, my hand grazing the thick rat tail. I jump back, knocking over a box of Halloween decorations, shiny plastic clown masks, glow-in-the-dark skulls.

  What if she’s hurt? Or worse?

  My heart pounds and pumps blood through my body. I kick against the door with the heels of my feet, then crumple to the floor, pushing in the Indiglo light to see the time, concentrate on the numbers.

  Working the numbers in the fluorescent green light is the only thing to keep the spiders from eating me alive—the only thing to keep Kasey safe out there.

  “Fight back, marica.” Luc pounds and pounds.

  What if . . .

  “This game is everything. And you’re gonna fucking blow it.”

  The thoughts whirl around my head—some kind of carnival Wheel of Fortune with all the what ifs gyrating, waiting for the wheel to stop when it slows down to its final tick, tick, tick.

  I search for my watch, to see the time.

  But I can’t move—pinned under Luc.

  I feel panic rise inside me like a crashing wave. Terror. My heart pounds harder and faster—a jackhammer against my body. A scream gets trapped in my mind and shatters into thousands of pieces.

  What if . . .

  The pounding, the hate, the anger go on until Diaz grabs Luc and holds him back. Luc spits a long, spiraling blood loogie that explodes into thousands of minibubbles in the air, all spattering my left leg.

  I lie on the prickly grass and curl my legs to my chest, closing my eyes, waiting for the earth to swallow me up. Two, three, five, seven, eleven . . . one hundred three . . . two hundred seventy-seven. . . .

  I look at the distorted faces through the slit that was once my right eye and feel the Pop Rocks blood vessels exploding under my skin, spilling into my tissues all over my chest, face, neck, and back. Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Coach and Principal Vaughn drag us into the main office. Coach leaves Diaz to run practice, saying, “Nobody leaves. Nobody. Until we get this sorted out.”

  I inhale. When I breathe in, there’s a sharp pain in my chest. I think about Kase. Maybe I’ll get my one phone call. I can call her right now. Maybe that would make things better. It would just be better to talk to someone.

  Anyone.

  I turn to Luc. He’s gone, turned into his dad, so I look away. All the what ifs crowd my brain—pushing aside anything else. The only thing that helps are the numbers and the routines—getting things back on track.

  This whole week has been fucked, like parts of me are leaking all over the place—parts that nobody should know about. And now they do because there’s no way to make things right. Fix them. They went wrong, way wrong, too long ago.

  So maybe I have to tell them about the numbers and Mom’s imaginary bicyclist. Maybe I have to tell them about why I had to go home and why I had to stay at home. Why I had to start over. Why I had to help Mom.

  Maybe I won’t have to hide it anymore.

  Maybe that’s okay, too.

  I press the ice pack the school nurse, Mrs. Quincy, gives me against my eye.

  After a while, soft footsteps pad down the hallway and Dad shows up. He’s changed out of his UPS uniform into jeans and a polo. I guess he must’ve stayed home with Mom this afternoon after all. He pats my shoulder and sits next to me. “Hi, Luc,” he says.

  Luc nods at him and looks down at his shoes.

  We listen to the muffled voices coming from Principal Vaughn’s office. Rumbles and growls punctuated by thumping fists on desks. I close my eyes and count.

  Luc’s mom’s heels make a clackity-clack sound on the tile floor. She always smells like vanilla and car grease. She owns Jumpstart Mechanics on Highway 50. I sometimes wish she was my mom—the kind who gives bear hugs and bakes fresh banana bread. But she’s got a biblical temper. Old Testament.

  One time Luc let Juancho, his older brother, duct tape him to the floor. Mrs. Camacho came in and saw Luc red-faced, struggling to get loose while Juancho held me back. She said something to the effect of “If you’re stupid enough to let your brother duct tape you to the kitchen floor, you can stay there all night,” followed by a string of colorful words you only hear at Boca Juniors soccer games. Then she sent me home.

  Mrs. Camacho ruffles my hair. “Hello, Ha-co-bo.” She always pronounces my name in Spanish, and it sounds kind of like she’s going to hock a loogie when she does. But I like it.

  “Hi, Mrs. Camacho.”

  Then she yanks Luc by the ear and says, “Culicagado, ¿usted en qué estaba pensando? ¿Usted va a ser igualito a su papá? ¿o qué?” She starts soft; then her voice rises into a crescendo, masking the sounds coming from Principal Vaughn and Coach. The entire room fills with words until the walls look like they’re going to crack under pressure. The only thing stopping them is Dad’s silence, sucking the words back in.

  I wish Dad would yell like that.

  Just throw the fucking punch.

  Instead he treats everything with long-drawn-out silences, punctuated by catch-all phrases: Don’t disappoint us. This is your future. This is your responsibility. It’s like life has been a giant disappointment to him and I’m an extension of that disappointment.

  Finally Coach and Principal Vaughn come out of Vaughn’s office. I see sweat beading on Coach’s forehead, and he swipes it away with his shirt sleeve. Vaughn has rings under his pits larger than Saturn’s.

  It’s time to come clean. I swallow and fight back the burning in my eyes and nose—the stinging tears that threaten to slip down my cheeks.

  Just as I’m about to talk, Dad stands up. “He was at home with his mother. She’s not well. She called him so he could be with her until I showed up. I just couldn’t miss a whole day of work.”

  My truth is swallowed up by his—or the one he and Mom made up this afternoon. Reality. Perception. Truth. Lies. The lines are blurred.

  Vaughn deflates in front of us, the air swooshing out of his thin frame until he looks like a wet paper doll ready to double over. Even his gelled hair has lost its sheen. I guess I won’t be the example he needs to set for his tough new tardy policy.

  Dad rubs his hands on his jeans and says, “She’s sometimes not well.” Every word is like pulling razor blades out of his throat.

  Not well? Mom’s a fucking nutcase. She left us the day she left a seven-year-old to take care of his four-year-old sister because she had to retrace her steps from the past four days to make sure she hadn’t killed anybody.

  Mom’s not “not well.”

  Mom’s gone.

  How come he doesn’t say that? How come he doesn’t tell the truth?

  “He won’t be late again. I’ll make sure of it,” Dad says.

  “And the fight . . . ,” Vaughn says. But he’s on shaky ground now. What happens at soccer is Coach’s jurisdiction. Coach’s call.

  “What fight?” Coach asks.

  Vaughn and Coach start arguing again.

  Luc mutters, “Why didn’t you tell me it was about your mom, asshole, instead of the Advil shit?”

  I shrug.

  “Sorry.”

  “’S okay,” I say. I think my lip is a little swollen, too.

  He elbows me and grins. We get away with it again. This time, maybe just for once, I don’t feel like hiding anymore. But I wouldn’t know where to begin—how to explain it to anybody because it sounds too crazy. I sound too crazy.

  My head pounds. I turn to Dad. “Did you get Kase?” I ask under my breath.

  He nods. “She’s with Mom.”

  Yeah. The ghost.

  Dad clears his throat and says, “Thank you, Jacob.”

  Vaughn and Coach have come to some kind of agreement about Luc and me a
ttending a feel-good workshop: Love Yourself, Embrace the Anger.

  Dad and Mrs. Camacho leave. I try to ignore the slouch in Dad’s shoulders. He’ll get home to Kase. That’s all that matters now. But something still itches at the back of my mind—the spiders are released, so I slip back to the numbers—the comfort—and count how many times each person speaks in the room until we’re set free and can go back to soccer practice.

  Sixty-One Confession

  Friday, 5:12 p.m.

  Five twelve. Five plus one is six plus two is eight minus five is three. OK.

  Coach takes out his cache of team-building crap and dumps it on the field. He consults his book and decides we should do “minefield,” starting with Luc and me. I’m blindfolded and Luc has to guide me around a bunch of obstacles by giving me spoken directions.

  Luc’s a decent guide. I get through most of the stuff until I land on my ass in a bucket of icy water. When I take off the blindfold, the team cheers. Luc says, “Guevón.”

  We’re okay, a team again. I’ll get to go home and just zone out.

  But Coach isn’t done with us yet. We move into the school gym. Mats are spread around it. We do trust-fall shit. And when we’re done, we sit back to back. Coach says, “Now it’s confession time.”

  There’s a collective groan.

  But I think part of us kind of likes this—being forced to say something.

  “You know the drill. Like/Dislike/Like. Be real. Let’s go.”

  Luc and I lean against each other. “You first,” he says.

  “Okay. Like.” I take a breath. “I like that you wait for me in the morning, even when I’m having a tough time getting out of the house.”

  Luc pauses. “Like. I like your honey-colored eyes.” And he cracks up. I hate that. I hate that everything has to be a joke to him.

  I start to stand up and he yanks me back down. “Okay. Okay. Like.” He lowers his voice. “I like that you haven’t told anybody that I do that choir shit for church. And, guevón, if anybody ever finds out I vote for contestants on American Idol, I’ll kick your ass to next week.”

  Silence.

  This is the first time Luc has ever said anything real to me. It’s as if he actually wants to talk today. The preconceptions slip away.

  We’re just us, whoever that is.

  We sit in silence. The rules are we don’t comment. We just listen and let whatever’s been said be said.

  “Fuck, man, are you gonna go or what?” Some of the players are already done, sitting around the free-throw circle where we’ll end this. But part of me wants to let it sink in and just be here.

  Be real, not who Luc wants to see.

  “Okay. Dislike.” I try to find a way to say it even though I think my brain’s wiring has shorted. “I dislike those times when you become your dad. Like this afternoon. Because—” Because it reminds me of all the times I was never a real friend. My voice drifts off.

  I sigh.

  All the shit I carry with me—the time, the magic—floats away for a second, leaving me lighter. Free.

  I hold on to that little bit of truth until I feel Luc tense up—his back knots and his words come out like venom. “Dislike. I dislike that you’re a total marica. You didn’t see me pissing myself every time he hit me, because every time he hit me was one fewer time he’d hit my mom. It started when I was five and ended the night he got blitzed and crashed his car. Seven years. Fists. Belts. One time a chain. I am not my dad—”

  If you’re not bleeding, you’re not hurt.

  I realize what’s real is what he just said; my made-up numbers world doesn’t matter. What happened in the closet, waiting for Mom to come home, doesn’t matter. How could that matter?

  What’s real is that everything I feel isn’t.

  And it’s too late to ask him if he’s okay. I should’ve asked him when we were five, when I saw the first bruises. A simple question. Luc, are you okay?

  “Your turn,” he says, his voice a low hiss.

  “Like,” I say. “I like that—” I swallow back the lump that has formed in my throat, pushing down my words, sifting through the avalanche of thoughts until I pick the right one—the one Luc will approve of. “Like,” I whisper. “I like that tomorrow we’ll win our third state championship in a row.”

  The tension flows out of Luc’s back and voice when he says, “Like. I like that we’ll win our third state championship in a row and we’ll be heroes. It’s our time.”

  I can hear the pride in his voice. This is it for Luc. At the end of the year, he’ll go work at his mom’s mechanic shop. He doesn’t care about college. That’s what he says. That’s what his mom says. “Your duty is to your family.”

  It seems to me he’s already paid his dues.

  All our lives Luc and I have been in that place between the inside and outside door—navigating no-man’s land—just trying to get through the day.

  Luc grabs my hand and yanks me up. “Dude, man, this is our time. We can’t fuck it up.”

  Meaning, You can’t fuck it up.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling drained, and wonder if it’s possible to sweep up broken illusions and glue them back together.

  We gather in a circle with the team. Coach’s voice is gravelly and hoarse. Principal Vaughn really takes it out of him. Coach squeezes each of us on the shoulder and says, “Now, we’re way past big-speech time. I want to thank you for the last few months. It’s been very special for me. Anybody have anything to say?”

  Diaz leans over and says, “Hoosiers.”

  Coach doesn’t have scriptwriters, not like Hollywood. So why not use the movie stuff?

  “‘And David put his hand in the bag and took out a stone and slung it. And struck the Philistine on the head. And he fell to the ground.’” Coach exhales. “Amen.”

  We’re quiet.

  “Coach, man, aren’t we Goliath this time around?” Keller asks. Leave it to Keller to get all specific about it.

  Coach stumbles over his words. “Well, Keller, I never thought about it that way.” Coach isn’t a dumb man. He’s just quiet. And good at what he does. He fights for us, and when I play, part of it is just for him. He doesn’t do too hot when it comes to pep talks. Once he used a speech from Braveheart. That, admittedly, was a stretch. But one questionable speech in three years is a pretty good record.

  “Okay, boys, tomorrow’s our day,” Coach finally says. He claps each of us on the back, and we walk out of the gym together into the black evening. It’s near eight o’clock, the air crisp with cold. The team’s cars are huddled around the field. Mera’s—the lone dinosaur—is parked in the middle of the lot.

  Christ. I never got her keys back to her. Or gas.

  Coach pulls me aside. “What’s going on?” He’s the real deal; the crease between his brows deepens with worry. “You’ve got a lot of stuff going on at home. Stuff going on with Luc. A lot of pressure. Is there something I can do?” His cell phone trills, and he clicks it off.

  “Don’t you need to answer that?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No. Right now I’m listening to you. Like. Dislike. Like.”

  We’re standing under the hazy light of the parking-lot lamps—our shadows stretch from our feet, long and lanky. I stare down at our spindly legs, carnival-mirror forms.

  Coach doesn’t say anything.

  I try to collect my thoughts. Like. Dislike. Like. But where would I begin?

  “You comin’ or not?” Luc hollers to us. There’s an edge to his voice. The silence is broken.

  “Thanks, Coach,” I say, and half wave, walking out of the light, the asphalt swallowing my shadow. “I’m cool. Really.” But I just want to go back into the light. I don’t want to disappear into the sameness of every day.

  “Well?” Luc shouts.

  Coach nods. “See you tomorrow.”

  I turn to Luc. “Nah. I gotta get this ecodestructor back to Mera. Christ, she’s probably gonna put me on one of her hate-mail lists.”

&n
bsp; “How’d you get her to lend you the meat vehicle anyway?” Luc asks.

  I shrug. It’s like she kind of understood that I needed to start my day. Maybe she gets it. If anybody’s crazy around here, it’s her. So maybe.

  “Well?” Luc asks. Irritated. Like being friends with her breaks a code.

  “I promised I’d send letters to Congress about animal cruelty. Some PETA thing.”

  Luc cracks a smile. “Okay.” He walks toward me and yanks the back of my neck, leaning into me so we’re nose-to-nose, the closest to off-field hugging we’ll ever get. “Tomorrow’s it. One day. One game. I’ll pick you up in the morning.” His breath, hot on my face, smells like onion and cilantro.

  “Okay,” I say, and laugh. It’s an easy laugh, like everything has been a big joke. “We got away with it again, Camacho.”

  “Guevón.” Luc laughs, and we slip back into the way things are supposed to be.

  I walk to Mera’s van. There’s a note shoved under the windshield wiper.

  Don’t even think about returning my van without

  filling up the tank. Have to take the bus home and

  will probably end up sitting by some freshman who smells

  like a decomposed pig. I totally can’t believe that

  out of millions of sperm you were the quickest.

  Total Mera. I sigh and slip behind the wheel and turn on the engine, the gas gauge in the red. Fifteen gallons of gas plus all I owe Luc. I open up my wallet. Empty.

  The words itch at the back of my mind—something I can’t quite shrug off this time.

  You okay, Jake? Do you want to talk about it?

  Mera’s words.

  It’s like all these years nobody has ever said that. You okay, Jake?

  What if that day—the day Dad came home at 7:19 in the morning to find me in the closet, huddled in my own piss and vomit, and Kasey at the bottom of the stairs with a broken arm from falling down—what if somebody’d asked, Are you okay?

  I could’ve said, No.

  Maybe I would’ve said, Yes.

  But the question, the possibility, would’ve been there. The open door.

  Maybe when I leave the van at her house, we can just talk for a while.