Compulsion

by Heidi Ayarbe

  Maybe.

  Sixty-Seven In the Shadows

  Friday, 7:43 p.m.

  Seven forty-three. Seven plus four is eleven plus three is fourteen minus seven is seven. OK.

  “When will you get here?” Kasey asks. “Dad’s locked himself up in the garage and is listening to that seventies rock-band stuff, and Mom’s in the bedroom pacing back and forth. I think Mom’s back on meds. I hate it here.”

  I cradle the phone on my shoulder and turn down Highway 50 to find cheap gas. “I’ll be there soon, K. Things just got a little out of control today.”

  “You were late again,” she says. “Did Mom totally embarrass herself today?”

  “Nah. She’s fine. She’ll be fine,” I say. “What’s the home front like?”

  “Weird. Dad in that cool zone, like any second he’ll go total Doritos Blazin’ Buffalo and Ranch rage.”

  “Doritos?”

  She laughs. “Ran out of Triscuit varieties. With Doritos we’re covered probably till you graduate.”

  “Hope so. You do your homework?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Tell me about your day.” I pull into the station.

  “You know, Jake. Everybody who’s anybody is going to the party at Mario’s tomorrow.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You don’t count. I need to start upping the maintenance work here.”

  “No,” I say. The numbers spin in a lame attempt to fill up Mera’s guzzler. The gas sputters and stops flowing when the numbers hit $19.93. Good number.

  I swipe my debit card and look at the statement receipt. My bank account officially has eleven cents in it.

  Nineteen ninety-three for gas. Eleven cents left. Good signs. Things are looking up. I exhale, and the pounding in my head settles to a dull throb.

  Way better.

  “You’re such an ass. It’s after the game. It’s not like you’ll have anything to think about tomorrow. Come with me.”

  “Not this weekend,” I say. “I told you that.”

  “I don’t even know why I have to ask you about this kind of stuff.”

  “We’ve got each other’s backs. I’m not going to spend tomorrow night with a bunch of freshmen after the biggest game of the year. Christ, K, don’t be such a brat about this.”

  “Yeah, like you ever do anything but sit in your room.”

  “Kasey,” I whisper. She knows she’s crossed the line. “Drop it.” Kase is a cool kid but she definitely has her shit moments.

  “Okay.” She exhales and starts to talk. Half her classmates’ ears must be in flames. She goes in bullhorn mode when she gets really riled up, so I move the phone a little bit away from my ear to keep from going deaf.

  When I turn on the ignition, the gas gauge barely moves. Christ. For being so pro-animal and environmental, you’d think Mera would ride her bike to school instead of this clunker.

  “Are you even listening?” Kase’s monologue is coming to an end.

  “Yeah, K.”

  “Will you be home soon?”

  “Just gotta drop this van off at Mera’s.”

  “I’ll wait up.”

  “I know.”

  “Always do.”

  “Always do.” I slip the van into gear and hang up the phone. My stomach cramps and I realize I haven’t had anything since this morning’s two bites of crumbly biscuits and funky-smelling gravy, so I rummage around Mera’s glove compartment and find a stale-looking Luna bar. Christ.

  When I pull up to her house, two-thousand-watt sensors go off and blanket the driveway in bright white light. They could have a nice marijuana plantation with that kind of lighting. After two minutes, thirty-nine seconds they flick off, leaving the house in quiet darkness except for the dim light that shines behind heavy drapes. Two thirty-nine. Two plus three is five plus nine is fourteen minus three is eleven. OK. The wind blows, and I listen to the whisper of dry leaves scuttling across the lawn. I wonder if Mera is home.

  Her bedroom light is off.

  It’s Friday night. Nobody stays home on Friday night. Not even Catherine Margaret Silverman—debate team, chess club, tennis captain, voted Most Likely to Run Out of Ink When Printing a College Résumé—stays home on Fridays.

  Maybe Mera’s with some orchestra friends.

  What does Mera do on weekends? What do orchestra kids do on weekends?

  Nothing? Like me?

  I have soccer. That’s my excuse. And off-season I play indoor soccer, then spring league, summer training, back to soccer season. It’s just too fucking insane to break routine. The last time I went to a party, I spent most of it outside, lying behind some prickly rosebushes and staring up at the stars. I practically froze my balls off and had to listen to a heavy make-out session and couldn’t move because they were right next to me. It took forever for my balls to warm up.

  I turn the radio to FM and skip through the stations, looking for something decent. I settle for The X and the Blues Project, listening to the rasp of Gavin DeGraw, and crank it up to an ear-blasting twenty-three.

  I think about running out of cash at nineteen ninety-three. Good sign.

  If the sensor lights go on. Two more times. I’ll knock on Mera’s door. Maybe we can just talk—hang out.

  Be real.

  The lights flick on. I see a cat streak across the driveway. So I start to count the seconds until the lights turn off. One hundred thirty-five seconds.

  Just one more time, and I’ll knock on the door.

  I wait and turn away from the sensor lights, turn off the van, and get out, careful not to make the sensors go off myself. That’s cheating.

  I’m now sitting on the bumper. Waiting. And I hear the song—the repetition of notes. It’s familiar, like one of those culture things we should all know. I should look it up online or something. I close my eyes, practically seeing how the notes slip out her window and drift away on the wind—up to the stars, up to the night.

  It’s a good sign.

  The wind picks up and the driveway is blanketed in white light. I count the one hundred fifty-nine seconds until they turn off and check the time on my cell. 8:29.

  The perfect number.

  I have one minute to get to the porch.

  Or less.

  So I rush toward Mera’s house until my foot rests on the first step. I glance back at my cell, and just as I look down, the time changes to eight thirty.

  Christ.

  8:30

  Eight thirty. Eight divisors. One, two, five, ten, eighty-three, one hundred sixty-six, four hundred fifteen, eight hundred thirty. Two, five, and eighty-three are prime. Three primes. OK.

  I pause. Then the time changes to 8:31 and my mind races.

  The sensor lights flick on again. I’d swear I can hear the buzz of energy. My chest tightens and I try to work out the numbers. My stomach cramps and I swallow back the Blueberry Bliss Luna bar that’s worked its way up from my lower GI tract.

  The tingling starts at the back of my neck.

  The buzz of the sensor lights turns into the sound of thousands of crickets rubbing their forewings together—a chirping, piercing noise.

  Then the lights flick off again, just after the sharp zzzzt sound of what was probably the last living fly before winter hits.

  It’s gotta be 8:35. Maybe 8:36.

  I can’t bring myself to look at the time. My head feels fuzzy, like my brain’s blood has to work its way through thick layers of tangled spiderwebs. I take my foot off the porch and back away. A shadow moves from behind the front window curtains and pushes them to the side.

  The sensor lights flick on again, the buzzing returns.

  The explosion hits and everything turns black for a second, a bazillion dots of light like dust motes in my brain. I crouch down and rest my head on the first step, closing my eyes until the dots go away.

  The music is gone. I don’t know when she stopped playing. Somebody taps on the window—the noise like the pounding of a bass drum.

  I
swear I can smell burned insect bodies.

  My hands tremble and Mera’s keys slip from my sweaty palm, thunking on the concrete sidewalk—a deafening sound.

  It’s all wrong. The time. The numbers. I open my eyes and focus, looking down at the glowing numbers on my cell phone. 8:36.

  Just be normal.

  Get it together.

  The magic is broken. The numbers are too bleary to work out, tangled in the webs in my brain. So I stand and turn away.

  “Jake,” somebody says, but it’s hard to hear anything above the shrill buzzing in my ears—the thumping in my brain.

  I escape into the shadows of her neighbor’s house at 251 North Elizabeth Street and lie down beneath a tree—dried twigs snagging my soccer shirt. The ground is hard. 251.

  Two times five is ten plus one is eleven. OK.

  My entire body twitches with cold—chicken-skin arms. I didn’t even realize that I’ve been shivering until now, and I rub my skin, keeping my eyes clenched shut—keeping the dark in, until I can see the numbers again. I fight to clear my head, get the numbers in focus, but when I open my eyes a little, I turn on my side to throw up blueberry acid.

  I wait.

  And count.

  Time slips away, hours pass, until I’m able to get to 991 in my primes; then it’s like a maze opens up in my brain, pushing through the fog, revealing the patterns. My breathing comes easier. The numbers take form, and I can go through and make sense of it all.

  I sit up and lean my head against the icy siding of the neighbor’s house. The webs disintegrate and everything seems clearer. My stomach roars.

  I stand up. Slowly.

  Don’t look back. Don’t look at Mera’s house.

  That would ruin everything.

  Tomorrow this will end. I don’t need to talk to anybody. I just need tomorrow to be perfect—to end the cycle and put things to rest.

  That makes me feel better, knowing I’m less than a day away.

  So I work my way home, counting my steps, one step away from touching the flamingo’s beak. Eight hundred fifty-six. I freeze and wait until the numbers on my phone line up, taking my last step toward the flamingo. Eight hundred fifty-seven steps at twelve twenty-nine.

  Two primes.

  The day ends right.

  Seventy-One Focus

  Saturday, 12:29 a.m.

  Twelve twenty-nine. One plus two is three plus two is five plus nine is fourteen divided by two is seven. OK.

  I exhale and brush the flamingo’s beak, then run up the porch. I open the door soundlessly and creep inside the black house, making my way up the stairs, avoiding steps four and eight and the creaking floorboard at the top.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Light floods the hallway.

  “Jesus, Kase. What the—” I shade my eyes, adjusting to the light. “That’s just creepy, you know.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Dumb question.

  I always know what time it is.

  Kasey’s standing outside the door to her room, hands on hips, doing this toe-tapping thing that Mom should do.

  Dad comes out of the bedroom. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I was with some of the guys, talking about the game tomorrow,” I say.

  Dad scowls. “Luc’s called several times.”

  “Yeah. He couldn’t get me on the cell. But he finally did.”

  See me, I think. See the lies. See me.

  Mom calls for Dad. Dad looks at me and nods. “Get some rest. We’ll deal with this later.” He slips back into the bedroom, shutting the door. I squeeze down the pain that creeps up the back of my neck and rub my arms.

  I’ve never been so cold in all my life.

  “Well?” Kasey crosses her arms in front of her ratty bathrobe. I should get her a new one.

  I slump in front of her door in the hallway. She hands me a plate of geometric beauty—symmetrical sandwiches that look like turhamken shrines. “Thanks for the food. You saved my life.” It takes three bites to down the first one.

  Kase hands me a bottle of flavored water. “Luc called four times. He’s such a wanker.”

  I look at my watch.

  12:37

  Twelve thirty-seven.

  I’m so tired. The numbers blur and fade. FOCUS.

  Twelve thirty-seven.

  Fuck. One plus two is three plus three is six plus seven is thirteen. OK.

  “Why are you still up?”

  Kase looks at me and rolls her eyes.

  “Okay. Dumb question.”

  “So?” she says.

  “So,” I sigh, and lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes, letting exhaustion take over. “Tell me about your day.”

  A stream of moonlight slips through the tear in the blackout blind. For a moment I wonder if the light will erase my image forever.

  I have the weirdest fucking ideas.

  Kasey’s lying next to me in the hallway. We’re covered with her princess blankets—the ones she hides in her closet when friends come over since it’s not cool to have Cinderella blankets when you’re in ninth grade. “Kase,” I say, and tap her on the shoulder. “Wake up. Go to bed.”

  I half carry her to bed and tuck her in, pulling up her curtains so moonlight spills into her room, casting shadows on the walls. The silent street is dimly lit by the soft yellow light of the streetlamp. The yellow light sputters and flashes. My eyes burn from tiredness but I can’t sleep, waiting for the sputtering to end.

  I stay awake until the sputtering ends and the glow is swallowed by dawn’s first light. I turn to my clock.

  6:07 a.m.

  Christ.

  Six-oh-seven. Six plus seven is thirteen. OK. Seven minus six is one plus six is seven. OK. The numbers are working. I close my eyes and think about the game—the release.

  The webs disintegrate. I just have to make it through one more day like this. Then I’m free. Later I’ll deal with Coach and the scouts and Luc. My stomach knots; the dull pain sharpens.

  Today everything will go right again. I can’t blow it.

  Future.

  Scouts.

  The game. Twenty-two guys—shit number. Don’t count the other team.

  Eleven guys. One ball. I push everything aside and rework my brain.

  Focus on the game.

  We have to win. The anxiety I feel is blanketed by a feeling of excitement—hope.

  Today I will be normal.

  I mentally work my way through the maze of Gorman’s players, passing the ball, creating opportunities, feeling light as air.

  Goal.

  Seventy-Three Beginning Perfection

  “Jake!” Kasey pounds on my door. “Jake, wake up!”

  Light floods the room. The frost has melted and my windows drip with last night’s cold. I turn to the clock.

  Saturday, 9:08 a.m.

  Nine-oh-eight. Nine plus eight is seventeen. OK. Eight times nine is seventy-two minus nine is sixty-three plus eight is seventy-one. OK.

  The door flies open and Luc walks in. “Guevón. What’s up? We’re meeting the team for breakfast. We leave in five. Goddamn, it smells like Teen Spirit in here. Do you ever shower?”

  I open one eye and look at the clock. Then open the other eye.

  9:10

  Nine ten. Nine plus one is ten. WAIT. WAIT.

  Nine eleven. Nine plus one is ten plus one is eleven. OK.

  “I’m not gonna wait around for your lazy albino ass all day. C’mon.”

  I slip my left foot out from under the covers and count. One, two, three.

  Fifty-six, fifty-seven—

  Right foot. One, two, three.

  Fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

  Up.

  9:11

  Luc glares and says, “What the . . . Did you not hear me? We’re late.”

  I nod. Counting words. Nine if I count we’re as one. I think I can.

  Nine w
ords. Not OK. Shit.

  “And I need some gas money for tonight, okay?”

  Nine words. Nine. Fuck. Nine. It’s just out there, dangling in front of me. Pinpricks of pain start to climb up my temples.

  “Okay, guevón?”

  Ten, eleven. OK. I sigh.

  I nod.

  Eleven. Good number.

  I hardly notice Luc. He’s just taking up space, not time. Well, a little time. I head to the bathroom. The conditioner has more in it than the shampoo so I spill it out until they’re level and step into the shower. Left, right, left, right. Lost in the numbers until I hear someone pounding on the door. I drip a little more conditioner out until it’s level with the shampoo and shower gel.

  “Jacob Daniel! Get out of the shower and downstairs. Now!”

  “Thanks, Mr. Martin,” I hear Luc say.

  I count to one hundred one and turn off the shower, watching as the water drips down my body to the drain—pieces of curly hair swirling in the stream of water.

  I stare at the pubes and want to vomit but can’t stop staring until the last of them slip into the drain. I squat down and look closer but don’t see any more, and I pull myself away from the drain before I begin to count its holes.

  Luc pounds on the door again, saying something to the effect that if I don’t leave the bathroom right now, he’s going to drag me out and hang me by my balls.

  “Leave him alone, Luc!” Kasey’s voice gets pretty squeaky when she’s about to cry. I feel like shit. This isn’t her battle. I’m the one who’s supposed to look out for her. Not the other way around.

  Luc and Kasey really get into it, their voices cutting my concentration, fucking with my numbers. I holler, “Just. Shut. Up. I’ll get out when I’m fucking ready to get out. Shut. Up.”

  My head throbs in time to the drip, drip of the faucet. So I turn the knob tight until the drips stop and I can sit and wait until the mirror defogs on its own. I rest my head on the sink—the cool porcelain feels good against my cheek; the whole place is fogged in steam.

  Vapor. Condensation. Mist. Haze.

  Water particles.

  Bazillions of visible water particles floating in air.

  I’m just glad I don’t have the urge to count them.

  Take that back. I’m just glad they’re too small to see to count.