She screws up her face and taps her nose. "Can't stand the smell."
I've never seen a teacher like him. He glides up and down the rows like some large black bird, his robe swirling around him. He pauses and looks at the ceiling, or the blank blackboard, or the empty walls, as if seeing something there we can't. He speaks almost in a whisper, and I'm leaning forward like all the other kids to hear.
"The Greeks were the first intellectuals. They invented philosophy and exalted their philosophers to the height of kings in other lands."
I know about the Greeks, and Romans, too. Mom read Bulfinch's Mythology to me every night for months. She made me take Latin in middle school when almost every other kid was learning Spanish or French. I wonder what it would have been like to be born in Greece back then—would I have been a philosopher-king, a soldier, a peasant, a slave, or someone even worse off, like a woman?
The teacher stuffs his hands into the pockets of his robe, and now he's all black, except for his little white face sticking out at the top. "And yet, the ancient Greeks were profoundly ignorant, in our modern sense. They knew nothing of the world beyond the hundreds of miles their ships sailed and their troops marched. They believed the earth was a circular flat disc divided by the Sea, what we now call the Mediterranean. Surrounding the earth was water, and each morning the sun rose from the waters in the east and each night dipped back into the waters in the west. In this ocean they imagined giants and monsters and enchantresses. Beyond the ocean they could imagine nothing."
How can anybody imagine nothing? If the Greeks could invent gods who disguised themselves as bulls and swans and turned people into spiders and flowers, then they certainly could have dreamed up something interesting for the world beyond the ocean. What kept them from exploring the far-off seas? Maybe they were just happy with the life they had.
The teacher walks to the huge windows at the side of the room and stares out for a minute. The students stare with him. Nobody throws a pencil or makes some stupid noise. I've never been in a class this quiet.
"The Greeks had their gods—Zeus, the most powerful; Pallas Athena, the goddess of wisdom; Apollo, the god of music and prophecy; Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty; Ares, the god of war. Citizens of Hellas would appeal to one or another of them depending on what favor they needed. But Greek philosophers such as Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle spent very little time considering the nature of their gods. The Egyptians before them focused on the spirit world and the afterlife. But the Greeks dedicated themselves to the matters of this world, the matters of man—truth, beauty, justice, citizenship, happiness."
The teacher picks up his Starbucks mug from his desk and drinks a little. I wonder if it's really coffee inside. '"Know thyself'—these words were inscribed at the Oracle of Delphi. Greeks journeyed there to ask about the future, and the first thing they saw was that saying, 'Know thyself.' Why would the great Oracle give that advice, above all else?"
No one raises a hand. The teacher looks annoyed. "Scholars?"
I'm used to answering at my old school. I always have something to say in class. Sometimes I don't even know what I'm going to say until the teacher calls on me. I start to raise my hand, then remember I'm new here. It's not good to speak up the first day.
"Mr. Brown, do you wish to contribute?"
Everyone turns on me, a blur of strange faces. I try to focus on the teacher in the black robe. "I think the Oracle at Delphi was just saying that people should look for answers about the world inside themselves, because how you look at the world changes it." That's not bad, and I got it out without my jaw locking up. Now the teacher will move on to somebody else. That's the way it works.
Except that he's still looking at me. "Would you say you know yourself, Mr. Brown?"
I think I do. I'm a pretty smart fifteen-year-old kid who likes the world when it fits together exactly as he pictures it and who gets scared of the world when it doesn't. "Yes, I mean, I know who I am at this instant. But people change all the time, especially kids, because we're growing up. So today I'm different than yesterday, and tomorrow I'll be different than today."
"We all change, even old teachers like me. Perhaps tomorrow I'll come to class in a blue jumpsuit with white buck shoes."
The kids laugh at this weird image of him, and I do, too. It's nice to be able to laugh at a teacher.
"But I know myself, Mr. Brown, and I don't think I'll change that much by tomorrow." With that he turns back toward the front of the room, his long robe dragging behind him.
CHAPTER 5
"Well, Devon, I'm glad to see you again."
I wouldn't be glad to see me if I were Dr. Wasserman. And I'm definitely not glad to be standing in the middle of his crummy little office again. What is glad, anyway? It's a stupid word.
"Still don't feel like sitting?"
"No ... I mean yes. I don't feel like sitting."
"What if I throw a blanket over the chair, would that make it okay?"
I shake my head. I'd still know what's under the blanket. The shrink opens his wallet. "You know, I'd feel more comfortable if you did sit down. All of my other patients do. So I'll tell you what—I'll give you twenty dollars if you'll sit in the chair." He points with his hand that holds the money to the shiny vinyl seat behind me.
"I really like standing."
He takes another twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. "How about forty?"
He's messing with my head, I can tell.
"Would you sit for sixty dollars?"
I don't like this at all. What kind of shrink would try to force a kid to do something he really, really doesn't want to do?
"Just so we're clear here, Devon, at some point I'm going to put the money back in my wallet and the offer will be gone. You shouldn't think you can just hold out for more."
I bet Dr. W. will go higher. It would be too weird to stop at sixty dollars. He takes out two more twenty-dollar bills. "How about one hundred? It's yours just for sitting down on the chair, or the sofa—either one, your choice."
When I look at the vinyl chair with the little yellow stuffing sticking out of the rip, I see all the fat old people squatting down in it, all of the squirmy little kids' asses, all of the farting and sweating that has happened on that cushion.
I hear a ripping sound and turn—Dr. W. is tearing a check from his checkbook. "Why don't you just fill in an amount?" His chubby index finger points to the space next to the dollar sign. "Write whatever amount of money I'd have to give you to sit in that chair, and we'll see if I can afford it."
I take the check by the left edge. It's beautiful. Sailboats are gliding in a light blue sea so clear I can imagine diving in and never coming up again.
"Here's a pen."
He was holding it at the top, so I take it by the bottom, very close to the tip. I know this is just some kind of shrink's game, but I have to admit, it's a pretty good one because I can't figure out how to win at it. If I write down $1,000 and Dr. W. actually gives me the money, then I'd have to sit in the vinyl chair or sofa. If I won't sit, then I don't get the money. Either way, I lose something.
I put the check up against the wall and write 1000, which is a nice round number. I shake the pen to get the ink flowing again, then add a 0, then another one, and another. I hand the check back to Dr. W.
"One million dollars. That's a bit more than I was expecting. Is that what it would take to get you to sit in that chair?"
"I'm not sure, maybe more."
"Well, I guess you might as well stand, then." Dr. W. puts away his money and his checkbook. So I've lost a hundred dollars. He opens a thin manila file folder. "I called your mother yesterday to get some perspective on what happened when you lived in Pennsylvania."
Pennsylvania—why does he have to bring that up? I was a little kid then.
What happened is that I couldn't stop snapping my fingers. I know that sounds stupid, but it's true. It started with my granddad, when he moved in with us because of his bad heart. One n
ight he was feeling pretty weak, so I stayed up late in his room reading The Fortunes of Captain Blood to him. I had just started the chapter where Blood escapes hanging, and I knew my grandfather would love that part. But after a minute his eyes closed. I kept reading, thinking he was still listening, but he didn't smile or nod. So I made up a few crazy sentences, and he didn't say anything. He looker stiller than I'd ever seen him. That scared me, so I put my left hand on his chest. I started snapping the fingers of my other hand in time to the faint beating, and it seemed to me his heart was going awfully slow. After a while I pulled away and was going to go to bed. It was almost midnight. I was tired, too. But he didn't look like he was breathing. I went back to his bed and felt for his heart again. There wasn't any beat. I slipped my hand under his nightshirt. Nothing. Then I snapped the fingers on my right hand. One, two, three, four—I felt the beat. He had come alive again! I kept snapping my fingers, kept feeling his heart beating.
I don't know how long I did that, because I fell asleep in the chair next to his bed. Next morning I woke up early. No matter how much I shook him or snapped my fingers, he wouldn't open his eyes.
"Devon, I was asking about Pennsylvania. Could you explain the problem you had in school when you lived there?"
"I was snapping my fingers a lot, that's all, and it got on the teacher's nerves. Some of the kids didn't like it, either."
"If you knew you were bothering them, why did you continue to snap your fingers?"
"I don't know—I just did. It became a habit."
"How long did you have this habit?"
"A couple of months. Then we moved to Amherst and I stopped."
"But you started up other habits there, didn't you?"
Sure I did—washing my hands, straightening things, staying in my room. All kinds of things started then. I close my eyes and try to stand perfectly straight, but after a few seconds I feel myself drifting forward.
"Devon?"
"I don't want to talk anymore about that stuff, okay? That was before."
"Before what?"
"Before now."
"All right, then let's talk about now, and here. Your mother says you eat the same lunch every day—four carrots, four wafers, four..."
"Lots of kids eat the same thing every day. I met this girl the first day at my new school, she eats a vanilla ice cream cone every single lunch, and she's been doing that for years. I've only been eating what I eat since September."
He nods like he understands, but I don't think he does. "What would happen if your mother gave you three carrots instead of four?"
I'd throw them away, that's what. "I'd eat them. It's no big deal."
"I'm not so sure. I think you're afraid something bad will happen if you don't have four carrots, four wafers, and four different colored M&Ms for lunch."
What makes him so smart about me? This is only my second time with him. Dr. Castelli couldn't figure me out after twenty sessions. "Are you sure something bad won't happen?"
"No one can guarantee that, Devon. But does it make sense to you that eating four carrots will stop something bad from happening to you or someone else?"
I know it doesn't make sense when you think about it for very long. I'm not stupid. Still, when I'm getting ready to eat those carrots or wafers or M&Ms, it seems very important to have exactly four of them, as if the universe depends on it. If you do one little thing wrong, the whole world could go out of whack—tilt off its axis, for instance, or drop out of the sky. Maybe it wouldn't happen, but nobody can prove to me that it couldn't. Why take the chance?
The shrink swivels in his chair, and it makes a squeaking noise. Hasn't he ever heard of WD-40?
"I'd like you to think about my question before next session, Devon."
"What question?"
"If it makes sense that eating four carrots—four everything—at lunch will stop something bad from happening."
"Okay, I'll think about it."
"By the way, do you know if you have ever had a severe case of strep throat?"
"No."
" 'No' you don't know, or 'no' you haven't had strep?"
"No I don't know—that's what you asked."
"Yes, well, ask your parents for me, will you?"
"I broke my arm once when I was ten, does that make any difference?"
"No, not for the purpose of understanding the source of your behaviors. Now, tell me a little about your parents."
I don't know where to start except at what they look like. "Mom's about five-eight—I got taller than her last summer. She has reddish hair like me and brown eyes like me and she's kind of skinny like me and she has small ears like me. They're not so wicked small that you laugh at them or anything—if you're the kind of person who laughs at people, I mean. Just regular small."
"You think your ears are too small?"
I reach up to trace the outline of my ear. They feel small to me. "They're not super small. Like, I can hear fine. I think I have perfect pitch."
"That's nice, but do you stare at your ears a lot?"
"How would I do that?"
"In the mirror."
"Oh yeah, well, maybe sometimes I do. Is that crazy?"
"It's not uncommon for adolescents to fixate on a particular part of their body because it seems odd or disgusting to them. But if they spend more than an hour a day focusing on some part, it could be a problem called body dysmorphic disorder."
That doesn't sound like something I want to have. "I look at my ears in the morning for ten minutes, tops. So I don't have what you said."
"Is there any other part of your body that seems small or odd to you?"
What's he mean by that? I look out the window, and the bright sun tickles my nose. I just get my arm in front of my face to block my sneeze. Dust floats up in the shaft of light coming in the window. "Sorry. I can't stop myself sometimes."
"That's okay. There's no law against sneezing in here."
A law—that's a great idea. No Sneezing Allowed! Wear Gloves When Touching Doorknobs! Don't Talk into Somebody Else's Face! I can imagine hundreds of laws. They'd be printed up and mailed to every person so nobody could say they didn't know. Kids would be taught the laws in kindergarten, then reminded of them each grade after that. And every one of the laws would have a! after it!
"Devon? I asked if there is any other part of your body that seems too small to you, or odd in some way."
It's not a question a shrink should ask a kid, that's what I think. "No, everything's perfect. I wouldn't change a thing."
He looks as if he doesn't believe me, and why should he? I don't believe myself.
CHAPTER 6
It's Saturday. I can't tell exactly what time on Saturday, because I'm lying in bed facing my wall instead of my nightstand, and I don't feel like rolling over to look at the alarm clock. I guess it's around noon, because the sun is shining almost straight down through the skylight.
I know I should get up, but for what? I've got nowhere to go. The snow's half a foot deep outside. I'd go sledding if I had a hill out back. I know that sounds dopey—fifteen years old and he wants to go sledding. I can't help it. Maybe I suffer from arrested development. I suffer from everything else, why not that? If I had a little brother I could take him sledding and pretend I was being a great older brother, but I'd be having as much fun as him.
I love snow. At least, I love it when it's snowing and even the air is white. I love it the first day after a snow, too, when the trees and roads and ground are white. Snowcovers the whole world, and for a few hours you only need to think about one thing. Snow.
"Lunch is ready, Dev. Come on down now, please."
I roll over and raise my hand over my head to block out the sunlight. I can see one thick blue vein bulging up at the bend of my arm. Or is it an artery? Arteries take blood away from the heart, veins bring it back, so I guess this is a vein. I don't know where I learned that. It was probably one of Dad's dinner lectures.
I wonder why there's no word for this
part of the arm. Why didn't Mr. Elbow or whoever the person was who picked elbow for the outside of the bend of the arm name the inside at the same time?
The vein dives deep under the skin of my forearm and then comes up again at my wrist alongside another vein heading from my hand. If there were a hundred hands sticking up into the air like this, could I pick this one as mine? I don't think so. There aren't any rings or scars. The fingers aren't especially fat or thin. They're just fingers. On a hand.
"Devon, do you hear me? You've been in that bed for fourteen hours."
The hand seems to hang in the air as if suspended from invisible string. The fingers are curling down slightly now, the blood draining from them, I guess, heading back to my heart.
"I'm not calling you again."
Oh yes, she will. She'll badger me and threaten me until I go down and eat. She never leaves me alone when she thinks it's for my own good.
I lift my head off my pillow, and the hand falls to the bed.
***
She's made ham omelets. I poke at the gooey mess and scrape out each little piece of meat.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm vegetarian—remember, Mom?"
"I don't care. You need more protein." She pushes the ham back into my eggs with her fork. "That could be the problem."
She's always coming up with new explanations, and this one, the nutritional reason, is her latest. She thinks I'm not eating enough protein or drinking enough water or getting enough iron. Any one of those things could throw my brain chemistry off track and affect my thinking.
She said I should use my mind to control my impulses, but I don't see how that would work. If I'm not thinking right to begin with, how is thinking going to help me straighten myself out? It's like using a warped old yardstick to measure itself to see if it's exactly a yard long. Okay, maybe it isn't exactly like that, but I'm still sure it's useless to try to think myself into thinking normally.
She comes up behind me, a big shadow over my plate. "You're not eating, Devon."
Not As Crazy As I Seem Page 3
