by Anna Russell
oddball
When Mom and Dad leave, Miss Jones walks me to English. (If she didn’t, maybe I’d disappear again.) Mage is already there, sitting at my desk. She stands when she sees me. My face is flaming. “Welcome back,” she says. I rub the back of my neck. “Still partners?” she asks. “You want...?” I start to say. She shrugs. “Maybe you’re a big oddball, but normal people bore me,” she says. “Thanks,” I say. “I guess.” “It’s okay,” she says, laughing. “I’m weird, too.” With Mage, things feel... not perfect— but like they don’t need to be.
our language
There’s only one thing left that hasn’t been fixed. Julia. We’ve barely spoken since yesterday, since the car, since I knew that my secrets weren’t mine anymore. I was upset, at first. But what’s done is done. Julia and I sit together on the bus ride home. We’re quiet, until I tap two beats on her knee: It’s okay. She looks at me, and she understands.
a new truth
Mom wakes me up the next day with a pen and papers in her hands. “We set up an appointment with a psychiatrist,” she says. Miss Jones’s words come back to me: I need to be seen. “They want you to fill out this form so they can learn a little about what’s going on. Answer the questions truthfully,” Mom says. My mouth feels dry. It’s time for truth.
a kind of perfect
As I’m falling asleep that night, I remember when I was really young. The memory is fuzzy like I can only see it through half-closed eyes. But I make out the shape of Mom. We’re in the kitchen, and it smells like winter: gingerbread and chocolate on the stove. Then, there’s a crash. Mom drops the whole tray of cookies onto the floor. Dad runs in, saying, “What happened?” Mom, crying into Dad’s chest, screams, “It has to be perfect.” She redoes the cookies over and over and over. I don’t think she could ever make them the kind of perfect that’s in her head. Why’d we never talk about this moment? Because that’s how I feel.
the big day
I sit in the waiting room with Mom. The walls look like peppermint candy. She reads a magazine. I count the wallpaper’s stripes. A man comes out of a door down the hall and he shakes our hands. He says his name’s Dr. Sprout. He has a salt-and-pepper beard and talks like he’s got a laugh stuck in his cheeks. He says, “Let me show you my office.” But when Mom gets up with me, Dr. Sprout says, “Sorry, just Joshua today.” Then, we’re alone. His office is emerald green. Smells like old tea bags. But the air feels different in there. Like maybe it wouldn’t be too hard to tell the truth.
the honest, whole truth
These thoughts have been here, in my mind, for as long as I know. I tell Dr. Sprout that I remember always needing that just right feeling, ever since I could think. Ever since my thoughts could control me. It’s like slowly s i n k i n g in quicksand, staying just above the grains, always a second away from drowning. I tell Dr. Sprout that 1. I have to count every crack in the ceiling or else it’ll fall and kill everybody. 2. I have to check my locker again and again or else somebody will take my lunch money. 3. I have to sing songs in order on Abbey Road or else Julia will get sick and die. 4. I have to finish my drumming exactly right or else my swamp-stomach will come back and never go away. He listens and doesn’t call me crazy. He listens and he tells me it’s not my fault. He listens and says, “Joshua, have you ever heard of something called obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
intrusion
When Mom comes in, Dr. Sprout explains: “Obsessive-compulsive disorder, OCD for short, makes people’s brains, their thoughts, get stuck and worries seem bigger. OCD thoughts are intrusive. Like if you’re trying to tell a story but in the middle of a sentence, somebody keeps blowing a loud horn. All you can think about is the horn. Then, the only way to make the sound vanish is to do what it wants. If that horn will only s t o p when Joshua counts, again and again, that’s what he’s going to do. This is called a compulsion. It makes the bad feeling better, but only for a little while, so you want to repeat what you did to make it go away. Those intrusive thoughts, the loud noises, won’t ever disappear. But with time and practice, it’ll be easier to tune out the horn without giving in to what it wants.” My head feels filled with fog. Then, Dr. Sprout makes out a prescription for medicine.
side effects
At home, Mom explains OCD to Dad. He rubs his hands over his face. Sighs like his lungs are filled with bubbles. Julia and I exchange looks. Dad doesn’t think I need the medicine. “Well, just stop yourself from doing the—what are they called? The rituals. Yeah. Rituals. Now that you know, can’t you just...stop?” he asks. I feel heavy, like I’m strapped down by an anchor. I’m a ship, motionless. Mom isn’t sure about the medicine, and what it will do, either. But that night, she’s the one who brings me a glass of water, smooths my hair, and hands me the pill.
starting over
At first, I didn’t think I was any different. I had this thing— OCD. I took this pill— for anxiety. The first few weeks, I still checked, and double-checked, and triple-checked my lock. Still counted and started over and counted and started over. Then, six weeks later, just as I’m about to give up, something amazing happened. Picture: Me, all swamp-stomached. Me, counting the syllables to “Here Comes the Sun.” Me, about to miss English. Then, I tried something different. I took a deep breath. Whispered, “They’re just thoughts.” And my brain stopped counting.
looking up
I’ve seen Dr. Sprout a few times now and I feel almost kind of normal. The thoughts haven’t d i s a p p e a r e d, not completely. But it’s getting easier to shut them out. In English, Mage says, “You seem different.” We have our books fanned open in our hands. Picking quotes to use for our group project. (Oh, yeah, Mage and me? Partners for everything now.) “Different?” I ask. “Yeah,” she says. I feel my face get warm. “Different how?” Mage looks at me for a long time. I wonder what she sees: my too-long bangs, my holey Pink Floyd shirt, callouses on my fingers from gripping drumsticks. Then, Mage smiles her big, all-teeth grin. “You look happy, Josh Baker.” And I do. I am.
rock out
As I am stepping out of the door in math, Mr. Maxwell says, “Josh? Can I speak with you, just for a moment?” Uh-oh, I think. We took a test earlier in the week. Maybe he’s going to tell me that I failed, or that he’s disappointed. In moments like these, the swamp-stomach comes back. Mr. Maxwell hands me a green sheet of paper. It’s folded in half, and when I unfold it, the title reads, in big, block letters: TALENT SHOW “You should think about performing,” he says. “I hear you drumming on the underside of your desk. It’s time to let the rest of the school hear you rock out.” I don’t know what to say or think, but I tuck the flyer into my pocket.
erased
I let my body become the rhythm. tap taptap tapraptap rap thud thud crash My limbs are now base and cymbal and snare. The drumsticks know where to move. I’m not playing a particular song, no sheet music. It’s just every part of me, of who I am, in drumbeats. I’m playing too loud, and too fast, but I am just right here. As I play out the end, adding fills, yelling out all the bad thoughts, I see somebody in my doorway. Jaw dropped, eyes wide. I fumble, my drumstick soaring across the room. There, like she appeared by magic, in my house, listening to me play my heart out is Mage.
an audience of one
“Dude,” Mage says. She keeps saying it. Her mouth won’t close. I’m all red: tomato-head, rose-cheeks, fire-hot. Because besides Mom, Dad, and Julia, and people in band class, nobody has ever heard me play. Especially not like that. “Dude,” Mage says again. “I...” is all I can say. “That was magic!” she says. “How are you here?” I ask. (But I’m happy she’s impressed.) “We had plans,” she says. “For our Shakespeare project, remember?” “Oh,” I say. “Forget about the project!” Then her face glows, like she is a whole, beautiful moon. She says, “I have the best idea. A wonderful, magical, best idea.”
our pact
There, in my room, (once I’m more relaxed) we make a pact. The two of us are going to start a band. I’ll
be drums. She’ll be guitar. “I didn’t know you played,” I say. “All jazz, baby,” she says. “You want to play in front of people?” She nods, only frowning when she realizes we don’t have a gig. Then, it’s my turn for a suggestion. I think about the talent show flyer, still pocket-crumpled. “Well,” I say, suddenly finding the courage to tell her. “I might have an idea.” Those words are like locking pinkies— a promise.
listen
Mage stays for dinner, and everyone seems to like her. I learn new things about Mage. Like how she’s a vegetarian. (She eats her spaghetti without meatballs.) And how she’s never seen snow. After we clear our plates, Dad brings out his acoustic guitar, which he hasn’t played since the move. When Mage takes the guitar in her arms, she looks complete. Like it’s a part of her: mind, body, and soul.
will it work?
The next day, I tell Dr. Sprout about Mage— how she plays like she’s made of music. He grins, and we talk a lot about my thoughts. He says, “I see,” whenever I say that I think the medicine fixed me. At the end, I mention the talent show. “Please,” I say. “Please make sure the medicine works when I do this.” Dr. Sprout presses his lips into a tight line. Our time is up for today, but he tells me to practice breathing exercises. And, as I’m leaving, he says, “Remember, Joshua, you don’t need to be fixed— just helped.”
opposite forces
When I come out of Dr. Sprout’s office, Mom is in the waiting room. Twisting the hem of her sweater like a pretzel between her fingers. She’s been extra quiet today. It’s the kind of silence she gets when she meets somebody new. (But she knows me, right?) We walk out the door together, climb in the car. One of us should speak. She goes first: “Josh?” “Yeah?” Here it is, I think. Here’s the moment where she’ll say she doesn’t know who I am anymore. Then, “Can you describe it?” she asks. “What?” “The thoughts,” she says. “Uh.” How can I do this? How can I show how my thoughts, all those what-ifs take over? I repeat what Dr. Sprout said: the loud noise, how it won’t stop unless you do what it wants. Mom isn’t driving. We sit, motor running, in the parking lot, and she listens. I see her swallow. I see her bite the inside of her cheek. I see sweat gather where her bangs are parted. “All you want,” she says, “is for it to feel right.” “Yeah,” I say. “And when it doesn’t, you feel like two magnets, opposite forces, pushing everything inside of you a p a r t.” My mouth opens. In the corner of my vision, I see Dr. Sprout’s holiday lights blinking red, blue, green. I look at Mom. “How did you know?” I ask. She closes her eyes for a moment. (Julia and I look like Dad, except our brown eyes, and the dimple above our top lips. We’re like Mom in those parts.) “Just a guess,” she says suddenly. Then she starts the car and turns a Rolling Stones song up all the way until I can’t hear my own thoughts.
two paths
The next week, the day before winter break, none of us can sit still. We’re all jitters, all ants-in-pants, the if-I-don’t-get- out-of-here-now- I-might-explode kind. In English, Mage rests her cheek on her palm, dozing. (“I call it meditating. I’m Zenned out,” she says.) She watches the frost gather on the window. Then, suddenly, Mage gasps. “Look!” And there it is: the first snowfall. After that, nobody can talk about Shakespeare. When the bell rings, we’re all out of there. It’s sort of the same as when I ran out of school. But the pings in my belly bounce around happily. And I’m not the only one who runs this time. The entire 10th grade is outside, tongues out to catch flakes of ice, chins tilted toward the sky. Eventually, we go back. Mage waves goodbye to the snow, eyes bright, smile wide, crystals still caught in her braids. This is happiness: a light, airy feeling. Worries: an almost-silent hum. A feeling like I’m going the right way. I find my desk in social studies, plop down. Bliss. Then, Mr. Wright hands me my graded paper and another path opens in front of my eyes.
the wrong path
I feel heavy, dark, like I’ve swallowed a starless night sky. I got a C on the essay. Not good enough for Dad. Not a grade Julia would have gotten. I think back to writing it: how I had to start over to get it to feel right, how I had to make it perfect but how I knew it never would be. My thoughts play on repeat: Any grade lower than a C- has to have a parent signature. This is not good. My stomach bubbles. My head aches.
harmony
The first day of winter break, Mage comes over again, this time with her own guitar. Together, we decide we’ll need Julia’s help, her keys, her voice, to really pull this off. (I’m still not sure if I can play in front of people.) Julia agrees right away, says, “Let’s show them what we’ve got.” She floats in and out of different songs while we try to choose what to perform. “A Beatles song, right?” Julia asks. Mage wrinkles her nose. “You don’t like the Beatles?” Julia says. (To her, this is betrayal.) “Well,” Mage says, her face scrunched up. “I grew up with more jazz and soul. Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin...” she says, her gaze going slightly out of focus, like she’s somewhere else. Not cross-legged on my bedroom floor. “They’re fuller,” she says. “Have more heart.” We start simple: a few chords, notes held out, a simple pattern on my drum. At one point, Julia and Mage sing in perfect harmony. “Whoa,” I say. The girls look at each other, smiles growing. I know what Mage will say before she opens her mouth: This is magic. We are magic.
baker day
My family doesn’t do normal holidays. We have our own: Baker Day, even though it’s really a three-day celebration. This year, Dad takes off of work, and Mom makes the schedule. Day one: We make cookies and take them down to the homeless shelter. We bring a pot of apple cider, with cinnamon and cloves mixed in. Our warmth, for others who need it. Day two: We go to a local farm, just to look at the trees. We don’t chop one down, but Julia and I cut a branch from a spruce, brush the pine needles away, tuck the fresh smell of winter into our coat pockets. After, we just drive, through the countryside, down by the creek. We take a picture here. The water is frozen, so we stand on the ice, laughing, breathless, because it could break beneath our feet at any point. At the end of the third day, we sit with our new presents, lazy, bellies full of turkey and green beans, and Mom’s triple chocolate cake. Then we bring out our instruments. Day three is my favorite day: playing, without worry, as loud as we can. We’re a family of musicians: Mom’s singing, Julia’s piano, Dad’s guitar, my beats. I hadn’t realized before, but I get it now: my family, they were my very first band.
catching rhythms
The day before school starts again, Mage comes over, brings her composition notebook, black-and-white squiggles filling the cover. “My music book,” she says. She opens it and I see hand-drawn sheets, lines straight, and notes e v e r y w h e r e. They are pencil markings on paper, but I can hear them. “So here’s what I’m thinking,” Mage says. She sits in her usual spot on my bedroom floor. Right below the place on my ceiling where there’s a cluster of glow-in-the-dark stars. A reminder of my old home. “What if we did a medley of our favorites?” “That might work,” Julia says, closing her eyes, already thinking. “Josh,” Mage says, turning her head to look right at me. “You’ve been quiet.” It’s only been a little while, but it seems as though Mage knows how to read me. “Sorry,” I say to Mage. “Just…” “Lost in thought?” she says. “Something like that,” I say. A worry comes into my head, and I don’t like it. It says, If you tell her the truth, if she knows about the thoughts and the counting and the worrying, Mage will never want to be your friend or be in your band. I zip my lips, tight. I don’t tell anyone, not Mage, not Julia, even though Dr. Sprout told me to share my thoughts. Instead, I sit, I play, and I pretend that I’m a normal drummer, only worried about catching each rhythm, and getting it right.
set list
We practice until we can hear each note without touching our instruments. We’ll play a combo of: 1. “Superstitious” by Stevie Wonder (For Mage, who joked, “Josh, you’re sort of superstitious, right?” If only she knew.) 2. “Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel (For Julia, her favorite song on piano.) 3. “The En
d” by the Beatles (which has a drum solo) (which I have to play) (by myself) A mishmash, sort of like us. The perfect, imperfect band.
priorities
We rest our hands. Stretch our fingers. Pause practice for the day. Mom orders pizza, half pepperoni, half mushroom. When Dad comes home, his footsteps are heavy, like he could fall through the floor and wouldn’t care. Sometimes, he has days like this when he doesn’t make his marketing goals. Tonight, he says, “Welcome, Mage. You and Josh finish that Shakespeare project?” She swallows, tells him, “We’re getting close.” Even though we haven’t started yet. He nods, brushes his hands together. “Remember, school comes first,” he says. Then, he looks at me, “Got it?” I think about the C-, my face starting to turn red. He doesn’t know, I tell myself. Julia, as though she’s picked up on my thoughts, looks my way and sends a secret message: Don’t mess this up again, Josh.