by Halli Gomez
I bent down and touched the floor. I tried to force in images of a snow-covered ground or my bedroom carpet instead of the unknown blue sticky substance facing me, but even the worst my mind could come up with was better than the judgment on the riders’ faces when I stood up.
A few looked away. Some scrunched up their faces like they sucked on a lemon. A lady in a business suit scooted to the middle of her seat. “This seat’s taken,” she said, then glared at me until I passed her.
No big deal. I tried to convince myself I wanted the back anyway. There were four people in front of me. The hand squeezed my chest tighter as each one passed perfectly good open seats. I counted as I followed them. My muscles tightened as I forced myself to stay straight.
“You okay, kid?” A gray-haired man in a light-blue jacket asked as I approached his seat. “You need a doctor?”
I nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you.” At least someone cared.
The last person sat two rows from the back. I bent down, then hurried to the last seat and collapsed into the one by the window. I took a deep breath.
As the bus pulled away from the curb, I stared in the direction of my house. What was the point in meeting people like me? We weren’t going to be friends. I wouldn’t be around long enough for friends. I spun toward the mall. I wanted to run away, bury myself under my blanket, and call for Mom even though I knew she wouldn’t come. That’s what I wanted. And needed. And I guessed the next best thing was a group of people affected by TS.
The bus chugged past houses and schools. We passed strip malls, then offices, until finally the buildings towered over the trees. Downtown. We were here.
The second stop was mine. The main branch of Richmond Memorial Hospital. The meeting didn’t start until seven o’clock, but with the ride here and the ten-count walk, time was running out. I made the most of the steps and my long legs.
The lobby was a huge room with tan tiles, off-white walls, and brown furniture. An information desk sat in the center with a signboard on the left. It directed TS support group attendees to a conference room on the left along with those looking for prenatal classes and information for elder caregivers. I took a deep breath, then spun around. I couldn’t sit in a room full of ticcers. It would be like staring in a mirror. I never did that.
I ran to the right, where another sign directed me to the bathroom. I darted into a stall, sat on the toilet, pants up, and buried my head in my hands. Then I let it all out.
My neck twitched. I dug my fingernails into my palms, leaving deep indentations. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. I lost count after ninety reps. Then my eyes found the floor. No. I pleaded and begged my brain. This was a hospital, the floor had to be covered with all sorts of infectious diseases.
The large tan tiles did a terrible job of hiding dirt. Circles of dried liquid shone in the light that seeped through the crack where the door and wall met.
Please no, I begged my brain again.
I rubbed my fingertips together. Scratched my fingernails down my face. Tears welled up. The urge was like rotten food churning around in my stomach, then rising to my throat, and when I couldn’t force it back down, it spewed out all around me.
My fingers ran across the tile, making sure they hit every circle of dried disease. They were sticky.
After ten counts of ten, I pushed myself up and opened the door. A man at the sink eyed me from the mirror, turned off the water with soap still on his hands, and grabbed paper towels as he rushed to the door.
“I’m good, Sir, thanks for your concern for a fellow human being.” Asshole.
It was past seven o’clock, but I scrubbed my fingers for the next ten minutes and prayed the memory of the floor wouldn’t set off a cleanliness obsession. When my fingers were red and reeked of antiseptic soap, I ran a wet paper towel over my face, tossed it in the garbage, then grabbed another one to cover my hand before I opened the bathroom door.
My meeting was at the end of the hall, the last door on the right. It was closed. I pressed my ear against it, expecting to hear noises or screams or who knows what. I couldn’t handle more than a few seconds of internet videos of ticcers, but it was enough to know anything could be happening inside that room. And these were the people I wanted to meet.
I took a deep breath and opened the door a tiny bit. The smell of burnt coffee seeped through the door crack. A woman in jeans and a sweater leaned against a table addressing about twenty people sitting in rows of chairs.
There were a few older, gray-haired people near the front, and mixed in were people Dad’s age in jeans, dress pants, and dresses. They all sat still. Not like me.
But the ticcers were there, scattered throughout. I could tell by the neck twitches and grunts.
I opened the door a tiny bit more for a better view. More people on the right. Neck twitches seemed to be the tic of choice. Ha! As if we had a choice. A man shrugged his shoulders three times quickly, then rested. Then repeat. A woman kept turning to her head to the right, then rolled her head around. Another man sitting toward the back flapped his arms as if they were chicken wings. I couldn’t stop staring. Not because it was a freak show, but because I saw versions of myself.
I slid into a seat in the back row on the left, closest to the door. The speaker glanced at me, nodded, and smiled. A few people followed her gaze and studied me. I felt like a circus attraction and would have curled into a ball if I could. I looked down, and my shoulders rounded.
“This week,” the speaker continued, “we are going to hear from the Isenhours about the meeting with their son’s school administrators.”
I glanced up. The eyes were back on the speaker. She sat down, and the woman with the head roll stood up. I uncurled myself.
“We met with David’s teacher and the principal. They had been given pamphlets and videos, along with information from the ADA.” She turned her head to the right, then rolled it around. “Finally, they agreed to give him special considerations for test taking.”
“That’s great news,” a woman in the front row said.
“Yes, hopefully this will help relieve his anxiety,” David’s father said. “And to be honest, it will help his classmates, too. David’s noises can get quite loud when he’s anxious.”
As if on cue, a man a row in front of me grunted. Then louder. And then again, until I realized it wasn’t just a noise.
“Jerk!” The man bolted out of his chair. “I’m sorry. You know I don’t think that. I . . .”
I gasped and sat up straight.
“That’s alright, Charlie,” the meeting leader said. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. Here or anywhere.”
The Isenhours smiled at Charlie. If I yelled that at school, I’d be kicked out of class. But here they keep you. My chin trembled. The Isenhours continued.
“David hopes if the situation improves, the kids will include him when they play sports. Our David is quite the athlete. He just doesn’t get the chance.”
I thought back to elementary school, where my love of books developed. I’d told my teacher I didn’t want to play football, kickball, or whatever the game of choice was that day, but I really couldn’t handle any more bruises from the other kids whipping balls at me. On the plus side, I was probably the most well-read kid in tenth grade.
The Isenhours settled into their seats, and other parents, grandparents, and ticcers shared their stories.
“I’m failing English Lit class,” a blonde woman said. “My dosage of clonidine controls the tics but puts me to sleep. Right in the middle of class.” She put her face in her hand. Her shoulders shook.
The man who shrugged his shoulders turned to the woman. “I get it. I’ve changed my medication three times in a year. The latest one made me dizzy, and I almost wrecked my car.”
Arms flapping and always turning your head, they had to have the same muscle issues I did, but they didn’t complain about that. And there wer
e no grimaces or lips pressed together. Did I hide the pain that well, too?
A woman on the right stood up. “My daughter is being bullied on the bus. She locks herself in her room. Won’t go to school.” The woman collapsed onto her chair and leaned against the man next to her. He put his arm around her.
My body shook. I knew all about bullies. And being zoned out by meds. My mind was flooded with fear. Depression. I tried to picture Mom sitting here. She didn’t talk about it like they did. If she did, would she have stayed with me?
“Time is about up,” the speaker said, “If no one else has anything, we will meet here again in two weeks.”
The feelings and tics exploded from my body like fireworks. My neck and back muscles burned. I wanted to say something. I had questions. What other medicines were there? What did they do when someone wiped off their seat before they sat in it? I thought them, but couldn’t make them come out.
I dashed out of the building, ran straight to the bus stop, and got on the bus headed for home. With my earbuds in, Shinedown playing loud, and my eyes closed, if anyone stared or had a smartass comment, I’d never know.
The cool air refreshed me on the walk home. Once inside, I fell on my bed and replayed the meeting in my mind, focusing more on the people ticcing than what they’d said. That’s what I looked like. I wished I didn’t know.
I opened my phone to the list. I loved lists. The organization. The ability to mark “completed.” But the numbers were off. I rearranged them so that completed ones would be at the top. The organization made my muscles relax. I sank into my pillow, then checked off number one. Nine more to go.
1. Meet someone else with Tourette syndrome—COMPLETED
2. Get my first kiss
3. Be pain-free
4. Find a babysitter for my baby brother
5. See the space shuttle
6. Talk about Tourette in public
7. Give away my Tim Howard autographed picture
8. Drive a car
9. Talk to Mom
10. Commit suicide
FEBRUARY 6
I woke up in a wave of neck twitches and stomach flutters. Saturday. I was going to Khory’s house. Step two. The next one would be the kiss.
At noon I got dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt and told Dad I was going to tutor someone in math. I bolted out the door before he could ask who the person was. It had been a long time since I’d gone to someone’s house, but he’d probably get the wrong idea. Khory wasn’t really a friend, and I didn’t have time to explain. Or even make up a lie.
I rode into the Thornhill neighborhood, my neck twitching in full force. Would I have to meet her parents? What if they were like the lady on the bus? Just relax, you’re one step closer to the goal. And you’re spending time with Khory. I felt stupid giving myself a pep talk, but it calmed me. I took a deep breath, turned onto her street, and stopped in front of her house.
Like most of the other houses around here, hers was a two-story brick. But unlike the others, someone here obviously had a love of gardening. Or they paid well for it. The grass was green and the bushes were lush, even though it was winter.
I parked my bike on the sidewalk, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then began the ten-count-bend-down up the driveway to the brick walkway. A shortcut would have been better, but that meant tromping on the grass. I was sure that would revoke my invitation, especially because I snuck a feel during a bend-down. It was real.
There was a green tree in a pot by the front door and a welcome mat with bright yellow flowers that actually made me feel welcome. Almost like I should be there. I pointed my finger toward the doorbell.
“Hey, Troy!”
I spun toward the voice as a silver Mazda pulled into the driveway and parked. The passenger door flew open, and Khory jumped out. She looked amazing in jeans and a white sweater, and if I had the guts, I’d have complimented her. But I didn’t.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
She reached into the car and pulled out a black duffel bag and a pillow with a purple pillowcase. When I dreamed about us lying in bed talking on the phone, I pictured a white pillowcase like mine. This was so much better.
“I stayed at Rainn’s last night. It’s the only place my parents let me go. I told Mom you were coming at one, but she made me go to the store with her on the way back.” Khory walked toward me as the car pulled into the garage.
“It’s okay, I just got here.”
She fumbled with the front door, pillow, and bag. I reached to help, and my fingers glided across the soft pillowcase. My hand tingled and clenched the edge. A door across the house slammed, and keys jingled. I yanked my hand back.
“Khory?” A woman called from across the house.
“Come on. You have to meet my parents. It’s okay. Most of the time they’re not too bad.”
She smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Wasn’t she worried about her parents seeing me? How can she act like it’s normal to have a kid come to your house, touch every knot in the wood floor, and run a finger along the grain? My feet wouldn’t move.
Khory grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the kitchen. “Don’t worry.”
Sure, what did I have to lose? Except my dignity and the ability to face her in school on Monday. At least I didn’t trip over the doorstep, so there was that.
I glanced around the entryway. Living room on the right. Office on the left. Stairs in the center. The house was nice. Everything matched as if all the decorations were from the same store. We walked down a hallway toward a kitchen table, and I stopped at a series of pictures in black frames. A nice even number of six. They were photographs of Khory at different ages, from a few years old until about nine or ten. The weird thing was, there were two of her in each picture. Two Khorys. I glanced at her. She stared at the pictures. Her mouth turned down.
“My mom’s a photographer,” she said. “She always made us pose for pictures.”
Us. Not trick photography. Was her sister still at Rainn’s? So Khory just came home for me—I mean tutoring?
We went to the kitchen where a woman who I guessed was her mom pulled pots from a cabinet and vegetables from the refrigerator. She was the complete opposite of Khory. Shorter and heavier with blond hair so short it was almost boy-like. But fashionable like a TV actress. Her pale skin told me she wasn’t the gardener in the family.
“You must be Troy,” she said. The only similar features were their eyes. Hers were just as dark with the same touch of sadness.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Khory tells me you’re helping her with math.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Enough small talk, Mom. We’ve got work to do.” Then to me, “Come on.”
We went through the kitchen to the dining room. It had the typical big table surrounded by a lot of chairs, and a cabinet filled with breakable glass. At least they were evenly spaced. I took the seat farthest from the cabinet.
Khory put her pillow and duffel bag on a chair, then pulled out a yellow spiral notebook and sat next to me. Through the window I saw a man in gray pants and a long-sleeve shirt. Her dad was obviously the person from whom she got the dark hair.
I grabbed my notebook from my backpack and opened to my notes. “So I thought we’d review the last unit since it’s the basis for this one.”
“Sure,” she said. “Exponential and logarithmic functions. I’m not too bad at those, but you’re right, a review is a good idea.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear, and I noticed little pink heart earrings. Pink like the lip gloss she wore the other day. My eyes were drawn to her lips. They looked soft and smooth like her pillow. My lips and fingertips ached to touch them.
“Okay, so exponential functions are written like f(x) = b to the x power. You know b is the base and the x is the exponent, right?”
Khory nodded.
“As an example, let’s say there’s an exponential function with a base of 2.”
> She leaned close to me, angled my notebook toward her, and read my notes. Her hair brushed my arm and tickled it.
A clang came from the kitchen like a pot dropped on the counter. “Oh, my God!” Mrs. Price said.
Khory and I flinched. My elbow jabbed her arm. Did her mom think we were too close? I scooted to the left almost a whole seat away.
“Mom, everything okay?” Khory asked.
She looked at me, her head tilted. I shrugged.
“Maybe she dropped a pot,” I said.
“Yeah.” But her eyes stayed on the kitchen doorway.
The back door slammed, and we spun toward the noise. Her dad sprinted to the counter and took the phone from her mom. He held onto it like life support.
“Yes, Detective Lee,” Mr. Price said.
Khory gasped.
“Burglary?” Mr. Price asked. Then silence. “Oh, I understand. We are so grateful.”
Khory leaped out of her chair.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Shhh.” She put her hand on my arm, scooted her chair back, and went to the kitchen.
My arm tingled where she touched it, like the nerve endings came to life.
“Monday,” Mr. Price said. “We’ll be there.”
He put the phone down and pulled Khory to him. He hugged her like he hadn’t seen her for years. I bowed my head, stared at my notes, and counted to ten.
“Troy, you have to go,” Khory said. “Sorry, we can work on this next week.”
The shadow was back, but there was more this time. It wasn’t the sadness in her eyes, and not really a twinkle, but a spark. Of anger.
I stood up and scrunched my face. “Okay. I hope everything is okay.”
“Yes. It is. Thanks.”
I shoved the notebook in my backpack and thought about saying something like goodbye or thank you to her parents. Through the doorway I saw Mr. Price with his arms around his wife. His eyes were closed. She leaned against him as if she would collapse without him, which was probably true because her whole body shook.