I freeze. I recognize that twinge. I know what it’s signaling. But the bathroom is so warm and the morning is so peaceful. I’m going to eat lunch today, laugh with my friends like before. Eat a full dinner in front of my parents. Today is a good day, I tell myself, and so I ignore it.
Still crouching, I pull my hair dryer out from under the cabinet, untangling its cord as I bring it into the open. I begged my parents for weeks to get it for me for my birthday last year, explaining that I did, in fact, need a $150 hair dryer with four different heat levels and a retractable cord. Holding its white plastic, I am suddenly bashed in the back of the head and thrown forward. At the same time, the angry buzz of a swarm of bees fills my ears as the floor starts to shake violently. I brace myself against the toilet. The glass lights around my mirror tinkle. Jewelry, fingernail polish, toiletries are jostled out of their cabinet and fall loudly to the floor. The earth shifts powerfully, jaggedly, underneath me. An earthquake. Or worse. My throat is tightening, my tongue swelling. There is a powerful, hot presence, a strong hand pressing forcefully against my throat. A gentle taste of blood. I can’t breathe.
DO NOT TOUCH THAT.
It is livid. In pure reflex, choking, I throw my arms upward and topple over onto my back. BAD! it screams. DEATH! I cower from its radiation. I’ve never heard this voice before, but I know it is my monster, my savior. The source of my secret messages, the inspiration behind my insider discoveries. Anger is vibrating in waves across the bathroom.
I am on the floor, hands in the air, completely still. I should have stopped when I felt the twinge. But how could I have known? A tide of dark clouds closes in over the bathroom, and I let out a pathetic whimper as I shield my face. Outrage crackles through the air. It is furious. It won’t be ignored.
You will not dry your hair, it commands.
I nod eagerly in understanding. “I won’t. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.” I will do anything it asks, now that I know its true form. “I promise.”
There is a release in pressure like the sound of an air mattress deflating, and the presence evaporates. The storm rolls out of view, and, just as rapidly as the dark descended, a calm, humid energy filters back into the bathroom. Curled on the floor, hands shielding my face, I feel the presence receding, but I lie still, frozen and whimpering. After a few moments it is clear that I am alone again. The tense static has been replaced by my mom’s gentle humming floating up the stairs. The tink of the dishes being placed on the countertop. When the monster moved away, he took with him the noise, the panic, the frenzy. The room seems to have returned to normal. The same thick, hot air lingering from my shower. The same dripping faucet against the early-morning silence. I slowly return to a sitting position, stunned.
The white plastic hair dryer is leaning against the cabinet door where I dropped it. Vibrant, neon waves of cancer are pulsating off it, rippling across the bathroom. I scoot across the floor so my back is pressed against the bathtub, as far from the hair dryer as possible. Worry bleeds through me as I realize what this means. I have gone my whole life unknowingly exposing myself to the dangers of hair dryers. Imagine the damage I have been causing to my organs and cells! I look down at my stomach, at all the intestines I have been poisoning every morning for my entire life. I caress my arm absentmindedly, appreciative that, as far as I know, my body has yet to give in to my abuse.
Thanks to my protector, I’ve now been taught the truth about hair dryers. I’ve already done a lot of damage, I’m sure, but at least from now on I can be more careful. I’m filled with a cloud of gratitude for my monster. Even if he did just yell at me.
“Allison, honey. Oatmeal is ready!” A few seconds’ pause. “Hurry before it’s cold!”
My mom’s voice pulls me from my thoughts and replants me into Tuesday morning. I grab my damp towel and crouch over the hair dryer on the floor. I can feel my protector watching me, making sure I’ve finally heard his warning loud and clear. Careful not to allow any of my skin to touch the plastic, I wrap the hair dryer completely in the towel, gingerly pick it up, and hurl it back under the sink to the crash of bottles of shampoo and lotion. I slam the cabinet doors behind it. Then I pick up the towel from the floor and rub my wet hair around in it hard, scratching at my scalp and ears. I don’t know what I’m trying to shake loose from my brain, but it doesn’t work. Unnerved, I head downstairs for breakfast with my mom.
• • •
I sit at the lunch table in sullen silence. Jenny and Rebecca largely ignore me, chattering on about drills at practice and the fact that Leslie Morrow is now dating Sean Morren. (“But her hair!” Jenny cries.) Looking down, slumped over, picking at my nails, I can hear them talking, and I can see Jenny’s wild gestures, but it’s like there is a thick wall of glass between us. Their happiness, their energy, is blocked from me, muted and unfamiliar.
“So, you”—Jenny lobs a piece of celery across me over the table—“are you actually coming to practice today?” She is talking through a mouthful of green, a giant wad of vegetable stored in her cheek.
I look up at her, surprised. I’m sitting across from her at the lunch table because it’s what I do every day between twelve thirty and one fifteen, but I was under the impression we weren’t on speaking terms. “Uh . . . yeah, I mean, probably.” Of course I’m not going to practice. So I can faint? So I can count fifteen thousand steps? So I can be surrounded by dozens of wary, questioning eyes—the people who are closer than anyone to realizing there is something going on? Absolutely not. “I want to go. I just don’t know if I can.”
She raises her arms in a show of frustration and then theatrically flops them down loudly onto her legs. “Coach is really not going to be okay with this. You haven’t even talked to her about it!” She is leaning her head forward, eyes wide. “You know she isn’t going to let you race next Wednesday.” Her mouth shifts to the side into a half frown. “That’s just the rule. You can’t miss practice and still race.” She leans back and crosses her arms as if she has proven some sort of point. I know that she expects me to object, to be upset at the loss. And a few weeks ago that would have been the case. I can’t miss a race! I’m trying to make varsity! But now the idea of pushing through 3.1 miles of sweat (and cracks) seems impossible. I can barely make it through a day at school.
“I know, I know. I’m going to go see her soon.”
“Soon?” Her face is painted in disbelief. “What are you even doing after school anyway? Like, all your friends are at cross-country practice. Sara’s at work. I just don’t get where you could be.”
It’s not what I’m doing after school that matters. It’s what I’m not doing. Not eating, not stepping on cracks, not getting cancer. Avoiding my hair dryer, counting my steps, starving. Unlike you, Jenny Drama Queen Jordan, I have things to worry about. My health to protect. A strong wave of annoyance builds within me. She doesn’t understand. But how could she? Who would? I glance up at her, and she is staring intently at me, clearly waiting for a response.
“I’ve been at tutoring.” I lie as easily as I tell the truth
“Tutoring? For this many days? What kind of tutoring?”
“Well, it was precal one day, then chemistry another. One of those afternoons I also talked to Ms. Griffin about the Les Misérables paper coming up.” I pat my book bag. “Oh, and then I had a dentist appointment.” I look her straight in the eyes. Boom. Try to question that.
She nods slightly and exchanges a glance with Rebecca. There’s nothing she can do. “Well, you really need to talk to Coach. This is so unlike you.”
“I know, I know. I’ll talk to her this afternoon at practice.”
“Oh, so you’re coming now?” She pounces on this misstep like a hungry tiger. “You just said you might not be able to.”
“Yeah, well, I was going to try to go see Ms. Matthews about chemistry again, but you’re right.” I look up at her and make eye contact, shrugging my shoulders. “I need to go to practice and explain to Coach.”
There is no smile in her voice. “Mmm,” she grunts gently, “good luck with that.”
• • •
I lied. I skip cross-country practice again. I said I would talk to Coach Millings about my absences but I can’t. There’s just no way I can get away with it. While my parents, and maybe even my friends, might believe my lies about tutoring, Coach, a teacher herself, would be a lot harder to trick. What if I trip up on my lies? And what if she asks for a teacher’s note? What if she doesn’t believe me? I can’t risk all the questions. I can’t risk a blown cover. Plus, there’s no point in going to practice. I can’t run if I haven’t eaten. I learned that lesson already.
Walking across campus alone, I think about my parents, about my mom and what she would say if she knew. Not just about skipping practice and lying about tutoring, but about the urgent messages from my protector and the gnawing sadness spreading in my stomach. Tears prick at the edges of my eyes, because I imagine her wrapping me in a hug and leading me out of this maze. But I’ll never tell her. Or anyone. Something inside me knows it’s not allowed.
• • •
Home hours before I should be, I’m standing in front of the kitchen pantry, its thick wooden door thrown open to reveal a messy, jumbled array of boxes and cans. I can’t eat any of it, obviously. I would never dream of something so suicidal. But, like a moth to a flame, I’m drawn to the pantry in search of a snack, even if all I’m allowed to consume are my own repetitive thoughts. Perched on my tiptoes on two linoleum tiles, my eyes scan the shelves, reliving the long-gone days of gorging on pizza rolls and ramen noodles after school.
Surveying what seems like a lifetime of food, I feel the twinge. A sharp tingling starts in the back of my neck and travels quickly down my spine. Goose bumps crawl across my body. My chest tightens with familiarity. Eyes darting around the kitchen, I try to locate its source. This feeling means cancer, illness, death. I have to find it. I can’t disobey. The afternoon sun glares through the window over the sink. The room sits silently, ominously, waiting.
The unmistakable rumbling of the monster shudders down the hall, shattering the silence of my empty house. The floor shakes. The windows rattle. Emergency! Emergency! My heart pounds. I frantically search the pantry, my eyes jumping from shelf to shelf. With my monster closing in, I am in that moment before a fist hits your face. Before you’re pummeled underwater by a wave. In those few seconds of clarity before impact, my brain reels off options in panic: Is it the pretzels? Yes. Is it the Cheerios? Yes. The canned soup? Yes. His footsteps in the doorway. Saltine crackers? Bad. Russet potatoes? Cancer. Oatmeal? Death.
The demands fly out of the pantry like individual fastballs. I feel them angrily whizzing by my head. Launching themselves off the shelves, declaring their dangerous truths. I yank myself forcefully, shoulder first, out of their way, ducking under their threats. My momentum spins me, and I land in a crouching position with my back to the screaming food. The flashing red of emergency lights pulses in my brain. My monster is here. I can feel him. He is in the room. The air is thick, sour. My eyes swivel around the kitchen, loose and uncontrolled on their stems. I am frantic to find an outlet, an excuse, a target. Something to appease him. Anything. He wants sacrifices, tributes, gifts.
Do something! Keep looking. The twinge. There is more.
I stutter over myself. The fruit basket on the counter. Peaches. Oranges. Death and dying. Bananas. Cancer. My eyes snap across the room. My heart is pounding. Bees are buzzing. And my mind gorges itself as it maneuvers around the kitchen. A penny in a handful of change. Brain tumor. A blue pen lying politely next to the chunky eraser I use in art class. A crumpled, lone sock under the kitchen table. Carcinoma Death. Sadness, misery, pain.
I slap my hands to my face, reflexively jerking away from the powerful, never-ending stream. The impact stings sharply across my skin, and with it the electricity of my monster instantly fades into the background. The grip around my chest loosens and the kitchen suddenly falls silent. My heart slows. Crouched on the kitchen floor, hands still covering my eyes, it feels like I’ve knocked myself back to center. I know that I am alone again.
With my hands to my face and my mind in darkness, I teeter on my tiptoes on the linoleum. My still-quaking breaths shake my body slightly, but something inside tells me I am safe. For now. I balance in a squatted ball position, comforted by the welcome silence.
The monster’s presence was a warning. He was telling me I was too close. I take a deep breath, examining my new danger list, written on a long sheet of paper unfurling across my mind. I have the same feeling in my chest that I get when I’ve procrastinated studying for a test. So much information—how will I hold it all? How will I avoid bananas? Pennies? Blue pens and erasers? They’re everywhere.
Are you not grateful? I yell internally, intercepting my thoughts right as I think them. Do you not realize what you have been given? Without your protector you would be dying. A skin-covered skeleton in a hospital bed. A straight-A student who failed at the only real test: survival. I’m taken aback by my own scolding but nod gently to myself. I have a point.
I have no idea how long I have been crouching here on the floor, but the arches of my feet are shaking with fatigue. For the first time in a few days, I feel truly calm. I have more discoveries, more information on how to stay healthy. I roll through the list in my head, gaining confidence from each item. A warmth gathers in me as I realize that I am impenetrable. My monster is helping me build a wall around my city on a hill. Everyone else carries pennies in their pockets, eats bananas with their breakfast. Not me. I have a protector who loves me.
I may be safe from the cancers of the kitchen, but I’m also stranded. With my eyes covered, I cannot safely maneuver the crack-laden floor. But if I open my eyes, something inside me knows, the alarms will sound, the lasers will power up, and I will awaken the powerful stream of warnings. I will find out that more of my surroundings are deadly. While I want to (need to!) know the truth, my life is already consumed, completely overtaken, by cracks, counting, trading food. I know that I can’t handle much more.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I drop my hands from my face, moving my arms slowly so I don’t attract danger’s attention. Through my closed eyes, I can feel the waning late-afternoon light filtering through the kitchen windows. Apparently, I’ve been at this for a while. I point my head down and barely open my eyelids, creating a tiny slit obstructed almost completely by eyelashes. I focus intently on the floor ahead, searching out the almost-invisible linoleum cracks, and move methodically toward the kitchen door. I sneeze and momentarily open my eyes to find them staring at the kitchen trash can. Trash cans cause cancer, I’m told before I can even register that my eyes have popped open.
“Crap!” I scold myself out loud for the mistake and bring my hands up to my eyes once again, cupping them in semicircles on my temples like horse blinders. Frustrated, I count my way down the hallway, maneuvering the maze of cracks in the hardwood floor like a tightrope walker. Once I’ve cleared the danger zone and my feet are planted safely on carpet, I launch myself up the stairs, eager to reach my bedroom and bury my head deep in the darkness of my pillows, where my roaming eyes can’t cause any more damage.
But as I turn the corner to my room, as I feel my hands fall beside my legs, my eyes remember the new game they learned downstairs. Stereo. Lamp. Piggy bank. Boom, boom, boom. Death sentences. A stuffed Build-A-Bear, my cross-country uniform thrown on the chair. Bulging tumors, terminal illness. There is no twinge this time, no sirens, no bees. This is my mind gone rogue. My eyes wander around the room, seizing randomly upon whatever they encounter. Sucking my world away. Pearl earrings, my watch, the stack of yearbooks on the bookshelf. Early death, cancer, lymphoma.
Everything in my path is mowed down and moved to the expanding list of dangers. With my final step toward the safety of my bed, I see my cell phone perched on the edge of my nightstand. My mind reaches hungrily for this nugget of gold, its most valuable prisoner yet. As my heart
sinks to the pit of my stomach, my body crawls under the protective covers of my bed. Cell phones cause cancer. Great.
CHAPTER 7
It takes a while for me to adjust to my newly burgeoning danger list. Just as when I first began avoiding cracks, I slide tentatively through life, eyeing my surroundings for traps sent by death. Hunched and counting, always counting, I pick my way through the chilly morning at school, constantly alert for approaching danger. So far no peaches, no pennies, no pretzels. No oatmeal, no stereos, no lamps. The list is so long I’m constantly running it through my mind like the ticker tape at the stock exchange, reminding myself of all the things that I’m supposed to be avoiding.
I tiptoe down the breezeway from class. I’m submerged in my thoughts but surface occasionally to tune in to Jenny and pretend to be part of the conversation. “It’s just that I don’t even really like Mexican food that much, you know?” She seems very upset, so I nod at her. “Why of all places is that where she chooses?” I’m not sure whether she hasn’t noticed my counting or if she has decided not to care. Either way, I’m thankful. Jenny patters on as I tiptoe us to class. “Even that new Thai place would be better, and I don’t like Asian food!”
“Jenny, not everyone wants to eat pizza for every meal like you. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine. And it’s her birthday party, so she gets to choose the restaurant. Sixty, sixty-one.”
“She should at least consider other people’s opinions. It seems— Oh, hey, Tabby!” I look up to Tabitha Grey approaching us. A junior and a volleyball player, she has run for one student office or another in every election of her high school career. She waves at us enthusiastically.
“Hey, girls,” Tabitha drawls as she slows. “Look, y’all, can’t talk—I’m supposed to be gatherin’ signatures.” She flips through a wrinkled legal pad in her hand. “We’re petitionin’ Mr. Castillo to let juniors park their cars on campus their second semester.” She whips out two blue pens and extends them toward us as she continues: “By then we’re basically seniors anyway, right? Why continue to treat us like children?” She wiggles the notepad at us, and Jenny moves forward to sign first. “Y’all sophomores should care too! You’ll be in my shoes next year, and you’ll want to drive to school then, won’t you?” As I watch Jenny scrawl her name in blue ink across the lined sheet of paper, my eyes narrow in on her hand. The pen from yesterday in the kitchen. I see it sitting quietly next to my white eraser. Death.
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