Obsessed

by Allison Britz

  Blue pen. I can see the tube of dark ink through its clear plastic outside. Blue pen, blue pen, blue pen. The glaring sunlight somehow collects into one shining beam and aims itself like a spotlight on the second pen, dangling casually from Tabby’s hand. There’s the sound of individual sections of bubble wrap popping. It’s my cells. A demanding pressure on the back of my right eye. Cancer. Jenny completes the last whirl of her name and mindlessly extends the notepad toward me without looking. “I can’t believe they won’t let you guys drive. You’re almost seventeen, for goodness’ sakes!”

  Blue pen, blue pen, blue pen. Cancer. Blue pen. Blue pen. Blue pen. Do something! Blue pen. Blue pen. Escape! Save yourself! What undoes the danger of a blue pen? What undoes a blue pen? I’ve got my head tilted away from my friends, looking back over my shoulder to keep the pen out of sight. My eyes zoom across the muddy grass and concrete pathways. Like counting my steps or bartering food, it needs to be powerful, meaningful. Essential to my life. Like breathing. Breath. Holding my breath. I will hold my breath any time I see a blue pen. Yes! Yes. That’s it. I won’t inhale any of its contaminants and I’ll be safe. Bluepenbluepenbluepenbluepen. With my new solution in hand, I clamp my mouth shut and tighten my stomach to hold in the air. Turning back to the girls, I’m immediately attacked: BLUEPENBLUEPENBLUEPEN. Instinctively, I whip my arm up and place my hand, which is clinging to my still-full lunch bag, in front of my eyes, blocking the pen from my vision.

  Jenny and Tabitha are talking, I assume. I don’t know what they’re doing. All there is is that pen. And this cancer in my brain. And trying to save myself. I take another deep breath, and even though the pen is blocked by my bag, I keep holding my breath, just in case. My eyes are glued open but unable to focus, a piercing siren echoing around my head. Tabby is still extending her right arm toward me with the pen in her hand. Like a laser, a death ray shoots out from its tip. Based on the pain in my stomach, it seems to be currently aimed directly at my large intestine.

  “Are you going to sign or what?” Tabitha is gesturing impatiently at me with the pen, its cancer laser slicing across my body, while Jenny tries to hand me the petition.

  “I’m going to sign. . . . I’m just . . .” I snatch the petition from Jenny, keeping my lunch bag held up awkwardly in the air with the other hand, blocking out Tabitha’s pen. I pretend to look through the names to buy more time. My mouth is dry. I can’t use blue pens. I don’t know exactly why. Cancer. Death. Bad. “Do you have a different pen?” The words flow from my mouth like acid as they ride out on the stale exhale. I immediately take a small, sharp breath and hold it in.

  Jenny and Tabby are both squinting at me. “What do you mean? I have this pen.” Tabby holds up the blue pen that has been poisoning us for the past few minutes. “And she has that pen?” And when she gestures at Jenny with her arm, the cap of her pen briefly escapes my lunch bag cover and pokes violently into my line of vision. I flinch, cowering from its glare, and adjust the position of my hand. Good thing I’ve been holding my breath. They both stare at me as I hesitate. My brain is in a clamp. My skull is shrinking inward, being squeezed like a grape. I wonder if they can tell that my eyeballs are bulging.

  “Seriously, come on, just sign already.” She wiggles the blue pen at me forcefully and I see her shoulder rotating above the edge of the bag. “I told y’all, I’m in a hurry!”

  I can feel the cancer billowing up from the pen into a dark mushroom cloud. My muscles tighten up and I realize my shoulders have raised up to my ears. Tabitha’s hand moves the blue pen even closer to me with her impatience. I can’t. I can’t do this. I have to make a break for it. This pen is dangerous and I won’t risk using it, not for Tabitha, not for Jenny. I must escape.

  “Allison, what are you doing? I’m going to—”

  “Hey! Wow! I have to . . . go! To . . . class.” I lurch into motion and accidently bump hard into Tabitha with a grunt. There is the shuffling of feet and the adjusting of book bags as I move to get around them. I’m already turning away when I shove the petition back into Jenny’s arms. “I have to go meet a teacher.” And with my first step, I feel the cancer waves lessening. I pull myself from their grasp with the sound of ripping Velcro.

  “Right now? It’s class change—who could you be meeting?” Jenny has that same look, the What the hell is going on? look I know from across the lunch table.

  “Ms. Matthews,” I say, just as I realize that Jenny and I have her class together sixth period.

  “Ms. Matthews?” she asks with surprise as I tiptoe away, my arm continually adjusting my lunch bag to blot out the pens in their hands. “Why are you meeting with her? We have her class in a few hours.”

  “I’m not sure? She just asked me to come see her.” Jenny looks at me with concern and I shrug at her. “Sixty-two, sixty-three.” Not one of my more creative excuses but it seems to have worked.

  From behind me, a few moments of silence followed by Tabitha’s voice: “That was kind of weird.” And then: “Why is she counting?”

  • • •

  I skip lunch and instead go to my secret cove of enormous trash cans and air conditioners. It’s not picturesque, I’ll admit that, but it’s quiet and peaceful. And all mine. I lean against the warm brick partition and finally allow myself to relax a little bit.

  I think about Rebecca and Jenny waiting for me at the lunch table. My absence is just another notch for them to add in their something-is-seriously-wrong-with-Allison belt. Maybe I should make a better effort? Maybe I should tiptoe into lunch, slap on a smile, and spray them with happiness like I do my parents? But just the thought is exhausting. My heart gives a small flip as I picture myself at the lunch table, Jenny firing questions at me about cross-country practice, and my mysterious meeting with Ms. Matthews. It’s not worth it. Easier to just stay away.

  • • •

  The next morning, the bell rings at the end of English class and I remain sitting in my desk. The other students in my row clamor past as I wait patiently for my safe number of steps to appear in my mind. In my seat, through the wall of moving bodies, I feel the familiar warmth of someone’s concentrated stare. I glance up to see Sara standing hesitantly in the doorway, looking like she can’t make up her mind about something. Every day this school year, at least until recently, she and I have walked to third period together, trading gossip and inside jokes. The past week, however, she has passed me small, folded notes with lame scribbled excuses right as English class ended, and then slipped out of the room without me before I’ve even heard my safe number of steps. I grin up at her. So she’s not mad at me—I sigh to myself with relief. I guess I was imagining it. “Hold on, just one second!” I say to her through a wide smile. I pretend to adjust a few notes in my binder until the number 46 appears quietly in my mind. Step assignment in hand, I stand up slowly, careful to watch the position of my shoes, and tiptoe toward her. “One.” I freeze midstep as we make eye contact. “Two . . .” I move to say something, but the words are trapped by the look on Sara’s face. She shakes her head slightly, looks down at the floor, turns, and leaves the room.

  I watch the empty doorway, stunned and alone in the middle of the deserted classroom. Message received.

  But in her absence, in this week’s long, lonely walks to third period, I’ve discovered how much more effective I am on my own. I count every step, I dodge every crack. Without Sara, I don’t make any mistakes on the way to Civics and Ethics, and I’ve been able to save one, maybe two items of my lunch every day.

  So it’s become blatantly obvious that I need to start walking to all classes by myself. I can’t try to carry on a conversation while also paying enough attention to my steps, my counting, my long list of dangers. In the social jungle of Samuelson, I know this is an abomination. But I am willing to sacrifice my reputation and social standing to protect myself, to protect my future. I take a deep breath in and feel proud of my responsible, mature decisions.

  While Sara has made a voluntary and easy ex
it from my life, Jenny has continued to walk by my side every day. Even though I’ve been skipping both lunch and cross-country practice for days with weak attempts at an explanation, even though I screamed at her in front of a cafeteria of hundreds, even though I never stop counting, she is still here. But I’m about to fix that. I have five classes with Jenny. Without her to distract me on my walks, I could maybe start eating full meals.

  The bell reverberates across campus and I step out from my hiding spot behind the brick wall. 57 appears in my mind, and I tiptoe across the filthy gravel back toward the main walkway, my mind busy concocting a plan to somehow get away from Jenny.

  There is a gentle, lumpy squish near the ball of my foot. Something condenses in a horrible way under the sole of my sneaker. I lift my right foot, expecting to see a pile of dog poop, but it’s a sock. A sodden, disgusting, dirty sock. My foot has squelched out a small puddle of brown water from the fabric onto the dark pavement. Gross. Someone probably dropped it on their way to the locker room. It’s just around the corner. They’re going to—

  I’m slammed hard from behind and take two dumbfounded, tiptoed steps forward. Thirteen, fourteen. A sock. A sock. Sock. Sock. Sock. Sock, sock, sock. Socksocksocksocksock. The world of grass and pathways, students and school buildings, swirls into a tornado around me, and I remember the crumpled sock underneath the kitchen table. The one that meant cancer, illness, death, pain. The one that told me that all socks cause disease, that they’re a harbinger of tragedy.

  My breath catches in my chest, and I grab on to it, holding it in tightly. Don’t breathe near socks. Crap. I’m so freaking clumsy. Sock. Sock. How can I fix this? How can I undo this? My foot is frozen, hovering six inches above the pavement. Droplets of death are clinging to the bottom of my shoe. Sock, sock, sock. I look around my mind. It’s starting to panic from lack of oxygen. What can I give? My massive, upcoming English project on Les Misérables appears in my mind. We’re supposed to read the more-than-a-thousand-page book and write a ten-page paper. And that’s when I know. In order to make up for stepping on this sock, I’m not allowed to do my English reading for the Les Mis paper today. There’s a small gurgle of a response inside me. Good, but it needs more. Something still feels off. Unsatisfied. I try again: I won’t do my Les Mis reading for the rest of this week. The sharp pain in my head lessens significantly with the thought. Better. Definitely better. But it’s like the game at the fair where you use the giant hammer to hit the platform and try to make the metal ball ring the enormous bell twenty feet up. It feels like I’m 75 percent there. One more try. This time with real spirit.

  To make up for stepping on this sock, I won’t do my Les Misérables reading for English class. Ever.

  Finally the tension breaks and I’m somehow released. By now the breezeways are crowded, and I suddenly realize I’m standing in the middle of the pathway, hovering in a strange yoga position, engulfed in bodies and limbs and book bags.

  • • •

  Hours later, after working to build up my confidence throughout the afternoon, I watch the second hand on the clock as chemistry winds down. As the time nears, I ready myself: I’m perched on the edge of my seat, feet safely positioned, book bag already packed and zipped. I can see out of my peripheral vision that Jenny is still taking notes on the lesson. Her head is buried deep in her binder. Perfect.

  With the bell, I leap from my desk and scuttle out of class, launching myself into the thick crowd while Jenny is still scribbling out the last few words on her notebook paper. I have a strong head start but immediately get stuck in the clogged hallway. The crowd is barely crawling forward, and I have to force my way between bodies to make progress.

  Behind me, she whips through the double doors and I hear, “Allison, hey! Slow down!” Jenny’s voice lilts above the heads of the crowd. I haven’t made it very far, but I pretend not to hear her over my counting.

  “Eight, nine, ten.”

  “Wait!”

  “Twelve, thirteen.” Step over a penny on the floor. “Fourteen, fifteen.”

  “HEY!” I’ve known Jenny for five years. Something in her voice grinds me to a stop. Eyes clamped closed, I let out a long, slow breath of air as the mass of students divides around me. She isn’t going to let me avoid a confrontation. “You’re in a hurry today!” she scolds me across the hallway, completely unaware of the slight layer of sweat slowly appearing on my forehead as she walks toward me. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all period! Did you not see my texts?”

  “Crap! Sorry.” My voice sounds remarkably steady as I feign annoyance. “I forgot my phone at home today.” Honestly, since I discovered its truth, my cell has been dead and buried deep within layers of blankets in a trunk at home. I should be protected from it there. For now.

  “Oh my gosh, that’s the worst. How are you surviving?” She smacks her gum at me emphatically, her bright sparkly nails resting on her hip. I can’t walk with you. I can’t walk with you. I can’t walk with you. “One day last week I forgot my phone at home and I literally went crazy. Like, actually nuts.” I can’t walk with you. “I called my mom from the office and asked her to bring it to me. She was so annoyed and said no. Even though we both know she’s not actually doing anything at home anyway.” Still talking, she begins moving slowly down the hall toward the tail end of the huge mass of students funneling out of the building. “Oh, so the reason I was texting you. I heard the JV football boys are going to be at the . . .” Her words drift off as she realizes I haven’t followed her down the hall. Ten feet away, she notices my shifting eyes. With a quick glance, she takes in my tiptoes. I look at her blankly as I see pieces falling together in her mind. “Allison?” A pause. “What’s wrong?” The fearful look in her eyes is infuriating. Is she scared of me or for me?

  The words rumble around my mouth as a wave of heat creeps up my neck. She is staring at me. Her perfectly painted nails, her feet resting on cracks, her blow-dried hair. The way she carelessly eats her lunch without me in the crowded cafeteria. “I can’t walk with you!” I scream, bursting with pent-up annoyance at her persistence. Why couldn’t she just make it easy like Sara? She is still staring at me, and I look her directly in the eye, voice steady. “I can’t walk with you.”

  Finally. It’s done.

  The entire world pauses as our eyes connect across the chaotic hallway. Her face is frozen in a look of confusion, and she clutches her books tight to her chest. If I know Jenny, her stunned silence won’t last for long. I need to leave.

  I don’t realize I am crying until I’m pushing through crowds of people. I turn to look at her again and we make eye contact, her eyes wide and questioning. She mouths something, but my eyes are welling with tears and I’m looking away, so I can’t be exactly sure what she said.

  As much as I want to count my miserable steps in silence, there is something comforting in Jenny’s insistent loyalty, in her constant search for confrontation and answers. I don’t know if it’s that no one else is noticing what is happening or if they are too scared, or in Sara’s case too embarrassed, to talk to me about it. I tell myself that I don’t want Jenny’s concern, I don’t want her conversation interrupting my counting, I don’t want her blunt questions and unflinching stares. But as I weave through tight knots of students in the pathway, I know that that’s all I want. I want it more than anything, but it’s not possible. Not if I want to live.

  CHAPTER 8

  I’ve never met an English paper I didn’t like. So in the first weeks of school, when Ms. Griffin stood up in front of the class and began describing a colossal, two-month-long project on Les Misérables, I was delighted. Worth 25 percent of our final grade, it included not only detailed chapter outlines and character analyses but also a ten-page paper.

  Ten pages! My eyes lit up at the suggestion. I had never written something that long before. It was so exciting! I rubbed my hands together like a plotting dictator. Ms. Griffin had no idea who she was dealing with. That night, looking closely over the sheet
of paper that described the assignment, I carefully penciled self-imposed deadlines into my agenda to help organize my journey through the gloriously thick novel.

  Now it’s November eleventh and I stare down at the entry—Les Mis paper due!!—that I doodled happily in pink ink a few months ago and purse my lips. How things have changed.

  I have one day before I reach the fateful due date, decorated with squiggles and smileys in my agenda, and I haven’t started the paper. Haven’t opened the book in at least two weeks.

  More and more, I’ve found myself caught in situations like the pantry and my bedroom. Sometimes it’s sirens and buzzing ears and the twinge. My monster rumbles in, proclaiming the truth from on high. But other times it’s the exact opposite. A glitch in the system. I begin to call it rapid-fire labeling: the times where my eyes rattle like a machine gun and spew danger labels onto my surroundings. Post-it notes, belts, polyester. Coffee mugs, newspapers, my aging cat, Scratch. Every day, without warning, my eyes aim themselves at seemingly innocent objects, and I’m informed they cause cancer, illness, death. The ambushes come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s just a few brief bursts. Sometimes it continues for minutes, calming only under the darkness of tightly squeezed eyelids. As a result, I am always on edge. I never know when the monster might rumble or my eyes might go on a shooting rampage.