by Paula Stokes
“Yeah, that’s it exactly.” I sigh. Saying it aloud makes it feel like an impossible task. “Sure you’re up for the challenge?”
“You’re the one who’s going to be doing all the work,” Dr. Leed says. “I generally have clients come up with a list of ten things and have them try to complete one challenge each week.”
“Ten? That feels like a lot. What about five?”
Dr. Leed raises an eyebrow. “What about seven?”
“Lucky seven.” I nod. “I guess it could work. But where do I even start?”
“We don’t have to come up with the whole list at once, but I recommend things like sitting in a public area, talking to a stranger, riding in a car with someone besides your mom.”
I think of Perfectly Assembled Boy. “I talked to a stranger last week,” I say proudly. “And can I count school for sitting in a public area?”
Dr. Leed taps a few notes into his computer. “If you think being around people is dangerous to them, how do you manage to go to class and sit in a room with thirty other students?”
“I tried to get my mom to homeschool me after the birthday party incident, but she said no way. So I do these safety checks.” I tell him about my five-second checks, how I look for fraying electrical cords or tripping hazards or classmates who look like they could get violent, etc. “I also knock on wood a lot, throw salt over my shoulder, wear a lucky amulet—you know, basic good luck stuff.” I shrug. “Can’t hurt, right?”
“So your mom forced you into an uncomfortable situation, and you came up with a way to help yourself cope?”
I chew on my bottom lip. “I never thought about it like that. Yeah. I guess I did.”
“How much time do you spend on these things?” Dr. Leed asks.
“Not too much,” I say. “I have a series of good luck rituals I do each morning when I wake up. And then maybe a few times an hour for the checks.”
Dr. Leed enters more notes. “And how much time do you spend each day worrying about bad things that might happen?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Developing obsessive-compulsive disorder secondary to PTSD would be unusual, but it wouldn’t be unheard of.”
“Great,” I say. “The ER docs said I had anxiety, and you said I have PTSD, and now I have OCD too? Isn’t that where people wash their hands like forty times a day?”
“OCD is characterized by irrational or excessive worrying and repetitive behaviors that are done because of those worries, but like anything else, there’s wide variance when it comes to the actual symptoms and their severity.”
“Oh.” I guess I can see where my checks and rituals might qualify. I chew on my lower lip some more.
“What are your grades like?” Dr. Leed asks.
“I get all As. Maybe a B in gym.”
“And how are things at home?”
“You mean like do I get along with my parents and brother and sister? Yeah, we’re good.”
“Okay.” He types more notes into his computer. “If you’re spending less than an hour a day on your coping mechanisms and it’s not affecting your daily functioning, then you probably don’t fit the diagnostic criteria for OCD. But either way, secondary diagnoses are often transient.”
“Meaning you can fix me?”
“Meaning if we address the underlying cause, then the symptoms might resolve on their own,” he says. “So back to the primary problem. You don’t think you can survive a plane ride by doing your checks and rituals?”
“No way.” My heart thuds audibly in my chest as I imagine my mom dragging me screaming and crying onto a plane, concerned passengers recording me with their cell phones, flight attendants calling for airport security.
“Why not?”
“Because I know what to expect in a classroom. I know what to look for. I don’t on a plane, and even if I saw something, there might be no way to fix it, you know? I wouldn’t have any control.”
“I see,” Dr. Leed says. “So we need to start with something where you don’t know exactly what to expect. Something slightly tougher than sitting in class. What about joining a club, or even better, trying out for a sports team? Exercise tends to reduce anxiety and improve mood.”
The only sport I’ve done recently is running. I started jogging a couple of years ago as a way to stay in shape. “Would cross-country count?”
Dr. Leed adjusts his glasses. “I’d prefer to see you attempt something with a little more interaction. How about track and field?”
“That’s a spring sport, I think.”
“Are there any other fall sports that interest you?”
I start to tell him that other sports are too dangerous, but then I stop. I used to play tennis a lot when I was little. Tennis was Mom’s thing the way rock climbing was Dad and Uncle Kieran’s. Dad, Mom, Connor, and I would play doubles at the park by our house. Connor and I even took lessons for a while. I haven’t played in years, but maybe if I got out on a court, the technique would come back to me. And when it comes to safe sports, tennis is probably the next best thing to running cross-country.
“How about tennis? Is that interactive enough for you?”
Dr. Leed nods. “Do you think you could survive trying out for the tennis team if you did your good luck rituals and your five-second checks?”
Most points in tennis are only a couple of minutes long. I could get away with doing quick scans in between them to make sure no one was in danger of tripping over an untied shoelace or a runaway tennis ball. “Probably. But what if I can’t? What if I freak out or something?”
“Do you have a certain way you calm yourself down if you start to feel anxious?”
I nod. “My old therapist taught me a bunch of different techniques—square breathing, visualization, relaxing all of my muscles.”
“I find coping statements can be helpful too,” Dr. Leed says. “Just something simple to remind yourself that the situation isn’t as dire as it might feel. Maybe something like ‘I can’t control the Universe’ or ‘No one is going to die.’”
“Okay, but what if I go out for the team and don’t make it? Or I do make it, and I hate it?”
“Then you quit?”
“And that’s okay with you?”
“Anything is okay with me, Maguire. You have to do this at your own pace, but if you want to go from where you are now to getting on an international flight in December, you’re going to have to push yourself a bit.”
My hands shake a little at the thought of tennis tryouts, at the combination of worrying about other people and being stared at and judged. I guess as the new girl at school I’ll be stared at anyway. And as long as I do my five-second checks, a tennis court isn’t a whole lot more dangerous than a classroom.
Maybe.
I see Mom’s face again, her expression a mix of hope and resignation. This trip to Ireland means a lot to her. It would mean a lot to me too. I was still in shock when my family was buried. I could use a second chance to say good-bye.
I nod. “Okay, I’ll try. So that’s challenge number one then? Try out for the tennis team? I’ll do it. For my mom, and for Ireland.”
“And for yourself,” Dr. Leed reminds me.
“And for myself,” I repeat.
“You’re smiling,” Perfectly Assembled Boy says. Today he’s back in his fancy jeans and button-up shirt, his hair impeccably messy.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.” He glances down at his phone and rolls his eyes at the screen before tucking it into his pocket. “Did you tell him you talked to me?”
“I tried to get him to tell me your secret identity,” I admit. “But he wouldn’t tell me who you are.”
“Good.” The boy looks away for a second. “He doesn’t know anyway—not really. I’m not even sure if I know anymore.”
SEPTEMBER
CHALLENGES
1. Make the tennis team.
2. Ride in a car with someone besides Mom.
3.
5.
6.
7.
GOAL
Plane ride to Ireland for memorial service.
CHAPTER 5
“Maguire, don’t forget you have tennis tryouts after school,” my mom says with entirely too much enthusiasm. She’s at the counter slicing fruit, the baby monitor propped up against the side of a mango.
“Got it.” I stifle a yawn. As if I could forget. My mom was thrilled to hear I was going out for the tennis team. She’s always telling me I need to get out of the house more and meet people. Is it me, or is my mom the only mom in the history of ever who told her kid to spend less time reading and more time being social? Doesn’t she know the chances of me getting drunk, pregnant, and/or arrested are much lower if I never leave my room?
I spoon some oatmeal into my favorite bowl with the painted white elephants around the rim and take my usual seat across from my half sister, Erin. When my mom isn’t looking, I toss a little salt over my left shoulder. Erin catches me and giggles. “Maguire,” she says in her high-pitched voice, mangling my name just slightly so it sounds like Mack Wire.
“Shh.” I raise a finger to my lips. Her bright blue eyes sparkle. She’s just a little kid. She’ll play along.
Casually, I let my hand drop to my chair, where I knock three times. My stepdad, Tom, looks up from his newspaper. He’s an engineer of some sort. Chemical? Mechanical? Honestly, I don’t know, but then I’ve never made much of an effort to ask. Don’t get me wrong; he’s not a wicked stepfather or anything. He’s basically cool. It’s just even after three years, it still feels like I’d be betraying my real dad if I got too close to him.
“I hope the new racquet works out for you.” Tom tugs at the knot in his tie.
“I’m sure it’ll be great.” I force a smile.
He and my mom bought me this top-of-the-line graphite–titanium–moon rock bulletproof two-hundred-dollar racquet. I appreciate the gesture, but unless it’s going to play for me, there’s no guarantee I’ll make the team. And unless it’s magical, there’s no guarantee something bad won’t happen.
The oatmeal begins to congeal in my stomach when I start brainstorming about accidents that could occur during something as seemingly benign as tennis tryouts.
“Knock ’em dead, champ,” Tom says. Grabbing his keys, he gives my mom a kiss on the cheek and then heads off to work.
I slide my chair back from the table and mumble something about finishing getting ready. “Dead” is not a word I want associated with today.
The school day proceeds in an orderly fashion, thanks to a predictable routine and my five-second checks. I survive first-hour gym and then sit through European literature and trig. I eat lunch by myself outside, on the front steps of the school.
While I’m nibbling on a PBJ, I flip through my luck notebook. I used to keep it at home, but my mom found it once when she was putting away my laundry. I told her it was a statistics project I was doing for math class, but ever since then I’ve carried it with me most of the time. It would be really hard to explain all of the documentation I’ve been keeping.
I flip to the very back page and write the word “CHALLENGES.” Then I number from one to seven down the left margin. Next to #1 I write, “Make the tennis team.” Next to #2 I write, “Ride in a car with someone besides Mom.” That’s as far as Dr. Leed and I got, but it feels like plenty to work on.
After lunch, it’s time for physics. My teacher, Mr. Ginger, messes up my name for the second day in a row.
“Kelly?” he calls. “Kelly Maguire?”
I’m used to people reversing my first and last names, since Maguire is a pretty weird first name. I love it, though. It’s Irish, like my dad. When I was younger, people tried to call me stuff like Mac and Mags for short, but fortunately nothing ever stuck.
“It’s Maguire,” I say.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose as he jots something down on his seating chart. He’ll probably spend all semester thinking I’m some jock or ROTC wannabe who likes being called by her last name. I don’t mind.
Once Mr. Ginger finishes taking attendance, he gives us the rest of the hour to read the first chapter in our textbook and answer the discussion questions at the end. I finish them early and then fish a novel about a girl spy out of my backpack. I love adventure stories. Reading about people in mortal peril is much more fun than actual danger.
When the bell rings, I shuffle off to yet another boring lecture. Juniors can choose from several electives and it’d be fun to take home ec or maybe even theater. But hot stoves? Precariously placed set pieces? That’d be asking for a catastrophe. I only take gym because it’s required every semester. Some school incentive to keep teens active and healthy. What a crock. I’m surprised we’re not all dropping dead from high cholesterol due to the buffalo chicken sandwiches half the school eats for lunch.
I knock on my desk three times. I try not to even think about stuff like mass cholesterol casualties.
My last class of the day is psychology, something I signed up for because it sounded more interesting than any of the other social studies classes. Maybe I can learn something that will help with my therapy challenges. Today my teacher, Ms. Haynes, is talking about boring historical stuff, different schools of thought that led to various types of psychotherapy. Dr. Leed said what he does is called cognitive behavioral therapy. Hopefully we’ll talk about that eventually.
When sixth period finally ends, I head for the locker room. With my back to everyone else, I wriggle out of my jeans and T-shirt and into a pair of shorts and an embroidered polo shirt that my mom insisted would make me look like a serious contender. If you say so, Mom. I toss all of my clothes into my locker, slam it shut, and give my combination lock a spin.
I slink out of the locker room and head for the back door of the school. “Wish me luck,” I mutter to no one in particular.
The afternoon sun blasts me in the face as I step outside onto the blacktop basketball court. The ocean breeze blowing in from the west threatens to make my curly hair even curlier.
Beyond the blacktop is the football field, surrounded by our blue and gray track. We’re supposed to meet in the football bleachers for an informational briefing session. There are twelve girls lined up when I arrive—three orderly rows of four. I’ve never seen so many pleated tennis skirts with color-coordinated socks, shoes, and headbands. I suddenly feel like a ball boy in my shorts and polo.
I tromp up to the back and make a fourth row. The two girls right in front of me are still in their street clothes—one in jeans and flip-flops and the other in a pastel blue sundress and fur-lined Ugg boots. They turn half around to give me a curious look, but neither one bothers to say anything. Both of them were in my psychology class. Sundress Girl sat in the front row and asked a lot of questions about the lecture. Her name is Kami or Kimberly or something.
Coach Hoffman appears from behind the bleachers, a baseball cap pulled low over his pronounced brow and a clipboard balanced on one of his meaty forearms. He paces back and forth on the asphalt track, his neon yellow Nikes treading a repeated path across the stocky body of our mascot, the Pacific Point Porpoise.
A tall Asian girl wearing patterned kneesocks and a black tennis dress emblazoned with purple geometric shapes makes her way up the bleachers, scanning the rows like she’s looking for someone. She was also in my sixth-hour class. She sat in the back with me and redid her nail polish behind her book for most of the period.
“Bloody hell,” she says to no one in particular, in what I think is a British accent. “I cannot believe I’m going to spend all semester with you turnips.” She passes everyone up and comes to sit by me. “You’re the new girl, yeah?” she asks. “Maguire?”
“Yeah.” I scoot a little bit away as she drops her tennis bag on the ground. It’s more of a plain duffel strategically cut and sewn to convert it to a racquet bag. Tiny patches with slogans like “I think, therefore I am (better than you)” and “Death
to pop music” cover the front of it.
“Right then,” she says. “I’m Jade.” She dusts off the bleachers with one hand before sitting down. She’s got fresh black and silver polish on every nail except for her thumb, which is adorned with a sunflower decal.
“Jade.” I scoot back toward her. “Nice to meet you.” Okay, so it’s totally dumb to like someone for her name, but jade is lucky in several different cultures. I’m counting this as a good omen.
“Welcome to tennis tryouts.” Coach Hoffman clears his throat. “As most of you know, we lost five seniors last year, so this is going to be a rebuilding season.”
A murmur moves through the crowd. Sundress Girl smoothes her already smooth ponytail and then raises her hand.
Coach gestures to her. “Yes, Kimber?”
“Given all the people that we lost and the relatively small number here today . . .” She pauses to take a look around at the bleachers, not bothering to look back at Jade and me. “I’m thinking that instead of having last year’s squad members go through tryouts again, we might be more useful to you if we spent the next few days trying to recruit some new members.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Coach says. “But it’s always been my policy that every member of the team tries out every single year. For one, this keeps you girls from getting complacent. And two, it helps me decide who will play which positions. We may have lost first, second, and fourth singles, but that does not necessarily guarantee you the top spot.”
Kimber’s back and neck muscles go tense as she sits up even straighter and another murmur moves through the group, this one accompanied by a few giggles. “Of course not,” she says sharply, fiddling with the strap of her sundress. “I was just thinking we might need more than we have here to make a solid team.”
Coach does another lap back and forth across the face of our porpoise mascot. “Oh, I don’t know. I count fourteen girls. We only need ten and a couple of alternates.”