Harmonic Feedback

by Tara Kelly

  I pulled the gray sweats underneath my skirt. The scratchy material made my legs itch. “Why do we have to hang out with him at all?”

  “Because he’s got a car and he’ll smoke us out.” She wrinkled her nose at me as I slipped the T-shirt over my tank top. “Kessler usually makes us run a mile the first day.”

  “That’s okay.” I stuffed my skirt inside the locker and reluctantly put my lunch box inside. I never had much luck convincing PE teachers that I could run and play sports while carrying it.

  “Someone should put biohazard tape over her locker,” the blond girl across the aisle said loudly. She elbowed her friend and giggled at Naomi.

  Naomi rolled her eyes at me. “Bitches.”

  The big-boned girl straightened and walked toward Naomi. God, she was at least six feet tall. “Did you say something?”

  Naomi’s shoulders tensed. “Nope.”

  The girl leaned within inches of her face. “You sure?”

  Naomi pressed her back into the lockers, her hands curling into fists. “I didn’t know, Casey. And I already apologized to her. What else do you want from me?”

  Casey glanced down at Naomi’s shaking hands and smirked. She slammed her large fist into the lockers, missing Naomi’s head by a couple inches. The thud echoed around the room like a firecracker, making me cover my ears. “Call me bitch again and I’ll aim for your face next time.”

  “You got one minute!” Mrs. Kessler called from the front. “Let’s go, ladies!”

  Casey backed away and disappeared around the corner with her friend.

  Naomi squeezed her eyes shut and let out a deep breath. “I totally forgot she’d be in regular PE this year.”

  “She looks like a football player,” I said.

  “No shit. She got kicked off the soccer team last year for sending a chick to the hospital.”

  “Why is she so mad at you?” I asked as we headed out of the locker room.

  “Shhh.” Naomi’s eyes darted around the seemingly empty rows around us. She moved closer to me and leaned into my ear. “Because Kari will never be done getting back at me. Casey is, like, her personal fucking bodyguard.”

  “But that guy isn’t even her boyfriend anymore, right?”

  “It’s not about that. I broke the girl code, you know?”

  I nodded, but I didn’t really know. Too bad there wasn’t a dictionary for sixteen-year-old girl talk.

  I nearly bumped into Justin when I found my sixth-period film class. He opened the door for me, but he didn’t make eye contact.

  I headed for the back row again—the seat closest to the window. Justin didn’t follow me this time. In fact, he sat on the other side of the room near the front. I should’ve felt relief, but my chest felt heavy, and I slumped in my seat.

  Our bald teacher fiddled around with a seventeen-inch laptop at his desk. Every now and then, he’d look up and smile at the students wandering in. The bell rang, and I glanced around at the half-empty class. The two boys Naomi called Dumb and Dumber were sitting in the back row whispering to each other. Casey passed a cell phone to some guy with spiky hair behind her, and the pierced girl who’d complimented me on my skirt wrote in a journal. Justin drummed his fingers against the desk, gazing at the ceiling.

  “Okay, guys.” The teacher stood. He had buggy eyes and a lanky body, kind of like Gumby. “I’m Mr. Diaz, and obviously I’m new to Samish High.…”

  He launched into a speech about teaching film at UCLA, and I stared out the window, tuning him out. Puffy clouds hovered over the dark blue bay, making my stomach growl. When I was little, I thought they were cotton candy.

  “Why’d you come up here?” a nasal voice snapped me out of my trance. It came from the blond emo boy Naomi hooked up with.

  “I like Bellingham.” Mr. Diaz grinned at him. “Anyway, if you’re hoping this will be a breeze, you might want to find another elective. I’m not going to expect any less from you guys than I did from my college students.” He leaned against his desk and scanned the room. “How many of you like to watch movies?” When we all raised our hands, he continued. “Okay, how many of you like to see blockbusters at the big theaters?”

  Justin, the pierced girl, and I were the only people who didn’t raise our hands. I didn’t like the crowds, the smell of the popcorn, or the stiff seats. Plus, the movies were always predictable.

  Mr. Diaz nodded at Justin. “Why don’t you like them, Mr. Nike?”

  A small laugh escaped my mouth, and Justin glanced over at me before answering. “They lack originality ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  The teacher pursed his lips. “But hasn’t every story been done before?”

  “Doesn’t mean it can’t be told in a different way.”

  “Do you agree with him, Lilith?” Mr. Diaz motioned in my direction.

  “My name is Drea,” I answered.

  He leaned forward. “Didn’t hear you.”

  “Drea—my name is Drea!” The class snickered, telling me I’d said it way too loud. Justin was the only person not looking in my direction.

  The teacher’s eyes widened. “Fair enough. Do you agree?”

  I looked back over at Justin, but he kept his eyes forward like I didn’t exist. I hated him for it. “Yes, but I think it’s kind of strange coming from someone wearing a Nike T-shirt.”

  “Why do you think he called you Lilith?” Justin asked. “Because you’re so unique?”

  “I don’t know.” I slumped farther in my seat.

  “I suddenly feel like I’m in detention with Anthony Michael Hall,” Mr. Diaz said. “Interestingly enough, The Breakfast Club is one of the first films we’re going to watch.”

  Yet another movie I remembered hearing about but couldn’t place. Several of the other students expressed their delight through muffled yeahs and hoots.

  “Why do you think I called her that?” Mr. Diaz asked Justin.

  “The black clothing, the pouting.” Justin turned to look at me. “Back row. Corner desk. Anti–brand name. Sounds like the stereotypical Goth to me.”

  Laughter filtered throughout the room. A guy mumbled something about being owned.

  “What does that have to do with calling me Lilith?” I shot back at him.

  “He could’ve gone with Raven too,” Justin answered. “That’s an even more played-out Goth name.”

  Mr. Diaz held his hands up and chuckled. “This is good. Because there will be a lot of disagreement this semester. Each of you sees the world differently, and movies are no exception. What one of you thinks is overdone and cliché, another thinks is groundbreaking.” He pushed himself off the desk and paced the front of the room. “I’m not going to test you or throw out pop quizzes. But I will be keeping track of attendance and class participation. The bulk of your grade is going to be your final project. A five-minute movie of your own creation. It can be horror, action, comedy, a documentary, or even a music video.”

  “Sweet!” a guy with glasses said.

  “Now,” Mr. Diaz continued, “I want everyone except Drea and Mr. Nike to get out a piece of paper and write down your three favorite movies. You’ve got one minute.” He looked down at his silver watch. “Go.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Justin asked.

  Mr. Diaz raised his bushy eyebrows. “Sit tight.”

  After the class handed their slips of paper to Mr. Diaz, he flipped through them with a smile flickering at his lips. “Now—here’s the catch. The school bought only two camcorders, but they are PD-170s, meaning you don’t want to break one. Trust me on that. And the lab will only let me reserve so many computers after school. Which means you’ll need to work with a partner.” He waved the papers in his hand. “Someone who has completely different taste than you.”

  The class groaned in unison.

  “And you two”—he pointed at Justin and me—“already matched yourselves up. Good luck.”

  I glanced over at Justin, and he actually smiled and winked at me. Like he thou
ght it was funny.

  I was officially in hell.

  THE LAST THING I WANTED was for Naomi to be there when Mom picked me up. I had a doctor’s appointment after school, and I didn’t want Mom mentioning it in front of her. The street in front of Samish High resembled the passenger drop-off area at a major airport. Horns honked, engines revved, and hands waved impatiently behind windshields. Most of the kids being picked up looked to be freshmen, no surprise there.

  Mom’s faded green sedan was about a block down the street. I broke into a sprint, hoping I could dive into the car before Naomi saw me.

  “Wait up, Drea!”

  No such luck. My shoulders slumped as I spun around to face Naomi.

  “You need a ride?” She approached me with Roger in tow.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Does your boyfriend always take other chicks home?” Roger asked, nodding at the street.

  “What do you mean?” I glanced over my shoulder.

  “Black BMW,” Naomi whispered in my ear. “We saw him pick up Kari in the parking lot,” she continued in a louder voice.

  My eyes focused on a shiny BMW inching past us. I could make out Kari’s long hair in the passenger seat. He probably had a decent amount of horsepower in that thing. I used to be obsessed with car engines—drove Mom nuts.

  “Twenty bucks says it’s Daddy’s car.” Roger smirked. “Want me to kick his ass for you? Slash his tires?”

  “Why would I want that?”

  Mom tapped her horn three times behind me. I’d recognize that urgent tinny sound anywhere. “That’s my mom. I have to go.”

  “Do you want to hang out later?” Naomi asked.

  Grandma’s voice echoed across the lawn, calling my name. “We have ten minutes to get to your appointment!” Of course Mom had to bring her.

  “What appointment?” Naomi asked.

  I sighed. There was no way out. “Just seeing a doctor.”

  Her eyes widened. “What for?”

  “Um… stuff.”

  She nodded like she understood. “Oh, that doctor. Ew, I hate going there.”

  Roger chuckled. “Tell your mom you can get a ride from me and Naomi from now on, if you want.”

  “Sure, okay. Bye.” I turned around and jogged to the car, ignoring whatever Naomi called after me.

  Dr. Weber had about ninety different pictures of cats on her desk and a yellow rocking chair by the window. It was meant for kids, but I fit in it just fine. Mom sat cross-legged on the generic brown couch near the door.

  “How are you today, Drea?” Dr. Weber asked.

  I shrugged and stared at her shiny lips, wondering what kind of lipstick she used. Anything to ignore her squinty blue eyes and incessant writing. The lyrics to the Smashing Pumpkins song “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” roared through my mind every time I was in a doctor’s office. Despite all my rage, I’m still just a rat in a cage.

  Mom cleared her throat. “She always gets a little shy in these situations, but she’s adapted remarkably well over the years.”

  The blond doctor flipped through my file and nodded. “She was diagnosed with ADHD?”

  “Yes, in kindergarten,” Mom rambled on. “Her last doctor thought she had AS, but her symptoms are so mild… I mean, it’s not always obvious.”

  The doctor nodded. “Right. It’s a difficult diagnosis. No two people with Asperger’s—or with autism, for that matter—are the same. And females do tend to have less obvious symptoms.”

  “Do you have other patients with Asperger’s?” Mom asked.

  “Of all ages—children to grandparents.” The doctor closed the file and looked in my direction again. She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “How’d your first day of school go, Drea?”

  “It was school.” I never understood that question. Did they want a synopsis of my entire day? Most people gave short answers like “great” or “fine” or “crappy.” And telling someone I had a crappy day at school usually provoked the question “why?” But they didn’t really want to know why because they’d end up interrupting me and changing the subject.

  “Did you make any new friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a girl across the street that has taken a liking to her,” Mom said. “It’s the first time in a while—she hasn’t had a friend in years.”

  “Why do you have to tell my life story?” I asked her.

  “You don’t like it when your mom speaks for you?”

  “She has this need to tell everyone we meet that I have this disorder. But then she told me not to say too much about myself, because it might scare people off.”

  “I told you that in seventh grade, after what those girls did to you,” Mom argued. “But your last doctor suggested that I inform the school, family members, and friends. People need to know what you’re dealing with.”

  “Why does every guy you date need to know?”

  Mom opened her mouth to protest, but the doctor broke in. “Does your new friend know?”

  “No, and I want to keep it that way.”

  “She really has come a long way.” Mom repeated herself, as always. “When she was little, she had a lot of run-ins with other kids, and I had a hard time getting her to bathe or—”

  “Mom!”

  “But now”—Mom uncrossed her legs and sat up—“she’s doing better in school, and her, um, you know, grooming habits have improved, and—”

  “You always got shampoo in my eyes. That’s why I didn’t like it.”

  “Even when I got you the tear-free shampoo, you still resisted. But that’s not the poi—”

  “No, it’s not the point. Because I was five then, and I’m sixteen now. I take showers every day, I brush my teeth every night, I wear deodorant—even shave my legs. Because you wouldn’t shut up about it. ‘Comb your hair, Drea. Wear some perfume, Drea. Spend ninety million hours staring in the mirror like I do, Drea.’”

  Mom rolled her eyes and sighed.

  “If I may break in here,” Dr. Weber said. “I think your mother is trying to tell you that she’s proud of your progress.”

  “Exactly,” Mom said, bobbing her head.

  “Would it work better for you if your mom simply told you she was proud of you—rather than bringing up the past?”

  “Yeah, because she never says that,” I said.

  “I say it all the time.”

  “No. You tell me to take my pills, you bring up things I did ten years ago, you remind me to brush my hair—but you never say you’re proud.”

  “How’s your mood been?” Dr. Weber moved on.

  “Like it always is.”

  “Any negative thoughts or excessive worries?”

  “Yeah, I’ve already been diagnosed with GAD. It’s in the file.” Doctors stuck me with generalized anxiety disorder in junior high when I began surfing the Web and self-diagnosing myself with everything from lupus to rabies and having panic attacks over it.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom said. “She’s been really irritable with the move.”

  The doctor raised her eyebrows, nodding. “You’ve moved quite a bit, huh?”

  And this would be the part of the meeting where Mom goes over our financial troubles and my lack of a father—all in an effort to excuse the fact that, as her friends say, she changes cities like she does underwear.

  “How much of the XR is she currently taking?”

  “When I can get her to take it, twenty milligrams,” Mom said.

  “How do you feel when you take it, Drea?”

  “Like a zombie.”

  “Right when it kicks in, or is that something you feel later?”

  “It gets worse later,” I said.

  “She gets more irritable at night—after it wears off,” Mom chimed in. “But it really helps during the day. She’s less impulsive and calmer.”

  “And I lose weight since it kills my appetite.” I motioned to my body. “And let’s face it, there isn’t much to lose.”

&n
bsp; “Can you hop on the scale for me?”

  I rolled my eyes and prepared myself for the inevitable questions—how did I feel about my body? Have I ever thrown up on purpose? Blah blah blah. Every doctor had to rule out eating disorders.

  I stepped on the scale, and she peered over my shoulder, scribbling 100.5 in her little notebook.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to see you lose any more weight. Go ahead and step off.”

  At least this doctor kept her comments to a minimum.

  I plopped back into the yellow rocking chair and gazed out the window. Naomi was out there somewhere—probably having a great time. Who knew what Justin and Kari were doing. Probably kissing or more. I wondered what it would be like to kiss Justin. Ew, no. Scratch that thought.

  “We’ve got a couple of options,” the doctor said. “Some of my patients take the XR form in the morning and then an immediate-release tablet about eight hours later. It keeps them from crashing in the late afternoon.”

  “That won’t keep her up all night?” Mom asked.

  “It shouldn’t. The IR is much shorter acting. Lasts an average of four hours. There is also an ADHD drug that isn’t a stimulant—it may not suppress her appetite as much,” the doctor rambled on. “I also think an SSRI would help, especially with some of the irritability and anxiety.”

  “I’ve been on antidepressants. I hate them,” I said.

  She glanced down at the papers and nodded. “How do they make you feel?”

  “Like shit.”

  Mom put her face in her hands and shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right. It’s not easy trying out all these different meds, but sometimes it takes a while to find a combo that works.” She went on to suggest the SNRIs, a newer form of antidepressants, because they tend to have milder side effects. “They increase your levels of norepinephrine as well as serotonin. That seems more effective in some people.”

  “What if none of them work?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s no magical cure out there. We’re simply looking for a combo that benefits you most and causes the fewest side effects. A bigger part of the equation is how much you’re willing to do for yourself, Drea.”