Compulsion

by Heidi Ayarbe

  “She’s . . . ” Kase says.

  “She’s what?” I ask.

  “You know. Like, do you know her?”

  “Know her? In that biblical knowing way? Or in the way we were in Mr. Nutting’s fourth-grade class together. She used to sell Girl Scout cookies,” I say, surprised I’m defending Tanya.

  “Well, what kind of badge is she working toward now? Virgin crusaders? Are you her last good deed?”

  “Kase.” I hold up my hand. “Don’t.”

  She knows she’s crossed the line. “Sorry.”

  “Fine.” I close my books.

  “You got lots of homework?” Kase asks, breaking the silence.

  “It can wait. It’s for Monday. So tell me about your day,” I say after swallowing down the knot that lodged in my throat, trying to bring the routine back.

  Kasey complains about Mr. Gorski’s comb-over and how her friend Lisa has a crush on me which she’s totally pissed about because that’s not cool and breaks some kind of code the group has written up and signed. Then she mentions this party Mario Gomez is throwing this weekend. Mario’s place is famous for a massive loft upstairs, four or five storage closets, perfect for getting laid.

  “No.” There’s no way I’m taking Kasey to the closest thing to a teenage brothel for her first rager.

  “It’s for maintenance, Jake. Really. It’s not like I’m going to drink or anything. Plus it’ll be fun. I’m going with Jessica and Marcy. I’ll take my cell. C’mon. You’ve gotta back me up on this one.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Not at Mario’s.”

  “It’s just a stupid party,” she insists. “The whole school is going.”

  “I can’t be worried about that kind of shit this weekend. Another weekend. And I’ll go with you all. Just to hang out. But not now. I’ve been to parties up there, and it’s not a cool scene.” I haven’t actually been to parties there. But I’ve heard enough about them to know Kase shouldn’t go.

  “You owe me.”

  One of the buzzers dings from under the couch cushion. “Which one is this for?” I ask, pulling it out.

  “Pot roast,” she says, grabbing some oven mitts. I open the oven and pull out the rack so Kasey can grab the pan. She places it on a trivet and comes back to the table. “So? Are you going to cover for me or be the total asshole brother of the century?”

  “Those are my options?”

  She glares and I wonder what crackers brand she has designated for me. Like all this hiding I do—all this sneaking around isn’t even sneaking. It’s just everybody else not seeing what is, just what they want to see. Does Kasey see?

  Does Mera?

  Who else?

  “I know you do a ton for me.” I clear my throat. “I know you help me out. But not this weekend.”

  “It’s not like I need your permission.” She pouts.

  “Like hell you don’t. It’s not gonna happen. Period. Not at Mario’s, okay?”

  “Thanks a lot, Jake.”

  I put my arm around her and ignore her protests. “Not this weekend. I promise I’ll cover for you next weekend. I’ll go next weekend. And you can even invite Lisa.” I smirk.

  “Asshole.” She punches my arm.

  I laugh. “You’re all I’ve got that matters, okay?”

  “Yeah,” she mutters. “Flattery isn’t gonna cut it today. I’ll go to the next party. No matter what.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “You won’t let me down?”

  “Not this time.” I hope not, anyway. I’m always trying to make up for the things I do wrong, chasing time, fixing the past.

  “At least you’re honest.” Another buzzer goes off, and we pull out a pan of pork chops.

  She yawns.

  “I’ll take care of everything down here in the land of the Food Network. Go watch TV or something.”

  “Now you’re just trying to make up for being asshole brother of the universe.”

  “Thought it was century.”

  “Time and place,” Kasey says. “Of the universe this century. Just don’t let the stew overcook, okay? There’s nothing worse than eating rubber for dinner.”

  When she goes, I arrange the timers on the tables, my eyes darting between them, fixing the numbers. One by one, they ding, and I spend the rest of the evening listening to the metronomic tick-tick-tick of the windup timer until its hammer bangs against a tinny bell. I turn off the stove and wait for the food to cool. I lay my head on the table and close my eyes, already wishing it was Saturday so I could get it all over with.

  It’s after ten when everything is finally cool and packed away. I bring the food out to the garage, to the deep freeze, where Dad sits at his workbench, carving something on the front of a newly sanded chest. Wood shavings curl, dropping to the floor like petals. His back is curved over the bench in an arc.

  I place the food in the freezer and step away silently, leaving him in the sanctuary of his garage. Kasey’s gone to bed. The only sounds are the tick of the grandfather clock and the sighs of the wind on the windows. I walk upstairs and head to the cocoon of my room so I don’t break the shell of silence.

  Thirty-Seven Out of Order

  Friday, 2:23 a.m.

  And one second. Two twenty-three. Two plus two is four plus three is seven. OK. Two minus two is zero plus three is three. OK. Two times twenty-three is forty-six minus two is forty-four minus three is forty-one. OK. Fifty-five, fifty-six.

  I turn from the clock. Just as I mentally count, it turns to 2:24.

  My watch is on the nightstand next to the clock.

  I feel like I’m forgetting something. When that happens, it’s like everything gets stuck—the cogs on the clock stop until my mind grasps what it needs and can start to work again.

  When I close my eyes, I see numbers imprinted on my lids, so I rework them, calculate, add, subtract.

  Fuckit.

  I get up and take down three clocks from the closet, putting the boxes back and shutting the door. Two need batteries.

  The room feels like it’s getting smaller, like the ticks on my watch pound in my ears. I pull open the window and pop the screen off, sticking my head outside, sucking in the night air, squeezing my eyes so that all the stars blur into one.

  Count the lights.

  That always helps. It breaks the numbers. Going for a walk, counting the lights in houses. The muscle in my right thigh spasms.

  So fucking tired.

  I don’t want to freeze my balls off wandering around west Carson City counting houses that have lights on, so I flick on the TV, leaving the window open.

  The clocks are lined up under the window.

  Just in case.

  Just in case?

  Bourdain’s in Uzbekistan.

  I’ve seen this one before and turn on the captions so Dad doesn’t hear. I wonder if Mera’s watching it.

  I bet she is.

  And that actually makes me feel better, knowing I’m not the only asshole in the world that can’t sleep.

  The red numbers glow at me from my bedside clock and I finally turn it away, facing the window after I’ve gone through all the prime numbers up to seven hundred thirty-three three times to match the time when I took off my watch and shoved it into my backpack this morning. I fall asleep during the part when Bourdain is baby shopping, carrying around a crib and blanket.

  They rush into the room, flicking on the light and ripping open the blinds to predawn’s purple-black sky. “SURPRISE!”

  “Get out of bed, Martin. We’re being hijacked for breakfast.” Luc stands at the foot of the bed in his pajamas, surrounded by cheerleaders. He shrugs and mouths, “I had no idea.” He half smiles. “C’mon, man. It’s time to break tradition. Loosen up a little.” He’s wearing the same T-shirt he wore yesterday and smells like it. Black stubble dots his chin. Not many guys at school actually need to shave.

  Luc does.

  It’s supposed to be tomorrow—the day of the game. They always do the
surprise breakfast thing the day of the game. And that way I’m prepared for them to come. That way things stay the way they’re supposed to.

  That way, we win.

  Luc runs his fingers through his bed-head hair. “C’mon, Martin. Lighten up. It’s not really a big deal.”

  It is.

  I rub my eyes and look for the clock. It fell to the floor, coming unplugged when they poured into the room.

  Unplugged.

  Fuck.

  No time.

  I yank my watch off the nightstand. It’s stopped. I forgot to wind it. See, windup watches are better because batteries go dead. So you never have to worry about your watch not working.

  As long as you wind it.

  Shit.

  I slap it on my wrist even though it’s stopped.

  Time. Has. Stopped. The hands don’t move.

  What day is it?

  Friday.

  Winding days: Thursdays and Mondays.

  Yesterday I didn’t wind my watch.

  And now time has stopped.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock. I put the watch to my ear, aching to hear that sound, but nothing comes.

  I look around at the faces surrounding my bed. Kasey pushes her way through the crowd and tries to get everybody to go away. “Let him get ready,” she says. “Just give him five minutes.” God, I love Kase.

  One of the cheerleaders pats Kasey’s head like she’s some kind of puppy and says, “Oh so cute,” then shoves her aside.

  Dad and Mom huddle together in their robes. Dad smiles. “It’s almost impossible to surprise this guy. I don’t know how you pulled it off.”

  Mom looks tired, distracted. She leans closer into Dad, like this is a home invasion. I wonder if anybody else notices the quiver in her lips. I’ve got to get them out of here. I don’t know if it’s to spare Mom or to spare us the embarrassment of Mom.

  Tanya tugs on my arm. “Let’s go. We’re going to the Nugget for a breakfast banquet.” Everybody chants our soccer song—one we took from Manchester United.

  If you want to go to heaven when you die

  Keep the Carson High flag flying high;

  Get yourself a Senator bonnet;

  And put “F*** Bishop Gorman” on it;

  If you want to go to heaven when you die.

  “Why bonnet?” Kase asked once.

  “Because no other article of clothing rhymes with ‘on it,’ ” I told her.

  Nobody else at school cares. And three years ago, for the final game, everybody showed up in bonnets. Now it’s our soccer tradition at the school for home games. It’s absolutely insane—like whatever Luc does, goes. “Power,” Luc says. Luc’s the guy who could weave gold out of air and get the president to wear the invisible clothes. It just doesn’t make him a better soccer player.

  “C’mon, Martin. I’m famished.” Luc yanks me out of bed all the way, and the cheerleaders laugh. He leans into me. “Relax. It’s not a big deal, okay?”

  “Tighty whiteys!” They giggle.

  I hurry and pull on a pair of sweats.

  Out of order.

  I need time—to work out the numbers. Then sock, sock, sweats, shirt, then shoes. I freeze, trying to find a way to reverse everything—make it all okay.

  They’re messing up the magic.

  They shove me downstairs, blocking the grandfather clock, pushing me out the door before I can do anything the way I’m supposed to.

  It’s still too dark—a starless blackness.

  I can’t go.

  I push my way toward the front door, my fingers brushing the flamingo’s beak. I’m supposed to go back inside. Touch beak. Go inside. My fingers tingle. But they grab me and shove me down the walk.

  The streetlight sputters.

  I just need to stop. Stop. Breathe. Count. And get things okay.

  Goddamned light. It shouldn’t sputter.

  I need to wait for the light.

  Wait until dawn.

  Start. Over.

  My fingers start to burn. I touched the beak. I have to go inside.

  Instead, I’m crammed in the back of someone’s car with Tanya on my lap. The air is impregnated with the smell of overripe guava and tangy citrus—like the produce section of Supermercado Chalo on Sundays, where Luc’s mom buys these funky tropical fruits. I breathe through my mouth but then taste the fruity air particles and have to swallow back the acidic bile that has worked its way up from my stomach. Tanya’s hair tickles my nose; her bony ass digs into my thighs.

  The car bounces down the road and squeals to a stop in the Nugget parking lot, and we spill out of the car just in time for me to gulp down the fresh morning air before Tanya’s decomposing fruit-smelling hair makes me retch. I lean over, hands on knees, my palms burning against the fabric of my sweats. Webs are being woven in the back of my brain and work their way upward. It feels like my head is going to split in half.

  Tanya tugs on my elbow. “Are you even listening to me, Jake?” she asks.

  I look at her and nod. “Just give me a sec. Just a second.” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push away the pain, but the best I get to is a dull throb that I know won’t go away for hours.

  I need to get back home and start over. I can’t eat here. Not like this. But before I can think through anything, Luc, Diaz, and some other guys grab me and start to chant:

  If ever they are playing in your town,

  You must get to that soccer ground;

  Take a lesson and come on in,

  Soccer taught by Jake Martin;

  We love Jake!

  We love Jake!

  We love Jake!

  It’s like their words are chiseling my skull while the spiders burrow deeper into my brain. If I can’t control it, I’ll be comatose for a week.

  Walking into the Nugget is like walking into a time warp: smudgy mirrors, shitty lighting, and that underlying smoker smell that permeates from the burnt sienna–colored carpeting.

  Banners and streamers hang from the rafters in the banquet hall. Everybody is decked out in blue and white. The band is set up near the stage, playing the Senators’ fight song. The orchestra is next to them, sawing on their instruments. Mera looks bored, probably not amused by the fact she has to play something as mundane as the Senators’ fight song on her precious strings.

  I concentrate, though, on the movement of the bow pulling across the strings—trying to focus just on the sound that comes from Mera’s violin. I’ve almost got it when a couple of guys jump on my back and start to chant again, breaking the music away.

  I stagger to a chair. For a second everything goes black, so I shove my palms into my eyes and push real hard. It’s like watching an electric storm when I do that—spider bodies frying on my brain, their fibrous webs trapping any rational thought.

  Somebody claps me hard on the back and says, “Wake up, man. How can you sleep through this?”

  I look up, and the veil of black lifts in time for me to see Luc staring at me. “Guevón,” he mouths. The vein on his neck is pulsating. He looks at me not like I’m Jake but like I’m some kind of lab experiment in a petri dish.

  There’s a plate of steaming biscuits and gravy in front of me.

  “Assmunch,” I mouth back, and rub my eyes, acting like I’m zombie-tired and not a step from falling into wacko-land. Keep it cool, I think.

  Luc cracks a smile, then is swallowed up by the rest of the team, leaving me behind.

  I exhale and search the room for a clock, finding a crooked-hanging one on the wall to the right. I cock my head to the side, but it still looks crooked; the floor has a Titanic slant, and I clutch the edge of the table so I won’t go careening to the end of the room. White-knuckled grasp, jaw clenched, I scoot my chair as close to the table as I can, then turn to stare at the clock, working the numbers, trying to make things okay, wishing the day hadn’t already begun.

  Tanya waves her goddamned hand in front of me. “Earth to Jake. Hey, Jake. Aren’t you gonna eat?”

  T
he biscuits and gravy have gone cold on my plate; the white sauce has an unnatural sheen to it. I release the table, easing my fingers off the edge.

  My chair doesn’t slide away.

  The clock looks straight now. The room is back in order.

  Just. Stop.

  Screaming. Surround-sound, high-pitched screams echoing off the walls like we’re stuck in an endless corridor.

  Kasey shrieks, her voice sharp and piercing.

  “I just need some air. Give me a second.” I push away from the table, dragging my chair with me, fumbling to set my watch, wind it, get the time back.

  I shove my chair in front of the wall clock, covering my ears from the screams, unable to tell the difference between then and now—what’s real and what’s in my head.

  “I’ll be right back, Jakey. Look at the time. Here.” She paints a minute and an hour hand on my watch. “When your black hands line up with these marks, I’ll be here. Take care of Kasey.”

  The second hand isn’t steady—it catches every time it hits fifty-three seconds, then continues. I hold my watch, my thumb on the face. One, two, three, flick, one flick, two, flick, three flick . . . listening for the clicking, whirring sound. Twenty-three times, ninety seconds. Counting. Counting. I shiver, wishing I had a warmer sweatshirt on. Ten flick, eleven flick, twelve flick . . .

  A draft comes from under the door. It’s cold. I shiver and go to the hall closet to pull out my coat. The door swings and clicks shut behind me, enclosing me in blackness except for the green light of my Indiglo watch. The doorknob is jammed.

  There’s a snap and the sickening sound of bones breaking—the rat’s chest rises and falls, then shudders. It whines out its last breath, the trap shoved between a rubbery Halloween clown mask with bulging eyes and a box of tangled tinsel from last year’s Christmas tree.

  Silence.

  Somebody rakes her bow across violin strings, see-saw, see-saw. Screaming violins.

  She’s awake. “Mama? Mama?” Her voice muffled by the door.

  “She’ll be right back!”

  “Mama?! Mama?!”

  “Stay. Just stay!”

  Screaming.

  See-saw, see-saw. Laughing. “Psycho, dude. Total Psycho. Can you do the banjo duel from Deliverance?”