Compulsion

by Heidi Ayarbe

  I close my eyes and pretend I’m not locked away.

  Just pretend I’m in bed. Just stare at the watch.

  I need the numbers. So I squeeze my head between my knees, hoping to stop the spinning webs—hoping to curb the pain.

  Tanya rubs my cheek with ragged nails. “What’s up, Jake?”

  Her voice is different. It’s doesn’t have that hoarse, sex-you-up sound to it anymore. I massage my temples, trying to hold the auras back, just for a few more minutes.

  Look at the time. Focus on the numbers. Just pretend . . .

  . . . everything’s okay. Tanya’s sitting next to me. “What’s up? It’s not like they rent these by the hour, you know. Mario’s closets are in high demand.” She laughs. But it’s a nervous laugh, like she doesn’t want to be here either. “I’ve got a condom if that’s what you’re worried about.” I hear a rustle. “They’re called Sex Bull condoms. How lame is that? I guess it’s all pretty lame when you get right down to it.”

  The second hand ticks, ticks, ticks. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  The numbers blur, then come clear again. I listen to Tanya. And for once it’s like she’s being real. The suffocating weight of the closet lifts for a second.

  In elementary school, Tanya was a Girl Scout. She won prizes for selling cookies and wore knee-high socks and brown skirts. She was real.

  What are we all so afraid of?

  I almost kiss her hand, then jerk my head back because I can still taste the fruit punch and acid, and I’m afraid my tongue might’ve turned black by now, and my mind searches for numbers and patterns.

  The glow of red and yellow has gotten stronger. It won’t be long before everything goes black. I’ve just got to get out of here and find a place to be. I’ve got to do the routine to get things right.

  I need the magic.

  Counting lights. House lights, streetlights, headlights. I can count. I can walk. That’ll buy me time. It always does.

  Tanya pulls my face to hers and tries to pry my clenched teeth open with her tongue. “C’mon, Jakey,” she says in a singsong, nails-on-the-chalkboard voice. Not only am I limp but I also feel like I’ve got fishing line with weights hanging from my balls.

  Premature ejaculation? Try premature impotence.

  I peel her off me, squeezing my eyes shut to try to keep the lights away just for a second longer. “No,” I say.

  I hear the garage door clatter open and a slamming door. A key rattles in the door. “Mama! Open the door!” The hands don’t line up with the painted ones.

  7:19

  Seven nineteen. Seven plus one is eight plus nine is seventeen. OK.

  The closet door swings open. I stumble into the hallway.

  “Why not?”

  “At a party? Where they auctioned you off like cattle? Christ, Tanya, you used to sell Thin Mints. What happened?” I say.

  Somebody bangs on the door. “Hey, Martin! You guys done yet?”

  I bang back. “Open the fucking door! Open the fucking door.”

  The door swings open. I stumble into the hallway.

  Dad stands there. “What the—? Where’s Kasey?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  A circle of faces peeks in at us, and I crawl out, gulping in the stale party air, the floor sticky-slick with jungle juice.

  “What the fuck happened to you, Martin?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dad rushes to the staircase, finding Kasey crumpled like a rag doll at the bottom. He lifts her up, her arm dangling, twisted in an abnormal angle, swollen and blue. “Clean yourself up,” he says. “We’ll wait in the car.”

  I change my pants, wash my hands, and put towels over the vomit, piss, and dead rat, my footsteps echoing in the hallway and down the front walk.

  I push through the crowd and work my way out front, retching everything in Mario’s mom’s rosebushes, the thorns scratching at my cheeks.

  “Dude, too much to drink, huh?” Some guy’s lying on the grass next to a chunky mound of vomit. “Where’d Mario get the spinning grass, man? Home Depot Deluxe? It’s a fucking merry-go-round out here. Wheee-eeee.” I hear a gurgle and he lies on his side, bilious vomit dripping from his mouth.

  Spinning.

  Spinning, spinning.

  Burning tears spill down my cheeks. I crawl away and hide behind some landscaping boulders, pulling my knees tight to my chest, counting my ragged breaths, making the numbers work so I can clear my head.

  I’m supposed to be normal.

  My sobs are drowned by the sound of normal that comes from inside the house.

  One Hundred Thirteen Compulsion

  Sunday, 2:43 a.m.

  Two forty-three. Two times four is eight plus three is eleven. OK.

  I flick on the bathroom heater and clutch the toothbrush with stiff fingers.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  Change sides.

  Eight, nine, ten, eleven.

  Same side.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  Change sides.

  Eight, nine, ten, eleven.

  I scrape the brush across my tongue until I see blood spatters in the sink.

  Stop.

  Stop.

  Stop.

  Open the cabinet, one, two, three, click closed.

  Again.

  Again.

  My hand trembles. I toss the empty toothpaste in the garbage along with the toothbrush, its bristles splayed out, dotted with brown-red blood. My gums and cheeks sting. My tongue feels like sandpaper, but I gargle the burning mouthwash, holding the liquid in my mouth as long as I can, counting to thirty-seven, then spitting it out, doing it again.

  Five times.

  I just need to do it five times.

  Dad raps on the bathroom door. “Jake, is that you?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, almost choking on the mouthwash, the bottle nearly empty now. One, two, three, four, five . . .

  “Thought you were going to stay at Luc’s,” Dad says.

  Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . . “Uh-uh,” I say. Swish, swish, swishing the mouthwash across my teeth, gums, and tongue, getting rid of Tanya’s taste. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll go to bed. I’ll do the numbers, watch a little Bourdain, and wait for sunrise.

  Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . .

  That’s all I need.

  To end right.

  Thirty-seven.

  Begin right.

  New mouthful of wash. Second round. One, two, three.

  Genesis.

  And on the seventh day . . .

  “It’s pretty late.”

  “Uh-huh.” Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .

  “Good night, then.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven . . . I can hear his breathing outside the door. He pauses.

  He should be raging.

  I don’t look down at my watch because it would fuck up my counting. It’s not like I have a curfew. I never go out. But late is late.

  It’s like he wants to say something.

  Maybe I can talk to him.

  Swish, swish, swish.

  Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four . . .

  Maybe I can tell him what’s going on; tell him about the numbers and shit. Maybe he’d get it. Maybe he knows and is just waiting for me to come clean—like some kind of pop-psychology parent I don’t know.

  Round three.

  One, two, three, four, five . . .

  Just a few more swishes and gargles. Two more rounds. Thirty-seven two more times. And I can come out in the hall. We’ll sit there. We’ll talk.

  Before I can finish, he walks away. I hear the soft pad of footsteps walk down the hall. His bedroom door creaks open and clicks shut.

  Round four.

  Round five.

  I spit out the mouthwa
sh, rinsing the sink clean of blood. I stare in the mirror. Everything in my mouth is raw—on fire. The bathroom is clean. Everything’s level. The towels are hanging how they need to be, and I open the door with two hands and look down the hallway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the black night.

  No moon tonight.

  I finally make out Dad and Mom’s door. Closed. No sound comes from their room. I walk to it and lean my ear against it, listening for anything to show me they’re awake. A sign to let me know I can go in. We can talk. He can tell me I’m not crazy.

  I count to twenty-nine, then to thirty-seven.

  Nothing. The silence hurts my ears. I swallow back the knot that has formed in my throat, pinching my nose, trying to keep the burning out.

  The salt from my tears burns my lips.

  With a trembling hand, I raise my knuckles to knock and remember the look on his face at the game.

  Pride.

  He was proud.

  I relax my fist and wipe the tears off my cheeks. I’m okay. I’m just tired.

  Lots going on.

  The aura is still here. I need to organize my room before the pain seizes me and I’m out for a few hours. It’s not like it always does, but I can’t take my chances.

  Then everything will be back to normal.

  One Hundred Twenty-Seven My Normal

  Sunday, 3:21 a.m.

  Three twenty-one. Three times two is six plus one is seven. OK.

  Just have to bring back the order.

  Things were just wrong the last couple of days. Fucked up. Two days leaving before dawn, the other way after.

  Leave at dawn.

  Because of the sputtering streetlamp—too erratic. Can’t be controlled. Gotta call the city to get the light fixed. Then I can leave whenever.

  But for now, wake at dawn and go outside.

  That’s how it works.

  I missed it three times in a row.

  Wanting it to stop. That was wrong. It’s better this way—my way. Because it works; it keeps us safe.

  I did the routine this morning. We won.

  I didn’t do it tonight. Everything got fucked up.

  It’s just a routine. It works. My normal.

  Five clocks. Two digital. Three analog. I line them up along the windowsill and set them one by one until they’re all ticking in unison.

  But my favorite watch is the one I wear every day.

  I look down at it and make sure it’s in time with the five clocks I just set.

  Yep.

  It was my great-grandpa’s. He fought in World War Two and left this vintage military watch to Dad. MIMO SWISS MADE, produced for the German army. When we won our first championship, Dad gave it to me.

  I’ve worn it for three years now. Every day. And it works perfect.

  When I remember to wind the fucking thing.

  Shit.

  Dad says, at least once a week, that the quality of the past can’t be matched by the technology of the present. He’s big on quality.

  Quality.

  And he’s proud of me.

  I slip the watch off and put it on my nightstand, where it always is during the night.

  I don’t wind it.

  I wind on Thursdays and Tuesdays. I wound it on Friday morning, though, because I fucked up.

  Tuesday. I’ll wind it Tuesday; get back on schedule.

  The time is set. Now . . .

  . . . call Kase.

  Kase. Oh shit. Kase.

  Fuck. If I hadn’t wanted it to stop, she wouldn’t be at the party. When I don’t do things the right way, everything spirals out of control.

  “I’ll be right back, Jakey. Take care of Kasey.”

  Take care of Kasey.

  Fuck.

  It’s too quiet. I cup my hands over my ears and hear the rumble in my brain, like the roar of the engines before the airplane hurtles down the runway. No screaming. My mind jumps to everything I did wrong since the game and scrambles to put the pieces back together.

  So stupid. Stupidstupidstupid. I don’t know where to begin.

  I was supposed to be normal.

  This is normal.

  Just. Stop.

  Begin again. With the time.

  3:27

  Three twenty-seven. Good number. Three primes. Three. Two. Seven. Seven plus two is nine plus three is twelve minus seven is five. OK. Two times seven is fourteen plus three is seventeen. OK. Three times two is six plus seven is thirteen. OK.

  Exhale. Everything’s under control now—now that I’m doing what I’m supposed to. Just as the second hand reaches twelve, I turn my back to the clocks, lying on my left side, facing the door.

  I flick open my phone.

  Dead.

  Fuck.

  Where’s the charger?

  I close my eyes, then turn toward the clocks. I open my left eye, count to three, and watch as the blurry numbers take form. Then I open my right eye.

  3:31

  Three thirty-one. Three plus three is six plus one is seven. OK. Three minus one is two plus three is five. OK.

  My head stops throbbing and the glow of light fades. Things are getting back to normal. Things are working and now everybody’s safe. I’m getting the magic.

  Three times three is nine minus one is eight minus three is five. OK.

  Five-oh-eight and fifty-five—

  I slip my left foot out from under the covers and count. One, two, three.

  Fifty-six, fifty-seven—

  Right foot. One, two, three.

  Charger. Need the charger.

  I go downstairs and find the charger in the kitchen drawer.

  Kaseykaseykaseykaseykasey. Fuck.

  Genesis.

  The phone beeps when I plug it in.

  Seventeen missed calls.

  Luc’s such an asshole. So I didn’t want to get laid. So I’m not like him.

  Asshole.

  The numbers on the call log are all from Kase.

  All seventeen.

  One message and one text message:

  U @?

  Right foot, then left foot, I slide under the covers and listen to the message.

  “You told me you’d take me home!” Kase’s voice wavers. It’s eerily silent in the background and it sounds like she’s cupping the phone to her mouth. “You said, ‘Got your back.’” The line goes dead.

  I call her right back, pressing the phone against my ear, trying to keep the spiders away. “Hello?” a soft voice answers. The reception is shit, crackly.

  “Kase? Is that you? What’s going on?”

  She chokes out a sob. Her words are static; they blur and run together because of the crap reception.

  She’s drunk.

  “Kase, where’s Luc? Where’re Kalleres and Grundy?”

  What if Kalleres and Grundy ditch her?

  What if somebody takes her to a closet?

  What if she passes out and asphyxiates in her own vomit?

  “Take care of Kasey.”

  “Mom!” She’s not here. Make the numbers work to keep Kasey and me safe.

  “Take care of Kasey.”

  “I am. Fuck. What do you think I’ve been doing all these years with all the fucking numbers? I. Take. Care. Of. Her.”

  And when I talk, I feel like my mouth is on fire. For an instant, I wonder if I’ll choke to death if I fall asleep; if my tongue will fill up my entire mouth and cut off my air.

  The crackly line and silence bring me back. Focus. This is about Kasey right now. She needs me.

  I only hear the sound of candy-wrapper static, then a soft hum of near silence.

  “Kase!” I’m holding the phone so tight my knuckles ache. My back feels clammy and my ear doubles with the pressure of the phone.

  “Kase!” I can feel the hysteria in my voice. Keep it together. “I’ll be right there,” I say. “Just talk. Let’s just talk until I—” The phone clicks off.

  I dial again and it kicks me to voice mail right away.

  Fuck.<
br />
  No fucking way. She had to have charged the phone.

  I hate batteries.

  There should be a kind of windup cell phone. Fucking technology.

  I wipe the palms of my hands on the comforter. One, two, three, four, five. Five, four, three, two, one.

  I’ll just get in the car and go to Mario’s and pick her up. Not a problem.

  Just gotta start the day.

  I look at the time and the obsidian sky. It’s not dawn. The moonless night falls down onto me, smothering me in blackness.

  I try to lift my hand to touch my face, but it lies heavy at my side, as if sticky sap is creeping through my veins, coming to a halt, and my heart races to push the sludge blood through constricted veins. The frenetic beat pounds in my ears. Tingling electrical currents shoot through my body.

  I can’t move.

  Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Stay here until dawn. Then . . .

  Stop. Just stop.

  I try to place my hands over my ears—to smother out the frenzied hammering that bangs with every pulse. But I can’t move.

  I can’t move.

  I have no control over anything. Nothing.

  The sun won’t be up until . . .

  I force myself to turn to the clock, the digital numbers penetrating the curtain of darkness, giving me light—focus.

  Focus.

  4:13

  Four thirteen. Four plus one is five plus three is eight. Fuck. Four times one is four times three is twelve. Fuck.

  Think. Think.

  The numbers aren’t working.

  One, two, three, left.

  One, two, three, right.

  Up.

  I push myself out of bed, collapsing to the floor, and move to the door. I turn to the clocks and freeze.

  It’s wrong.

  One of the clocks on the windowsill has stopped.

  Go back. Set the time. Get new batteries. Check the others. Just a backup clock, just to get things under control. I go through the closet and pull out the best clocks, ones that won’t go dead. This will make it okay. If I do this, then I can go get Kasey.

  Okay.