by Lisa Doan
“Mainly running for my life,” I said.
“And running for your life has not proved successful. Is there anything else you might do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Lately, I’ve been standing up to him, but so far that’s not getting me anywhere either.”
“What do you do to stand up to him?”
“I tell him to stop gaslighting me,” I said. “And I wrote a scathing editorial for The Eagle’s Eye.”
“And what else?”
“Uh, that’s it.”
“No wonder you are not getting anywhere, Chadwick. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” Suvi said. “If Terry is gaslighting you, then you have to gaslight him back.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s not what I thought a doctor would say.”
“Of course not,” Suvi said. “You are now talking to Suvi, not Dr. Singh. The doctor would never recommend such a step. It would be completely irresponsible and she’d get her license revoked.”
“But you, as Suvi, think I should gaslight him back?”
“Well,” she said, “are you a mouse or a man?”
A mouse or a man? Suvi was asking me about my swagger! Did I shiver like a mouse or swagger like a man?
But gaslight Vance back? Could it even be done? Could I be as devious and cunning as the Nile crocodile?
“I believe we will leave our session there,” Dr. Singh said. “It’s time for you to do some private reflecting on what we have discussed. Ask yourself, who do I—Chadwick Musselman—really want to be? A mouse? A man? Do not jump to a conclusion too quickly or judge your natural inclinations. After all, there is no shame in mouse-hood. Or at least, there shouldn’t be. We can continue our session tomorrow.”
“Can me and the mouse come early to watch the show?” Rory asked.
“Sure,” she said.
“And maybe you could supersize the bowl of chips?” Rory said. “Or add a bowl of Cheetos? Either way works for me.”
* * *
On the way home, I said, “What do you think about what Suvi said?”
“Which thing?” Rory asked.
“About whether I’m a mouse or a man. About how if I’m not going to be a mouse, I have to go for an eye for an eye. She thinks I should gaslight Terry back.”
“I wouldn’t try it, it sounds complicated,” Rory said. “Just be mouse and apologize to Terry. Hey! Why don’t you buy him a crayon as a replacement for the one you stole? He’d totally have to forgive you and the whole thing would be over.”
“It’s years too late for that,” I said.
“No, it isn’t. My mom says it’s never too late to admit you’re wrong. Only last week, my dad finally admitted he was the one who washed her white shirt with his red shirt, making her shirt pink. That was two years ago, but she just stayed with it until he apologized.”
“Let me guess—and then she made him drink a kale smoothie to pay for his crime,” I said.
“No,” Rory said, “a beet and banana smoothie. It was pink, get it? He’ll never touch her laundry again. So, what do you think? Go get that crayon and we can forget all about Terry.”
Rory followed me home, listing all the ways I could return Terry’s crayon. The last one I heard had something to do with slipping it onto his lunch tray inside a heartfelt Hallmark greeting card.
He conveniently followed me into the house because he knew it was pizza night. Rory hadn’t missed a pizza night at my house in years, whether he was invited or not.
We sat at the dinner table, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Mark sat across from us with a look of steely determination. Once the pizza arrived it would be every man for himself. While I waited, I weighed the opposing views of Suvi and Rory. Suvi thought I should go on the offensive and Rory thought I should give Terry back his crayon. What did I think?
I’d known Rory a lot longer, so I should probably trust him more. But then, Suvi’s idea was bold. It was like my therapist had the heart of a lion. There was something liberating about her idea. But also something dangerous. I had tried fighting back in fourth grade and experienced the viciousness of a cornered crocodile. If I gaslighted him back, he might just get madder. Then what would he do?
“Mark,” I said, “what do you think is best—going on the offense or staying on defense?”
“I’m a quarterback,” Mark said. “I count on them both.”
“I know, but just in general,” I said.
“Well,” Mark said, looking pretty pleased that I had asked for his opinion. “If you want to win, you better have a good offense.”
I sat back. I had been playing the game with the crocodile all wrong. I had given up on offense after trying it only once in the fourth grade. I should have kept going. That was the only way to win. A gazelle could only hide in the middle of the herd for so long. Sooner or later, it fell behind or accidentally ended up at the edges. There was only ever one ending to the gazelle’s story, and it was not winning.
“Chadwick,” my mom said, laying out napkins, “you know I would never want to stomp on your dreams, but football is not your sport, honey. You’d get trampled and end up with a head injury. Let’s think about tennis.”
I nodded and kept thinking. Terry was always on the offense. Year by year, his plays had become more devious. In second grade, I had sat on a lot of tacks, by third grade he was giving me food poisoning, by fourth grade my hair was falling out, by fifth grade I was standing in the hall in my underwear. Now he was running an elaborate scheme to make me lose my mind. It didn’t really matter that I was over Jana—when he saw that plan wasn’t working, he’d just move on to another plan. Another more sophisticated and dangerous plan. He had been unstoppable only because I had never really tried to stop him.
I had to go on the offensive and either beat Terry at his own game or get taken down on the savannah.
The doorbell interrupted my thoughts, but before I could get to it, Mark had sprinted like he was on his way to a touchdown. My chances of pepperoni had just plummeted.
CHAPTER TEN
Pizza night had taken all of ten minutes. My mom said we were a bunch of savages, but in my defense, if I didn’t move fast Mark would inhale every scrap. Afterward, Rory staggered home in a cheesy haze and I jumped on the computer while my mom was on the phone with her friend Margie. Margie would keep my mom occupied for at least an hour, as she always had a lot to say about her no-good boss, a Miss Cheryl Crumstedder. Miss Crumstedder, if Margie were to be believed, was out to ruin Margie’s life by insisting on knowing what Margie was doing all day long in her cubicle. Margie felt this was an outrageous invasion of privacy.
I’d made my decision. I was done being prey, it was time to transform Chadwick Musselman into an apex predator.
I had gotten an idea on how to gaslight Terry Vance, and it would be the most epic revenge ever launched at Wayne Elementary. My first stop was Amazon and sure enough, there were fake bloody fingers for sale. There were also fake bloody ears and eyeballs, but I stayed focused. There were so many types of fake bloody fingers for sale that I started to wonder what other people were doing with them. I finally found a brand that really spoke to me. The fingers had a lot of fake blood on them and ragged edges that looked like skin hanging off. I bought eight packs of eight. Then I bought a Beast three-hundred-yard water balloon launcher. Then I bought a hammock chair. The fabric seat of the chair would be used to create a bigger pouch for the launcher. I spent my whole gift card from my birthday except for seventy-two cents. My arsenal would arrive in two days.
I surfed the internet to find the images I was looking for. It is really amazing that, whatever you need, somebody took the time to post it for you. I downloaded images of severed fingers and overturned Jeeps and a crocodile with its jaws taped shut and ran them together in a video with Jaws music in the background.
I set up an Excel file and mapped out each step of the offensive. I had one week until the dance, and I would be ready.
Chadwick was cruising the
savannah and ready to hunt.
* * *
At Suvi’s house, I kicked Rory’s leg to give him a sign. He was sprawled over a chair and would end up ruining the Singhs’ furniture, just like he had at my house. I didn’t know why I bothered, because he didn’t get it. He stuffed his face with potato chips, wiped his hands on the arms of the chair, and said, “What?” As my dad has mentioned in the past, anthropologists should stop digging up old bones in search of the missing link because he’s right here walking around the neighborhood.
Once the show started, I was hypnotized and realized I would never be out of Mission Almost Impossible’s viselike grip. The finale would be three different challenges. Today, they were digging holes in the Mojave Desert. The first person to hit water would win that round. The show ended with Hank and Barb sunburned and coughing out sand, both up to their waists in holes in the desert.
After it was over, Suvi picked up a pair of glasses with thick black rims. They looked pretty scholarly. She put them on to read her notes on my psychoanalysis, but they must have been a strong prescription because she had to hold the paper really far away from her face.
“As we left our last session, you were going to reflect on who you really want to be,” Dr. Singh said.
“I totally did,” I said, more comfortable with talking in therapy this time. “I decided on apex predator.”
Suvi scribbled furiously. I thought she seemed intrigued. “How do you propose to make the transition, Chadwick?” she asked.
“I’m going on the offensive. Defense never played to my strengths and it never worked. I’m going to launch the last prank that will be played between me and Terry, and it is going to be revenge on an epic scale. He got to play all the other ones, but I will have the last laugh. The last extremely long laugh.”
Suvi took off her glasses. Her eyes refocused after she blinked a couple of times. “Interesting,” she murmured.
“Yeah, so this is how it’s going down,” I said.
After I walked Suvi and Rory through my diabolical plan, Rory said, “That is the worst idea I ever heard!”
“Incorrect, Rory,” Suvi said. “Chadwick’s plan is brilliant. It will be a textbook demonstration of the reptilian brain overriding executive function.”
I had no idea what Suvi was talking about, except for the part where she thought my plan was brilliant and that I might have a reptilian brain—who’s the crocodile now?
“I’ll need help,” I said, “from both of you.”
“I can’t be involved,” Rory said. “I’m already swamped. Susie Townsend said she might hang out at the dance with me.”
“What does might mean?” Suvi asked.
“She said she reserved the right to accept better offers,” Rory said. “Apparently, I always smell like Cheetos and it’s gross. I’m okay with that complaint, because it takes the pressure off me. If she decides she doesn’t want to hang out with me, I will automatically feel against her, so she goes right into my notebook. If she decides she does want to hang out with me and then I suddenly feel like I’m against it, I can just say she always smells like shampoo and it’s gross and walk away. If she’s not against it and I’m not against it, I’ll eat a mint to cover up my Cheetos breath. Any way it goes, the power is in my hands.”
I stared at Rory. It really was true that you couldn’t help people until they were ready to help themselves. When Suvi was done psychoanalyzing me, I would slide over and make room on the couch for Rory.
“So you see what I mean?” Rory said. “I’ll have a lot going on that night.”
“You’re my best friend,” I said. “You have to help me. It’s finally my moment to have my revenge and pull off an epic prank.”
“Or,” Rory muttered, “you could just give him back his stupid crayon.”
“Remind me,” I said, “if we were looking for Ring Dings, would we go to your house or mine?”
Rory moaned a little bit, like he was in the throes of a fever. “Ring Dings,” he murmured. He was in.
Suvi said, “What do you need me to do?”
“Pose as my date,” I said, “and bring a really big purse. That’s how we’ll get all the fingers inside the gym.”
Suvi nodded. “I’ll bring my beach bag, it’s huge.”
“Rory,” I said, “I’ll need your walkie-talkies. Bring them to the woods behind your house when you take the dog out for a walk tonight. Leave them by the old pine tree.”
“What pine tree?” Rory said. “There’s a thousand pine trees.”
“The one that has candy bar wrappers littered all around it,” I said.
“Oh, that pine tree,” Rory said.
“I’ll leave a bag of Cheetos there for you,” I said, knowing full well that the lure of Cheetos in the woods would soothe Rory’s resistance to my plan. He nodded and gazed over my head like he was daydreaming about Cheetos in the woods.
My troops were ready. I had one fierce lion and one best friend who, realistically, was more of a meerkat than an apex predator. It wasn’t the army to end all armies, but it would have to be enough.
* * *
“You asked a girl!” my mom shrieked.
“I didn’t ask a girl like how you think,” I said. “It’s just Suvi. She’s only a friend.”
“But Suvi is a girl, right?”
“Technically, she is,” I said. “Anyway, I said we’d give her a ride because her parents are on call at the hospital.”
“A girl!”
I had been afraid my mom was going to be that excited about me going to the dance with Suvi. It was almost like I had told her I was getting married. She planned a whole outing to the mall to get a new shirt and new sneakers, so there went my Saturday. Still, I felt like it wasn’t so bad since volunteering to be a chaperone at the actual dance hadn’t occurred to her. Also, my dad has privately told me and Mark that because we’re a houseful of boys, sometimes we have to throw Mom a bone. I hadn’t thrown one in a while, so bone officially thrown, Mom.
I didn’t tell Mark about the epic revenge prank because I was afraid he would have advice, mainly advice about how I shouldn’t do it. I let him think that Suvi was my real date and he promised to tell me everything I would need to know about hanging out with a girl at a dance. Mark had been to five dances and danced with Cheryl at two of them. He said he had a lot of inside information that would help me look like I knew what I was doing. I felt myself go red at the mention of Cheryl, whose name I now associated with the inner sanctum break-in and brown eyes from Mars. I muttered, “Thanks, that would be great.”
There were only six days left before the dance and I felt the time ticking away like minutes to liftoff. I realized that time went fast when you wanted it to go slow, and then it went slow when you wanted it to go fast. Up until then, I had never really understood the theory of relativity. But there you go—time is relative, and changes speed in exact relation to how you don’t want it to. I would have to drop that knowledge into a conversation with my therapist. Suvi couldn’t expect me to be as smart as she was, but it would be a nice surprise for her to find out that she had a patient who could sometimes talk to her on her own level.
The Amazon order arrived. I had raced home from the bus stop with Rory lagging behind. I didn’t want Mark to see the box and start asking questions. When we got to my house, we didn’t even open it; we took it over to Suvi’s to test how it would all fit into the beach bag.
“Wow,” Suvi said, unwrapping one of the fake fingers, “these look pretty real.”
Suvi jumped up and pulled a medical book from a shelf and opened it to a page that showed various fingers and toes that had arrived at emergency departments separate from their owners.
“See what I mean?” she said.
I thought the pictures were interesting, but a little sickening. Rory turned greenish, but that’s what happens when you eat a whole bowl of Fritos before you even have time to sit down.
The chair hammock I bought used carabiner clips
to attach to holes in the wood frame of the hammock. I threw out the frame and clipped the carabiners around the rubber bands of the slingshot, creating a new supersized pouch. We went over the whole plan, step by step. Everybody knew what they were supposed to do and when they were supposed to do it. Rory’s walkie-talkies would keep us together like a coordinated strike force. Suvi packed it all in her beach bag, ready for action. The crocodile would take his last roll in the river.
* * *
Group remained determined to pry open the secrets of my brain. I was equally as determined to keep my private feelings where they belonged—buried deep in a vault called Do Not Open—Nobody Likes a Crybaby.
Mr. Samson rubbed his temples and said, “Here’s the prompt question: What are you most frightened of? Well, let’s see—I’m a thirty-five-year-old elementary school teacher with a receding hairline, crappy apartment, questionable clothes, and no girlfriend. All the dreams I had when I was young have been sucked into a vortex of mediocrity. What frightens me the most out of this whole nightmare? I guess that I will be lying on my deathbed and realize that one decision caused my whole crappy life. If you had just done this one thing, Bob Samson, everything would have been different. Like, if you had learned to play the guitar, you could have been a famous rock star with a supermodel girlfriend. But you didn’t, and look what happened.”
Mr. Samson was crumbling before our eyes.
Jana shared that she remained frightened that she wouldn’t be thanked for all her dance committee efforts. She had stayed up late working on the dance budget. The herbed goat cheese on rice crisps that was supposed to lend class to the affair was too expensive, so she was going with Chex Mix instead.
“Chadwick? You’re next,” Mr. Samson said. “What keeps you up at night?”
I wasn’t going to say what was really keeping me up at night—planning my revenge on Terry Vance. I wanted to lull Terry into a sense of security and make him believe I was the same old Chadwick. “I’m still being framed for crimes I didn’t commit,” I said.
“That’s what you said last time. A total cop-out,” Mr. Samson said. “Rory?”