by Aaron Karo
In fact, when I finally walk into the kitchen, Dad hasn’t even come upstairs yet. Mom is making pasta shells, one of my favorites (in part because I won’t have to use my hands)—but also an unusual move that’s starting to make me suspicious.
“Where’s Dad?” she asks.
“Probably still watching the game. Where’s Beth?”
My sister is a sophomore, so we’ve already spent a year and a half together in high school. I bet if you polled all 1,600 students, 99 percent would know who she is and about 1 percent would know who I am. That 99 percent figure is a conservative estimate, assuming she’s unknown to the sixteen or so mathletes who only talk to each other. My 1 percent figure is a generous estimate, assuming there’s some kids who only know me because I’m Beth’s older brother. There’s a reason, though, behind this disparity. Two reasons actually. I’m only going to mention them this one time and then never, ever speak of them again. Beth’s got big boobs. Next topic.
“She’s in her room,” Mom says.
I know what Beth is doing in there. Popular-girl stuff. Someone posts on her Facebook Wall every fifteen seconds. She has yet to respond to my friend request.
“Will you call your dad again?” Mom asks.
“Dad!” I yell.
My dad always jokes that he’s the president of our house in name only. It’s really Mom who’s the chief executive officer. And he’s right. Mom’s a teacher (though thankfully she teaches elementary school and didn’t work when I was younger; if she had ever been my teacher I think I would have died of embarrassment). But I really think she should be a detective instead. She asks so many questions.
“How was Steve’s?”
“Fine.”
“What did you guys do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Played video games or whatever.”
“What game?”
“Does it matter what game, Mom?”
Mom herself is kinda like that movie Tron: as soon as she is about to hit a wall, she changes directions.
“Are you ready to go back to school?”
“No.”
“You’re not excited for graduation?”
“I guess.”
“You should start thinking about what you’re gonna need for your dorm room.”
“Okay.”
“Also, I was thinking we could have a graduation party. You know, in the backyard. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
I sit down and pour myself some soda. A few months ago, I told Mom that I looked up obsessive-compulsive disorder on Wikipedia. In hindsight, that was probably a mistake. Mom and Dad knew about some of my rituals and habits, but I think they either chalked it up to teenage weirdness or were just in denial about how serious it might actually be. As soon as I brought it up, though, Mom started saying how OCD runs in the family, and that her dad had it, and that she thinks she might have had some symptoms when she was a teenager, blah blah blah. So for the past few months, Mom has been worried about me. I hate when Mom worries about me. Not only does it make me feel bad, but it also invites more questions. She knows having a graduation party means it would only be me, Steve, and her and Dad’s friends. “What do you think about having a graduation party?” in Mom-speak translates to: “Maybe if you weren’t so OCD, you’d have more friends to invite to this mythical party we’re not actually gonna have.” She’s worried. And relentless.
“Are those new sneakers?” she asks.
“Nope, you’ve seen them like a thousand times.”
“Oh, they seem different.”
“They’re exactly the same as all the other ones. Jesus, Mom.”
Another wall.
Mom comes over and kisses me on the forehead. Crisis defused. Then she yells right in my ear.
“Ray! Come upstairs!”
“No way,” I say. “Absolutely not.” I immediately feel my face go red and hot and feel like I’m gonna cry, which is the worst feeling because the more you think about it, the more you almost do actually cry.
The “no big deal” conversation my dad was referring to is the fact that my parents want me to see a psychiatrist.
“We’re worried about you,” Mom says, confirming what I already know. “We feel like your symptoms are getting worse. We want you to talk to someone. What if you’re suffering from depression?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“You’re not fine. We just want to help,” she says.
“Dad!” I plead.
As much as they try to put up a united front, Dad is easier to crack. But right now he’s playing it safe.
“Listen to your mother.”
The thing is, my mom is usually right. If I really think back on everything she’s ever told me or advised me to do, I can’t come up with one example of her being wrong. Last time me and Steve went to the movies, I told her we were gonna leave at 7:30. She said to leave at 7:15 just in case it sold out. We got the last tickets. What colleges to apply to, which laptop to buy, whether milk’s gone bad—right, right, and right. She is never wrong. And, deep down, I know she’s right about this, too. On one hand, I’m pretty normal. I don’t cut myself or throw up after I eat or listen to Marilyn Manson with a rope tied around my neck. On the other hand, I have to turn the lock on my school locker exactly fourteen times before walking away, I check myself for ticks every time I brush against a blade of grass, and, for the love of God, I counted how many times I jerked off for an entire year.
“One of the teachers at my school gave me the name of an excellent psychiatrist,” Mom says. “Just go once. That’s all we’re asking.”
Sometimes I daydream about being free from my compulsions. Not having to walk the same exact route every day in school. Touching the food in the cafeteria with my hands. But I’m still not ready to talk to someone about it.
“And if you like her,” Mom continues, “you just have to go once a week—for an hour. Fifty minutes actually.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Molly,” Dad says. “We still don’t know if insurance is gonna cover this.”
I have three inner monologues going at once. One is freaking out about having to talk to someone about all my craziness, most of which my parents aren’t even aware of. The second is actually kinda secretly hoping to be able to talk to someone about all my craziness. And the third is laughing at my dad, who is less concerned with his mentally ill son and more concerned about how much it’s gonna cost.
“Ray…” my mom says, giving Dad the death stare. He stops talking immediately and looks at his feet. Mom turns to me.
“Honey, remember when you showed me that Flickapedia article about OCD and I said that—”
“Wikipedia.”
“What?”
“Mom, it’s Wikipedia. Not Flickapedia.”
“Sorry, Wikipedia. Do you remember when you showed me that article?”
“Yes.”
I never should have showed her that article.
“Chuck, I think that might have been a cry for help.”
A cry for what? Seriously, Mom?
“I’ve been doing some research since then,” she says, “and I think you’re right. You probably have obsessive-compulsive disorder. And that’s great.”
“How the hell is that great?”
“Because now we know what’s wrong and you can get treatment.”
“But I don’t wanna see a psychiatrist.”
I’m starting to tear up. Goddamnit. This just makes my mom more upset, my dad more uncomfortable, and me feel more like a pussy.
“Chuck, it’s okay,” Dad says. “Just give it a try. I’ll take you. I’ll sit there in the waiting room. If you never want to go back again, you don’t have to. And afterwards we can go to GameStop.”
My nose is fucking running.
“A lot of people see shrinks,” he adds. “I even saw one after Grandpa died.”
I Googled it later, and apparently “shrink” is short for “head-
shrinker,” which is literally what these tribes in the Amazon do to skulls to make them into trophies and stuff. Somewhere along the way, it became slang for “therapist.” Appropriate, I think.
So now my dad is both bribing me with video games and telling me he’s seen a shrink, too. Well played, Dad.
“Okay,” I sniffle.
“Okay?” Mom asks.
“Yes. Can I have a tissue?”
Dad takes out one of the handkerchiefs that he always carries around and holds it on my nose so that all I have to do is blow. Then he folds it up and puts it back in his pocket.
“Gross, Dad!”
We all share a snicker and I wipe my eyes. It’s official: Chuck Taylor is going to see a shrink.
Beth comes bounding down the stairs, just in time for pasta shells.
“What are you guys talking about?” she asks, as always completely oblivious.
Rocking yellow Cons today: nervous. Inside a glass case hanging on the wall of the lobby is a listing of all the medical offices in the building. I see my shrink first because she has the longest name:
DR. AHLADITA SRINIVASAN
CHILD AND ADOLESCENT THERAPY
I have a little of that upset feeling in my stomach. Dad walks behind me, perhaps, I suspect, because he thinks I’m gonna make a run for it.
Dr. Srinivasan’s office is on the thirteenth floor, which is both A) kind of ironic considering she deals with nutcases all day and B) not that big a deal because the number thirteen isn’t one of my “things.” I always think it’s stupid that some buildings don’t have a thirteenth floor because it’s unlucky. It’s just a number. (Says the guy with the masturbation tally.)
Me and Dad get into the elevator but I don’t press the button even though I’m standing closest. Elevator buttons are one of my “things.” You know how disgusting they are? How many people pick their nose and then press their floor? I take a step back. Dad sighs then reaches over and hits the button. He isn’t as good as Mom is about remembering what my things are.
The waiting room is small and, thankfully, empty. It kind of looks like the study a superhero would have. Everything is brown and plain, but I imagine if you pulled one of the books on the shelf, a secret lair would open up behind the fish tank. There’s a few little plastic kiddy chairs in one corner and stacks of ragged magazines on the coffee table, like Highlights, Time for Kids, and American Girl. How old are the people who come here? Can you be nine and be depressed?
Thinking it will impress Dad, I grab a regular, not-for-kids Sports Illustrated, but it turns out to be two years old. Ahladita Srinivasan needs newer magazines.
We only wait a few minutes before the door to the office itself opens, and Dr. Srinivasan comes out with a really tall girl. Like, really tall. I’m average height for a seventeen-year-old and Beth is a little taller than me. This girl is taller than Beth. Maybe that’s this girl’s problem: tallness. She walks right past us. I figure she’s about my age. And since she doesn’t have anyone waiting there to pick her up, she must have driven herself. Suddenly I feel really stupid sitting there with my dad.
Dr. Srinivasan looks like a pear. She’s got a tiny little head and the rest of her body just expands from there. Two things about her I totally predicted: she wears glasses and she has lots of jewelry around her neck. That’s straight out of the Indian psychiatrist playbook. The one thing I didn’t expect: she’s wearing sneakers. Those kind of old-school, low-top Nikes that are sort of suede. Blue with a yellow swoosh. I’m a Converse man myself, of course, but I respect the choice.
“You must be Chuck Taylor?” she says to me, as me and Dad stand up.
My dad speaks first.
“I’m Ray, Chuck’s dad. You spoke to my wife, Molly, on the phone.”
“Yes, of course. It’s wonderful to meet you both. Chuck, why don’t you come in and have a seat? Mr. Taylor, please make yourself comfortable and enjoy a magazine?”
I take one last look at Dad before trudging inside. Dr. Srinivasan’s office is like a much more modern version of the waiting room. It smells like new carpet with a dash of cinnamon. Sitting on a shelf is one of those electronic sound machine things. I think it’s on babbling-brook mode. There are two leather chairs. Between them is a coffee table. On that table is a box of tissues. It’s empty. That doesn’t seem good. We sit down.
“How are you today, Chuck?”
I look her in the eye for the first time. “Okay, I guess.”
“The first thing I want to tell you is that everything we talk about in here is confidential? Unless there are extraordinary circumstances in which I feel you are in danger, anything you tell me stays in this room? Do you understand?”
Dr. Srinivasan has a thick accent, which, I quickly realize, goes up at the end of some of her sentences, so that it seems like she’s asking a question even when she’s not.
“Chuck? This is important?”
“Sorry … are you asking me if I understand, or if this is important?
“If you understand, yes?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
She crosses her legs and places a small notepad on her lap. I still can’t believe she’s wearing sneakers and a dress. So weird.
“Typically, Chuck, during my first session, I do what is known as an ‘intake.’ All that means is that I get some background information about you so that we can better work together to help you?”
“Yes,” I say instinctively.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t sure if that was a question.”
She just smiles. “So, Chuck, tell me about yourself?”
Despite the fact that no one has ever asked me that in my entire life—which is kinda sad I must say—I have absolutely no desire to spill my guts to some stranger. I clam up.
“It’s okay, Chuck,” she says, tapping her pen on the notepad. “Start wherever you’d like?”
It’s gonna be a long fifty minutes …
Unfortunately, Monday has finally arrived. Steve is driving me to school in his used powder blue Ford Taurus. My parents won’t buy me a car, but apparently the video game plastic-casing business is quite lucrative for the Sludgelackers.
“So how long did you sit there?” Steve asks.
“Like half an hour.”
“Without saying anything?”
“I mean, she said, ‘Tell me about yourself.’ What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. You’re a neat freak. You have more shoes than Carrie Bradshaw.”
“Carrie Bradshaw?”
“Yeah, you know, from Sex and the City?”
“Steve, you’re a fucking weirdo.”
“Hey, I’m not the one seeing a shrink.”
We crawl through Plainville on the way to school. The streets are snowy and icy, and Steve’s Taurus doesn’t exactly have four-wheel drive. Plainville is the standard kind of suburb where every house looks pretty much the same. When they’re covered by snow, though, every house looks identical. God I want to leave this place.
“So are you gonna go back?” Steve asks.
“Huh?”
“To the shrink. Are you gonna go back to the shrink?”
“Psychiatrist. I don’t know. I doubt my dad is gonna take me to GameStop after every session.”
“I can’t believe you got three new games. My dad makes all the cases and he still doesn’t hook me up with anything. I wish I was crazy. You’re definitely coming over after school to play.”
“Yeah, well,” I continue, “I guess we did talk about some stuff toward the end of the session. I told her how annoying Beth is.”
“Really? What else did you tell her about Beth?”
Steve is in love with Beth. Ever since we were in ninth grade and Beth was in seventh, he’s been obsessed with her. It’s worse than when he talks about his hand job because this … this is my fucking sister. He asks me to set him up with her about once a week. Seriously? No. And it’s not like I have any sway with Beth anyway. Besi
des, Beth thinks Steve is a total dork. She hasn’t told me this outright, but I kind of assumed it when I informed her that Steve had offered to give her a ride to school every day and she said she’d rather take the bus.
“I don’t remember what I told her exactly,” I say. “Mostly that Beth’s annoying and I hate her.”
“Come on. Beth isn’t annoying. She’s a lovely … blossoming young woman.”
“Steve, what did I say about talking about my sister? I will kill you.”
“Not if Parker gets me first.”
We drive in silence for a while. Parker Goldberg is the captain of the Plainville soccer team and Steve’s nemesis. Although, I think “nemesis” isn’t really the right word. It implies that Parker is the villain in a comic book that Steve does battle with. In reality, it’s a little more one-sided. Parker is a bully who Steve is powerless to stop. It was Parker who, on Steve’s first day of school in fourth grade, shouted out “Fudge Packer!” as soon as he was introduced to the class. Steve looks like a short, pale Milhouse from The Simpsons (without the glasses), so he’s already an easy target, but Parker has tormented him every day since. Sometimes verbally, sometimes physically, and sometimes he just steals Steve’s lunch money, which is fucking ridiculous. Who actually steals lunch money? It sounds like it’s from a bad Saved by the Bell rerun. At least be original, Parker.
I change the subject. “So what do you think Senior Weekend is gonna be?”
“I heard it’s gonna be paintball,” Steve says.
“There’s no way it’s gonna be paintball. But that would be awesome.”
Senior Weekend is literally the only thing I’m looking forward to between now and college. It takes place at the end of the school year, a couple of weeks before prom. Student government decides on the location and, even though it’s not officially sanctioned by the school, it’s a tradition that’s gone on for so long that they kinda just look the other way. Basically, it’s just an overnight trip somewhere. But the sweet part is that it’s the only time the entire senior class gets together for a non-school event. The nerds go, the popular kids go, and even me and Steve will go. One year it was laser tag. Last year it was to an amusement park. The location is always kept secret until it’s announced before first period on the first day back after winter break. I’m not gonna lie: I’m super excited. I do not wear my blue Cons very often, but today I’m rocking them proudly.