by Aaron Karo
We pull into the parking lot. Our town is adjacent to a much smaller town called West Lake, and kids from both towns go to one school: Plainville–West Lake JFK. Written out completely, it’s Plainville–West Lake John Fitzgerald Kennedy High School. Longest school name in American history. It has been the site of many indignities for me and Steve. But today, the PWLJFKHS senior parking lot is buzzing with anticipation.
Steve’s right: Stacey Simpson’s tits do look bigger. As president of the senior class, she’s standing onstage in the school auditorium with the rest of student government. The other kids in our class have also arrived early before first period, and we’re all milling about, waiting for the announcement. Steve catches me gawking at Stacey.
“I told you,” he whispers. “Cantaloupes.”
What I wouldn’t give to see Stacey naked. Or any girl for that matter who isn’t streaming on a free porn site. Despite my best efforts not to, I just began my masturbation tally again on January 1st. I don’t know why I’m compelled to keep track of it. What is wrong with me? And to make matters worse, I’m already beating (no pun intended) last year’s pace. Now Stacey is jumping up and down with glee upon seeing one of her girl friends. Whoa. At least I have some new material in case the Internet goes down.
Me and Steve are both mesmerized, but that trance is soon interrupted when Parker arrives. He’s almost exactly my size, but just cut. And no matter what the weather or occasion, he always always always wears those warm-up pants with the snaps that go all the way up the sides. When I’ve half watched an NBA game with my dad, I’ve seen the players wear the same ones on the bench, and then just rip them off before they go into the game. I guess they’re sorta cool—if you’re in the NBA.
Parker walks by, roughly elbows Steve, mutters, “Welcome back, Fudge Packer,” then casually strolls away toward the rest of the soccer jocks, all in one fluid motion. He’s one multitasking bully.
Steve seems to take it in stride (as always) but I feel powerless to help. I feel even more awful because Parker completely ignores me. I almost want him to hit me. At least then I could commiserate with Steve—and have someone in this school actually notice me. Steve rubs his arm. Then again, maybe it’s better to be ignored. We sit.
Stacey finally struts to the microphone on the stage as the four hundred or so seniors wait with bated breath in front of the auditorium.
“Hello, everybody!” she chirps. “As you all know, today is the day when the location of Senior Weekend is revealed.”
Everyone cheers and whistles.
“I’m thrilled to announce that this year, Senior Weekend will be a camping trip! We’ll be camping overnight at the Randall Kaufman campgrounds in West Lake. There’s gonna be bonfires and s’mores … and beverages. So get those sleeping bags and tents ready because it’s gonna be a blast!”
My heart sinks. That feeling like just before you’re about to go on the big drop on a roller coaster. Camping? Fucking camping?
All the other seniors are thrilled. They hoot and holler and slap each other five and brag about what kind of alcohol they’re gonna bring, even though the trip is five months away. I sit in my seat and don’t move.
Camping is my worst-case scenario. The equivalent of an asteroid hitting Earth and the resulting debris blocking out the sun and killing all the dinosaurs. Being outdoors—sleeping outdoors!—for two days? Grass? Dirt? No showers? Bugs? Maybe some weird snakes or something? Eating messy s’mores with no place to wash up? Going to the bathroom in a porta-potty … or in the bushes? This is a nightmare. An absolute nightmare.
My face starts to get red and hot again. Thankfully most of the class is already filing out. Steve is still sitting next to me, unclear what the problem is.
“I’m not going,” I say resolutely.
“What?” he says.
“I’m not going camping.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s just not my thing.”
“You’ve been talking about this since freshman year.”
“Whatever, it’s not that big a deal.”
“Not that big a deal? Wait. Is this because of your OCD thing?”
“No. I just don’t like camping.”
“Have you ever been?”
“No.”
“Well, last summer—”
“I don’t want to hear about your fucking hand job, Steve.”
“I’m not talking about that. You know I went with my parents to all those national parks. We camped a couple of nights. It’s awesome.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll think about it.”
But I already know I’m not gonna go. Just the thought of it makes me want to wash my hands. It makes me sad. All I want to do is end school on a high note. Now even that’s ruined. Why couldn’t we have gone to a water park or something? Some place with facilities. Life really sucks sometimes.
“Well, if you don’t go,” Steve says, “then I won’t go.”
While it’s a nice gesture, I know Steve won’t go without me anyway. He’s probably worried about getting beaten to a bloody pulp by Parker and left to die in the woods alone.
The first-period bell rings. It’s time to continue my meager high school existence. College can’t come soon enough.
“We’ll talk about it later, Chuck. Most likely when we’re playing your new video games in my basement after school.”
I barely acknowledge him. I want to sit here until my face stops being so red.
Calc AB with Mr. Cimaglia is my first-period class. Thankfully, he hasn’t started yet as I trudge in a minute late. I sit at my desk. Even my randomly assigned class seating ensures no one pays much attention to me—not too close to the front but not too far in the back either. Kanha Ramesh, a kid me and Steve eat lunch with, and the only other person in school I speak to on a semi-regular basis, sits a few rows back. I don’t turn to say hello.
I stare at my blue Cons. The one drawback of my system is that I’m stuck with whichever ones I put on in the morning. Excited is the last thing I feel now.
I’m so preoccupied with that goddamn camping trip I barely notice that Principal Rodriguez has come to the door to talk to Mr. Cimaglia. When I finally look up again, I realize that Mr. Cimaglia is now standing in front of the class, introducing a new student.
I’m blindsided. I clutch the sides of my desk like it’s about to achieve flight. This girl, whoever she is, is beautiful. She’s about an inch shorter than me, with bright red bangs that pretty much cover her eyes. The next thing I notice is that she doesn’t have any freckles. All the gingers I’ve ever met have had tons of freckles. But not her. Her skin is completely clear. She brushes the hair out of her blue eyes, but it keeps returning right back to where it started. She seems really uncomfortable standing up there. But who wouldn’t be? And who the hell is she?
Mr. Cimaglia is so bald his scalp has a glare, and he speaks in total monotone. Listening to him is like when you enter something into an automated voice system and it repeats the number back to you all robotic-like. “Can I have your attention, please,” he says. “Your attention, please. I’d like to introduce a new student who will be joining the class. This is Amy Huntington. She just moved here from San Diego. Please welcome her.”
Amy. Amy …
Amy does kind of a half curtsy / half smile / half eye roll. Yeah, I know that’s too many halves (and this is math class to boot), but that’s the best way to describe it. She sits down—one row to the right of me and two seats ahead of me. She never even looks in my direction. It’s hard to tell where she’s looking with those bangs, but I’m positive she doesn’t look in my direction. She’s wearing those shoes that girls wear that look like ballet slippers. Usually pretty dumb. She pulls it off, though. Who are you, Amy Huntington? And who changes high schools six months before graduation?
Mr. Cimaglia begins the class. We’re picking up where we left off before winter break, with antiderivatives. I understand them pretty well and find them inc
redibly boring (as usual), so I have a good opportunity to stare at Amy. When Mr. Cimaglia starts to write on the board, Amy opens up her notebook and realizes she doesn’t have a pen. She looks upset. I have two pens. Say something, Chuck. Say something!
Wendy Perfit, the token brunette in Stacey’s gaggle of pretty girls, notices and hands her one. I miss my chance like a moron. Amy smiles. Her smile … well, it makes me smile.
“Chuck? Chuck. Is something funny?”
Oh crap. Mr. Cimaglia catches me with a stupid, shit-eating grin on my face.
“No, Mr. Cimaglia. Sorry.”
I look down in embarrassment, past my textbook, through the desk, and into the floor. Then I sneak a quick glance to see if Amy has looked back at me. But she just sits there facing straight ahead. She doesn’t look back the entire class. Believe me, I would know if she did. I’m having that just-about-to-drop-on-a-roller-coaster feeling like before. But this time it’s something different.
Amy brushes her hair out of her eyes again. I stifle another smile. Suddenly, Senior Weekend seems like the least important thing in the world.
Turns out I did wear the right Cons today after all.
After school, in Steve’s basement, I do not shut up about Amy. At least now Steve understands how I feel about hearing about his hand job.
“How come no hot, mysterious girls come to my classes?” Steve says. “I knew I should have taken Calc with Cimaglia.”
“I’m telling you, Steve,” I say, “this is the girl I’ve been waiting for.”
“Waiting for?”
“Yeah.”
“Implying you have the capability to hook up with any girl at school but were just waiting for one in particular?”
I take out one of my new video games and taunt Steve with it.
“You really don’t want to play this, do you?”
“Okay, okay, you win,” he says. “So what are you gonna do? Are you gonna talk to her?”
Obviously not.
“Yes. I’m gonna talk to her.”
“Really?”
No, not really.
“Definitely. I’m definitely gonna talk to her.”
Steve wrinkles his forehead.
“I think you’re gonna need a plan, Chuck.”
“You’re right. What should I do?”
“Well, what do we know about her?”
“Her hair gets in her eyes a lot,” I say. I ponder this. Then I have a thought: “I could get her a headband or something!”
Steve just looks at me. “You’re better than that,” he says.
“Okay. Headband is a bad idea.”
“What else?”
“Well, she seems to have a shortage of pens.”
“Now we’re talking,” Steve says, grinning.
* * *
Today in Calc, I’ve come prepared—with like thirty pens. Ten black, ten blue, a pink one I stole from Beth, a couple of rollerballs thrown in for good measure, and even one of those giant pens where you can change the color it writes in. If Amy needs a pen, I’m her guy. There’s only one problem, though: Amy isn’t here. The bell rings and Mr. Cimaglia picks up the lesson (again with the fucking antiderivatives), but Amy’s seat is empty. No joke: for a minute I think I’ve imagined the whole thing. Pretty girls don’t just show up magically. Not in my life anyway. But then, out of nowhere (okay, the hallway), she appears.
“I’m sorry. I got lost,” Amy says, as she scurries into the classroom. She seems frazzled and Mr. Cimaglia gives her a friendly smile.
“No problem. We were just getting started,” he says.
Amy sits down and blows her bangs out of her eyes. She seems overheated—like she just jogged to class after getting turned around. I feel bad for her. What she really needs is a glass of cold water, and all I have are lots and lots of pens. Story of my life.
To add insult to injury, Amy already has a pen. And it’s not the same one that Wendy gave her yesterday. So either she brought one from home, or she got another pen from someone else between yesterday’s class and today’s. I’m convinced it’s the latter scenario. Which means Amy is having contact with other kids in school—kids who will quickly realize how awesome and pretty she is. Soon I’ll have even less of a shot than the minuscule one I’m already clinging to. Time is not on my side.
* * *
“I still can’t believe she already had a pen,” I say to Steve, as he drives me home after school.
“Well, that was one of the risks we discussed with the pen strategy,” he says.
It’s a bullshit strategy and we both know it. I’m just stalling and Steve is enabling me.
“What if I friended her on Facebook?” I offer.
“Hmmm…” Steve ponders. “Is creepy and stalkerish the look you’re going for?”
“How is that creepy and stalkerish?”
“Well, for one, she has no idea who you are. That’s the creepy part. And friending someone you haven’t actually spoken to in real life? That’s the stalker part.”
“She probably wouldn’t even accept my request anyway,” I say. “I mean, Beth hasn’t.”
“Beth hasn’t accepted mine either.”
“What?”
I don’t think Steve meant to let that slip out.
“Why the fuck are you friending my sister?”
“It was a few months ago. Remember? We were at your house and Beth walked by and said, ‘Hi, Steve.’ It was a Tuesday.”
“I do not remember that.”
“Oh I remember it exactly. She said, ‘Hi, Steve.’ Just like that: Hi, Steve.”
“Okay, Jesus, I get it. So you felt that interaction warranted a friend request?”
“Chuck, we’re not talking about me here. We’re talking about Amy. Right?”
I’m fully aware that Steve is trying to change the subject on me. But Amy is my top priority.
“Right,” I concede. “We’re talking about Amy.”
We continue home, Steve’s Taurus barely getting any traction in the snow.
“You wanna hang out now?” he says. “We can figure out your next move.”
“I can’t. I have an appointment with Dr. S.”
Since I went to the shrink last week, Mom has been hassling me to go back. I knew that was coming when I agreed to go in the first place. And although I haven’t admitted it to Mom, I don’t hate the idea of going back. Dr. S. is pretty nice, I guess. It’s cool to have someone else who cares. Even if she’s getting paid for it.
“Who the hell is Dr. S.?” Steve asks.
“Dr. Srinivasan. The psychiatrist. She told me to call her Dr. S.”
“Dr. S. kinda sounds like that dermatologist who advertises on bus stops.”
This was true.
“Whatever,” I say, and leave it at that. “I’ll text you afterwards.”
We don’t talk much the rest of the way home. I don’t know what Steve is thinking, but every time we hit a patch of snow and the car bumps up and down, I can hear all the pens flying around in my backpack. Something tells me I’ll need more than Bics to win Amy over.
I drive Mom’s car to Dr. S.’s office this time. When I arrive, there’s no patient before me. Maybe it’s a slow day in the crazy business.
Dr. S. is wearing sneakers again. Thankfully, they’re the same ones as last time. If my shrink had some sort of weird sneaker fetish, too, I’d freak out.
“I thought that our first session was successful?” Dr. S. says/asks. “I understand you are hesitant to share everything with me at first. This is normal. I suggest that today we start to talk a little bit about your symptoms, yes?”
“Like, my routines?”
“Exactly. Your routines. What kinds of things do you do?”
I take a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
“Well, I wash my hands a lot. Like, all the time. Even when they’re not dirty.”
Dr. S. nods.
“Um, I have this thing with the stove in my house. I always have to
check the burner thingies. Make sure they’re not on.”
“How do you make sure they’re not on?”
“I touch them over and over again. I stare at the knobs. I listen for the gas … which is kinda ironic now that I think about it, since it’s electric.”
I chuckle at my own idiocy. Dr. S. barely smirks then makes a note in her little pad. For some reason, I imagine she’s playing hangman and slowly spelling out N-U-T-C-A-S-E.
“Continue?”
“I also make a million lists. Like, To Do lists. Sometimes of stupid stuff, like ‘make bed.’ I make lists over and over again and then rewrite them for no reason.”
I didn’t always consider list making one of my things, but apparently it’s a common OCD trait. Stupid Wikipedia. Now I’m self-conscious about it. Dr. S. nods again.
“I also have to knock on wood,” I say.
Dr. S. looks confused, so I have to explain this one.
“If I have a bad thought, I have to knock on wood. You know, that stupid expression?”
“Yes, yes, I’m familiar?” she says.
“I don’t knock on actual wood, because most wood is gross. But I do have to knock on something when I have a bad thought. Even if it’s just against my leg or whatever.”
I stop there. I decide to leave out the beat-off tally and the peeing and the Converse addiction. I think she has plenty to work with.
Dr. S. puts her pen down. “So,” she says, “what happens if you don’t do these things?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t wash your hands or check the stove or make a list or knock on wood, what happens?”
“Uh,” I stammer, “I don’t know. I’ve never not done them.”
I think about all the sleepless nights I’ve spent obsessing over whether the stove was turned off or whether I had to pee again. And then getting up to check the stove and pee again just so I could try to relax.