by Aaron Karo
“Okay, so what happens if, for instance, your hands get dirty and you’re not in a place where you can wash them right away?”
I squirm in my seat.
“Well … I guess … I feel, like, contaminated. Like my hands are dirty and then that’s gonna get in my mouth or eyes or something and I’m gonna get sick.”
I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel the urge to prove to Dr. S. that I’m not crazy. I start to get animated. “But here’s the thing—I stare at my hands and I can’t do anything else until I wash them—even if they’re really not that dirty—but I know I’m not gonna get sick. Like, I know what I’m doing doesn’t make any sense.”
Dr. S. smiles. “Chuck, the very definition of obsessive-compulsive disorder is having time-consuming, intrusive thoughts and doing repetitive behaviors to reduce anxiety? But just as important, sufferers are aware that these thoughts and behaviors are irrational.”
Fuck me. Seriously?
“Oh” is all I say.
“Making a clinical diagnosis is not an exact science,” she continues, “and will take several sessions. But all signs point toward OCD as you and your parents suspect? In fact, I would go so far as to say your case is, well, textbook.”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be proud of this or what.
“So, uh, now what do we do?” I mumble.
“OCD is linked to abnormalities in the brain, cycles that get caught on repeat. Luckily, there are ways to break the cycles and retrain your brain, so to speak? Have you ever heard of cognitive behavioral therapy, Chuck?”
Even though it’s only our second session, I’m already starting to pick up on when Dr. S. is asking an actual question.
“No,” I say. “What is it?”
“CBT essentially means exposing you to some of your OCD triggers so that you become desensitized to them?”
“So, like, if I have to turn my lock fourteen times before walking away … I just, like, don’t do that?”
“Gradually, yes. Eventually you will realize that there are no repercussions if you do not perform the task, and that begins to weaken the compulsion in your brain?”
“That sounds … hard.”
“Many patients find this very difficult, which is why it is a slow process?”
My head is throbbing. I’m beginning to doubt my decision to agree to another session. My senior year is already ruined. The girl I’ve been waiting for doesn’t even know who I am. The last thing I need is this. To be honest, I kinda want to punch Dr. S. right in the face.
“Chuck? Are you listening to me?”
I don’t even realize Dr. S. is still talking. I snap out of it and push aside the thought about punching her in the face. But not before I nonchalantly reach down and tap my knee. I hope she doesn’t realize I just knocked on wood.
When I sit down in the cafeteria for lunch, Steve and Kanha are already eating. It’s the same table we always eat at, of course, and they’ve reserved my usual seat, lest I freak out.
Kanha is a scrawny Indian kid, and like my not-so-scrawny Indian psychiatrist, he’s sometimes hard to understand. Not because he has an accent—he doesn’t—but because for some reason he talks like a rapper.
“Yo dog,” he says, “Sludgelacker says you’re crushing on the new girl.”
I play it cool. “Who, Amy?”
“Yeah, Amy. She’s sitting right behind you, yo.”
I freeze. Is he serious? I spent Calc this morning staring at Amy—she was wearing this cute little bow thing in her hair that still did nothing to tame those bangs—but she’s never been in the cafeteria during my lunch period before.
Kanha is laughing at me. Steve is laughing, too, which is kind of annoying because I feel like they’re ganging up on me. Very, very slowly I turn around. Holy crap. They’re not joking. Amy is sitting at the table behind me, with Stacey and Wendy. I stare for a moment too long and me and Amy’s eyes meet for a split second. Shit! I spin back around toward Steve and Kanha, almost spilling my soda in the process.
“She looked at me,” I say breathlessly.
“Of course she looked at you, you were staring at her like a psycho,” Steve says.
“You’re straight trippin’ yo,” Kanha adds.
“What does that even mean?” I say, starting to get annoyed again.
Kanha is cornered. “Uh, actually I’m not sure,” he admits.
“Is Amy already friends with Stacey and Wendy?” I ask. “I mean, if she’s in with that crew that means I have no chance. Shit.” I’m already defeated.
“Chuck,” Steve says, waiting for me to look up at him. “Relax. I’m pretty sure Stacey was assigned to show Amy around, you know because she’s on student government? And Wendy, well, you know Wendy just follows Stacey wherever she goes. They’re probably just being nice or whatever.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “You’re probably right.”
Fucking Steve, man. Say what you want about the guy, but he’s a great friend. He almost always knows exactly what to say to calm me down.
“Why don’t we do this,” Steve continues. “Let’s see if we can hear what they’re talking about.”
“That’s a good idea, dog,” Kanha chimes in.
Me and Steve both just stare at him and roll our eyes. Then all three of us get really quiet and attempt to sorta lean in the direction of Amy’s table. It’s pretty noisy in the cafeteria but I think I can make out some of what Amy is saying.
“Aw, I think … adorable,” I hear her say. “Ha ha, that’s true. I guess I … like that. No, he’s cute! Do you … when he does … antiderivatives.”
I look at Steve and Kanha wide-eyed. “Dude,” I say, “she’s talking about Calc! You think, maybe, she’s talking about … me? She definitely said ‘antiderivatives.’”
“I thought she said, ‘Can’t I deliver this,’” Steve says.
“I thought she said, ‘Ham and configure tits,’” Kanha says.
“I hate you guys,” I retort. “I really think she’s talking about me.” So what if I’m being a little optimistic? Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Suddenly, Steve and Kanha sit straight up.
“What?” I say.
“Amy,” Steve says. “She’s getting up.”
I don’t even have to turn and look because within seconds Amy is standing two feet away from me, about to empty the contents of her lunch tray into the garbage can. She turns and looks back at Stacey and Wendy. She laughs at something they’re saying. She has the greatest laugh ever. It’s an enthusiastic laugh; she’s not holding back—but it’s not all high and squeaky. It’s perfect.
“I’m telling you,” she says to Stacey and Wendy, “I think Mr. Cimaglia is cute. He’s like a little pet robot or something.”
I feel like I got punched in the stomach. Chuck, you’re a fucking idiot. She wasn’t talking about you; she was talking about your stupid Calc teacher!
Steve and Kanha don’t say anything, wisely choosing to let me suffer in silence.
Then, Amy turns back to the garbage can and the crust of her pizza falls off her tray, landing on the floor only inches from my left Con (gray: ambivalent).
Time seems to stand still. Be a fucking normal human being, Chuck, and pick up the pretty girl’s crust. I try to move my hands but they’re frozen. I want to help, but it’s just so … gross. Half-eaten food + school cafeteria floor = no way. I hate myself.
After what seems like an eternity, Amy bends down and picks up the crust. We make eye contact again. My lips start talking before I even realize what’s happening.
“Sorry,” I mutter in Amy’s general direction. Sorry? Why did you just say that?
Amy pauses and looks at me the way, I imagine, a scientist would study a mutant monkey he’s just captured.
But Amy doesn’t seem to judge, or wrinkle her nose at my lack of chivalry or the strange, two-syllable grunt I’ve just vomited out. Instead, for a brief second, the corner of Amy’s mouth turns up. I think she’s �
�� grinning at me. But in a nice way.
Before I can completely register what’s going on, she stands up, throws her trash away, waves goodbye to Stacey and Wendy, and leaves. It all goes by in a flash.
I look back at Steve and Kanha, who are momentarily speechless.
“Dog,” Kanha finally says, “that was weird, yo.”
Weird yo indeed.
It’s been a rough couple of weeks. In an effort to switch things up, me and Steve hang out at my house for a change, and we dust off the Wii. It’s not my system of choice but Beth and her friends like to play it sometimes. I need to blow off some steam and we’re not about to go outside, considering it’s cold as balls.
The game of the day is Wii Boxing. If you’ve never played, basically the point is to look like a giant moron. You don’t really box so much as you try to pump your fists out in front of you as quickly as possible, kind of like you’re doing an invisible elliptical machine in a gym.
Steve’s beaten me five times in a row and I’m actually starting to sweat. Luckily (but annoyingly), he gets distracted when Beth meanders into the living room and plants herself on the couch.
“What are you doing?” I half snarl at her.
“Nothing,” she says. Then: “You guys suck.”
“You suck,” I say.
She crosses her arms. Steve tries to steal a glance at her and I take the opportunity to land a savage on-screen uppercut. Still, he comes back and beats me.
“Are you kidding me? How are you so good at this game?”
“Natural talent, Chuck. Natural talent.”
“Come on, man, you’re like a savant.”
“What can I say? Years of practice.”
“At what? Jerking off?”
Steve playfully gives me an actual punch on the arm.
“Gross!” Beth interjects from the background.
Me and Steve both stop and look at her.
“Ask her,” Steve suggests.
“What? No, dude,” I respond.
Steve shakes his head. “Not about me,” he whispers. “About Amy.”
I sigh. As much as I can’t stand Beth, and hate the fact that she’s so fucking annoying and more popular than me, and has more friends than me, and goes to more parties than me (i.e., more than zero), and has had more boyfriends than I’ve had girlfriends (again, anything beats zero), Steve has been trying to work into my head that she’s a valuable resource.
“Who’s Amy?” Beth asks shrilly.
I sigh again. “Just some girl,” I say, “who I kinda…”
“Who you kinda like!?” Beth exclaims. “Oooooh, Chuck has a girlfriend!”
“Will you shut up? Forget it.” I wish Chuck had a girlfriend …
“Have you talked to her?” Beth asks. I can no longer tell if she’s mocking me or not.
I indulge her. “Well, sorta. Once. I didn’t pick up her pizza crust and then I said, ‘Sorry,’ and she sorta smiled at me. I guess you could say that’s been the extent.”
Beth seems to ignore my entire summary. “Do you know what girls like?” she asks.
I look at Steve, who has clammed shut in the presence of my snot-nosed little sister.
“Soccer players? Rich guys? Confidence?” I offer.
“Not confidence. Compliments,” she says.
“What?”
“Girls like compliments. Fact. Pick something about her—anything—and say it’s pretty.”
“Just stroll up to her, pick something, and say it’s pretty? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I debate this internally.
“Are you fucking with me, Beth?”
“Don’t curse at me! I’m telling Mom.”
Clearly this conversation has reached its natural conclusion. Beth gets up to leave.
“Hey, Beth,” Steve spouts out of nowhere.
Beth pauses and looks around dramatically. “Are you talking to me?” she asks.
What. A. Bitch.
“Yeah,” Steve sputters. “Um, I can drive you to school if you want. You know, since I’m already taking Chuck.”
Beth looks Steve up and down, perhaps pondering whether he even deserves a verbal response. “No thanks; I have a ride.” And then she struts out of the room.
Me and Steve turn back to the Wii.
“I’m gonna pretend that didn’t happen,” I say.
“Me too,” Steve says, as he resumes pummeling me virtually.
I resolve never to play this game with him again.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Wait; that didn’t feel right. One, two, three, four, five, six … did I miss three? Shit. One more time. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Got it.
I’ve been spinning the lock on my hall locker for the past few minutes. I know it’s locked, and there’s not even anything that valuable inside, but I’m afraid what might happen if I don’t spin it fourteen times and then leave it precisely at zero. Better safe than sorry.
Already mentally drained, I head to Calc. I’m wearing my yellow Cons. Why so nervous? Well, today is the day I’m gonna talk to Amy for the first time (the pizza crust / “sorry” episode notwithstanding). I’m just gonna go up to her, pick something pretty, and compliment her. I mean, this shouldn’t be too hard, everything about her is pretty. Still, I can’t help but wonder in the back of my head if Beth is messing with me. I wouldn’t put it past her.
I get to class, nod to Kanha, and notice Amy is already there, sitting quietly and texting someone. Who is she texting? I sit. Her eyes never leave her phone.
As Mr. Cimaglia starts the class, I study Amy’s outfit (I’m not worried about her looking back and catching me because she hasn’t looked back once since I’ve known her). She’s wearing the same shoes she wore the first time I saw her (“ballet flats”—I Googled it). She’s got on ripped jeans and a sort of camouflage jacket. But she doesn’t look like a tomboy in it, she just looks … hip. I could never pull off a jacket like that; I’d look like a fucking idiot. But that’s it—I can’t see what she’s wearing underneath the jacket and she’s not wearing any jewelry or anything in her hair. I don’t have a lot to work with here. I shuffle my Cons beneath my desk.
“Why don’t we play a little game,” Mr. Cimaglia says to the class. He doesn’t put emphasis on any of the words or even ask it like a question (basically the exact opposite of Dr. S.). Unfortunately, Mr. Cimaglia’s idea of a “little game” is to quiz us on last night’s homework until we get one wrong, then have someone else in the class point out what we screwed up. Socratic method this is not.
“Chuck,” Mr. Cimaglia asks, “care to go first?”
I gulp.
“What was your answer to number one?” he demands.
I look at my notebook. Thankfully, I actually did the homework and texted with Kanha to check the answers. I’m reasonably confident.
“B.”
“Correct. And number two?”
“C.”
“Correct. And number three?”
“A.”
“Correct.”
I’m on a roll.
“And number four?”
“A again.”
“Correct. And number five?” He’s such a robot!
“Uh, also A.”
“Incorrect.”
Damn it. Everyone knows it’s never A three times in a row.
Mr. Cimaglia surveys the class. He looks at Amy. “Ms. Huntington, care to share your answer to number five?”
Is this fate? Eh, more likely just a coincidental moment in the painfully insignificant teenage life of one Chuck Taylor.
Amy looks at her notebook. “I got D,” she says.
“Correct. Very good. Will you come up to the board and show your work so that Chuck can see what he did wrong?”
Jesus, you don’t have to be a dick about it.
Amy walks up to the front of the room.
As she slowly copies her work from her notebook onto the board, my mind wanders. How amazing would it be to have Amy as a girlfriend? I imagine us holding hands, going on a picnic, skipping rocks on a pond—apparently I daydream in the 1950s. Of course, in my thoughts I also don’t have OCD—I would never touch a dirty rock in real life.
Amy finishes the equation but Mr. Cimaglia is shaking his head. “Unfortunately, Amy,” he drones, “it looks like you arrived at the correct answer by accident.”
Amy is more self-conscious than embarrassed, but in an instant I realize both what I did wrong and what she did wrong. Mr. Cimaglia must see the recognition in my eyes because he calls on me and asks me to explain.
“I substituted the wrong variable,” I say. “And Amy just accidentally flipped the fraction, which happened to give the right answer anyway. I think.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Cimaglia says. “Good job.”
Amy brushes aside her bangs and looks in my direction.
I blurt out, “You’re pretty.”
Yes, I actually said that. Out loud.
Everyone in the class is snickering. Mr. Cimaglia stares at me with a perplexed look. Amy returns to her seat as if nothing happened.
Why on earth did I just do that? Beth said to pick something, not everything. And not in front of everybody!
The class continues, and mercifully my outburst seems to be quickly forgotten. I thank God for inflicting ADD upon my entire generation. Still, I want to disappear. I turn the page in my notebook and find today’s To Do list.
Underneath make bed is: compliment Amy.
I cross that off, then add another item underneath: be a fucking moron.
I cross that off as well.
Me and Steve are walking to his car after school. I’m once again recounting the play-by-play of how I put the moves on Amy in Calc. He stops dead in his tracks.
“Why would you say that, Chuck?”
“I don’t know.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Probably!”
This time, Steve isn’t making me feel any better. We continue walking, but getting scolded by Steve will have to wait because Parker and Ashley Allen are approaching us in the parking lot. Ashley is Parker’s buddy on the soccer team, though I’ve never understood why he isn’t on the basketball team considering he’s six foot three. (Mental note: he would be perfect for that really tall girl I saw in Dr. S.’s office.)