by Aaron Karo
Parker stops, but since he’s standing between us and Steve’s car, we’re forced to basically approach him. I’m still never sure if Parker plays these mind games on purpose. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks. It’s a windy day and his freakin’ warm-up pants are flapping around so hard I can see his upper thigh through the opening between snaps.
“What’s up, Fudge Packer?” Parker taunts.
I can tell Steve is terrified. “Just leave me alone, Parker.”
“What are you gonna do about it?” He nudges Steve in the chest.
I feel like I should say something, anything. But I haven’t exactly had much success being on-the-spot today. Plus, I’m kind of a pussy. Thankfully, Ashley intervenes first.
“Come on, Parker, let’s get the fuck outta here.”
I always kind of liked Ashley. He’s the nicest of the asshole jocks, and I almost mean that as a compliment. In a way I envy him. I mean, I assume the only way to survive high school with the name Ashley is to be tough. I wish I was tough.
“Nah, man,” Parker says, waving Ashley off, “I want to see what Fudge Packer has to say for himself.”
“Screw you, Parker,” Steve says. Me, Ashley, Parker, and Steve himself are all shocked he just said that.
Uhh!
Parker pushes Steve and Steve falls to the ground, scraping his elbow. Parker stands over him, glowering.
Ashley eyes Principal Rodriguez across the lot. She’s not even looking in our direction, but is evidently too close for comfort nonetheless.
“Parker, let’s go!”
Parker looks up from Steve and stares me down. He feints like he’s gonna push me, too. I flinch. Parker grins. I silently call him Lord Douche. He and Ashley finally stroll away.
I help Steve up. His elbow is bleeding but it’s not too bad. His eyes are watery and I think he might cry, but he doesn’t. I breathe a sigh of relief; I don’t know what I’d do if he started crying.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m fine. What an asshole.”
“Should we tell Mrs. Rodriguez or something?”
“No, it’s fine.”
I’m not really sure what else to say.
“Let me ask you something,” Steve says. “You think Parker is gonna go pro?”
“What, in soccer? Not a chance.”
“Exactly. So the way I see it, I’ve just got to put up with this for a few more months. While we’re away at school, he’ll drink himself out of whatever meathead university he gets accepted to and end up at West Lake Community College learning transmission repair. And the next time I see Parker, at our ten-year reunion, he’ll be working in an auto-body shop and I’ll have a hot wife with big-ass fake tits. I can live with that.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. Huge.”
Steve doesn’t realize I’m talking about him, not his future wife’s tits, but I let him have it. He walks off to his car, rubbing his elbow, ever the optimist. I can’t help but think he’ll reach his breaking point soon, and I better be there to actually help.
“Come on,” Steve calls over his shoulder, before adding with a grin, “Have I mentioned how pretty you look today?”
I’m sitting in Dr. S.’s office, continuing our game of cat and mouse. For the past few weeks she’s been trying to talk me into trying cognitive behavioral therapy and I’ve been attempting to argue my way out of it. I think she’s starting to get frustrated, and so am I.
“Chuck, I know this is difficult, but the best way for you to overcome your OCD is for you to expose yourself to your triggers, yes?”
“It’s not gonna work,” I say.
“Then there’s nothing to lose. What if we take it very, very slowly? Tomorrow, in between just one of your classes, try not to turn your lock fourteen times before walking away. And then just see what happens?”
“But what if my locker isn’t locked?”
“Can’t you tell it’s locked by hearing the click and spinning it once?”
“I guess. But what if it’s not locked for some reason?”
“Chuck, you’ve said yourself that there’s nothing of real value in there anyway?”
“I know, but…”
“And you’ve also said that you know your locker is locked without turning it fourteen times?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Chuck, your mind is playing games with you. That’s all OCD is, yes? You can’t listen to your brain and give in to your compulsions anymore.”
“But … it feels good when I do.”
Dr. S. grins. “Exactly.”
“Exactly? Exactly what?” I plead.
“Giving in to your compulsions reduces anxiety, which leads to more compulsions, which leads to more anxiety, which leads to your desire to give in to them. It’s a vicious cycle? This is classic OCD.”
Dr. S. always seems unusually excited about how “standard” my case is. I let out a long sigh.
“Chuck, you seem discouraged?”
“It’s just that,” I mumble, “I thought this would be easier. Like there would be some sort of mind trick or something.” God, I sound stupid.
“In a way,” she responds, “this is a mind trick. There’s no need to get frustrated.” Dr. S. shifts in her seat and puts her notepad down. “Chuck, if you continue to resist trying CBT, then it is going to be difficult to treat you?”
I don’t say anything.
“However, I think we should discuss medication?”
Huh?
“Like, drugs?”
“Have you heard of Lexapro, Chuck?”
“No.”
“It’s an antidepressant—”
“But I’m not…”
Dr. S. raises her hand to stop me as if she’s anticipated what I’d say.
“I know you’re not depressed, Chuck. But antidepressants like Lexapro are often prescribed to teenagers with OCD symptoms. I’ve had a lot of success with other patients?”
I can’t imagine there’s anyone out there like me, who’s as weird as me.
“Lexapro may help reduce some of your symptoms, hopefully just enough that CBT won’t be as difficult to attempt?”
“But I don’t wanna get drugged.”
How did it come to this? One little Google search, one little Flickapedia article, one harmless conversation with Mom, and next thing I know I’m trapped in a room for fifty minutes a week with a pear-shaped, Nike-wearing shrink who wants to drug me with God knows what. Lexa-who?
“I’m going to write a prescription and speak to your parents. Is that okay?”
“I guess,” I mutter. They’ll have to force it down my throat.
“Do you want to get better, Chuck?”
“Of course.”
“Then let me help you?”
Now my eyes are getting watery. This is so stupid. Just let me make my lists and check the stove and I’ll be fine. I got by this long. I bury my face in my chest.
“Chuck, are you okay? Would you like a tissue?”
I don’t look up.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—
“Hey, Chuck.”
Someone just said my name. It couldn’t be. I refocus on my locker.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—
“Chuck?”
I look up. Standing before me … is none other than Amy.
“Chuck, right?” she says.
I set the Guinness record for longest stare without blinking.
“Yeah, uh, yes. Hi.” It’s a start.
“I’m Amy.” She pauses. “You know, from Calc?”
I do my very best to pretend that this is not the most important moment of my entire life and that I haven’t spent the last month jerking off to her and keeping track of it.
“Oh, hi” is all I can manage.
She extends her hand and I shake it. So soft. I actually might not even wash my palm. For a little while at least.
There’s an awkward moment—I’
m still not sure what the hell is going on or what I did to deserve this.
“Cool kicks,” Amy says.
We both look down at my Cons. They’re pink. Why did I have to be so bored this morning? Idiot!
“Pink Chucks. Pretty rad.”
Wait, I think she seriously likes them.
“Yeah,” I say, recovering. “I actually call ’em Cons. You know, to avoid confusion with my name? You know, Chuck / Chucks?” What the fuck are you babbling about, shut up …
But Amy nods in agreement: “Right on.”
I freakin’ love her.
“So,” she continues, “I was wondering … you seem like you really know what you’re doing in Cimaglia’s class.”
“Oh, thanks. Yeah, I kinda like math I guess.” Chuck, why are you making up lies for no reason? You. Are. Retarded.
“Really?” Amy says. “I can’t stand calc. I’m more of a chemistry girl.”
Of course, why wouldn’t she be a chemistry girl? What? My head is spinning.
“So, anyway, I was wondering if maybe you’d be interested in tutoring me for the Calc AP exam. You saw me in class the other day, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
This has certainly taken an interesting turn. First thought? Tutoring = quality time. Me likey.
“Yeah, uh, sure. I can do that,” I smile.
“Of course I’ll pay you and—”
“No, no, no. Definitely not. You don’t have to pay me.” Chuck, you’re being suave and manly and shit. This is good.
“Oh I couldn’t let you help me and not pay—”
“Absolutely not. I’ll tutor you for free. Besides, tutoring you will probably help me prepare anyway, so that’d be like you paying me to study.” I chuckle nervously. Don’t blow it …
“Wow, that’s really sweet of you, Chuck.”
“No problem, Amy.” I realize this is the first time I’ve ever said her name out loud in front of her—sans the blackboard debacle, which I’ve since stricken from the record. It feels comfortable, like I’ve been saying it for years.
“So we’ll talk soon and figure out a time and a place and everything?” she says.
“That sounds great. Are you gonna be in Calc tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she smiles quizzically, “why wouldn’t I be?”
You’re losing it. Get out of this conversation now! Abort!
“I don’t know. I was just saying. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then!”
Did I just kinda shout that last line?
“Right on,” Amy smiles again. “See you tomorrow.”
Honestly, who uses the term “right on”? Only the coolest people on the planet! I can’t say “right on”! I’d be labeled a poser immediately!
Amy starts to walk away, then turns back to me.
“Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She smiles, shrugs, then leaves.
Amy Huntington just wished me a motherfucking Happy Valentine’s Day. I didn’t even know it was Valentine’s Day!
I’m not sure what to do with myself. I can’t decide what to do first. Do I text Steve to tell him what happened? I’m so flustered. And sweaty. The bell rings. Without thinking, I charge off to my next class. It’s a new day.
Only later do I realize I never turned my lock fourteen times.
I’m trying to do homework but I can’t get my mind off Amy. I keep replaying our conversation over and over again in my head. It feels good to obsess over something that’s, well, good. I’m interrupted mid-daydream.
“Chuck!”
Mom is calling from the kitchen. Honestly, my bedroom and the kitchen are not that far away from each other. There’s no need to scream.
I float downstairs. Life is good.
That feeling, though, as always, is fleeting. When I enter the kitchen I can see the serious look on my parents’ faces. I immediately do an internal inventory of anything I may have possibly done wrong that I’m about to get grounded for. But everything comes up clean.
“Sit down, Chuck,” Dad says.
I do. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing is wrong,” Mom says. “We just want to know how everything is going with Dr. Srinivasan.”
Oh.
“It’s going fine, I guess.” I need to figure out a way to tell them what they want to hear so I don’t have to talk about this anymore. Not tonight at least.
“She says that you’ve kind of … hit a wall,” Mom says, as I roll my eyes. “You talked to her about taking Lexapro, right?”
“Mom, if you know the answer, why are you asking me?”
Mom realizes she’s in delicate territory. “We just want to let you know that we filled the prescription she wrote for you.”
Dad takes an orange pill bottle out of a small paper bag and unceremoniously places it on the kitchen table in front of me.
“It’s covered by insurance,” he states proudly.
Dad. Never ceases to amaze me.
“We also want to let you know,” Mom continues, “that we’re not going to make you take it, but we think you should consider it.”
“Well, I’m not gonna.”
“Chuck—”
“I don’t need pills. I’m not depressed.”
“No one said you’re depressed, Chuck,” Mom says. “Lots and lots of people take medication like this. Millions of people in fact.”
I take a big, obnoxious breath.
Dad picks up the bottle and hands it to me, forcing me to hold it.
“Just think about it,” he says.
I stare at the bottle. There it is in black and white:
And my day had been going so well …
* * *
After another twenty minutes of idle chatter with Mom and Dad, I trudge back to my room. I sit at my desk, staring at the bottle of pills again. Then I open the drawer closest to my bed. Ironically, this is where I keep my masturbation tally (for easy reaching). I throw the Lexapros into the drawer and shut it. Case closed.
I slump into my desk chair. Then I hear a ping from my laptop. It’s a new email. Probably Steve sending me some awful YouTube clip. I check my messages. It’s not at all what I expect:
Amy Huntington wants to be friends with you on Facebook.
Then there’s a little thumbnail picture of Amy, flashing a peace sign and winking. Amazing.
I’ve never accepted a friend request faster in my life. Granted I don’t get many, but still, I’m all over it.
Like two seconds later, I get a Facebook message from Amy. Honestly, my young heart can’t take this much drama in one day. I open the shit out of the message. Amy wants to know if we can meet on Thursday after school at the library to start studying. I debate whether I should wait to write back so I don’t come off too eager, but decide I’m already playing with house money. I type that Thursday works for me. I can’t figure out how to end my message, though. I write:
Peace,
Chuck
Then I realize that I’m not fucking cool enough to sign messages with “Peace.” I just go with:
–Chuck
Simple, yet elegant. I hold my breath and hit Reply.
Rocking tan Cons today: anxious. I’m sitting in the school library, waiting to meet Amy. It’s all I’ve thought about all day—every day in fact since she Facebooked me. The time has come. She’s here.
Amy sits down at the overly large table I’ve commandeered for our study session. She’s wearing the camouflage jacket again. “Hey, you,” she says.
If it was socially acceptable to swoon, I would.
“Hey,” I say, playing it cool.
“How crazy was that today in Cimaglia?” she says.
This morning in Calc, Kanha got food poisoning or something and barfed all over his desk in the middle of class. Just from the sight of it, Wendy started to feel sick, too, and ran out of the room. I feel bad (more so for Kanha than for Wendy), but my stomach was sore from laughing. Good times.
“Yeah, that was awesome,” I s
ay. “Well, not awesome. But, you know … crazy.”
Amy just smiles. She puts me at ease. She’s kind of like Steve, but with a vagina.
She starts to get her books out.
I blurt out, “I like your jacket.” I’ve begun to realize that I’m much better at paying compliments when I don’t think about them so much ahead of time. That wasn’t so hard.
“Really? Thanks,” Amy says. “It’s really, really old. From before I was born. It was my dad’s and it shrank so much that he just gave it to me. And now it like totally fits. Weird how that works, huh?”
“So weird,” I say. Stupid. “The camouflage is cool.” Okay, decent recovery.
“Thanks. Yeah, my dad was in the army. This was like his first jacket. That’s actually why I move around so much.”
“Because of the jacket?”
Amy laughs. “No, because my dad was in the army.”
Amy thinks I’m making a joke when I’m actually just making a fool of myself. I’m officially entering foreign territory. And I like it.
“Every time he got transferred to a new base, we all had to move. This is my third high school. And hopefully my last, considering we graduate this year. Fingers crossed.”
“That’s pretty crazy that you move around so much. I don’t know if I could handle that,” I say.
“Well, there are some good things about it. I’ve gotten to meet a lot of chill people, and see the whole country. I kind of like the idea of not being from one specific place, you know?”
“I hate being from Plainville.”
“I think it’s nice. It’s quaint. Better than a lot of the other places I’ve been. I like the vibe here. There’s good energy.”
I really don’t know how to even respond to that, so I don’t.
“My dad’s doing a consulting project nearby, that’s why we moved. He’s not in the army anymore so I think we’ll be here for a while.”