by Aaron Karo
Best news I’ve heard all decade.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask. I envision an older brother. A marine. Angry. At me.
“Nope. It’s just me, my mom, my dad, and Buttercup.”
“Buttercup?”
“My dog. She’s a puggle.”
“A what?”
“A puggle. Part beagle, part pug.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“She’s my best friend in the whole world. My mom takes care of her when I’m at school. I’m always texting her to make sure she walks her and changes her water and all that stuff.”
“That’s cool,” I manage. Dogs: not my thing.
“Thanks again for helping me with calc,” Amy says. “I really appreciate it. And I promise to pay you back somehow when I rock the AP exam!” She touches my arm as she says this and I feel slightly light-headed.
Amy opens up her books and I do the same. She looks at me and smiles. I smile back involuntarily. We just stare at each other.
“So,” Amy says finally, “where should we start?”
“So?”
“So, what?”
I’m in my room, talking to Steve on the phone and being coy because today was the greatest day ever and I’ve always wanted to try to be coy.
“How was the study session?” Steve asks excitedly.
“Pretty good. She’s a little weak in antiderivatives so we spent a lot of time on that.”
“Chuck, I’m gonna fucking kill you. I don’t give a shit about calc. How was Amy?”
Being coy is making Steve angry. I smirk to myself: this is fun. Then I give it a rest.
“It was awesome, man,” I say. “She’s so cool. It’s a little intimidating, but not really because she’s so cool. We only spent about twenty minutes studying, the rest of the time we just talked.”
“About what?”
“About everything. About how she moves around a lot. About how she always wanted to be in a band but she can’t sing or play an instrument.”
“That would make being in a band pretty difficult.”
“I know; that’s what I said!” I shake my head, amazed at Amy’s boundless aspirations. “She also told me,” I continue, “that Stacey and Wendy are ‘nice.’ I don’t think she’s, like, good friends with them or anything, which is probably good for me. Oh, and she definitely doesn’t have a boyfriend, thank God.”
“You asked her that?”
“No way. She mentioned that she had some ex-boyfriend in San Diego and he was a real asshole. Since she moves around a lot she doesn’t like to get ‘too attached,’ whatever that means.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Steve says. “If she doesn’t like to get attached, doesn’t that mean she doesn’t want a new boyfriend?”
Girls. Who knows what they mean?
“Well,” I say, “there were some good signs. She touched my arm. I once read in one of Beth’s stupid magazines that girls do that when they’re interested.”
“What magazine?”
“I don’t know; I think it was—wait, why do you care what magazine? Steve, don’t be a douche and get a subscription to a girly magazine just because Beth reads it and you’re trying to learn more about her.”
“What makes you think I’m gonna do that?”
Now who’s playing coy?
“Anyway,” I say, trying not to think about Steve and my sister, “she also said that I’m really funny.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she thinks I’m funny.”
“Dude,” Steve says, “you’re definitely going to Bangtown.”
“Bangtown?”
“Yeah, you know, the place where people go when they have sex? Get it?”
“She’s not having sex with me,” I say, my head flooded with thoughts of Amy having sex with me.
“Why not?” Steve says. “The number one thing that girls are looking for in a guy is a sense of humor. That’s like a scientifically proven fact.”
“Really?”
I sit up in bed and look at myself in the mirror across the room. My hair does nothing. It just kind of ’fros up. Putting gel in it only makes it worse. I’ve got big ears. Not Dumbo big, but big enough to grab on to. I have no cheekbones or any facial definition to speak of. I suck. No one wants to go to Bangtown with this.
“Chuck?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you staring at your cheekbones in the mirror?”
I lie back down.
“Maybe.”
“Chuck, you got this. The APs aren’t for like two and a half months. That’s a lot of time. She just moved to town, she doesn’t really know anyone, she doesn’t even know what a dork you are. You’re all she’s got.”
Wait a minute, that’s kind of offensive. Then I realize it’s true.
“Okay,” I concede.
“When’s your next study session?”
“Wednesday.”
“Are we still going to the movies after school on Tuesday?”
“Yeah, but my mom thinks we should leave fifteen minutes earlier.”
“I’m sure she does. What are you gonna do now?”
“I don’t know; nothing.”
“All right, I’ll see you in school.”
“Later, Steve.”
I hang up. I think of Amy. Time to make a tally.
Pretty tired today: orange Cons. A flu bug has been going around so the school has installed a bunch of automatic hand sanitizer dispensers throughout the building. I love hand sanitizer. I think I’m the only student who uses it. I guess some OCD trumps other OCD because I’ve altered my usual route from English to European History to take advantage of the dispenser stationed near the gym. It feels so good when it hits my skin. It’s like a rush directly to my brain. I want to bathe in this shit.
“What are you doing in this hallway?”
I look up and see Steve approaching.
“Ah, hand sanitizer. I should have known. Let me get some of that.” He sticks his hand under the sensor and gets a squirt, perhaps in an attempt to make me feel less weird. “What’s going on?”
“I have Euro now,” I say. “The homework was so—” I stop.
Amy is walking in our direction. Never changing my route through school means I’m not used to seeing people unexpectedly. It raises my anxiety level. More so because it’s Amy, of course.
She walks up to us. “Hey, Chuck!” It’s weird because I still feel like I’m surprised every time she knows who I am.
“Hey, Amy.”
She smiles, I of course smile, and Steve is left standing there like an idiot.
“I’m Steve,” he says, giving me a dirty look.
“Oh, sorry,” I say sheepishly.
“Great to meet you, Steve,” Amy says. “Chuck talks about you a lot.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say a lot,” I interject.
“How’s the studying going?” Steve asks. I try to remember the last time I even saw him talk to a girl besides my stupid sister.
“So far so good,” Amy says. “Actually, Chuck, I was about to text you. You think we could study after school today instead of tomorrow? I have some family thing I gotta do tomorrow that I totally spaced on.”
Oh, Amy Huntington, don’t you realize you could literally ask me anything and I would say yes?
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I say. “I’m free today.”
“Right on,” Amy says. “I’ll see you later. It was nice to meet you, Steve.”
“You too,” Steve murmurs.
Amy trots off, all Amy-like and cool.
Steve waits until she’s out of earshot.
“What the fuck, Chuck?”
“What?” I say.
“I thought we were going to the movies today.”
I’d like to say it was a mistake and I had forgotten all about my plans with Steve, but that would be a lie.
“Oh, I totally forgot.”
“Chuck, you’re the worst liar ever.�
�
“I’m sorry. It’s Amy. What was I supposed to do?”
Steve sighs, shakes his head, and walks off.
I can honestly say I have no regrets.
* * *
Me and Amy are at our usual table. I mean, this is only our second time hanging out, er, studying, but I have internally designated it as “our” table.
“You want some?” Amy is eating a granola bar. One of those “stiff” ones that crumble into a billion pieces as soon as you take a bite.
“I’m good,” I say. Amy happily munches away. I can’t for the life of me comprehend how people can just eat food with their hands and not wash them immediately afterwards. The crumbs on our usual table are bugging me. I’m hankering for some sanitizer. I promise myself I will never, ever tell Amy about my OCD.
“Hey what’s the deal with this Senior Weekend thing?” Amy asks. “People are freaking out about it.”
“It’s pretty stupid,” I say. “Everyone is just gonna go to some field and drink. People are probably gonna be puking all over the place.”
“I think it sounds fun. I mean, not the puking part. I like camping.”
Why does everyone like camping so much? It’s like being voluntarily homeless!
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “I’m probably not gonna go.”
“Really? Aww, you should go. It won’t kill you.”
When Amy says it, it almost seems true. Almost.
“Soooo,” Amy purrs, changing the subject, “what was with that comment you made a few weeks ago in Calc?”
“Huh?”
“Cimaglia made me stand up in front of the class and you just blurt out, ‘You’re pretty’?”
Oh my God. I want to hide. Face. Getting. Red.
“Uh, umm, uh, well, uh…” I’m literally stuttering. “Sorry about that.”
I wish someone would shoot me in the face. I knock on wood / my knee.
“It’s totally fine,” Amy says. “Just kinda random for math class is all.”
“I say it a lot,” I stammer. What?
“You go around telling girls they’re pretty a lot?”
“Yeah. I mean, uh, yeah. All the time.”
“Oh,” she says, “and here I thought I was the only one.” She feigns a frown.
Is what I’m thinking is happening actually happening? Is Amy Huntington sorta kinda maybe … flirting with me?
“No,” I blather, “that’s not what I meant. I’ve actually never said that to anyone before. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I thought it was nice.”
“You did?”
“Sure. What girl doesn’t like a compliment?”
Mental note: listen to Beth more often but never admit it.
“Anywho,” Amy says, “I was just always wondering where that came from, and now that we’re friends I thought it would be okay to ask you. NBD.”
She looks down at her calc textbook.
I hang on her words. I can’t decide if being Amy’s friend is a breakthrough or a death sentence.
She doesn’t say anything, or even look at me any differently, but I can just sense that Dr. S. hates me. After almost two months of head shrinking, we still haven’t made any progress. I’m too stubborn/scared to try any therapy, and the Lexapros are gathering dust in my room (this is just an expression of course; my room is spotless). In a tactic I assume is meant to lull me into a false sense of security, Dr. S. has begun asking me more benign, personal questions as opposed to hammering me about my symptoms.
“How’s your love life, Chuck?”
It’s amazing to me how adults are able to take awkward situations and make them even awkwarder. But I’m feeling pretty frustrated today (white Cons) and I figure I can use all the help I can get, so I take the bait.
“There’s actually a girl I’ve been hanging out with. Amy.”
Dr. S. peers at me from behind her glasses. I feel like she doesn’t believe me and is adding delusional nutcase to my diagnosis.
“Amy? That’s a pretty name.”
Yes, Doc, it is.
“We’ve been hanging out a lot. I’ve actually been helping her, well, tutoring her, in calc.”
“But you hate math, yes? You must really like this girl?”
True on both accounts.
“I guess. But we’re just friends.” Amy said so herself.
“But you’d like to be more than just friends?”
“I mean, yeah.”
“Chuck, how do you think your obsessions and compulsions are affecting your relationship, or lack thereof, with Amy?”
Huh, that was a much more abrupt transition than I expected. Dr. S. is slipping. I’ll play along.
“Well, it doesn’t help. Sometimes her backpack is covered in dog hair. It kind of makes me a little nauseous. She’s so pretty—and clean. Very clean. But the dog hair— it’s not good.”
“Why don’t you try touching the dog hair?”
“What?”
“We’ve talked about what’s called ‘habituation’ before, yes? If you can expose yourself to one of your triggers, and refrain from performing your compulsion, that will help you habituate—or get used to it—and reduce your anxiety.”
I merely shake my head. No.
“Chuck, one dog hair can’t hurt you, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“If a strand of dog hair got on your arm right now, would it be harmful?”
“It would be disgusting. But no, I guess not.”
“So try taking one little, tiny dog hair off of Amy’s backpack and putting it on your arm, and see what happens?”
“Nothing is gonna happen.”
“You’re right, nothing is going to happen. That’s the point, see?”
“This is stupid.”
Dr. S. puts her pen down. But she definitely puts it down with a little extra emphasis. That was a “fuck you” pen putdown.
“Have you given any more thought to taking the Lexapro?”
“I thought you weren’t gonna ask me about that anymore?”
“I feel like we are reaching a critical stage in your care, Chuck. How are you going to maintain normal relationships when you get older, not just with girls but with your friends and family, if you don’t try to beat this thing?”
“Maybe it will go away on its own. My mom said that she had some symptoms when she was a kid that eventually went away.”
Dr. S. ignores this wishful thinking. “Chuck, the Lexapro I’ve prescribed is a very low dosage. I’ll be monitoring you closely. I think you’ll find it helps?”
I don’t say anything.
“Wouldn’t Amy want you to get better?”
I do not like this. I do not like Dr. S.’s tone. I do not like her saying Amy’s name. I do not like her playing the Amy card.
“Amy has no idea there’s anything wrong with me. And I plan on keeping it that way.”
“Don’t you think, Chuck, that she’s going to find out eventually?”
I sure hope not.
Sloppy Joes in the cafeteria today so obviously I’ve brought lunch from home. Since she just showed up out of nowhere in January, Amy keeps having to switch up her schedule so she can fit in everything she needs to graduate. She was only in my lunch period that one fateful day before she ended up dropping it and taking an extra class instead. So for now at least, it’s just me, Steve, and Kanha.
“Yo, dogs,” Kanha says. “The Barrys want to know if we wanna join Mathletes. A few spots opened up.”
Barry and Barry (no relation) are two uber-dorks in Calc BC and the co-captains of the PWLJFKHS Mathletes squad. So clearly they get all the chicks.
“Are you serious, Kanha?” I say. “Why would we want to do that? You know I hate math.”
“Then why are you spending like every day after school doing extra calc work, homie?” he responds.
“Because,” Steve interjects abruptly, “whatever Amy wants, Amy gets.”
“What’s that supposed to
mean?” I say.
“You know what it means.”
Since I started tutoring Amy a couple of weeks ago, things between me and Steve have gotten a little weird. Blowing him off that time when we were supposed to go to the movies was just the beginning. While I haven’t broken any plans with him since, I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to make plans with him either. Amy keeps wanting to study after school and I just can’t bring myself to say no. Quite frankly, I don’t want to say no.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kanha says, putting down a french fry. “Do you guys have beef?” It’s really hard to take Kanha seriously when he talks like that.
“No, there’s no ‘beef,’” Steve says diplomatically. “Chuck has just had more important things to do than hang out with me.”
Huh, on second thought that wasn’t very diplomatic at all.
“Come on, Steve,” I say, “gimme a break. Don’t be pissed off. It’s Amy.”
“That’s all you ever say: ‘It’s Amy.’”
“Well, it is. She’s my friend.”
“I’m not pissed off, Chuck. I’m just worried about you.”
“What are you worried about?”
“You promise you’re not gonna get mad?”
“I’m not gonna get mad, Steve. What are you worried about?”
“Well, what if Amy isn’t your friend?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if she’s just, like, hanging out with you because you’re tutoring her for free?”
The thought had definitely crossed my mind. The new, hot girl flirting with the geeky weirdo just enough to get him to do what she wants is not a hard storyline to imagine. But Amy would never do that.
“Fuck you, Steve,” I say. “I’m not that dumb. Don’t be jealous.”
“Oh, snap!” Kanha says.
Steve immediately backtracks. “I didn’t mean it like that, Chuck. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want her to end up fucking you over.”
“She won’t,” I say. “I know what I’m doing.” I decide to offer an olive branch. “Wii Boxing at my house after school?”
“I don’t know,” Steve smirks, “I’m thinking about joining Mathletes.”