Lexapros and Cons

by Aaron Karo

  “For reals?” Kanha says, lighting up.

  “No, you idiot,” Steve says to Kanha. “I’m kidding. Why do you want to join Mathletes?”

  “There’s still a couple of competitions left in the year and you get to meet honeys from other schools, yo!”

  “What Kanha is saying,” I tell Steve, “is that he wants to join Mathletes for the women. Quite possibly the dumbest idea in human history.”

  Steve laughs. I think our little tiff is over. When all else fails, gang up on the Indian kid who talks like Jay-Z.

  “Hey,” Kanha says, getting defensive, “we don’t all have bangin’ ladies to tutor like you, Chuck. I’m trying to expand my horizons, dog.”

  “Well can you expand your horizons somewhere else?” Steve says. “Stacey Simpson is sitting behind you and is wearing kind of a see-through top. You’re blocking my view of her cannons.”

  Kanha ducks down. Me and Steve share a laugh—and a peek.

  Amy chuckles. “You can’t sit still today.”

  She’s right. I’m fidgeting in my seat at our usual table in the library. I’ve been feeling restless and antsy all day. Antsy = purple Cons. I can’t remember the last time I wore them.

  “I know,” I say. “I don’t know why.”

  “I do,” Amy says. “You have spring fever.”

  “What?”

  “It’s March; it’s the first nice day of the year. We need to get outside.”

  “But we have a lot to get through today.”

  “You’re only young once, right? I think we’ll live without studying for one day.”

  “Okay. What do you want to do?”

  “Why don’t you walk me home?” Amy grins.

  The new, hot girl flirting with the geeky weirdo just enough to get him to do what she wants would never blow off studying just to have the weirdo walk her home. I don’t know what Steve is talking about.

  “Okay,” I say, careful to hold back my glee. “Let’s go.”

  It’s the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done, ever. Hey, baby steps.

  * * *

  Amy lives right on the border between Plainville and West Lake. It’ll be a little bit of a hike for me to walk home after I drop her off, but, you know, who gives a shit? You’re only young once, right?

  We stroll home, chatting. It’s unusually warm out. Life actually feels pretty damn good right now.

  “So Stacey and Wendy asked me to serve on the prom committee,” Amy says.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’m not gonna do it, though. I have to squeeze in all these classes, and prom is kinda lame.”

  “How come you think prom is lame but Senior Weekend is cool?”

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of sweet that it’s a tradition that’s passed down by the kids, you know? It’s our thing. Prom is just so, like, corporate.”

  I have never nor will ever use the term “corporate” to describe something that’s lame. Amy has once again demonstrated her dominance over me in the cool department.

  “Chuck, I just want to say thank you again for helping me with calc. It’s been fun hanging.” She smiles that amazing smile.

  It takes all my energy to remain upright. I manage to squeak out, “No problem.”

  “Well, we’re here.”

  We stop in front of Amy’s house. I’m just grateful we’ve stopped walking because Amy’s compliment has made me woozy.

  “Huh,” I say as we walk through the gate in a fence that surrounds her front yard, “this looks exactly like my house.” Was every fucking house in Plainville built by the same architect?

  I hear a bark, then the doggy door on Amy’s front door swings open and out bounds her dog. He’s a little bigger than I expected, golden yellow, and enthusiastic as hell. He runs into Amy’s arms and she scoops him up.

  “Hey, girl! I missed you so much,” Amy says.

  I keep forgetting it’s a she, not a he. Like I said, dogs: not my thing.

  “I want you to meet someone,” Amy says to the dog. “Chuck, this is Buttercup. Buttercup, this is Chuck.”

  She takes Buttercup’s paw and extends it toward me. She actually wants me to shake her dog’s hand? I try not to visibly grimace as I comply. Her paw isn’t as gross as I think it’ll be, but I can feel the dog’s smell being transferred to my fingers. I shudder but Amy doesn’t notice. She puts Buttercup down and the dog starts running in circles around us, occasionally stopping to sniff my Cons or jump up at my crotch. This is not good.

  “I’ve lived in so many cities and gone to so many schools,” Amy says, “but I’ve always been able to count on Buttercup. She’s like my only constant, you know?”

  “Totally,” I say. I don’t get it. It’s a fucking dog.

  Amy kneels down and starts rubbing Buttercup’s neck and ears. “I know it’s silly,” she says, “but she really is my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Amy looks up at me, standing there like a moron and trying to hold my breath. “You can pet her.”

  I gulp. “No, that’s okay.”

  “Come on, Chuck,” Amy says playfully. She takes my hand—which feels awesome—and places it on the back of Buttercup’s neck—which feels awful. I pet Buttercup, and I guess she likes it because she sticks her tongue out and starts panting. The dog smell is getting stronger and Buttercup is starting to shed on my jeans. My anxiety level shoots through the roof. I feel like I might freak out at any second. Amy is in another world, totally lost in her stupid dog. I can’t let her see me like this.

  “I think I’m gonna head home,” I manage. “It’s gonna get dark soon.”

  I feel hives start to form on the back of my neck but know there’s nothing actually there.

  “Okay,” Amy says, standing. “Thanks for walking me home.” She gives me a hug and I’m almost too preoccupied to fully appreciate it. Over Amy’s shoulder, I can see Buttercup just staring up at me and panting. Is she taunting me?

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Amy says, smiling.

  “You too,” I respond, and then dart off in the wrong direction.

  * * *

  I finally get my bearings and jog home. I walk in, toss all my clothes in the hamper, and jump in the shower. I take a long shower, long enough for the smell to disappear and to make sure there’s not a single dog hair on me.

  My heartbeat finally returns to normal, but when I close my eyes I can still hear Buttercup barking.

  “Senior Weekend is less than three months away. People are starting to make plans.”

  I’m loitering at Steve’s locker after school, attempting to make more of an effort to hang out with him.

  “So?” I respond.

  “So, have you thought any more about, I don’t know, going on the trip we’ve been talking about forever?”

  “I told you this already, Steve, it’s not my thing.”

  “You know, I have a little OCD, too. I always check over my homework like ten times before I hand it in. And I always have to make sure I land on an even price when I’m filling up my car with gas.”

  Of all my pet peeves, this could be number one: when people say, “I have a little OCD, too.” Just because you flick your light switch a couple of times or are really anal about organizing your garage does not make you OCD. Everyone has a couple of weird things like that. Saying “I have a little OCD, too” makes it seem like I’m a drama queen or something. I spent close to two hours last night getting in and out of bed to check the fucking stove and then go pee. That’s the real deal.

  “Whatever, man,” I say. “It’s not the same.”

  “I just don’t want you to miss out and then regret it, Chuck. I mean, what does Amy think?”

  So now Steve also thinks it’s appropriate to play the Amy card.

  “I don’t know. I guess she’s gonna go.”

  “And don’t you want to be on an overnight trip where she’s gonna be?”

  That’s not a bad point, but the Amy card really gets me riled up faster tha
n it should.

  “You just want me to go because otherwise you won’t go,” I say.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me just because you’re too messed up in the head to go on a little trip,” Steve says.

  I just look at him incredulously.

  “I can go without you, Chuck,” he continues. “I can go with Kanha.”

  I hadn’t really considered that. I guess things with Steve are still rockier than I thought. I’m about to try to smooth things over when Parker, everyone’s favorite soccer player, turns the corner.

  “Oh shit,” I mutter.

  “What?” Steve turns around and spots Parker as well, but it’s too late to flee. Within moments, he’s upon us.

  “Gimme five bucks, Fudge Packer.”

  “What? No.”

  “I said, give me five bucks.”

  “I don’t have any money on me. Leave me alone.”

  Parker raises his fist and Steve flinches. I flinch a little, too. None of the stragglers in the hallway even notice what’s happening. I quickly reach into my pocket and pull out a crumpled five-dollar bill, forgetting for the moment that I can’t stand touching money.

  “Here,” I say to Parker. “Take it.”

  Parker sizes me up, then takes the bill. Then he throws it on the floor at Steve’s feet.

  “Pick it up, Fudge Packer.”

  Okay, I didn’t see this coming. It’s like Parker practices bullying techniques in his spare time. Steve doesn’t say anything.

  “I said, pick it up.”

  Seeing this as yet another battle he can’t win, Steve meekly bends down, picks up the money, and hands it to Parker, who grins like the Lord Douche he is.

  “Pussy,” Parker scowls. Then he walks away, exits the building, and heads toward the parking lot.

  “Thanks, man,” Steve says to me after a moment. “I guess I owe you five bucks.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, knowing I’ll probably add it to a To Do list anyway.

  Steve doesn’t look so good. He’s pretty shaken. I sense there’s not much more of this he can take.

  “Hey,” I say, desperately trying to think of anything at all to cheer him up, “if you want, maybe I could put in a good word for you with Beth.” Wait, why did you promise that of all things?

  Steve’s eyes light up. I have a feeling that if Steve could go back in time, he would still risk getting his ass kicked by Parker if it meant he’d get the chance with Beth I’ve just offered.

  “Really?” he says.

  “Sure,” I say hesitantly, “but I’m telling you she doesn’t listen to me.”

  “Gotta start somewhere, right? Thanks, Chuck!”

  Steve goes to pack up his backpack. I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite such a swing of emotions in such a short time. But then I look through the window behind Steve, spot someone getting into Parker’s truck with him, and everything changes.

  What the fuck? It’s Beth.

  When I get home from school, Beth is the only one in the house. She’s holed up in her room but I can hear music blasting through the door. My guess is she’s on the phone and Facebook simultaneously, having inane conversations with dozens of friends. I knock and then walk in. My assumption is correct.

  Beth swivels around in her desk chair like the bad guy in a movie, sees me, and sneers.

  “I’ll call you back in five seconds, okay?” she says to whoever is on the phone. Apparently that’s how much of her precious time I’m worth.

  She lowers the music. “What do you want?”

  “I’m just curious how you get to and from school,” I say.

  Steve likes to grab coffee in the morning so he always gets me a few minutes early, before Beth leaves. And I almost always get home after her. I just assumed she was taking the bus after spurning all of Steve’s offers for a ride.

  “None of your business,” Beth says.

  “Well, it is my business if I tell Mom and Dad that you’re getting a ride from someone they don’t even know.”

  Beth sighs. “Parker Goldberg takes me.”

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know, for a while. I met him at a party at the beginning of the year. Who cares?”

  Beth was at a party? I guess my invitation got lost in the mail.

  “I care. Parker is, like, the biggest douche bag ever.”

  “No he’s not. I think he’s nice.”

  Nice?

  “He’s much cooler than you,” she adds.

  “Beth, Parker has been picking on Steve for like nine years.”

  Beth rolls her eyes. “So? What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Don’t you kind of feel bad about that?”

  “No, I feel like I want a ride to school with the captain of the soccer team.”

  You gotta hand it to her—at least she’s honest.

  “Why don’t you just come with me and Steve?”

  “Steve’s car is gross and I don’t want to ride to school with you.”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  I can see a multitude of Facebook notifications piling up on Beth’s computer screen. I’m unlikely to have her attention much longer.

  “Chuck, I’m a little busy. Are you gonna tell Mom and Dad on me or what? They think I’m taking the bus. Don’t be a tattletale.”

  I really don’t have the energy to deal with this anymore. I have enough problems.

  “No, I won’t tell on you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s just that…”

  Beth groans. “What?”

  “Well,” I say, “Steve kinda … Steve thinks … Steve has been saying…”

  “Will you spit it out already?”

  I decide this is not the time or the place, and that there may never be a time or place.

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  Beth dismisses me and turns back to her computer.

  I sheepishly make my way out of her room.

  Beth calls out: “What happened with that girl?”

  I turn around. “What?”

  “What happened with that girl you were talking about? Amy.”

  I’m suspicious whenever Beth takes any interest at all in my personal life.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I want to know if you took my advice and gave her a compliment.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It didn’t work.”

  “You probably did it wrong.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter, and leave.

  I head downstairs to the kitchen and perform my stove ritual. I place the palm of my right hand on each burner to make sure it’s cold, and go around in a clockwise direction. Then I stare at each knob, making sure all of them are turned exactly to Off. Then I stare for a while at the indicator light that glows when a burner is on, making sure it’s definitely off and not malfunctioning. During all this, I contemplate what or what not to tell Steve about my conversation with Beth.

  I start my stove ritual over again, just in case.

  Forty-five minutes into our study session and me and Amy haven’t even opened our books yet. In the past month, we’ve hung out a few times a week, but studying calc is increasingly being pushed aside in favor of, well, hanging out. I’m not complaining, though, and that’s not just because I hate math.

  “Do you want to get married one day?” Amy asks.

  One of Amy’s favorite pastimes, it seems, is asking me hypothetical questions to see how I’ll react. She almost always laughs at what I respond, sometimes I think even with me instead of at me. I’m feeling more and more comfortable around her—the most comfortable I’ve ever felt with a girl.

  “Yes, I want to get married one day,” I say.

  “Do you want to have kids?”

  “Sure.”

  “How many?”

  “2.5.”

  Amy bursts out laughing. “2.5? How can you have 2.5 kids?”

  “The average family has 2.5 kids. I read that somewhere.”


  “But you can’t have half a kid!”

  “I know; that’s just the average.”

  Amy laughs again. As much as I adore her smile, her laugh is music to my ears—like audible hand sanitizer.

  “Who wants to be average?” she says.

  That’s one thing of many that worry me about me and Amy’s relationship (or, as Dr. S. would say, lack thereof). Amy seems to be operating on a completely different level than me. Amy wouldn’t dream of being average. She’s lived all around the country, she rocks her dad’s sweet old army jacket, she wants to be in a band, she says things like “right on” and “corporate.” She’s out there. Meanwhile, I’d kill to be average. Average is my goal. But of course I could never share that with her.

  “Have you ever been in love?” she asks.

  I briefly consider answering “Yes,” hoping she thinks I’m talking about her. But that seems lame and/or I chicken out.

  “No,” I say. “What about you?”

  I imagine Amy has had plenty of opportunities to be in love.

  “Me neither,” she says, surprisingly.

  “Really?”

  “At least I don’t think I have,” she adds. “I figure I would know it when I see it.”

  “Yeah, probably,” I say, having no idea.

  “Let’s try something easier,” Amy says. “Have you ever made out in the backseat of a car?”

  My body temperature rises instantly. Every once in a while, Amy will throw out a question like that—a question about hooking up—and it makes my insides spasm. That’s not the kind of question you ask your tutor, or even your platonic guy friend. At least I don’t think it is, never having been either myself before this.

  “No,” I reply, “I’ve never made out in the backseat of a car. But I also don’t have a car.”

  Amy bursts out laughing once again. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well how can you make out in the backseat of a car if you don’t have one?”

  “Chuck, it could be someone else’s car.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess.”

  This is painful to admit, but sitting here, with Amy, in the library, talking about making out … well, I get a hard-on. It just happens. Amy + the thought of making out = boner. Even though it’s well hidden under the table, I’m terrified she’s going to somehow find out.