by Aaron Karo
Suddenly, Stacey and Wendy appear on the scene like a couple of vultures. I think they are trying to console her. I start to run through any reasons I can come up with of why Amy would be crying. Did she fail a test? Nah, she gets straight A’s and would never be that upset over a test. Is she moving again? But she said she was gonna be in town for a while! Maybe it’s, like, her time of the month or something. Though that never made her cry when we were hanging out together. Is she crying about … me? What the F is going on?
Amy turns around—but doesn’t see me—and I finally catch a clear glimpse of her face. Yup, definitely crying. Her face is all red. Her bangs are all over the place. She hugs Stacey and then closes her locker. All three of them start to walk in my direction. Still perplexed, I haul ass outta there.
* * *
Steve texts me that he knows what happened and will tell me at lunch. I’m sick with anticipation. Finally he gets to the table where me and Kanha are sitting.
“Well?” I ask, before he even has a chance to sit down.
“Barry and Barry have AP Chem with Amy,” Steve says. “They told me she said something about her dog running away.”
“What?” I exclaim.
“Yeah, they said she said her mom was taking it for a walk and it got off the leash or something and ran away.”
“You’re telling me Buttercup ran away?”
“Is that his name? Then I guess so.”
“It’s a she.”
“What?”
“Buttercup. She’s a she. Not a he.”
“Oh,” Steve says, “well then, yeah, she ran away.”
“When did this happen?” I ask.
“Today I guess,” Steve says.
I run my hands through my hair. This is intense. I have mixed feelings. On one hand, Buttercup is the root of all evil. She’s the reason I freaked out. She’s the reason Amy hates me. On the other hand, Amy loves that fucking dog. I mean, she loves it. She must be devastated. I wish there was something I could do.
Kanha senses I’m not dealing with this well. “You okay, dog?” He immediately realizes this is a poor choice of slang. “Uh, sorry,” he quickly adds.
“Yeah, I’m okay I guess,” I say. “Did you hear anything else, Steve?”
“That’s about it. He—sorry, she—is wearing a collar, but unless she comes back on her own or someone finds her, there’s not much they can do.”
I imagine Amy coming home from school today and not being greeted by Buttercup running out of the doggy door. I want to cheer her up, make her laugh, do something.
But, as usual, I’m helpless.
The whole point of this therapy, Dr. S. keeps telling me, is to get used to the anxiety of not doing my compulsions so that, eventually, I’ll get acclimated and won’t feel the anxiety anymore in the first place. Supposedly, the Lexapro cuts down on my initial anxiety just enough for me to try the therapy. Sometimes I think it’s working and sometimes I don’t. Right now I’m having a tough time.
I’m lying in bed, trying not to pee. I peed for a while before I went to bed. It was a good, nice long pee that I had been saving up. I shook it out real good. My bladder is empty. But I’ve only been in bed for eight minutes and I already feel like I need to pee again. I feel like just maybe I didn’t get it all and if I don’t get up and pee again, I may never fall asleep.
I try not to think about it. I think about Amy instead. Even though Dr. S. says I need to do this for me, I still can’t help but envision the moment when I tell Amy I’m cured—that I’m no longer a dog-hating nutcase. That’s gonna be a great day. I wonder if Amy is up, too, thinking about Buttercup. She’s probably looking out her bedroom window all sad and shit.
I start thinking about peeing again. Just pee once, quickly. It will be fine. No. I can’t give in. I roll over on my stomach. That seems to help a little.
I dream I’m skipping rocks on a pond with Amy, only the pond is the top of a cupcake.
I wake up. It’s morning. I didn’t get up to pee the whole night! I can’t remember the last time I ever did that. I roll out of bed just as my alarm goes off. Now I do have to pee. It feels great.
* * *
Rocking green Cons today: hopeful.
It’s warm outside. Student government is having a bake sale in front of the school. Stacey is manning one of the tables. I’ll have to handle money, touch food, and interact with Stacey. A trifecta of challenges. I’m in.
I approach the table. Stacey smiles at me politely, but I know she just wants my cash. “Hey, Stacey,” I say. She seems surprised to realize I possess the power of speech.
She goes into pitch mode: “Would you like to help the class raise money for Senior Weekend?”
Ah, so this is for the Senior Weekend. Add that to the list of triggers I’m now facing. What’s one more than a trifecta? A quadfecta? Whatever, stop stalling.
I look at all the cookies and brownies. I search for the least messy-looking one. I hear Dr. S. admonishing me in my head. This won’t be fast or easy. I decide to go for the sloppiest one instead. There’s some sort of coffee cake–looking thing that’s all crumbly.
“I’ll take that one,” I say with relative authority.
“That’ll be $2.50,” Stacey says.
I glance at her cleavage. Sweet mother. The guys are gonna have a field day with those in college.
I take a five out of my wallet. I can smell the grime on it. I sense the ink rubbing off on my fingers. I hand it to Stacey. Her finger grazes mine, something she definitely doesn’t even notice but that adds a fifth element to this challenge because I hate touching other people’s hands. She gives me back the two most beat-up singles I’ve ever seen and two quarters. I hesitate for a second. Coins are the grossest! I sense Stacey anointing me Patron Saint of Weirdness.
“Thanks,” I say, pocketing the money, taking a deep breath, and then picking up the piece of cake. I try to distract myself by asking Stacey a question. “Have you heard anything about Buttercup?”
“What?” Stacey says, seeming annoyed for no reason.
“Amy’s dog. Do you know if she found it?”
“Oh. No. Still missing. Amy is putting up flyers.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
Stacey displays a “do you realize how painful this is for me?” fake grin. I take it as my cue to leave.
* * *
I lean on the wall, across the hall from a hand sanitizer dispenser. So far today I’ve spoken to Stacey Simpson for the first time since eighth-grade Home Ec and contributed money to the god-awful Senior Weekend. Neither killed me. I touched Stacey’s finger, handled money, and ate the piece of cake. I haven’t washed my hands yet. Dr. S. wants me to expose myself to my triggers, well that’s what I’m doing.
I feel the sugar and crumbs and ink crawl up my arms from my fingers toward my face. You’re fine, Chuck. It’s just food. It’s just money. It’s just some hot chick’s finger. You’ll be fine.
The hand sanitizer is so tempting. It’s calling to me.
I take a step toward it.
I fight back.
I don’t give in.
I walk away.
I win.
I’m gonna do this.
I’m staring at my computer screen. The link that used to be Amy’s Facebook profile now just reads:
The page you requested was not found.
You may have clicked an expired link or mistyped the address. Some web addresses are case sensitive.
I didn’t mistype shit. Amy still has me blocked. This is getting ridiculous. I need to talk to her. We’re in freakin’ Calc together every day and she hasn’t said a word to me in weeks.
I start to think: if Dr. S. and Steve are fine with playing the Amy card, then why can’t I do the same thing? I know what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna play the Buttercup card.
I grab my phone and send Amy a text: I heard about Buttercup. Are you ok? It’s a sensitive subject, but I know it’s the only thing that Amy will definitely respond
to. She can’t ignore this.
Sure enough, Amy texts back a minute later: Thx. I’m sad.
Three words, one of which isn’t even real, and that’s the most substantial conversation I’ve had with her since we talked in the library. I don’t have much to go on.
I respond: Is there anything I can do?
She writes back: No. Thx.
Compared to the witty banter we used to have at our usual table, this is plain painful. I start to think it’s a lost cause.
I write: I’m sorry again about what happened.
It takes a little longer for her to write back this time. But she finally responds: It’s ok.
I was expecting a little more than that. I wonder if maybe she wrote more, then deleted it and just sent that. The good news is that she doesn’t really seem to be mad anymore about what happened. The bad news is that I think she’s just too upset about Buttercup to care about anything else.
It’s time to go for broke. I told Dr. S. and I told myself that I would never tell Amy what’s wrong with me. But the truth is, she knows something is wrong with me. As Dr. S. says, OCD is a part of me. Amy is the coolest human being I have ever encountered. She’ll understand. I hope.
I type very deliberately. I read it over. I hit send: Amy, I have ocd.
There, it’s out there.
She writes back like two seconds later. It just reads: ?
I write back: Obsessive-compulsive disorder.
She responds: I know what it is. Why r u telling me?
Now I’m typing at warp speed: That’s why I freaked out. But I’m trying to get better.
She writes back: Oh, Chuck.
Oh, Chuck?
I have no idea what that means. Damn you, text messaging, and your lack of inflection! Is it “Oh, Chuck” as in oh, that’s what’s wrong with you? Or is it “Oh, Chuck” as in oh, you sad, pathetic creature?
My phone pings. It’s another text from Amy. Two in a row. I read it and then bury my face in my hands.
It says: I have a little ocd too.
Oh Amy, Amy, Amy. Sure, you’re neat and have all of your notebooks for school labeled and organized. But you carry half-eaten granola bars in a dog hair–covered backpack and wear a jacket that’s been God knows where. You’re not OCD, any more than Steve is.
I decide not to write back even though I’ve finally engaged Amy in what passes for back-and-forth between us these days. I played the Buttercup card and the OCD card; that’s enough for one night. But as much as I’m disappointed by Amy’s response, I’m starting to realize what she’s thinking. She had some asshole boyfriend in San Diego. All she cares about in the world is her dog. She finally meets a new guy—me. That guy not only turns out to be an asshole, too, but fucks with the dog as well. Double whammy. When I told her that I have OCD and she responded, “So do I,” that tells me one thing—Amy doesn’t understand what I’m going through. She’s just confused. I mean, who the hell wouldn’t be? But, as Mom would say, that’s great.
How the hell is that great? Because now I know what’s wrong and how to fix it.
Me and Steve are studying in the library. It’s the last place I want to be right now, but AP exams are rapidly approaching and we need to get our shit together. Just to prove the world hates me, the only available table is me and Amy’s usual one. I swear I can still smell Amy’s scent hanging in the air. It smells like baby powder and awesomeness.
Of course, I’m too distracted to get any work done.
“So I think I know what to do about Amy,” I say.
Steve looks up from his books. “Oh yeah?” he offers.
Steve is no doubt getting sick and tired of hearing me talk about Amy. He’s a trouper as always, though, and plays along. “What are you gonna do?”
“I’m just going to tell her everything. About Dr. S., about Lexapro.”
“Wait, what?”
Shit. I realize that I never even told Steve that I was taking Lexapro.
“What the fuck is Lexapro?”
“It’s just this drug that Dr. S. put me on. It helps with my OCD stuff.”
“How long have you been taking it?”
“Like a month or so.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“I don’t know. It’s embarrassing. I didn’t want you to think I was strange or anything.”
Steve looks at me. “Chuck, you’re literally the strangest person on earth.”
We both laugh. There’s no denying that.
“So, anyway,” Steve says, mercifully moving on, “you’re gonna tell Amy all that why?”
“She still doesn’t understand why I freaked out. But I think as long as she knows, and knows I’m getting better, she’ll finally start hanging out with me again.”
“Okay,” Steve says, “that sounds like a plan.”
He doesn’t seem very convinced, but I know it’s the right thing to do.
“I mean, if I can’t get her to come to prom with me,” I say, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, you know?”
“Yeah, Chuck, I get it.”
Definitely getting sick of me.
“So, speaking of girls…” Steve says gingerly, “you never told me what happened with Beth.”
“Huh?” I really don’t want to go there.
“Beth. Your sister? You said you were gonna put in a good word for me. Remember, right after that bullshit with Parker?”
Of course I remember. But I hoped, however unlikely, that Steve hadn’t.
“I didn’t want to say anything since you were dealing with all this shit,” Steve continues, “but now that you’re doing better and taking some fancy-schmancy medication, maybe you could tell your best friend Steve what happened when you talked to Beth?”
I don’t know what the best move is here. Do I tell Steve that I never even really talked to Beth about him because there’s no way in a million years she’d ever go out with him (which I’m totally fine with)? Or do I sugarcoat it?
“Uh,” I stammer, and begin to improvise, “I did talk to her.” Steve is literally on the edge of his seat. Amy’s seat, actually. “I talked to her for like two seconds. She said she’d think about it.”
“What?” Steve asks excitedly. “So you told Beth I was interested and she said she’d think about it?”
“Yup,” I say, as if answering quickly makes it any less of a lie.
“That’s great news!” Steve says. “That means there’s a possibility, right?”
“Well,” I say, “I mean, there’s always a possibility. But to put it in math terms, the expected value is not very high.”
“Still, some chance is better than no chance,” Steve says, getting even more excited.
This is exactly the kind of giddy reaction I was worried about.
“Thanks so much, Chuck. I really appreciate it. I mean, think about it, if I date your sister that would make us, like, brothers! Sort of.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Brothers.” I shudder at the thought of Steve with Beth. “We should get back to work.”
Steve is bopping his shoulders and doing a little dance in his seat while he cracks open a study guide. I’ve made my best friend’s day. What could possibly be wrong with that?
“Well, Chuck, from what you’ve told me, you seem to be making remarkable progress, yes? You’ve attempted CBT on a number of your compulsions and in many cases succeeded in reducing your symptoms. We still have a very long way to go, but I’m encouraged by your improvement and would like to keep you on Lexapro for the time being?”
I nod my head glumly as Dr. S. continues.
“However, I can’t help but notice that your mood has been somewhat … unpredictable in our last session or two. Are you not pleased with your progress, Chuck?”
“No,” I say, “I’m okay with how things are going. I’ve just got some, like, other things I’m dealing with.”
“That’s quite all right, Chuck. What’s on your mind?”
While taking the Lexapro and worki
ng at CBT and actually seeing some improvement has been great, it’s also had a weird side effect: my brain feels a little clearer. And that means I’ve been spending more and more time thinking about high school ending and my life, well, still sucking.
“My best friend…” I begin.
“Steve?”
“Yeah, Steve.” I still always forget that Dr. S. is paid to listen and remember what I tell her. “Steve has liked my sister forever. And even though Beth is the worst, I told Steve that I talked to her about him, you know, put in a good word or whatever.”
“And this bothers you because of your relationship with Beth?”
“No, it bothers me because I never actually said anything to her and I lied to Steve.”
“Oh.” Dr. S. looks at her notepad. I see a very brief glimpse of the judgey/disappointed face she’s so good at suppressing when we talk.
“Well, there is one way you can address this I think?” she continues.
“There is?”
“Why don’t you try actually talking to Beth?”
I suddenly realize what she means.
“I get it. So if I do talk to her, then—technically speaking—I never lied to Steve!”
Dr. S. shakes her head. She seems amused. “That’s not exactly what I meant, Chuck. I’m merely suggesting that if and when you do talk to Steve about this, it might benefit you to know Beth’s true feelings first, yes?”
Damn. And here I thought Dr. S. was being all devious and telling me a way out of this mess. That’s no help at all. Beth’s true feelings? You don’t need a color-coded Converse system for that. Her only mood is bitch.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Chuck?”
“I guess so.”
“What else is troubling you?”
“Are we really supposed to be talking about this stuff? Like, non-mental stuff?”
“I’m a psychiatrist, Chuck. I’m not just here to treat your OCD; I’m here for your overall well-being. I assume this has to do with Amy?”