by Aaron Karo
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Having healthy relationships is an integral part of mental health. I will do my best to help. Think of me as, what do you call it? Your ‘wingman’?”
Did my shrink just call herself my wingman?
“My wingman?”
“Yes, your wingman. That’s the term, correct?”
“Yeah…” I laugh to myself and am momentarily thrown off. “Okay, so I’ve told you about Amy before. Things haven’t exactly been going well. I’m thinking about just telling her everything. Maybe sending her an email. Tell her about you, about the Lexapro, all of it.”
“Uh huh,” Dr. S. says.
“And then,” I continue, “ask her to prom.”
Dr. S. wrinkles her forehead in surprise.
“Really?”
“Yup.”
“Isn’t the prom not until June?”
“Yeah, but people are starting to ask.”
“That’s a bold move, Chuck. Something you never would have considered when you first started coming here?”
That’s definitely true. I never would have asked any girl to prom the way I was a few months ago. Dr. S.—and Amy—have changed all that. I have no idea what Amy will say, or if she’ll even listen to me long enough for me to ask her in the first place, but it’s the only thing I can think of to show her how I feel once and for all.
“Well,” Dr. S. says, “if it doesn’t work, then at least you know you tried?”
Dr. S. doesn’t seem very optimistic about my plan. In fact, she sounds a little too much like Wayne Gretzky for my taste. She puts her pen down and smiles.
“We’re out of time,” she says.
Soon, I will be too.
I walk into my bedroom and am struck by déjà vu. Beth is using my laptop, which she knows she’s not allowed to do. Just a few years ago, this exact scene played out and it led directly to my bizarre Converse system. Angry = red Cons. It seems like so long ago.
“Beth, what the hell are you doing in here?”
She turns around—busted.
“My computer is dead.”
“Then plug it in, idiot.”
“Something is wrong with the charger.”
“That’s not my problem. Get outta here!”
“Just let me do one more thing. Please?”
I sense an opportunity.
“Fine,” I say.
“Really?”
“Yeah, five minutes.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She turns back to my computer and I sit on the bed and take off my gray Cons. I can’t believe I’ve been doing this for years now. My system is one of the few compulsions (along with my beat-off tally) that I haven’t told Dr. S. about or tried CBT on. Some things are just too weird.
I look over and see that Beth is on Facebook. Obviously what she’s doing is not that important. It annoys me that I’m actually hesitant to talk to my own younger sister.
“Beth,” I say, “can I talk to you while you’re doing that?” Before she even has a chance to bitch me out I add: “You know, since you’re on my computer and all?”
“Fine, what?” she sighs.
I try my technique of speaking without thinking: “Steve likes you.”
Beth doesn’t even stop typing.
“What?”
“Steve. He really likes you.”
Now she turns her head toward me.
“Steve Sludgelacker likes me? Like, likes me likes me?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment. But for a second, I think I see a flicker of an ounce of half a smile. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy being told that someone likes them?
“Ew, gross,” she says finally, and turns back around.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“What do you want me to say, Chuck? So your weirdo best friend likes me. Big deal.”
“Well, what do you think about him?”
“What part of ‘Ew, gross’ do you not understand?”
“Why don’t you just think about it? Even for a day.” That way I technically didn’t lie to Steve.
“Think about what?”
“You know,” I say, “think about if maybe you could possibly like him, too.”
She turns her head again. “Is this a joke?”
“No, I just—”
Then Beth drops a bomb: “I’m going to the prom with Parker.”
“Wait, what?” I’m flabbergasted.
“Parker asked me to the prom yesterday and I said yes. That’s who I’m talking to right now.”
“That’s what was so important that you had to use my computer?”
She ignores me and turns back. It feels wrong that words that Parker is typing are going through the Internet and appearing on my computer screen. I feel like he’s right in my bedroom, stupid warm-up pants and all.
“But you’re only a sophomore,” I say, still trying to make sense of everything.
“So? Sophomores sometimes go to prom.”
“Are you and Parker … dating?”
“No. I mean, not really.”
I don’t know what that means and, honestly, I don’t even want to know. Beth finally logs off and closes my laptop. Instead of merely patronizing me by turning her head again, she swivels around completely so that we’re actually facing each other.
“Look,” she says, “Steve seems like a really great guy. He’s always nice to me. I actually just accepted the friend request he sent me a few years ago.”
“A few years ago? He said he requested you a few months ago.” Apparently I’m not the only one telling white lies.
“And I know that Parker can be a dick sometimes.”
Now that’s the understatement of the year.
“But I think he’s cool,” she continues, “and I really wanna go to prom. So I’m going with him. Obviously I can’t date someone else.” She stands up. “I guess just tell Steve I’m sorry.”
She goes to leave my room.
“Hey, Beth,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Did you accept my friend request?”
She looks at me quizzically. “Nah,” she says, walking out the door. “I rejected you a long time ago.”
Beth Taylor certainly knows how to make an exit.
Me, Steve, and Kanha are taking a break from studying for APs and getting some food at the deli a few blocks from the high school.
“Remember when we got that dude to buy us beer here last year?” Kanha says.
“Yeah, and then you threw up all over my basement,” Steve replies.
“Why you gotta bring that up, dog? I was lit up.”
“You had half a beer,” I say.
Me and Steve have a laugh at Kanha’s expense. The deli guy brings our sandwiches to our table along with one paper-thin napkin each.
“You want me to get some more napkins?” Steve asks.
“Nah,” I say, digging in. My hands are messy, of course, but I can just, like, deal with it better now. One napkin is enough. Steve is legitimately impressed.
For a while, the only sound is rabid chewing. We’ve been studying like crazy and everyone is starving. Finally, Steve chimes in.
“I think Parker is gonna kill me before I even get to take the APs.”
“What are you talking about?” I say.
“He slipped a note into my locker today. It said ‘You’re gonna die, Fudge Packer.’”
“Are you kidding me? How do you know it was Parker?” I say stupidly.
“Who else would put that kind of note in my locker? Plus, he spelled ‘die’ D-Y-E.”
We all have to chuckle at that.
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Steve says. “I guess I’m just used to it. He’s full of shit anyway.”
“That’s not cool, dog,” Kanha says. “You gots to tell Mrs. Rodriguez.”
“Nah, if I tell on him, that’s just gonna make thin
gs worse. Besides, I also got some good news: Beth accepted my friend request yesterday!”
“Oh snap! For reals?”
Steve and Kanha high-five.
“Yup,” Steve says. “It’s all because of Chuck. He said he would put a word in, and he did.”
“Let’s not get carried away, Steve,” I say. “Just because she accepted your friend request doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“It means something,” Steve says. “It can’t just be a coincidence. And that’s also why I’m not gonna go tell on Parker. I’m gonna get back at him somehow. I’m gonna do it for Beth. I’m gonna show her I’m not some pushover. I’m gonna … I’m gonna take her to prom!”
This is getting out of hand.
“Steve,” I say, “I don’t want you to get too excited. Beth is very … indecisive.”
“She won’t be indecisive when I take Parker down.”
“First of all, how exactly are you gonna do that? And second of all, if you want to get back at Parker, that’s something you gotta do for you, not for Beth.”
It strikes me that I sound exactly like Dr. S.
“Hey, Taylor, don’t be raining on Sludgelacker’s parade, yo.”
Leave it to Kanha to inject some common sense into the proceedings.
“I just don’t want Steve to get his ass kicked—physically or, you know … by my sister.”
“I’ll be fine,” Steve says.
I’m not very confident this is true and am eager to start talking about something other than Beth before I dig myself an even bigger hole.
“So, I wrote a whole email that I’m sending to Amy tonight. I’m gonna tell her everything and explain everything and tell her how I feel. Then I’m gonna meet her in the library tomorrow and ask her to prom. This is my last chance to make things right.”
They don’t say anything but Kanha reluctantly takes a few dollars out of his pocket and hands them to Steve.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“I bet Kanha that you couldn’t go one conversation without bringing up Amy,” Steve says.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, Chuck. It’s getting a little ridiculous.”
I’m annoyed and embarrassed. But most of all, I feel the urge to get some more napkins.
Wearing tan Cons—anxious—and the same pair I wore the first time I met Amy at this very table. It’s been less than two and a half months but it feels like two and a half years. Last night I poured my heart out in an email to Amy. I told her everything, even including a link to the Wikipedia article on OCD, and she agreed to meet me here.
Amy arrives. She hasn’t worn her camouflage jacket in a while. It’s almost May and it’s been pretty warm. It’s a shame; I love that jacket. She sits.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I respond.
She brushes her hair out of her eyes. Gets me every time.
I don’t know where to start. Luckily, she does.
“That was some email you sent me.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I’m glad you sent it. You’ve obviously been dealing with some serious stuff. It explains a lot, that’s for sure.”
“So you forgive me?”
“Chuck, I’m not mad at you. You’re like the sweetest, most down-to-earth guy I’ve ever met.”
Am I really “down to earth”? Amy has this way with words that just makes me feel so good about myself.
“And,” she continues, “you’re gonna make some girl feel really special one day.”
No, no, no, no, don’t give me this “some girl” crap!
“But, Amy—”
“Chuck, you’re going through a lot, but so am I. I just moved here, now we’re almost graduating, I’m still waiting to hear back from colleges, I’m taking a million classes, Buttercup…”
She trails off. I think she might break down. She gathers herself and continues.
“Buttercup is gone, I just got out of an awful relationship, I just don’t know if I can deal with this right now.”
“But,” I plead, “everything was going so great until that day at my house.”
“It’s not about that anymore, Chuck. I like you. I really do. You have such a kind heart.”
A kind heart? Who says things like that? Amy Huntington, that’s who.
“But I just have so much going on right now, and judging from that email, so do you.”
This is backfiring …
“But, Amy, I’m getting better! You should see how much better I’m doing! I don’t make lists anymore. I walk down whatever hallway I want.”
“That’s great, Chuck. It really is.”
“Don’t you see? I did it because of you. I’m doing it for you.”
“And that’s honestly amazing,” Amy says. “But this is something you have to do for yourself, Chuck. Not for me.”
She sounds like Dr. S. lecturing me, and me lecturing Steve. I have a knot in my stomach and it’s throbbing and I feel like I’m shaking. I can’t undo what’s happened no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want to.
“You said it yourself in that email,” Amy continues, “you have a long way to go. But I’m just not in a place where I can be more than friends with you. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. You still have so much to do—and I know you can do it—but I can’t put myself out there again. It’s too much.”
I say, “I understand,” but the truth is I don’t understand.
Amy puts her hands on mine. All I can think about is how close we came to kissing. I decide there’s one more thing I have to say.
“Will you go to the prom with me?”
Amy withdraws her hands.
“What?”
“Will you go to prom with me? At least as friends?”
“Chuck,” she says with a sigh.
“I know you think it’s all ‘corporate’ and everything but—”
“Ashley already asked me.”
I feel like I’ve just been clobbered in the face. My vision goes blurry for a second.
“What do you mean Ashley already asked you?” I’m starting to sound like a whiny bitch but I don’t care.
“He asked me a few days ago.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I wasn’t sure I was going.”
What’s the smallest thing ever? A nano-something? That’s the size of the breath of relief I take. A nano-breath. Ashley asked Amy to prom but she didn’t say yes yet. That’s all I’ve got to hang on to right now. I’m pathetic.
“You know how I feel about prom,” Amy says. “The camping trip in a month—that I’m going to. But I just don’t know about prom.”
“But I was hoping…”
“I’m sorry, Chuck. I was gonna tell you. It’s just simpler this way. Just like I said the first time we ever hung out—I try not to get attached. Someone always gets hurt.”
Of all the scenarios I considered about how this meeting would go, none were as bad as what is actually happening. I want to close my eyes and go back to before I knew Amy, when I was still super OCD but at least didn’t have a hole in my chest where my aorta and the rest of my heart used to be.
“Listen,” she says, “I have to go. I’m helping my mom put up some more missing-dog flyers.”
“Okay,” I mumble, “I guess I’ll see you in class.” My one solace: first-period Calc and getting to stare at the back of Amy’s head every day.
“There is no more class, remember? Cimaglia’s giving us the week off to study independently for the exam.”
“Oh. Right,” I say.
“And after the AP, I’m not gonna be back in class either. I have to sit in on another Spanish class to make sure I can pass the final and graduate on time.”
“Oh,” I say again, now barely audible.
“I’ll see you around, Chuck,” she says, standing up and grabbing her backpack.
She smiles at me before turning and leaving.
It’s the first time she’s ever smiled at me that I didn’t smile back.
After staring into space for what seems like hours, I need every ounce of willpower in my body to finally get out of my seat in the library. Also the library is closing and the janitor kicks me out.
I walk through the near-empty school for a while. The school that has given me nothing but grief in return for all the hours of my life I’ve spent in it. I’m continuing to wander aimlessly when I hear something strange, like someone is choking. I follow the sound, turn a corner, and find the source: Parker has Steve in a headlock in the middle of a deserted hallway.
I immediately look to see if there’s anyone to help, but no one is around. My heart pounding, I yell out (or, rather, speak sorta sternly): “Hey!”
Parker looks up and sees me but doesn’t react. He just continues to keep Steve in a headlock. It doesn’t seem like he’s actually choking Steve, more like just humiliating him by not letting go. I approach them.
“Come on, Parker, just let him go.”
Parker actually releases Steve and I think perhaps I’ve somehow defused the situation. Then he shoves Steve into the lockers. Like, hard. Steve’s shoulder hits the lockers and the only thing that keeps him from collapsing to the ground is that Parker is grabbing on to his shirt, stretching out the collar.
“What are you gonna do about it, Chuck?”
I know this is gonna sound absolutely fucking crazy, but my first reaction is that I can’t believe Parker even knows my name. What an awful thing to think at a time like this.
“I said, what are you gonna do about it, Chuck?”
Parker slams Steve into the lockers again, even harder. Steve is starting to tear up. This is getting serious.
“Just leave him alone,” I say. “What’s your problem?” What is Parker’s problem anyway? He’s been picking on Steve since he moved to Plainville for seemingly no reason.
“He’s a fudge packer, that’s my problem. He deserves to get his ass kicked.”
Oh, well thank you for that very thoughtful response, Parker. That really explains a lot.
“Can’t you just pick on someone else?”
“Who, like you?”
Parker slams Steve into the lockers again, this time letting him fall to the ground. Parker looks me up and down.