by Aaron Karo
Oh shit.
“Well,” Parker grunts, “I could kick your ass, but then your sister would get all upset.”
“My sister?” I say, puzzled. The day’s events have fried my brain.
“Yeah, your sister,” Parker says. “You know, the chick I drive to school every day? The one I’m taking to prom?”
Steve is doubled over on the ground, but there’s no way he didn’t hear that. I’ll have to deal with that later, though.
I don’t say anything.
“Why don’t you give me your best shot,” Parker says.
“What?”
“I’m sure Beth would be okay with it if you hit me, right?” He turns his face sideways as if he’s giving me a target.
I’m totally mystified. I mean, does he want me to hit him? How can he be so dumb at life yet so good at soccer and mind games?
I just stand there.
“Your best friend is on the floor and you won’t even take a free shot at me? Pussy.”
Without saying another word, Parker turns around and walks away in the other direction. With their flair for exits, I can almost see how he and my sister could make a good couple.
I rush to Steve’s side and help him up.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, wiping away the tears. “It looked worse than it was.”
“It looked pretty bad, man. We need to tell the principal.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“What was Parker talking about? About driving Beth to school and taking her to prom?”
The kid just got beat up in the hallway and this is what he wants to talk about? I thought I’d have more time to prepare.
“I don’t know, Steve. That was weird.”
“Chuck, you know you’re the worst liar ever, why do you even try?”
Well, not the worst liar ever. After all, I did convince him I put in a word with Beth when I hadn’t yet, and I kinda left out some pertinent information at the deli … but that’s neither here nor there.
“It’s true,” I admit. “Parker has been driving Beth to school.”
“So you never talked to her about me?”
“No, I did.”
“And?”
“She said she was going to the prom with him.”
“You knew all this and you didn’t tell me?”
“Well, I mean…”
“So you lied to me.”
“Not technically, I—”
“You’re such an asshole, Chuck.”
“Steve, listen—”
“No. I ask you to do one thing, one thing for me, and you lie to my face about it? You make me look like an idiot?”
“I’m sorry, man. I’ve just been dealing with all this Amy stuff. And she just told me she doesn’t want to be with me and—”
“Enough! Shut the fuck up!”
Steve has never, ever raised his voice in the entire time I’ve known him.
“All you fucking do is talk about Amy. Amy this, Amy that. Meanwhile, I’m the one getting my ass kicked every week and do you do anything about it? You’re seeing a shrink, you’re dealing with your shit, and I always have your back. But do you have mine? No. You don’t help me when I ask you to. You lie to me. You’re a fucking terrible friend.”
“Steve…”
“Fuck you, Chuck.”
Steve’s face is bright red. He has fresh tears in his eyes and his nose is running. At this very moment, I’m actually a little afraid of him. But I also know (or at least hope) that he’s merely caught up in the moment. He doesn’t say anything else. He just walks away in the opposite direction of Parker, holding the shoulder that just got bashed into the lockers.
I’m left all by myself, in more ways than one.
“So, Chuck,” Dr. S. smiles optimistically, “how have you been doing this week? Any new victories to report?”
“Nope,” I say flatly.
“And why is that?” she says, still grinning.
“Because I stopped taking the Lexapro.”
“Excuse me?”
“I stopped taking the Lexapro.”
“Chuck, are you joking?”
“Nope,” I say again, matter-of-factly.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
“Life sucks, the drugs aren’t working. Fuck it. I don’t give a shit.”
“Is this about you and Amy?”
“There is no me and Amy. And there’s barely a me and Steve.”
“So you and Steve had a falling-out?”
“Yeah, thanks for that advice, Doc. You’re a great wingman.”
“Chuck, your tone concerns me. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you so … angry?”
“Why shouldn’t I be angry? Me and Amy are through. My only friend in the entire world is mad at me. I haven’t said a word to either of them in days.”
Dr. S. gets all delicate and shit: “I understand you’re having a tough time. But your symptoms were still getting better, yes? Why discontinue the medication? Now is the perfect opportunity to put your recovery to the test.”
“I just don’t wanna take it anymore. It’s stupid.”
“Chuck, I can’t stress enough that discontinuing medication like Lexapro ‘cold turkey’ can potentially be dangerous? The drug affects your brain chemistry and you need to be weaned off of it properly.”
“I don’t care.”
“Abruptly stopping Lexapro has been known to cause depression, anxiety, insomnia—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “Those were all the side effects of taking the drug.”
“This is true, yes?”
“So how can the side effects of taking it be the same as what it treats and what happens if I stop taking it? That doesn’t make any fucking sense!”
My head is spinning.
“Chuck, please try to watch your language?”
I don’t want to be here anymore. My sessions with Dr. S. have coincided with the worst months of my already awful life. True, my symptoms were getting better, much better in fact. But I don’t care if they come back. I can already feel them starting to creep back, and I only stopped taking the pills a few days ago. It almost feels like a relief—like something familiar that I’ve been missing.
“Choosing whether or not to take the medication is your decision,” Dr. S. continues, “but your parents and I will have to monitor you closely. I also must say again that I strongly recommend continuing this course of treatment?”
“So what?”
“Chuck, I promise you that whatever is going on in your life, you can deal with it. You’re a stronger young man than you realize. You’ve come so far, yes?”
“Look where it got me,” I say. “No one likes me. Who cares if I count how many times I jerk off?”
“What was that?”
I remember that I never even told Dr. S. about my tally, now proudly entering its seventeenth month and counting.
“Nothing,” I say. “I don’t wanna take the Lexapro anymore. I don’t wanna do CBT anymore. I just want to be left alone.”
Next month is graduation. It’s so tantalizingly close. I just want to suffer in peace and then get the motherfuck out of this town.
“Perhaps we should consider different medication? There’s a variety of—”
“Why do you wear sneakers?” I blurt out, cutting off Dr. S. again and trying to talk about something, anything other than medication.
“What?”
“Why do you wear sneakers? You don’t think it’s weird? You’re a shrink.”
“Psychiatrist.”
“Whatever. Why do you wear sneakers? It’s weird.”
“Because they’re comfortable, Chuck. Why do you wear sneakers?”
Dr. S. seems to be getting a little irritated.
I stare down at my red Cons. I think about how they’re so much more than just sneakers to me.
“I have my reasons,” I mutter.
I swear this i
s the last day I’m ever gonna think about math for the rest of my life. The Calc AP exam has finally arrived and I can’t wait to get it over with. It’s not going to be easy, though—and I don’t just mean the test.
I’m sitting in a classroom in West Lake Elementary, where the exam is being administered. Obviously I don’t do well in unfamiliar environments, especially since I stopped taking the Lexapro. To make matters worse, in one corner of the room is Steve, doing his best to ignore me, and in the other corner of the room is Amy. I can’t remember the last time I saw Amy, considering we haven’t had Cimaglia’s class and her locker is in fucking Siberia.
The weather has been weird all year and early May is no exception—it’s hot as balls. Amy turns to talk to a friend (I remember when she didn’t know anybody…) and I notice something startling about her face: she has freckles! I guess the sun or the heat or whatever makes them come out. It’s so weird to see her like that. I want to say something about them, poke fun, ask her about them, laugh about it, anything, but she’s also doing her best to ignore me.
The test isn’t for another twenty minutes. I have to pee. I think I could probably hold it in but then I know that’s all I’ll be thinking about during the exam. I walk to the front of the room and approach the proctor.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask.
“Down the hall and to the right,” she says. “But you’re gonna need this to get in.”
She hands me a giant black binder clip that has a key attached to it. A bathroom key? Seriously?
OCD thoughts swarm my brain: people holding the key, touching the bathroom door, going to the bathroom, touching the toilet handle, touching the bathroom sink, urine and shit and grossness everywhere. I hesitate.
The proctor stands there, key in hand, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Finally I just grab it without thinking and scamper out of the classroom. When I get into the hallway, I put the binder clip between my elbow and my side so I don’t have to touch it with my hands. Just weeks ago I might have been able to deal with this. Not anymore.
I take a piss, displaying almost acrobatic abilities to touch everything in the bathroom with my feet and elbows. I wrap the key in paper towels and stick it back in my side. Then I scrub my hands clean.
I’m about to leave the bathroom when I decide to take a second. The enormity of the moment strikes me. I don’t know if I’m prepared for this exam. Since the Incident I’ve dreaded studying calc because it reminds me of Amy. But I have to do well so I can place out of calculus in college and never see an antiderivative for as long as I live. I also realize that I’m standing in a bathroom with a key wrapped in paper towels lodged in my armpit. My symptoms are coming back faster than I expected. I’m feeling claustrophobic. I have to get outta here.
I manage to exit the bathroom without touching the doorknob with my hands, and then lean against a nearby wall, trying to catch my breath. In moments like this, Steve would always be there to calm me down. Not today. And that’s when I look down the hallway and see her: Mom.
For a second I’m totally confused, before I realize this is where Mom works. I went to Plainville Elementary, and have never been inside this building before, so I guess I just didn’t put two and two together. Mom seems surprised too as she approaches.
“Chuck? What are you doing here?
“This is where the AP exam is.”
“Oh, right. They’re administering some of the exams here because of overflow at the high school.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s so nice to see you. Are you ready for the test?”
“I’m a little nervous.”
Mom and Dad have been walking on eggshells around me ever since Dr. S. informed them I stopped taking my medication. It’s weird, though, because I feel like Mom has become slightly less annoying lately. I don’t know if she’s laying low, or if I just kinda subconsciously need her more than ever.
“You’re gonna do great, honey.”
She musses my hair and gives me a kiss on the forehead. That always makes me feel better.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I have to get to class—and you need to kick some butt on that exam.”
“Okay.”
“Good luck and let me know how it goes.”
“I will, Mom.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She leaves and I head back to the classroom. It occurs to me that either Mom didn’t notice the ball of paper towels wedged in my armpit, or she just chose not to say anything.
* * *
The test is going well, much better than I expected. Tutoring Amy has helped me after all. Every time I come across a topic me and her went over together, I remember a conversation we had or a joke we shared, and I can recall exactly what we were studying at the time. I slyly glance over at Amy, as if she’ll feel some sort of connection. She never reciprocates. Steve is sitting behind me so I can’t tell what the hell he’s doing.
Before I know it, the exam—and (hopefully) my calculus career—are mercifully over. I won’t get the results until July. I seek out Kanha, knowing he’s the only one here I can go over the answers with.
Two weeks of AP exams are finished, so the lockers in the senior hallway have taken on a party atmosphere. For anyone in AP classes, high school is basically over. For anyone not in AP classes, well, let’s face it, they never gave a shit to begin with. All everyone is talking about is Senior Weekend, which is only three weeks away. There’s only one person who really understands how I feel right now.
I wander the hallways after school, trying to find Steve. He’s not at his locker, but his car is still in the parking lot. Steve doesn’t give me a ride anymore and I missed the bus home, so I have to wait until the late bus anyway.
I end up in the hallway where Parker smashed Steve into the lockers. I wish I had done more but I know that if I could go back, I’d probably do the same thing—next to nothing. I hear a sound coming from the other end of the hallway. No, it’s not Steve getting choked again—it’s laughter. Obnoxious, halting, nasal laughter. I trace the sound to a classroom with its door open a crack and peek inside.
It’s a meeting of the Mathletes. There’s Steve, seated between Barry and Barry, chatting away. I instantly know what Steve is telling everyone about: his hand job. Those nerds are eating it up.
Steve glances over and happens to spot me peeking in. I quickly duck away, but I hear him tell the group he’ll be right back. He comes outside and approaches me in the hallway.
“What are you doing?” he asks accusingly.
“Nothing,” I say. “I missed the bus.”
My attempt to make Steve feel guilty fails miserably.
“So you joined Mathletes?” I say, hoping somehow it’s not true.
“Yup. There’s one more meet this year and they were down a man.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a problem?” Steve says.
“No. I just…” I have nothing else to say. I stare at my feet.
“Okay, well then I’m gonna go—”
“Are you ever gonna talk to me again?”
“I don’t know, Chuck. Maybe it’s time we moved on.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re going off to college soon. We’re not even gonna be in the same state anymore. And I need to meet new people and have friends that will stick up for me, and listen to me when I have problems.”
“How many times have I listened to that fucking story about your stupid hand job?” I say. “It’s not even true. You’re such a liar.”
My face is starting to get red. So is Steve’s. Two losers girlishly emoting in the hallway.
“It’s not about that and you know it,” Steve says. “And who are you to call me a liar? You lied to my face and I had to hear about it while I was beat up and on the ground. You think that was fun?”
“No, of course not. But—”
“I can’t do this anymore, Chuck. I c
an’t waste my life standing around while you scrub your hands and complain about some girl.”
“Steve, I’ll make up for it. I’ll talk to Beth. I’ll—”
“Forget it, man. It’s too late.”
“But … what am I supposed to do now?” I plead.
“I don’t know, Chuck. But you know what’s coming up? A little camping trip called Senior Weekend. I’m gonna be there. Those guys in there,” he says, gesturing toward the Mathletes meeting, “they’re all gonna be there, too. You know who else is gonna be there? Parker. He’s probably gonna beat me to a bloody pulp and leave me to die in the woods. But you know what? I don’t care. The question is, Chuck—where are you gonna be?”
I don’t say anything. My mouth is completely dry.
“I thought so,” Steve says. “Do me a favor, don’t talk to me anymore.” He shakes his head dismissively and walks back into the classroom, slamming the door behind him.
I can’t believe my best friend just broke up with me.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.
I’m standing at my locker like a zombie, spinning my lock over and over again. I can’t get it to feel right. When I hit fourteen it just doesn’t feel the way it used to. The Lexapros must have scrambled my brain or something. Things seem worse now. Much worse. The last few weeks are just a haze.
On maybe the twentieth try I finally get it right and start to walk to my next class. Everything around me seems so dull—and I don’t mean dull like “boring,” I mean dull like, not sharp. Colors are drab and sounds are muffled. I don’t feel right at all.
Stacey and Wendy walk by me going the other direction. All I can hear is the word “limo” and I know they’re talking about prom. It just adds to the lingering headache I’ve had for days now.
I spot a hand sanitizer dispenser and make a beeline for it. I haven’t even touched anything—anything—since my last squirt, but even the air feels contaminated these days. It’s the hand sanitizer near the gym, where I introduced Amy to Steve (or, rather, he introduced himself). It’s also where I dicked Steve over for the first time. I guess you could say this very spot is where my downfall began.