Compulsion (11 page)
Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
“Deal with your weird shit on your own time.
Guevón
,
lo que estás haciendo es una chimbada.”
And he goes off in Spanish. Luc turns into channel seventy-three, Univision, when he’s pissed.
I don’t even need the translation to know he’s ready to kill me.
Kids stare at us and move away. We’re officially making a scene.
Mighty Luc. Moses. Parting the sea of blue in Carson High’s hallways. I had counted on him giving me the keys. He doesn’t get it.
How could he?
He’s a suffocating turkey.
I push past him down the hall, and he grabs at my shirt collar. “Goddamnit, Martin. What’s your fucking problem?”
I shrug him off. “I’m fine. Just forget about it.” I hear myself speak the words in a normal, unwavering voice. But my pulse thrums against my temples and I can hardly breathe. I need to get my hands under a stream of icy water, and I push to the front of the drinking-fountain line.
9:42
Nine forty-two. Nine plus four is thirteen minus two is eleven. OK.
Some kid says, “Dude, I hope you washed your hands.”
“That’s what I’m doing now.” My voice sounds like I’m one violin pluck away from going major
twang
. “I burned myself. That’s all.”
Keep it cool.
Things get blotchy, so I splash my face with the metallic water that tastes like ice-cold liquid public-bathroom paper-towel dispenser. I swallow and splash, swallow and splash.
Kids move away.
When I stand up, Luc’s right behind me. He scowls, his caterpillar eyebrows touching. I wait to see if they’ll crawl off his face. “I’ll get you an Advil or something at lunch,” he says.
9:45
Nine forty-five. Nine plus four is thirteen plus five is eighteen divided by nine is two. OK.
The bell rings. “At lunch,” I echo. “Can’t be late.” I head to science, pushing back the webs and
buzz
,
buzz
,
buzz
in between my ears.
Mrs. Hayes has set up one of her forensic labs: death and decomposition. When we walk into class, it’s filled with jars of things we’re supposed to smell. We’re supposed to walk around describing the scents; the last station involves dissecting a fetal pig.
The rat’s chest moves up and down, up and down until it shudders and the rat stops moving, its abdomen pinched in the trap.
I push the memory away and focus on the blue smudge in the upper right-hand corner of the whiteboard. Mrs. Hayes has that excited-to-impart-knowledge look in her eyes. She’s one of those “forward-thinking” teachers. But sometimes it’s just gross.
Mariana Ramirez gets all fainty when she walks into class, and Dawn Washington takes her to the library. They’re doing the work sheet option for this lab. Mera flat-out refuses to do it, saying that it’s wrong to use animals this way, and she snatches another work sheet out of Mrs. Hayes’s hands and gathers things at her desk.
I’m paired with Seth, class president and all-around prick, if you ask me. If you stuck pencil lead up his ass, he’d pop out diamonds. I steady the trembling in my hands, but all I can do is think about getting home.
And not puking in science. Sometimes I wish I could be a chick and get all fainty.
“If anybody else wants to go to the library, raise your hand,” Mrs. Hayes says, kind of last minute, her white lab coat speckled with unknown brown stuff.
My hand shoots up. Death. I already know what it smells like.
Diaz kicks me from behind and says, “Good thing you’ve got a dick on the field.” He and Simpson crack up. Darius Simpson—the eternal bench warmer for the team. His ass is one giant splinter.
Diaz says something else that I don’t quite hear—something about penis size and lack of pubic hair.
Mrs. Hayes hands me a work sheet and hall pass. Mera walks in front of me. I inhale the stale smell of the hallway—sweat socks, BO, curdled milk, normal. Not decomposed bodies. I hurry my pace to walk with Mera to the library.
“I couldn’t do that lab,” I finally say when I know that opening my mouth won’t lead to projectile vomiting.
“Last period,” says Mera, “three kids went to the nurse throwing up. Personally, I think it’s pretty crappy to use a pig like that. It’s just wrong. I’m going to start a letter-writing campaign to Congress in protest so that we stop using animals in high-school labs.”
Mera’s going all PETA now, ranting about animal rights and how if whales and elephants are vegetarians—the biggest mammals on earth—why couldn’t we be? Her face gets red splotches when she’s mad—making her wispy blond hair look almost transparent, like a halo.
“Mrs. Hayes is definitely gonna have a bunch of parent phone calls tonight,” I say when Mera takes a breath. Last time Mrs. Hayes did a “lifelike” lab, it was on evidence collection. She hired some actor to play dead. He looked dead. Real dead—blue lips, stiff, some kid even said he felt waxy. Not likely—I mean the waxy-skin thing. Anyway, someone ended up calling the police because they thought Mrs. Hayes had whacked a guy for the sake of education.
I laugh. A little. The burning in my skull has moved to my gut. The knot in my stomach just gets tighter and tighter until it feels like my colon is going to turn inside out. We sit together at a table—across from Dawn and Mariana. The words in the encyclopedia on decomposition blur together. I stare at the clock. Time ticks away.
Mera’s pencil scratches on her work sheet; Dawn and Mariana are way ahead, working together. I scoot toward Mera.
“Mera,” I whisper, “I need to borrow your car.”
“What for?”
“I’ve gotta go home at lunch. I’ll be back for last block. Please,” I say.
“Have lunch at the cafeteria like normal kids.”
“I need to go home,” I say, resting my head on the cool library table that faintly smells like window cleaner.
Mera’s eyebrows arch. “No. Get over yourself, Jake. I’m not indebted to you because we talked for two minutes yesterday. You have fifteen soccer buddies—all with nice cars. Ask one of them.”
My world is reduced to Luc. That’s all I have. Kase doesn’t count because she can’t drive. Luc. That’s it. Pretty small fucking world. “I can’t,” I say. “I can’t ask them.”
“
Shhhh
.” Mariana looks up from her work sheet. “
Some people
are trying to work.”
Mera flips her off. How to win friends and influence people—Mera style.
I swallow a laugh. “You never change.”
“How would you know?” she asks. “It’s not like
we’ve been in touch.”
I tap my pencil on the table and mutter, “I guess I’ve known you since I was old enough to know things.”
Mera smiles.
“So?” I say.
“Why?”
“Because I need to start the day over.”
Mera stares at me with her mannequin eyes. But this time I don’t look away.
She hands the keys to me. “But you better fill up the tank.”
“What?” I say. “Christ, I’m only going home and back.”
“Well, everything has a price now, doesn’t it?”
“Goddamnit,” I mutter. I already owe Luc for last night’s coffee run plus “interest,” as he puts it. I shove the keys in my pocket, then turn to the clock, working out the numbers. Before the bell rings, the four of us walk back to class, my work sheet conspicuously blank.
Mrs. Hayes looks up and says, “What’s with this? What did you do for ninety minutes?”
“I was—” I don’t figure telling her that working out prime numbers from the time would be an acceptable answer. “It’s just, I’m stuck.”
“Stuck?”
I nod. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in the past five years. “I’m stuck.” It’s the only thing that explains why I do what I do.
Mera interrupts. “We worked together. He jammed his finger at soccer practice.”
Mariana huffs behind us and Mera shoots her a look: one head-swivel, kryptonite–projectile vomit away from demonic possession. Major intimidation.
The bell rings, and I run, leaving Mera behind with Mrs. Hayes and my blank work sheet. I zigzag through the cafeteria out into the parking lot, avoiding Luc and the other guys. Mera’s van isn’t hard to find. She’s probably the only chick at school who drives a van. And that, for many guys I know, is a major waste of horizontal space.
The van reeks of patchouli in a lame attempt to cover years of raw meat. I rev the engine and tear out of the parking lot, flying over the speed bumps. The lot gates close ten minutes after lunch bell. I honk and try to butt into the line of cars.
I turn on the radio.
Classical music? C’mon, Mera, you’re killing me.
I flick it to K-Play AM sports and turn the volume to nothing, then crank it up thirteen notches. In five minutes I’ll be home. Less than five minutes.
My phone rings. After three rings, I turn it off. “Fuck them. I’ve got time,” I mutter.
I just need to start the day over. It’s not that big a deal. I know that this isn’t right. It’s not normal. But it’s what I do.
Because I need the magic.
Friday, 11:43 a.m.
Eleven forty-three. One plus one is two plus four is six plus three is nine minus four is five. OK.
I don’t rub the flamingo beak; I already did this morning, so I rush up the front steps, into the house and my room, setting the clock, undressing, and jumping into bed.
And everything’s going to be fine. I close my eyes and turn on my side to face the clock. Ready to begin the day.
I open my left eye, count to three, then open my right eye.
One plus one is two plus seven is nine minus four is five. OK.
Eleven forty-seven and fifty-five.
I slip my left foot out from under the covers and count.
One, two, three.
Fifty-six, fifty-seven—
Right foot.
One, two, three.
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine.
Up.
My shoulders relax as the tension drains from my body. I can hear the phone ringing, but I block out the noise. The machine will pick it up. Plus it’s too early for phone calls. It’s Genesis. The beginning. He had to do it right. Begin with the heavens and the earth.
I have to do it right.
I have to begin my day.
Ring. Ring.
Just ignore the phone.
I walk to the bathroom. Damp towels are thrown over the half-closed curtain—starting to smell like mildew. I do a quick cleanup, organize the towels and shampoo bottles just right, and jump into the shower, forty-seven seconds on each side, and out and dressed and rushing downstairs.
Just have to make it through the routine. Go through the steps.
I shake off the bad feeling that I’m doing everything too abbreviated. Half-assed. That it’ll just be some hack way to get back the magic I lost this morning.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I can do everything double.
I tap the grandfather clock three times, opening the door with both hands. The door closes behind me with a click. I look at my watch.
11:54
Eleven fifty-four. One plus one is two plus five is seven plus four is eleven. OK.
I turn and see Mom standing in the driveway, staring at the car’s bumper. I didn’t even hear her drive up.
Not now,
I think.
Not today. I can’t do it today
. I walk toward Mera’s van, keys jangling in my hand, when Mom calls out to me. “Jake!”
“Hey, Mom.” I wave at her.
“Oh Jake! Oh my God, Jake. I think—” She covers her face with shaking hands. “I hit a cyclist. I tried to avoid him. I really did. But I know I hit him. Oh God, Jake. Oh my God.” She stares at the bumper, then drops to her hands and knees, going over every inch of it with a magnifying glass.
“Mom.” I walk over to her. “Mom, what are you doing?”
“Blood. Looking for blood. Oh God, Jake.”
“Stand up, Mom.” I pull her up off her knees and cradle her head on my shoulder. “See, Mom? There’s no blood here. Or dents. Or anything.” I try to reason with her. “If you had hit a cyclist, there’d be dents. Something,
anything
to show for it. There’s nothing here.”
The numbers of the clock in my head whir. Time has sped up now, just to fuck with me. Just to make sure I’ll be late.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’ve got to be on time.
Tomorrow I’ve got to play because all of this has to end.
“We’ve got to go. Go back and make sure,” she pleads. She whispers, “I was real tired this morning. So tired. But then I had to get the groceries. I didn’t think—”
I look in the car and see the ice cream carton’s edges have softened; pink drips down the side and puddles on the passenger seat. Dad’s going to shit.
“Get in the van,” I say. “We’ll drive by where you passed the cyclist; then I’ll leave you to get a cab.” I pull out my empty wallet. “You have cash?”
But she’s back on her hands and knees, staring at the bumper, scraping some bird shit off the chipped chrome. I pull her back up. “C’mon. Don’t do that,” I say, and usher her to Mera’s van, helping her into the passenger side.
I pull away from the house and head toward Safeway.
“No,” Mom says. “Costco.”
“Costco? Since when do you shop at Costco?”
“I just thought. It’d be easier there. No bicycle paths. But look what I’ve done.” Her hand shakes as she dials her cell phone. “Yes. I’m just wondering if there’s been a hit-and-run reported off Old Clear Creek Road. Yes. Yes, sir. I’ll hold.”
I snatch the phone from her and hang up. “Jesus Christ, Mom. Don’t do that. Don’t call the cops. You know you can’t call them about that stuff anymore.”
I take the back roads until we have to turn onto Highway 395. How the hell am I going to explain this to Coach, Luc, the principal? Dad? I look at Mom. She rubs her hands together, wrapping her fingers around her knuckles—rubbing, wrapping, gazing absently out the window.
It’s just a game. A game with twenty-two guys running around a field after a ball. Why does it have to be everything?
