Compulsion (23 page)

“We all play it.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to be real for once?”

Kase swallows her last grape. “I don’t know anybody who is and survives high school.”

I think about Mera. She’s surviving. But she might have a volleyball named Wilson she talks to in order to refrain from hurling herself off the top of the Empire State Building.

“I just want her to be a mom, you know? Sometimes I just want a mom.”

I get that. I don’t remember the last time we had one.

“You think I’ll be grounded?” Kase asks.

“Yeah. We both are.”

“Until when?”

“I think until we can go to federal prison—so I only have about ten months left. You’ve got three years.”

“Funny.”

“Dad’s already looking into getting those house-arrest anklets. They’re all the rage.”

Kase tries to stay stone-faced. “Real funny.” She glances up the staircase.

“She’s checked on you a couple of times.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. I guess not. But it’s something.”

“That’s all we get? Something.”

“I think that’s all we get.”

“What if it’s not good enough?”

I scratch my watch face, rubbing off something sticky. Kase looks so small right now, like when she used to bring art projects home in elementary school. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, then give her the biggest big-brother bear hug I can muster. She wipes her eyes and rubs guck off my shoulder.

I think about Mom and me—and for the very first time I wonder if Kase is sick, too: the cleaning, food
symmetry, always keeping everything in order. Does she feel as desperate as I do?

It’s not just about me anymore.

It never has been.

“Can you just tell me about your day?” And this time I’m asking for her, not for me. She sits with her legs crossed and I sit facing her, knee-to-knee.

And I listen.

One Hundred Fifty-One Burying Ghosts

Sunday, 5:23 p.m.

Five twenty-three. Five times two is ten plus three is thirteen. OK.

There’s a shuffle and murmur of voices outside the door. Dad peeks his head in, his face lighting up when he sees Kasey. “Look remorseful,” I whisper.

Dad tries to put his angry face back on, but I can tell he’s just happy to see her, happy she’s here. He walks to the couch and sits next to her. She hugs him like it’s the easiest thing to do in the world. He kisses the crown of her head. I feel like an invader sitting here, so I remain still, trying to become invisible. I scan the room until I focus on the numbers of the microwave clock, feeling the rush of relief as my brain kicks back into motion, settling down the knot of anxiety that has balled up in my stomach.

I look up to see Luc standing in the garage door.

“Why don’t you and Luc go outside and talk,” Dad says. “Then I think you and I have a few things to discuss.”

Even though having Dad know everything terrible about me is horrifying, I feel lighter somehow, like all the numbers and calculations that have weighed me down so long can be shared with somebody.

But something itches in the back of my mind.
Not you too.

I nod at Dad. “I will.” And I follow Luc outside onto the porch.

I stay under the eaves, my legs tucked under me so I’m not technically outside. So I don’t have to touch the flamingo before going back in. Luc tosses me a CD. “This was in your mailbox. Your dad said it had to be yours.”

I hold the CD in my hands.
Bolero
. “Thanks.”

“What is it?”

I show him.

“Classical stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cool.” Luc hands me an ice-cold can of Coke. “Thought you could use some company.”

“Did my dad ask you to come?” I ask.

“No,
guevón.
You’re my friend.” He looks at me like I’m Idiot Jake, not Crazy Jake.

“Oh. Thanks.”

I pop open the Coke, listening to the fizz, feeling the spray, drinking the first sips too fast and ending up with a nasty case of the hiccups. The hiccups stop after I get to fifty-eight.

Fifty-eight. Five plus eight is thirteen. OK.

Eight minus five is three. OK.

“Thanks for the Coke. Add it to my bill.”

“Nah. This one’s on me.” He taps his fingers on the top of his Coke can and pulls back the tab.

“Thanks,” I repeat, and stare at the time.

5:27

Five twenty-seven. Five minus two is three plus seven is ten divided by two is five. OK.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

I dig my nails into my palms and squeeze until half-moons are embedded in my hands. I scrape my nails across my hands, pulling me away from the numbers, back to Luc. He sips on his Coke, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He nods toward the house. “She’s okay, right? Like nothing weird went on last night.”

“Nothing weird. I guess her blood alcohol content was something like point two three—insanely high.”

“
Mierda.
That’s one hangover.”

“Yeah. All she’s done half the day is sleep, moan, roll over, and go back to sleep.”

Point two three. Three plus two is five. OK.

We sit in silence. Luc doesn’t even try to talk to me about the game or anything. That’s good. I don’t have the energy to pretend today. We watch the street. Silence. But a comfortable kind of silence that makes me glad Luc’s my friend.

It’s getting cold. Luc stands up. “Better head home. I haven’t even touched my homework; Juancho’s working on some engine and wants my help.”

“You like that?” I ask. “Working on cars.”

Luc pauses, like he’s never been asked that before. And I realize that it goes both ways—the asking stuff. He nods. “I do. I’m good at it. You know, it’s nice to be good at something.” He gives me a half hug and claps me on the back. “Come by. You can check out my work.”

“Will do,” I say. “Maybe you can teach me how to change the oil or something.”

“That coming from the guy who’s driven a total of three times since he turned sixteen? You probably better stick to learning how to drive first. I’ll be your family mechanic.”

I laugh. “Fair enough.”

Luc looks back at the house. “She’s kinda like my baby sister too.” He steps out into the yard, standing next to the pink flamingo. His fingers brush the beak.

“You need to come inside?” I ask. “It’s cold.”

He touched the beak. He has to come in.

Stop. It.

“Nah, man. I’ve really gotta go.”

Let. It. Go.

My fingers burn—like they’re the ones that touched the beak—urging me inside. I stare at the tips, waiting for blisters to form.

Luc’s halfway down the walk when I look up from my fingers.
How come he doesn’t need to come in when he touches it?

“Hey, Luc,” I call after him.

“Yeah?” he says.

“You’re not him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Your dad. You’re not even close.”

Luc crunches the Coke can in his fist. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Absolutely,” I say.

“Thanks,” Luc says. He looks relieved. “I needed to hear that, you know. That’s good to hear.”

I nod. “Are you okay?” I ask.

Luc lets the question sink in. He jingles his car keys. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

And I believe him.

One Hundred Fifty-Seven Asking the Impossible

Sunday, 6:13 p.m.

Six thirteen. Six plus one is seven plus three is ten times six is sixty plus one is sixty-one. OK.

Kasey’s gone to her room. Mom’s asleep. Dad’s sander buzzes in the garage.

I pull out a frozen dinner and pop it into the toaster oven, watching the heating element turn crimson, feeling the heat on the door. The kitchen clock ticks as the second hand works its way around the circle, and I like the way time is circular; the beginning is the end.

The timer
ding
s and I pull out the steaming plate of roast beef, fake potatoes, and sludge-brown gravy. It all tastes like cardboard, but I’m hungry, so I eat, tapping my foot whenever the second hand hits a prime.

I throw the plate in the garbage. A thousand years from now a scientist will know what I had for dinner on November 6. And maybe they’ll have the technology to study my DNA and figure out why I was a mutant. Why I am the way I am.

I sit at the base of the steps and wait.

And count.

I don’t even try to keep the webs from crowding my brain, because maybe Dad and I can figure things out together. I’m just so tired of doing it all alone.

Dad’s sander dies down. I listen to the soft brush of the broom across the garage floor. He walks in the door, flicking on the light. “Jacob!” He jumps. “Why are you sitting in the dark like this?”

“I dunno,” I say. I didn’t even notice the dark. It just felt good to be invisible, I guess.

Dad pours himself a drink from a dusty bottle tucked behind the cabinet. He plops two ice cubes in and swirls the drink around the glass, making a whistling sound, taking a sip, bracing his body for the burning liquid. He comes and sits next to me on the staircase. “Jacob, about this morning—”

“I know,” I say. “I know. I just couldn’t—” I’m trying to find the words to describe everything that happened this morning to make it sound right.
Sane. “
I’m sorry.”

Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes, shaking his head. “You’ve had to grow up quick, take a lot of responsibility. I know it’s a burden.”

He knows
.

Not you too
.

I brush it off. He’ll be okay with it. He has to be. He’s my dad. That’s why we’re talking. He
wants
to know.

I just hope I can say what’s real.

“All that hiding. All that trying to be something that—” Dad looks at me and I don’t look away. I open my mouth, but I’m not sure what I should say. Where should I begin? When did it begin? It’s hard to imagine what will come out when I’ve been saying the other script—the “right” words—for so long.

A draft comes from under the door. It’s cold. I shiver and go to the hall closet to pull out my coat. The door swings and clicks shut behind me, enclosing me in blackness except for the green light of my Indiglo watch. The doorknob is jammed.

There’s a snap and the sickening sound of bones breaking—the rat’s chest rises and falls, then shudders. It whines out its last breath, the trap shoved between a rubbery Halloween clown mask with bulging eyes and a rubbery winter boot.

Silence.

Waiting for Mom, listening to Kasey’s screams.

Waiting, counting, staring at the Indiglo watch face, trying to clear my brain because I know if I don’t, I’ll die.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

The numbers keep me alive. Keep Kasey alive. Just count. Make the numbers work.

Tick-tock, tick-tock. . . .

Yesterday, it was supposed to end.

Magic number three.

My feet remain glued to that spot—that moment. It’s like being chased in a dream, leaden legs pushing through thick tar, and just as soon as I move away, something snaps me back to the place where the spiders will get me.

Tick-tock, tick-tock
.

“Your mother just isn’t well. I can’t understand it, because she’s fine. But she’s not. It’s so—”

I pause. “Mom.”
What about me?

“With overtime at work and taking carpentry orders for Christmas, I’m going to need you to be prepared to take on more responsibility around the house. We need the money.” He rubs his hands together, making a scratchy sound from the rough calluses on his palms. “It’s not fair. I know. But with your mom sick . . . ”

“What is it?” I ask. “What does she have?” I want the name. At least give me the name for it.

Dad shakes his head. “I don’t understand it. It’s almost like she’s a child sometimes. And I can’t remember how we got to where we are right now. I used to think it was cute we’d have to drive back to the house to make sure everything was turned off. And she’d save all the receipts—of groceries that we’d bought the year before. And your presents. She still has a box of receipts of everything she ever bought for you and Kasey, just to make sure.”

“To make sure what?”

Dad stares into his drink, like it can offer the answers. “It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand why—” Dad finishes his drink. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. We just have to work through this until she bounces back.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll take care of things.”

“We’re okay, then.” He says it like it’s an irrefutable fact. We. Are. Okay. “I’m counting on you.”

Counting.

I can hear my voice sounding strong, steady, while everything inside feels like it’s melting. “Dad, is there anything I can do?”

“It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be better.”

I rub my temples, trying to calm the dull pounding inside my brain. I just have to get through the day.
Tomorrow will be better.

But somehow I know that tomorrow will be just like today and yesterday.

I’m so tired of the same.

Dad ruffles my hair. “Jacob, I’m proud of you. Do what you love. Keep playing soccer, go to the best college you can, get a degree. After this year, it’s your time. I promise to never ask the impossible from you again.”

He doesn’t get it.

He just did.

One Hundred Sixty-Three Night Whispers

Monday, 3:14 a.m.

Three fourteen. Three plus one is four plus four is eight minus three is five. OK.

Everybody sleeps.