OCD Love Story (5 page)

“Your
first
panic attack? You've only had
one?
Then what the hell are you doing here?” Rudy says, exploding from his chair. His face is red, and not just from the scabbing of whatever it is he has been picking off of it. He is a flushed color with spider-bite-like red blotches popping up in the worst spots: forehead, cheeks, chin, neck.

“Rudy, when it's your turn I'll let you know.” Dr. Pat never talks to me with any sort of harshness in her voice, but it's there when she speaks to Rudy. A kind of impatience I didn't think therapists were allowed to have.

“Hey, one of those panic attacks is enough for me,” Beck says. “I mean the other night was scary. And I guess it made me realize I have these things I like to do. Like Dr. Pat was saying. Compulsions, I guess. I sort of like to wash my hands. My parents say I go to the gym too much. I don't know. Those both seem like good things to do. Healthy things. But . . . when I couldn't do them the other night, I felt so horrible that I had that panic attack thing.” Beck closes his eyes as soon as he's gotten all the words out. He's perfect-bodied but has a look of shame on his face like we're all judging him. Meanwhile, I doubt anyone else here has ever even been inside a gym. That's the thing about anxiety: It's a real time suck.

When Beck opens his eyes, we get caught in prolonged eye contact and I start to smile again, because there's something just so attractive about a hot guy with muscles getting all vulnerable. Like the way women think it's hot when men
play with puppies or babies. The corners of my lips can't seem to help themselves from lifting around him.

That's when Jenny starts pulling out her hair more aggressively. It's the worst thing I've ever seen: worse than the time I saw my mother's broken ankle all distorted and backward; worse than Rudy's cratered face or the flaky, dry patches of skin in between Beck's fingers. I wince with every tug and Jenny lays each little hair on her thigh before Dr. Pat pulls her chair right up to Jenny's. She holds Jenny's hands and maintains steady eye contact while the rest of us try to politely look away. They sit like that for a few minutes: Dr. Pat and Jenny, knee to knee.

I've never sat that close to Dr. Pat. I tell her everything and she keeps her distance, watching me from her perch on her armchair. The sight of Jenny's strands of pulled hair lined up with the ridges of her corduroys gives my insides a painful squeeze and the Fear I Can't Name blossoms in my chest.

Beck must notice something giving way in my face. Beause before I know it he's sitting in the empty chair next to me and putting his hand on my forehead.

“No touching,” Dr. Pat says, because she has the ability to look at five places at once. She may be sitting with Jenny and calming her down, but we're all still under her watch. Rudy sighs and Beck settles back into the seat reluctantly. I liked his hand on my forehead, and the second it's gone the little panic spikes into something bigger. Then a bunch of immediate
needs spring into action and start tapping on my brain to get me to pay attention to them. The desire to get out my notebook. The desire to see Austin's face again. To listen in on family secrets of strangers. Then the memories start to invade too. The memory of Kurt's face when he saw that notebook of newspaper clippings. The memory of being twelve and having a monstrous crush on skateboarding Jeff. It's the thought of Jeff, above all else, that causes the persistent desire to keep my hands and mind so busy that I can't think anymore.

Com-pul-shun
, I hear Dr. Pat saying in my head, a diagnosis I refuse to listen to.

So then Beck and I are just sitting next to each other not touching, and that is charged too. Beck's eyes are mockingly blue, that's what I've decided after giving it more thought. I have blue eyes too, but mine are more of an impression of a color whereas his are the purest shade, the blue that comes to mind when you hear the word. He's sort of smiling and I think it's because we're both thinking about how totally ridiculous this situation is. How we are little beacons of normal in a room full of crazy.

We're saying all of that (I think) without saying a word.

And there is the thickness of his neck and the way his shoulders reach so far past mine they could be a brick wall.

I don't know that I've ever held eye contact with someone for this long. Especially not a guy who looks like Beck. And the longer it goes on the more blissful it is, until it shifts
into being funny. Dr. Pat and Jenny are deep in a breathing exercise while Rudy and Fawn wait it out in silence. But without warning Beck and I are biting our lips to keep in the laughter and then letting it sputter out in gasping laughs and squeezed-out tears. I've wrapped an arm around my stomach to help hold it in and Beck is clamping his palm over his mouth and shaking instead of guffawing.

“Feelings manifest in all different ways,” Dr. Pat says with a heavy glance at me and Beck. She can't get us in trouble for emoting but she also doesn't want to promote that kind of behavior. “But we're all here to support each other. I'm sure Jenny could use a little more emotional support, Bea. Beck. Just be present for everyone else in the group, okay?”

“I'm sorry,” Beck says, and he sounds like he means it. I feel bad then too, because I really wasn't laughing at Jenny; I was laughing at being in this room with Beck. “It's cool,” he keeps going, eyes right on Jenny and hers on him. “You're cool. The way you tell us everything. The way you show up and don't hide . . . anything.” Jenny's eyes sparkle from attention. If I could, I'd say something like what Beck said, but I can't come up with the right things. So I nod really vigorously to show how much I agree. “This shit sucks,” Beck concludes. His neck bulges a little on the word “shit.”

A tiny bubble of tension releases in the room. It's slight. It doesn't change too much. But Dr. Pat tilts her head and smiles at Beck, and the rest of the session feels like a cafeteria
conversation. Jenny giggles and Rudy leans forward and looks at everyone when they're talking. Fawn shifts in her seat and yawns.

It's not so bad.

• • •

Beck and I do an awkward dance at the end of the session. Not really speaking but not really avoiding each other either. We make eye contact and open our mouths like little fish and walk a few paces apart toward our cars.

I turn away from the way he looks: hand tapping on thigh, half a dimple peeking through from the beginning of a smile, licking lips like he's recalling the kiss from the other night. He gives a little wave even though I'm mostly just looking at the pavement. I wiggle my fingers back at him and let myself look up into his eyes for one half second before getting into my car. I have to wait for him to leave first. I'm not the best driver, and I don't want him to know that yet. Plus, I don't want to nick his car or, worse, his body.

Once he's out of view, crummy SUV shooting down the road, I can start my own engine and drive the few miles home at a snail's pace. If I could drive faster, I would.

• • •

I'm here,
I text to Lisha. My car found its way to her driveway instead of my own.
Cooter and I made orange mac n cheez, come on in,
she texts back, like it's too hard to come outside and tell me. Lisha's family doesn't lock their doors.
My family didn't used to either, but really that's just not safe.

Lish and her brother, Cooter, are on the couch and
Law & Order: SVU
is just starting up on the TV in front of them. Even the music arrests me, that opening
shoock-shoock
noise that says,
Something terrible is about to happen.

“If you want some delicious orange food, you're gonna have to let us watch what we like,” Cooter says right away. His dirty-socked feet are stretched out on the coffee table in front of him, and he's eating out of a saucepan instead of a bowl.

“Shut up,” Lisha says, and hands me the sad remains of the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese clinging to the plastic mixing bowl they use almost every night for just this purpose. “Grab a fork and join us. She's
fine
, Cooter.” This isn't totally true. I hate the
Law & Order
franchise, but I'll grin and bear it if it means Cooter starts thinking I'm cool again. I sit far away from the television, at the little breakfast table in the corner of the large family room.

Lisha raises her eyebrows and joins me at the table. She takes the chair that faces the TV, and I face away from it, and it is in this exact formation that we can both get what we want. “Sorry, it's a good episode, but I swear I'm paying attention to you,” she says. I shrug and she doesn't push the issue. She knows when to put something aside, which is what I maybe love most about her. That and her love of Catholic school uniforms. She usually makes it a point to wear at least one element (plaid skirt or knee-high socks or tight navy
blazer or starched white shirt or even just a little gold cross necklace) of a uniform every day. As far as Lisha's concerned this qualifies as gutsy fashion sense.

No one ever notices. But it makes her feel good, to have a little irony to her prep-school sensibilities. Even if it's our secret. Otherwise, she wears what everyone else at school is wearing and does what her parents tell her to do. Even right now she's in ill-fitting, laundry-day jeans and a turtleneck, but she's got a little vest over the ensemble, and the emblem over her heart tells me it's from St. Mary's School for Girls. Probably circa 1985, judging from the boxy shape and gold buttons.

Shoock-shoock
, the television says, and Lisha turns her full attention to me.

“How's group therapy?” she asks, and my face must betray just how awkward my afternoon was, because she leans forward right away. “Oh my God, what? Are they all freaks?”

“You're not going to believe this,” I say. I can barely believe it myself. “The Smith-Latin guy I made out with at the dance last weekend is in group therapy
with me
.”

Lisha's mouth drops open. Cooter turns up the volume on the Jordan's Furniture commercial.

“I know,” I continue. “What are the chances, right? It's basically the most humiliating situation possible.”

“Oh my God,” she says at last. “Oh my
God
. Okay. All right. So? What does he look like?” There's no mention of
coincidence or fate or impossibility, 'cause she knows that would just make me crazy (excuse me, crazier). But I'm pretty sure she's going to consult the stars and the planets and her tarot cards or whatever to see what it means that I've come across Beck again so quickly.

I shrug.
Law & Order
has started back up, but Lisha's focus is on me. I try to block out the doctor's description of the autopsy results and the normal-looking guy who I already know is the killer.

“The Beck guy is cute,” I say, when my shrug isn't enough.

“Oh my God, come
on
. Details.”

“Yeah! Details!” Cooter says, imitating Lisha's semisqueaky voice.

“Muscles. Shaved head. Typical Bea territory.” I have a type and apparently it's so much a part of me that even in the dark I can find him. I know she's looking for details on his actual face, his smile and eyes. But he's still faceless, even after seeing him at therapy. I can't get beyond the darkness of the blacked-out gym, the strange nontime we spent together. Like a pause button had been pressed but we kept going.

“The bluest eyes I've ever seen. Stupidly, irritatingly blue,” I say.

I pinch my thigh. Lisha doesn't notice.
I
barely notice. I mean, it's nothing.

“Did you guys talk? Are you gonna make out again? Do
you seriously not think this is the most romantic thing
ever
?” Lisha's practically panting for more information but I suddenly don't feel like talking about Beck. Every time the kiss replays in my head, my heart pounds out of control and my chest gets all constricted. I fill the space with a fork full of fake-cheesy goodness. Cooter didn't even mix the powder in all the way, so the bottom of the bowl is thick with the stuff. Pasty. Delicious.

“Dr. Pat's group therapy for crazy teens is not romantic, Lish,” I say with a full mouth.

“You're just scared,” Lish says. “That's what Dr. Pat will say when you tell her all the details.” Lish has never met Dr. Pat, never seen her or talked to her or anything. But that little fact never stops her from feeling like she knows what Dr. Pat would think. With Lisha it's sometimes a little like some poorly constructed version of Dr. Pat is sitting at the table with us. I'm tired of Dr. Pat. Even fake Dr. Pat who is not here at all.

“Sure I'm scared, I made out with someone more messed up than me,” I say. “I mean, he said it himself. He admitted that he's some freak.” This isn't quite how it went, the night of the dance. I know that, but I'm not ready for Beck to have a face and a life. He's just some guy who washes his hands a lot and has amazing biceps and issues that I'll hear alllll about in group sessions. That's not the kind of guy I need to fall in love with. There's not gonna be any mystery there.

I like the other Beck too much to give him up. The one in my head. The one in the dark.

“You're not
that
messed up,” Lisha says with a big, teasing smile. She knows I don't want to talk about it. I smile too, because when she teases me, it's almost like I'm just a little quirky, and not some total disaster.

Cooter scoffs.
Shoock-shoock
, the TV says. The normal-looking guy is on the stand, of course. He's sweating. He's guilty. People are so messed up. All of us, I mean. We're all so screwed up.