Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
I count.
I turn away from the clock and look back at the three fries in the bag and the one in Tanya’s fingers. All I need her to do is eat the fucking fry.
Just eat it. Just eat the goddamned french fry
.
But she drops it back in the bag. Leaving four.
Four
. Fuck.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, pulling her hand from mine, looking to Luc for help. My entire back is drenched in sweat; my palm’s slicker than her greasy blue-fingered french-fry hands.
Luc flings a limp pickle at me. “Jesus, man. What’s with you?”
Inhale.
I count breaths.
One . . . seventeen . . .
inhale, exhale. Their words are muffled by the pounding in my head, and I try to make out what they’re saying. Luc absently reaches over and eats a fry from the bag, leaving three.
Exhale.
The spinning slows to a stop, the marble drops into a slot, and the numbers fall into place.
Three.
I shake my head and look up at Luc and Amy. Tanya’s moved as far from me as possible, sitting at the edge of the booth. Thank God. She moves to pick up another fry and I grab her hand. “Leave the three,” I say, and almost feel guilty looking at her untouched burger. Those fries were probably two thirds of her caloric intake for the day.
Luc laughs. Uncomfortable. I’ve embarrassed him again. I know that he sometimes wishes I was different—like him. “C’mon, man. You’ve done one too many wind sprints today.” He turns to Tanya and Amy. “He’s always like this before games.” He smiles. “Superstitious,” he mouths.
They both nod enthusiastically. That explains it. Explains it all.
“I’m tired,” I say. “Real tired.”
Fuck
.
Luc motions for all of us to stand up, and I peel myself from the booth, leaving an embarrassing wet mark on the vinyl cover. Most of the team is gone. Grundy, Diaz, and Keller are the last ones hanging around, flick-punting grilled onions over the heads of some girls in the booth in front of them.
My body smells sour; I just want to shower and wash it all away. I sometimes wonder: If I scrub hard enough, will I slip down the drain?
What if . . .
Stop. It.
7:03
Seven-oh-three. Seven plus three is ten. Seven minus three is four.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Tick-tock, tick-tock
.
“Yeah. I know. Okayokayokay.”
And I realize I’m speaking out loud because Tanya, Amy, and Luc exchange one of those oh-my-god-he’s-got-a-boner-and-is-wearing-sweatpants glances. We pile into the car and drive by Hartman’s—the windows dark except for the neon glow of the closed sign.
“Sorry, man,” Luc says. “I’d have sworn they were open till seven thirty.”
The spiders are going mad in my brain, but I can still think clear enough to know Dad’s gonna shit when he finds out I didn’t pick up the meat and spent his cash on In-N-Out. Things have been better since he was promoted to driver at UPS, but with Mom out of work and on heavy meds, we still don’t have much to spare. Shit, I don’t even have a letterman’s jacket.
“A hard-on is no excuse to flake out on your family responsibilities.”
“What are you talking about,
guevón
?” Luc says.
Tanya and Amy laugh a nervous laugh. I force one too, but it sounds real. Easy. “Just trying to imagine the conversation I’m going to have with my dad.”
“About a hard-on?” Luc shakes his head. “Those are things you should keep to yourself, man.” The car fills with laughter, erasing my ultraweirdness.
I push the thoughts back in where they can’t be heard.
Shut up. Just. Shut. Up.
Luc turns on Mario Bauzá, the trill of the trombone breaking through the quick beat of the percussion, making sense of the chaos. Luc lowers the volume; I see the thirteen little green bars and lean my head against the car seat, letting the music fill up the spaces between the webs.
We drop Tanya off first, then Amy. “Be right back.” Luc winks, walking her to the door. He comes back with chapped make-out lips, smelling like perfume. After re-
adjusting, he slides into the Dart and winds his way up the street to my house. We don’t talk. Luc lets the car idle in front of the house, our breath and the heater fogging the windows.
“
Guevón
,” he finally says. “We’re cool, okay? You just need to fucking normal out.”
I nod, tapping my fingers on his dashboard, needing a release. “Yeah. I think I’m freaked out about the game and stuff, you know—”
He laughs. “Ah, shit. Not too normal. Then you’d be like all the other white boys at the school. But fuck, man, you’re sometimes way out there.”
I laugh. I just need to get inside. Talk to Kasey. Everything will be fine.
“See you tomorrow morning,” he says.
“Okay. Tomorrow. See ya.” I stand outside of the house and watch as Luc turns around the cul-de-sac and drives away, his taillights fading in the distance. My damp shirt sticks to my sweaty back and the wind bites with splinter-sharp teeth. I stop for a second and lean over to squeeze my head between my knees, hoping the intense pain will go away; trying to sweep away the spiders and their webs, using the numbers to rein them in.
They’re not supposed to be here anymore.
But they’re back.
Wednesday, 7:41 p.m.
Seven forty-one. Seven plus four is eleven plus one is twelve divided by four is three. OK.
Light spills from the kitchen window onto our front lawn. I rub the flamingo’s beak and work my way up the front porch. The door’s unlocked. Mom’s washing dishes. Kasey’s watching TV and jumps up when I walk in the door.
“Jacob?” Dad says, coming in from the garage on cue, coveralls coated with a film of sawdust. It’s like he has some freak sonic hearing. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
I look down at my phone. Eight missed calls.
I swallow. “Dad, I swear, I didn’t even see the calls until now.” I deliberately turn away from the grandfather clock and try to focus, but I can
hear
it. I can hear the tick and the motion of the pendulum, back and forth, back and forth.
Just focus
.
I know, though, if I can work out the numbers, the numbing pain will go away and I’ll be able to hear what Dad has to say. The world will become clear again. So I turn, slightly, and glance at the time.
7:43
Seven forty-three. Seven plus four is eleven minus three is eight plus seven is fifteen minus three is twelve divided by three is four. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
7:44
Seven forty-four. Seven minus four is three plus four is seven. OK.
Kasey nudges me and pushes me to face Dad, the clock just out of sight. Mom comes out of the kitchen and leans against the doorframe. Kasey sits in the chair in front of me, like that will shield me from one of Dad’s sermons.
I can hear myself saying, “I’m sorry. I went out with Luc and the guys after practice. To In-N-Out. It’s the team tradition since we won a few years ago. I just forgot it was today, forgot to call.”
“With what money?” Dad asks.
“I had a few bucks. And I borrowed a little to cover Tanya’s dinner too.”
And Luc’s. And Amy’s. Christ.
“From whom?”
“We’re just short five or six bucks.” I can tell from the way his eyes have that glazed-over look he’s a step from going Jack Torrance on me.
“And how much do you have left?”
I pull out the bills. “Like thirty-five?”
“I can give you some money, Jake,” Kasey offers.
“Kasey, stay out of this.” Dad says.
Kasey shrinks in her chair and crosses her arms in front of her.
“It’s just a few dollars. And it’s not like I can be the only guy that doesn’t invite a chick out—” I pause and rub my temples, trying to push the gray away just so I can get through this conversation. “I’ll take care of it, okay? After soccer season, I’ll get a job.”
“They waited. They were expecting you to pick the order up.”
“I’ll pick it up tomorrow. After school.”
“When I’m doing double shifts, I expect you to pull your weight here. I don’t feel like I’m asking too much of you, Jacob. One errand to pick up the meat so we don’t have to eat tuna fish every night.” Dad’s doing that clench-jaw thing that makes him look like he stepped right out of a Testosterone Nation infomercial.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
“I’ll get it tomorrow. After practice.”
“Mr. Hartman said they’re expecting a shipment in the morning. Somebody will be there by six thirty.”
I stare at the crisp bills in my hand, creased perfectly down the middle. “Do you, um, have—” I inhale and immediately regret it. My clothes, the money, my hair—everything smells like fast-food restaurant grease.
“He’ll give us credit until the end of the month.”
“After this weekend, after the game, everything will be taken care of.” My voice sounds clear, like what I’m saying really matters.
That stops Dad from pawning my soccer gear to pay for our Hartman Family Meat Pack Number Five with a turhamken sampler included.
The game.
Scouts. Scholarships. Future.
That’s something he wants more than me. A future. I hate playing that card, but tonight I just need to get to my room. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to make up for it—for being the total asshole son. Tomorrow I won’t screw up.
“UCLA, Maryland,” the school names slip off my tongue. My thoughts come slowly through the heavy fog. I have to choose my words carefully. And I wonder if anybody’s head ever got so full of lies, it just snapped off and rolled away. It’s so easy to lie, to pretend everything is okay when the only things that matter to me right now are getting to my room; the numbers; getting down the clocks; clearing up the fucking mess in my mind.
My voice sounds calm.
I know the script. “Saturday everything will work out with the game, winning our third championship. My grades are good enough. . . .”
Mom sighs and squeezes Dad’s shoulder. Her hands are chapped, fingernails gnawed to nothing. Dad reaches up to her for a second, but a shadow crosses his eyes and his hand falls lamely at his side.
Mom doesn’t notice and comes to me, wrapping me in her frail arms, saying, “Get some rest. You’ll need it. Don’t worry about the groceries. I can help take care of it too.” Dark shadows circle her bloodshot eyes, and she walks upstairs, pausing at the entryway, staring at the car keys that jangle in her hand. When Mom gets like this, it’s like watching a stone pelt glass. At first there’s a slight imperfection, but soon the whole thing is covered with cracks until the glass shatters into jewel-size pieces. Since Mom lost her job and can’t get another one, Dad’s working overtime and a half. So Kase and I are the ones stuck picking up and gluing the pieces back together.
Not this week, Mom. Just keep it together this week,
I think, and push back my anger. I turn to Dad, but he looks away, his jaw clenched. He’s checked out. “I’ve got a lot of work to do,” Dad says. He rubs his temples, nods, and heads to the garage. We hear the roar of the sander as it comes to life. The high-pitched shrill gives way to a dull hum as it slides across the wood. Tiny dust particles of winter-smelling pine float through the air.
I swallow the ball of
what if
s that has formed in the back of my throat.
What if I hadn’t been able to control the spiders tonight at In-N-Out?
What if I’d said more crazy shit out loud?
I’ll call Luc before bed.
No.
That’s even crazier—retracing thoughts and conversation. It’s like unraveling the knotted webs in my brain.
Impossible.
What if . . .
Thousands of spider legs scratch the inside of my brain like they’re burrowing holes into my cranium. Blinding pain.
I wait for the auras and hope to get to my room to get the numbers organized. I can’t get a migraine today. Not today. Not this week. I think about the game, the team; the magic; the numbers; the time.
Once I get the numbers worked out, I can see the real world. It’s not so confusing anymore. They keep things in order.
Our team wins because of them. Mom, Dad, and Kasey are safe because of them. Maybe Luc and my other friends are safe too. Because of the numbers.
Because I have the magic.
Wednesday, 8:05 p.m.
Eight-oh-five. Eight plus five is thirteen. OK.
Kase trails after me with three sandwiches and a glass of milk that teeters on the edge of a tray. When she makes sandwiches, they are perfect towers of order: Everything lines up with the bread; lettuce, cheese, and ham don’t flop and dangle over the sides; no mustard goops out when I hold the sandwich in my hands. Then she cuts them in symmetrical triangles, like she knows I need the sides even or something.
Light spills from under Mom and Dad’s bedroom door, and the muffled sound of hammering comes from the garage.
I shiver and pull a sweatshirt on. Kase sits next to me, wrapped in my ratty blanket. We sit in silence, leaning against the foot of my bed, while I chew seven times on the left, six on the right, swallow, then switch.
The searing pain in my temples ebbs in the comfort of my room. When I finish eating, I get up to open the curtains, cracking the window just a touch. The crescent moon glows. It’s one of those crisp nights when the sky looks like a silver colander with light pouring through its holes.
Kasey’s unusually quiet. Quiet is not her modus operandi. I think half her caloric expenditure comes from talking. She usually uses up all her cell minutes within the first week of each month and begs to use my phone because she knows I never use any minutes because I never call anybody.
Ever.
I turn away from the night sky and ask, “Did you do your homework?”
“Yes.”