Authors: Isobel Irons
Jeanne cocks her head, eyeing me speculatively. “Just good?”
I squirm in my seat, careful not to touch the bare skin of my forearms to the leather armrests, which countless crazy people have undoubtedly come into contact with in the recent past. Another reason to hate summer: people think it’s weird when you wear long-sleeved shirts, and gloves are unheard of in June, unless you’re working outside. What else does she want me to say? It’s not like this is a new thing, me being taciturn. She’s basically a spy for my dad, to make sure I’m taking my meds, because of our deal. Because weekly therapy and meds are ‘necessary evils,’ in his words. We both know it. So why does she insist on pretending she cares about what I’m thinking?
If my dad gets his way, I’m staring down the barrel of ten more years of school, followed by residency, then 80 hours or more a week of surgeries, scrubbing in and cutting people open. I nod again.
“Really good.”
Short answers are the key to getting through the next 37 minutes unscathed. Short answers are safe, even if they tend to piss off people who like to read a lot of emotions into your response. They call it sharing, but it’s more like
over
sharing. Like opening up a vein and just letting the thoughts pour out until everyone is uncomfortable. Verbal diarrhea—it’s a perfectly disgusting phrase to describe how awkward a situation can become when people share too much, too easily.
“Are you enjoying summer break so far?”
Thirty-five minutes left now. “Sure. What little is left of it.”
I smile, to soften the truth I never meant to say out loud. Tash must be rubbing off on me. Jeanne looks confused for a split-second, but then she consults her notes and remembers, smiling when she’s back in control of the conversation.
“That’s right, your dad said you’d been accepted to the summer anatomy program at Duke. You must be so excited.”
I keep my face blank, but a muscle twitches in my jaw, as my anxiety level jumps from a four to a five. Jeanne is a spy, so I’ll tell her what she—and by extension, my dad—wants to hear.
“Yeah, super excited. It’s a really great opportunity.”
Jeanne’s expression says she wants more. “Are you nervous at all?”
“Nervous?” I blink, and silently start counting. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven….
An unbidden slide show of disturbing images flashes through my head. Dead bodies. Cold skin. Metal slicing through flesh. My palms are starting to sweat, and I want to put my hands in my pockets, for safe keeping. But I’m sitting down, so instead I rest them on my knees. I’m always hyper-aware of where my hands are. It’s one of my ‘tendencies,’ as Dad likes to call them. So much nicer sounding than ‘obsessions,’ or ‘compulsions.’ Or, as Jeanne calls them, ‘rituals.’ Like I’m addicted to sacrificing wildlife for pagan mating rites, or something. Not just washing my hands or counting.
“Just excited.”
When I was a kid, we went on this father-son hunting trip, my dad and me. When we were building a fire by the lake, this fisherman cut his hand open with a knife. My dad had an emergency kit with him, so he sutured the guy’s hand, right there by the lake. He made me hold the flashlight for him, so he could see what he was doing. I can still remember watching the skin pull away from the fisherman’s hand, tugged from the flesh with every stitch—flesh I could clearly see, exposed. F-L-E-S-H. Five letters.
I was five or six at the time, I think. I can’t really remember.
Man, I hate that word, flesh
.
“Grant?”
Jeanne is looking at me expectantly again, waiting for another short answer to another question I zoned out and missed.
“I’m sorry?”
“I asked if you’ve had any more attacks since the last time we talked.”
Of course I have. But I’m not telling her that. First of all, because she doesn’t really care. She’s only being paid to ask these questions. My 50 minute ‘sharing’ session is almost up, and unlike my dad, Jeanne gets paid no matter what. Even if she doesn’t ‘fix’ me. Even if I walk out of here every time every bit as broken as I was when I walked in, she gets paid.
Maybe I should become a psychiatrist, instead of a surgeon. Wouldn’t that be ironic?
But then hey, no flesh to deal with.
Bonus
, as Tash would say.
I still haven’t answered Jeanne’s question, but she’s got to be getting used to that by now. We’ve been doing this one-sided dance for almost eleven months. Forty-four 50 minute sessions of pointless Q&A, 19 prescription refills—including two changes in medication and dosage, because of negative side-effects—and if I’d been keeping track, which I now realize I should have been, probably about 2,000,000 shrugs on my part, followed by the word ‘good,’ or ‘fine.’
I shrug again, number 2,000,001.
“No, it’s been a while since I’ve had any attacks.”
“That’s great, Grant.” Jeanne smiles again, her face encouraging, like she believes my lie and is proud of me. Or maybe she’s just happy that the hour is up, like I am. “I guess the medication is working, then.”
I don’t answer. If by ‘working,’ she means that the pills keep me from feeling normal human emotions, like fear, or pain, or happiness, or lust…then yeah, I guess they are.
CHAPTER TWO
After I leave the psychiatrist’s office, I have to pick up my little sister Genevieve from piano lessons. Over the summer, Gen practices on the grand piano in the auditorium at school. It feels weird driving into the Guthrie High parking lot. It’s the same as it’s always been, yet so different. The potholes remind me of the surface of the moon. I wait in the car, listening to a CD Tash made for me. It’s full of songs from her favorite movies, and I smile when I listen to it, even though I don’t really like most of the songs all that much. When she gave it to me, she had this really serious look on her face.
“This is the modern equivalent of a mix tape,” she said. “Believe me when I say that this is an epic gesture on my part.”
As the next song comes on, (“No Sleep Tonight” by some band called The Faders) I see Gen coming out of the side door of the auditorium. I honk, and she jumps, then gives me this evil glare that strangely reminds me of Tash.
Then again, there’s not a lot happening that
doesn’t
remind me of Tash, these days.
Gen opens the passenger side door and climbs in, holding her music folder in her mouth while she does up her seatbelt. I fight the urge to cringe, but then I remind myself that she doesn’t have the same contamination fears I do. She looks sideways at me, like she knows what I’m thinking, then opens her mouth, letting the folder fall into her lap. Loose sheet music flutters to the floor.
“I’m getting really sick of this CD, you know.”
I laugh. As usual, my sister’s trademark random dialogue puts mine to shame.
“Want me to change it?”
“Please,” she nods.
“Too bad!” I lean over and poke her with my elbow, before I put the car into drive.
“Typical,” she sighs, turning away to look out the window.
I smile sideways at her as we leave the parking lot. Gen has always been such a shy, sweet kid. Next year, she’ll be a freshman at Guthrie. I worry about that—about her—a lot, especially after what happened to Tash’s friend Margot. Not to mention what almost happened to Tash.
As we pass the gym, my eyes flick toward the spot where Trent Gibson attacked her after prom. I still have nightmares about what could’ve happened if I hadn’t showed up in time. Knowing Tash, she probably would’ve done some damage, but at what cost? Not to mention, it wasn’t the first time. I still catch myself wondering whether or not she told me the whole truth about what happened at her trailer, before I brought her home with me that first night. But we’re not allowed to bring that up, not anymore.
“Hey Gremlin, you feel like getting a snack?”
Gen shrugs. “It’s only eleven. I’m not really that hungry. But whatever, if you must.”
“I must.” I turn the opposite of the way I should, if I was taking us home. “I promise, we’ll be quick. Just don’t tell Mom I spoiled your lunch, or whatever.”
Ignoring Gen’s apathetic grunt, I drive to the Baskin Robbins on 3
rd
. The parking lot is empty, except for a familiar green station wagon that looks like it’s been to the bottom of the ocean and back. Perfect, looks like she’s the only one working.
I reach over Gen to open the glove compartment, sneaking a mint and a drop of Purell before going inside.
“Really, Grunt? Ice cream for brunch? That’s not desperate at all.”
“Quiet, you.” I put the bottle back, then bail out of the car, using the edge of my shoe to close the door. I wait for Gen to haul herself out before I push the automatic lock button, through my pocket. The car beeps, reassuring me that it’s locked. But I still push it twice more, just in case.
Gen’s used to this by now, so she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just trudges over to the door of the ice cream shop and opens the door. Sometimes, she makes me do it, just to watch me do the contortion thing. But I guess today she’s feeling nice.
“After you,” she says dramatically, as I walk through the doorway. “Your highness.”
I ignore Gen’s weak attempt at being bratty, because just then I see Tash coming out of the back room, holding a huge, frosted cardboard tub. Her hair is hanging down her back in a long, sloppy braid, and she’s singing along with the overhead music. Another ‘modern mix-tape,’ I’m guessing, since it’s obvious she loves this song and knows every single word of it. When she turns toward me, I freeze in my tracks. Her now trademark red lips quirk up at the corners, but she bites down on her bottom lip before it becomes a full-blown grin. I get the feeling that under the brim of her hat, she’s raising an eyebrow in challenge. Which one of us will be the first one to speak?
“Hey,” I say, too soon, too eagerly, breaking the stalemate.
“Ugh, move!”
My attempt at playing it cool is sort of ruined when Gen shoves me from behind, and I stagger forward another couple of steps.
Tash laughs, unsympathetic. “In her defense, you were totally cock-blocking her.” She cringes, looking at Gen. “I mean, you were blocking her from coming in. Through the door.”
“It’s okay.” Gen makes a beeline for the chocolate section of the counter, running her fingers along the glass. Tash doesn’t look nearly as appalled by this as I feel, and yet she’s the one who has to clean it. “I’m fourteen. I know what cock-blocking is.”
And once again, I’m shaking my head at how fast my baby sister is growing up. Not to mention how much more she seems to know about the world than I knew at her age. It’s pretty horrifying.
“So,” Tash says, leaning back against the counter. “What can I get for y’all this early-ass morning?”
“It’s not that early,” I start to say, at the exact same time my sister yells “Triple chocolate!”
Tash smiles at her. “Chocolate for breakfast. My kind of girl.” Then she looks at me. “And just for the record, I woke up like, half an hour ago. So yes, it is that early.”
“Seriously?”
How is it possible that a person could sleep in that late?
I watch her scoop a huge ball of chocolate ice cream into a waffle bowl that’s been dipped in chocolate, before she covers it with a scoop of chocolate chips and a huge dollop of hot fudge. My stomach turns just looking at it.
So
much chocolate
. My sister is going to get type two diabetes before the summer’s out. I should probably start leaving her at home when I visit Tash at work.
As Tash leans over the counter to hand the ice cream to Gen, I’m still just standing there watching her like a total stalker. I still remember the first time I saw her, in first grade when she transferred into Mrs. Humphries’ class. I was in Mr. Johnson’s class, but she stood behind me in the lunch line all through the rest of elementary school. It took me at least a year to even say ‘hi’ to her, since she was taller than me back then. Thankfully, I had a growth spurt a few years later, so I caught up and then some.
After Gen scampers off to go sit in the corner with her ice cream, Tash finally comes out from behind the counter. She’s wearing denim cutoffs with her work uniform—which I’m pretty sure isn’t allowed, but she doesn’t care, and I’m glad—and her old red shoes. She glances over her shoulder to make sure Gen isn’t watching, then grabs me by the front of my shirt, pulling me in for a hello kiss.
Zero to sixty
, in two seconds, flat. That’s what it feels like, every time. No warning, no games. Just full blast, no-holds-barred, ‘let me prove how glad I am to see you, instead of wasting time on small talk’ interpretive body language. I’ve come to understand that this is Tash’s style, that it’s easier for her to express herself physically than it is for her to say what she’s feeling.
But for a guy like me, it is a lot to handle without warning, especially when my reaction to her can’t be controlled.
Her hands reach around to press against my lower back, and mine leave my pockets to drift down to her hips. She arches her back, leaning into me with her lower body, as her cinnamon-flavored tongue mingles with the spearmint left over from my Tic-tac—fire and ice, just like us. Or at least, like we
seem
.
The more time we spend together, the harder it is to keep up my ‘strong, silent type’ act. People are always commenting on how calm I am. My soccer coach called me steady; my parents call me dependable; my teachers thought I was reliable. To all outward appearances, I am lousy with self-control. Thing is, appearances lie.
Speaking of which…if she keeps kissing me like this, I’m going to have a hard time hiding how cool I’m really not.
That’s when she pulls back, all businesslike and polite once again. “So, what’ll it be?”
My brain grinds as I desperately attempt to switch gears. “What will...what be?”
Tash laughs. “Ice cream, Grant. Isn’t that why you’re here? Or is it just an excuse to see me?”
She raises an eyebrow, daring me to admit it. But I won’t give her what she wants. Not this time.