Obsessive (3 page)

I shrug. Two-million and three—ish. “Yeah, it was Gen’s idea. I’m just the transportation.”

“Pants on fire!”

Obviously, Gen’s not too distracted by stuffing her face with chocolate to eavesdrop.
I cringe, as Tash chuckles evilly, walking backwards to step behind the counter. She washes her hands, then pulls a big, square blender out of the sink. I fold my arms and watch her for a few seconds, as she washes it with a high-pressure sprayer, which she’s assured me is scalding hot, but it’s not long before I have to turn away. Ignorance is bliss, that’s what Jeanne says. You’d think it would help to see how things are made, but it doesn’t. I just come up with new details to question. Ingredients, packaging, treatment…the lists of possibilities that add to a contamination obsession are endless.

To distract myself from ritualizing, I go over and sit by Gen. The table looks clean, but it probably isn’t, so I keep my hands in my lap, and go back to watching Tash as she moves around adding ingredients to the blender. My brain wants to count, but I focus on something more meaningful instead.

The first time I realized Tash wasn’t like most other girls, we were in sophomore American History with Mrs. Patterson. Tash sat one seat behind me and to the left. It was a Monday, and our first pop quiz in a long line of pop quizzes. Mrs. Patterson handed out the stack of quizzes, and when my fellow soccer teammate, Matt Holbrook, passed them back to Tash, she looked at them and muttered “Motherfucking Manifest Destiny” under her breath. I had to count to 1,000 to keep from laughing out loud. For the rest of that semester, whenever Mrs. Patterson brought up American exceptionalism, or romantic nationalism, I thought of her.

A few minutes later, Tash comes over with a can of Diet Coke for her and a shake for me, in a disposable Styrofoam cup.

That’s another fun fact about me: I don’t eat or drink anything out of a container that’s been used by another person. Ever. I don’t usually make a big deal out of it, or even really tell people, but Tash is a lot smarter than she wants people to believe. That’s another thing I noticed about her, pretty early on. It’s also why, whenever she makes me a strawberry and peanut butter milkshake, she brings it to me with the top part of the straw still wrapped in paper. One time, she called it a ‘straw condom,’ and I almost passed out from blushing.

“Extra peanut butter,” she says, setting the cup in front of me. “Because you’re gross.”

Gen laughs, as Tash drops into the open chair next to me and pops open her can of soda.

“Why don’t you just try it?” I ask her, for probably the tenth time this summer. “It tastes like PBJ. It’s delicious.”

Tash rolls her eyes. “No thanks, I’m good.”

I’m secretly relieved. Though my OCD seems to have no problem with another person’s tongue in my mouth, the thought of sharing food or drink still gives me the willies.
How’s that for irrational?

As I remove the straw condom and take a drink, Tash asks me about my morning. I take my time swallowing, using the opportunity to come up with a lie that’s not really a lie. “Pretty boring. Just running some errands for my parents.”

Gen shoots me a dirty look, but I ignore her. In a way, picking up Gen is kind of like an errand, and therapy really is more for my parents than it is for me. At least, that’s how I feel. Plus, Tash still doesn’t know I have to visit a shrink once a week—and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s not that I like lying to her, it just doesn’t matter. I won’t be going for much longer, anyway. After spending two months in Cadaver Hell, I’ll be leaving for Stanford.

“I can’t believe we’ve only got four more days,” Tash says, like she knows exactly what I was thinking. “I hate that you’re leaving.”

I smile, even though it’s not a happy conversation. Unlike me, Tash feels everything in extremes. Annoyance, happiness, anger…
especially
anger. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past 91 days, 11 hours, and 47 minutes we’ve been ‘together,’ it’s that she loves just as fiercely as she hates. Maybe more. And unlike me, she never lies about who she is.

“How is Margot doing?” I ask, because it’s easier than wondering if we’re ever going to ‘make it.’

Tash looks immediately pissed off. “I don’t know, I haven’t heard from her since her last postcard. But this Teen Discovery Camp sounds like a gigantic load of bullshit”—she glances at Gen—“I mean, bull
crap
. ‘Wilderness Therapy for Troubled Youths?’ More like ‘Teen Slasher Movie Waiting to Happen.’ I mean, Jesus! Put a bunch of kids with rap sheets in tents together, outside of civilized society, and someone is bound to get horribly maimed. If high school was tough for Margot, imagine when she gets bunked with some ex-con with a sleeping bag full of crack rocks and self-honed implements of violence.”

“Self-honed implements of violence?” I take a second to figure it out. “Is that what SHIV stands for?”

“Yeah,” she says, looking down at her soda sheepishly. “I looked it up.”

“Relax,” I tell her, even though I secretly find her rage kind of adorable. “I don’t think those are the kind of ‘troubled youths’ they let in.”

“Says you,” Tash grumbles, before taking a sip of her coke, directly out of the can.

“I’ve heard about places like that. They’re probably too busy building camp fires and doing team-building exercises to knife anyone.” In fact, from what she’s told me of this program so far, I’m pretty sure it’s full of a bunch of kids like me. My parents mentioned sending me to a conference once, for fellow kids with OCD, but I told them I didn’t think I needed it. The truth is, I don’t want to know how bad things can get. I don’t want to find out I’m worse off than I think I am.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Gen asks. I get the feeling she’s sick of watching us awkwardly flirt in front of her.

“Go ahead and go past the counter, into the back,” Tash tells her. “It’s the door next to the freezer. You don’t want to use the public one, it’s gross.”

Gen stares across the table at her with huge eyes. “But won’t I get in trouble?”

“Not if you don’t get caught,” Tash tells her, with a totally straight face. “Just make sure to stick close to the walls,
Mission Impossible
style, so the security cameras don’t see you. If they do, I’ll make sure to wipe them before I finish my shift. And stay away from the safe, cause I am sure as hell not going down for you if you rob the place. Get me?”

“Okay,” Gen whispers reverently, nodding. Then she stands up and ninjas her way across the room with a look of pure determination. I don’t think I’ve seen her get so excited about anything in a while.

When my little sister disappears behind the counter, Tash turns back to me like nothing happened.

“So, what are we doing tonight?”

“Uh….” I search my internal schedule, distracted a little by Tash’s fingers, linking together with mine. Hand-to-hand contact has always been an issue for me, but over the years I’ve learned to cope with socially requisite things like handshakes and holding hands, by telling myself that mycobacteria—the harmful, disease-causing kind—have a harder time thriving on dry skin. So as long as I keep my hands dry, the chances of me catching anything are minimized, unless I get a paper cut or something, in which case I’m immunocompromized and I need to disinfect my hands constantly. Luckily, my dad is a doctor, so he has access to industrial-sized tubs of moisturizing, hospital-grade disinfectants like Avagard. I carry a travel sized bottle in my pocket at all times, and when it comes to using it, I’m like a ninja. Most of the time, I can sneakily sanitize my hands, wrists and arms without anyone even noticing.

When I’m done reassuring myself that no one will die if I keep holding hands with my girlfriend, Tash is still waiting for me to tell her what we’re doing tonight.

“I thought we could see a movie.”

She makes a face. “Another movie? How about you come over to my house instead? We can watch something there, just the two of us. And it’ll be
free
.”

In case I really am as dense as I seem, she touches my knee under the table. I squirm, slightly. It’s a bold move, even for her, which is why I wasn’t expecting it, why I can’t control the momentary look of panic that flashes across my face.

“Or we could go to the theater, that’s fine, too.” Tash immediately pulls both of her hands away. Her eyes show hesitation. She thinks I’m not interested.

But she couldn’t be more wrong. I’m usually so much better at covering my inner turmoil, at pretending like my zone outs are just pauses required before a well thought out response, like I’ve got nerves of steel and the world’s best poker face. At best, I’m pensive and cautious. At worst, I’m having what people sometimes call a ‘brain fart.’ But in reality, it’s more like a mini psychotic break.

I force myself to push past the tangle of thoughts, to smile reassuringly at her. I reach for her hands, which are twisting together in her lap, and pull them toward me. With my eyes, I try to broadcast that it’s not her fault, that it’s mine, even as my spasmodic brain works overtime to come up with a reason she’ll even slightly understand. Another excuse. Another lie.

“I like being seen in public with you.” Okay, not a lie, but definitely a cheesy line.

 “Right.” Tash snorts, looking down at our hands. “I’m a great trophy girlfriend. ‘Look, but don’t touch.’”

She pulls her hands away, and her fingers slide down my leg for a few inches, purely by accident this time. The slight friction of her touch sends a thrill running through me. But the sensation isn’t as strong as I know it should be, because even as much as it rocks my world, it’s still not enough to overcome the fear, or the fog that masks it. Because of the wires in my brain that are misconnected. Because of the pills I take to keep the all-consuming anxiety at bay. My body still responds to stimuli like pleasure and pain, but most of the time it’s like everything is on mute, like a dream: odorless, tasteless, colorless.

Suddenly, I have an idea.

“I mean, I’d like to watch a movie at your house,” I say. “But I’ve already bought these tickets for Starry Night, so….”

Starry Night is this black and white movie thing they do at the park once a month. It’s super girly and romantic, just the sort of thing Tash would pretend to hate, but secretly love.

“I mean, it was supposed to be a surprise,” I lie. My mom works with the charity that runs it, though, so I’m pretty sure I can get tickets.

It works. Tash’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. She doesn’t even bother to pretend this time.

“Seriously? That’s awesome!”

Beneath the tightness in my chest, my heart flips over. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, so I don’t know what to call it. It’s too soon to be love, but too profound for a crush. Tash is getting to be like a drug for me. But not like the kind I already take, not the kind that dulls. A counter-drug, an antidote.

She brightens me. She makes me feel everything more vividly. I just wish I had the ability to filter, because once I start feeling, it’s really hard for me to block out the bad. Imagine living like that, without any barriers between you and such a dazzling, dangerous thing. Bright, colorful, overwhelming, all the time. Nothing to keep you from being burned or blinded.

Her smile widens, soft red lips stretching over slightly crooked, but beautiful teeth. My chest feels like it’s swelling.

“Will there be blankets?”

I shrug, playing dumb. “I guess so.”

More importantly, there will be other people. Lots of other people, young and old. Witnesses. Chaperones. In a public place, where nothing bad can happen.

“Perfect,” she says, and her smile promises danger, but I can’t say anything else, because Gen is finally returning from her top secret mission to pee. Tash leans over to plant a quick kiss on my cheek, using the opportunity to whisper softly in my ear. “Can’t wait.”

Then she stands up and takes her soda can and Gen’s abandoned, decimated chocolate ice cream container to the trash.

Behind my smile, I grit my teeth and start counting.

PART II: FUNCTIONAL

In first grade, I was officially ‘tagged.’

When my parents asked the school counselor what that meant, she explained that the school district had recently been granted funding for special, extra-curricular programs for students who fell outside the boundaries of what they considered ‘average.’ According to my test results, she said, I was ‘academically gifted,’ which meant that I was one of those kids who just naturally took to learning, problem solving, and following directions.

Two years later, in what was either a stunning coincidence or a sick cosmic joke, my little sister was also ‘tagged.’ Only instead of ‘gifted,’ Gen was labeled as ‘special needs.’ They spent the next five years trying to figure out where she fell on the special needs ‘spectrum’; if she was severely ADD or mildly autistic. Either way, Gen didn’t learn things as quickly as other kids seemed to, and unlike me, she couldn’t handle studying for hours on end.

One thing we did have in common was that we both got pulled out of class twice a week, in front of all of our fellow students, and taken off to our own ‘special’ classrooms. But I got to do complex scientific experiments, and Gen got to practice reading from her textbooks through different colored panels of cellophane. Apparently, seeing the words in yellow or blue instead of plain black and white was supposed to make it easier for her to retain facts. That was around the same time I started highlighting my homework—in addition to taking copious, meticulous notes.

Fortunately for me, because I had the ‘gifted’ classification, my excessive note-taking was chalked up to being an exceptional student. That was another thing the counselor told my parents about me. I’m what psychologist types like to call ‘exceptionally socially intuitive.’

If you ask me, that’s just a P.C. way of saying that everything I do or say is an act. A lie, custom tailored to whoever might be watching, to make sure no one ever figures out the true motives behind my actions.

But like most things about me, even that label is a lie. The truth is, I’m exceptional in the same way chameleons seem exceptional to the average, uneducated observer. For chameleons, blending into their surroundings isn’t exceptional at all. It’s not a magic trick, meant to impress or delight. It’s not even about showing off or attracting a mate. It’s about survival.