Authors: Isobel Irons
With that, he heads off to work. But I’m still frozen in place, because on some level it feels like I’ve literally dodged a bullet. Even though most people would say that was a great response, it still felt way too close for comfort. It still felt like walking a tightrope over a shark tank. Not something I’d want to do again.
When I can finally move through the crushing guilt of knowing that I’m risking my entire future—and lying about it, to boot—I change into my workout clothes and head into our home gym to run on the treadmill for a few hours. The rhythmic thudding of my feet, coupled with the continuous motion, drowns out most of my thoughts.
Like the rain
.
My steps stutter and I almost go down, just thinking of last night. But I recover, and run even faster. I can’t let myself dwell on the failures of my past. Not when I’ve got so much to do.
I’ve decided that this will be the summer of self-discovery. Of testing my limits. I was lying about the therapy helping, in fact I’m pretty sure it’s making things worse. But one thing has never failed to teach me about myself, and that’s experience. No matter how painful, it pushes me. Like soccer practice, or studying for a test, or anything that requires discipline, I can cross boundaries if I train for them first.
Today, I’ll start with endurance.
After I finish my seven kilometer sprint, I head for the shower. As usual, I turn the water as hot as it will go, then dial it back until it’s just bearable. I step under the spray, letting the scalding heat pound away at the sweat and dirt that coats my skin. Then I go after the bacteria, filling my hands with antibacterial soap. After I’ve washed myself from head to toe, I start over with shampoo. Then antibacterial, moisturizing soap. Then deodorizing soap. I don’t step out from under the water until my skin is bright pink and going on raw.
Mom always keeps a stack of clean white towels on hand, because I usually go through at least two of them when I’m drying off. When I’m as dry as I can get, I step over to the sink and wash my hands and face with another kind of soap. Then I shave. Then, I put sunscreen on, because I don’t want to get skin cancer. Then I floss and brush my teeth, twice. Then I wash my hands again.
After all that, it’s time to take my morning meds. I reach into the medicine cabinet for my blue plastic pill organizer, the one with three different compartments for each day of the week. I open the one marked ‘SAT,’ and drop the little cluster of pills into my perfectly clean, perfectly dry hand. Zoloft for anxiety, the little blue oblong pill, 100 mg per day. Lexapro, the little round white one, 20 mg per day. Xanax, the white one that looks like a Tetris piece, for bedtime, to keep the racing thoughts at bay. Finally, Klonopin, which looks like a cross between a Smartie and a street drug, and is only for ‘emergencies.’ Like when I’m doubled over on the floor in a corner of my bedroom, because I’m 90% sure that there’s a murderer in my house who’s going to kill my entire family with a box cutter while they sleep, and that murderer is me.
Unbidden, intrusive thoughts that sneak in when I’m tired or stressed, then grab hold of my brain until they become my new reality. Thoughts of violence, things I’m secretly terrified I want to do, even though I’ve never so much as raised a hand to anyone I love. Those are the kind of ‘emergencies’ I have.
I put the pill container back and close the medicine cabinet, then stare down my reflection in the mirror for so long, I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
Then I tilt my hand sideways, watching as the pills slide into the sink and circle the drain, before finally disappearing.
PART III: MOST LIKELY TO…
Once, when I was about 12, my dad walked in on me masturbating.
To my absolute horror, he came back in about twenty minutes later, sat down on the edge of my bed and said, “Don’t worry, son, you’re not in trouble. Self-stimulation is a natural part of your maturation process. It’s normal for a boy your age to start figuring out how his body works.”
Then, as I sat there, trying to figure out what to say—or if there was even anything in the world
to
say to that—he stood up and headed for the door. But right before he left the room (and closed the door behind him) he stopped. Smiled, awkwardly.
“Just don’t do it too much, or you might go blind. Okay, kiddo?”
Looking back, I honestly don’t think my dad meant to terrify me into never touching myself in
that
way again, but it worked, nonetheless.
Even later, after I’d sat through that incredibly awkward 1960’s film in health class—‘Billy Becomes a Man,’ or whatever it’s called—even after I realized that there was no actual, scientific connection between frequency of ejaculation and loss of eyesight, even though deep down I knew my dad’s comment was a joke…the fear remained. I added it to my ever-growing list of bad actions that would cause catastrophic results, and that false belief became a part of my life.
There’s this saying, about how your worst battle is between what you know, and what you feel.
That’s what it feels like, being me. No matter what I can prove, my instincts always prefer to latch onto the option that causes the most pain, and provides the most fear. It’s worse than self-destructive. It’s self-flagellation, only preemptive. You’re spending every waking moment, punishing yourself in advance for something you might never even do.
So you keep
not
doing anything new, because you’re too afraid to test your own theories, to prove yourself right.
CHAPTER FIVE
On Monday morning, I get up at 8:00 AM—two hours later than usual.
I shower, shave, brush my teeth—the usual routine, except I skip taking my morning meds again—then I dress in a crisp white shirt, gray slacks and a red and blue striped tie.
My dad has already left for the ER, so I don’t have to worry about running into him and hearing about how the call with Duke went. I’d rather not know. Ignorance is bliss, or so they tell me.
I drive to City Hall, cranking The Raconteurs as loud as my stereo will go. The beats give me strength, and the ironically angry lyrics make me feel like I’m doing something dangerous. Even though, in reality, what I’m about to do is only scary if you happen to care about things like status, and prestige. And legitimacy. Which I do, unfortunately.
I park in front of the mayor’s office, and lock the car three times. Inside, there’s a receptionist sitting behind a desk. I search my memory for her name…Barb.
“Hi, Barb.” I give her my best Former Student Body Vice President smile. “How are you doing today?”
She doesn’t smile back. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if Mayor Golden was around? I was supposed to be doing a summer internship here, with him....” I trail off, before mentioning the part where I gave up the internship back in April, when I agreed to go to Duke for the anatomy course instead. It’s not really lying, I tell myself, just omitting a part of the truth.
If I ever write my autobiography, that will be the title:
Lies of Omission
by Grant Blue.
Barb—which I can only assume is short for Barbara, which has seven letters in it, so this approach
has
to work—stares at me like she’s waiting for the punch line. I slide my hands into my pockets and stare back, smiling expectantly, like I already told it. I’m just waiting for her to laugh. I learned that a long time ago, that if you stay quiet long enough, it makes people uncomfortable. Even if the conversation ball is in your court, they’ll forget because the urge to keep playing is stronger.
That’s how I usually end up winning arguments with Tash, because she gets irritated and talks herself out of things, while waiting for me to respond.
I’m hoping that will be the case with last night’s non-argument, but I’m not really sure. It’s the first time she hasn’t just broken down and yelled at me about what’s bothering her. Almost eleven hours have passed, and still no yelling. No angry voice mails, no text message apologies. No confessions. Just silence. The discomfort I’m feeling after not hearing from Tash for 635 minutes in a row is probably similar to what Barb is feeling now.
Finally, she breaks. “The office is on the fourth floor, kid. What are you waiting for?”
“Oh.” I look behind me, toward the elevator. But then I look back, dismayed. “Don’t I need an ID card or something?”
“No, you don’t get a badge,” she says, kind of bitterly. “Those are only for actual employees, not interns. You guys just pretty much come and go freely, as far as I can tell.”
I smile, already backing away. “Thanks, Barb. That’s all I needed to know.”
As I head for the elevator, I feel kind of victorious, like I’ve wrestled a dragon or something. Being the son of a doctor has taught me a lot about things I never wanted to know, but it’s also taught me that getting people to respect you is 90% about acting like you know what you’re doing. Which is why my plan for getting into the mayor’s office is simple: I’m just going to walk in there and pretend like I belong there. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m an intern. If they ask me about missing the deadline to accept, I’ll just act like I don’t know what they’re talking about. Like it was a clerical error on someone’s part, and I’ve been planning on interning this whole time, but no one ever called me to tell me when to start work. Again, not lying. Not dishonest. Just using the convoluted and notoriously disorganized bureaucracy of government to my advantage.
Nixon would be proud.
I hit a slight snag when I realize that the elevator is empty, and one is an odd number of course, so that’s not going to work. Luckily, I spy a stairwell at the end of the hallway. Even better, it’s got those bar handles on the doors, the ones you can open by leaning on them with your hip instead of touching them with your hands.
I’m going to fit right in here
.
As I enthusiastically tackle all eight flights of stairs leading to the fourth floor, I have a brief moment of concern over the invincible euphoria I seem to be feeling, but then it passes. Confidence is a very important trait to have in politics, even if it comes from a place of uncertainty. The important thing, I tell myself, is to fake it until I make it.
Maybe if I tell myself I can do anything, I’ll start to believe it. Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong my whole life. Maybe my OCD is like a superpower, something I can use to my advantage. I can replace the bad thoughts with useful thoughts. Inconvenient rituals like counting and sanitizing can be replaced with organization and punctuality, charm, success. It’s not that far of a logical leap. Why not?
When I get to the mayor’s office, there’s another receptionist guarding the way. This one is much younger, around my age, with copper colored hair and a bright yellow sweater. And pearls. She kind of reminds me of the cute school counselor on
Glee
, but younger and probably less OCD.
“Hi…Can I help you?”
I can definitely sense an ‘interested’ vibe coming from the buttoned-up redhead. Normally, I tend to ignore that kind of thing. But today, my instincts are heightened, hormones in high-gear—probably a side-effect from last night. But hey, if the mayor’s secretary thinks I’m hot, she’ll be more likely to help me. I’m on a roll now, in full Nixon mode, so I smile and reach out to shake her hand.
“Hi, I’m Grant Blue. I’m supposed to be starting an internship for Mayor Golden.”
“I’m Melody.” She holds onto my hand just a fraction of a second too long, smiling just a little too widely. Her teeth are perfectly straight, unbelievably white. I can smell her perfume, even from across the desk. It’s fruity and sweet, like punch. Biting her lip, she reaches her other hand toward a desk phone. “That’s funny, he didn’t say anything about a new intern.”
“Really?” I put on my best confused face. “That’s weird. I applied for the internship back in January, do you think maybe he forgot?”
I’m pretty sure I’m stretching the boundaries of omission now, but I can’t bring myself to care. It’s exhilarating, bending the rules. Striking out on my own, finally becoming my own man. Taking risks, just like a normal teenager should.
“I don’t know,” she says, with a voice like cotton candy. “Let’s ask him.”
But instead of picking up her desk phone, Melody stands up, straightens her polka-dot skirt, and walks around the desk toward me.
“His office is this way.”
I follow her back, behind the desk, through a short hallway lined with dark wood and framed pictures of important people. I glance at them as I pass, recognizing some of the top lawmakers in the country. What if someday, that could be me? Instead of cutting people open, I could spend my career making laws, influencing change. Solving complex problems faced by society, instead of dealing in sickness and death. I’ve never really let myself want it before, thinking it was better to just stick to the plan my parents have laid out for me. But what if I could show them another option? What if I could prove to them that I’m better suited to this path?
In front of me, Melody swishes her hips with every step, heels thudding delicately against the carpeted floor. I try not to notice, but it’s like a switch has been flipped in my brain. I put my hands in my pockets and count our steps, to distract myself. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…One, two, three, four, five, six, seven….
Three more steps and we’re at the end of the hall. I tap my left foot, four more times, to finish out the sequence. Twenty-one is a Fibonnaci number, a Harshad number, a Motzkin number, a triangular number and an octagonal number, as well as a composite number. It’s proper divisors are one, three and seven. It’s also the sum of the first six natural numbers, one through six. That makes it a triangular number. Twenty-one is a good number. That means I’ve done something right.
This is going to work out, I know it.
Smiling up at me, Melody knocks on the heavy oak door, three times. Another good sign. I smile back at her, excited to see if my new hypothesis will be proven.
“Come in,” a man’s voice says, from behind the door.