The Symptoms of My Insanity (17 page)

“Izzy?” Miss S. turns to me, most of her braids now tumbled down around her shoulders.

“Jacob was … running from me because he had my glasses and—” I stop because it just sounds so utterly stupid.

“It was Jacob’s fault,” Meredith chimes in. “He stole Izzy’s glasses and then he starts running around the room and—”

“Okay, enough,” Miss S. says. She seems to gather herself together. “Jacob, let’s go to my office and discuuuuss … how we can try and help Ina replenish and re-creaaaate … going forward.”

She gestures for Jacob to follow her and then gently tells Ina to go take some time and get cleaned up. “Izzy …” She pauses, turning to me again with a severely inward-lipped mouth. “You know better.”

I watch them walk away, wishing I could rewind it all.

“This was so not your fault,” Meredith reassures me, bringing over and then holding open a small garbage bag.

I toss in the pieces of what was once Ina’s awesome sculpture and my mom’s indigo color therapy glasses, thinking that maybe I belong inside that bag as well.

I can’t get to the main lobby and the ticket-selling table fast enough. Not that I’m looking forward to selling dance tickets on my lunch hour, but I
am
looking forward to finally seeing Jenna.

I throw my backpack on the floor next to the folding table. Jenna’s already got it set up in the lobby with the display sign I made weeks ago taped to the front. I drop my battered box of glasses, sans indigo, on top of the table and scan the lobby. Here’s the table, but there’s no sign of Jenna. I take a seat on one of the folding chairs, trying not to replay the snapshots of the day—Robert Stern’s laugh, the crunch of Roopa’s shoe, Ina’s dazed, sniffling face.

I should offer to help Ina with whatever new project she’ll be working on now. Or maybe I should offer her money for more supplies. I should write her an apology note. Miss S. is right, I should know better. What is wrong with me? And why was Robert Stern laughing at those glasses anyway? He’s smart. He should know how expensive color therapy glasses are. Ugh. Where is Jenna? I slide the box of tickets on
the table closer to me and open it up. Then I see, sitting right on top of the assembled tickets, the pile of blank envelopes I was supposed to decorate. There’s a Post-it stuck to the top one that says “Still blank …” in Jenna’s handwriting.

“Two please. Thanks, Izzy.”

I look up, say hello to Derrick, and then quickly check my wallet for bills since there’s no cashbox here to make change.

“Would you like to donate any of the following amounts in addition to the price of your ticket?” I add, mimicking Mom’s client smile and handing him a donation form. Derrick declines with a “Nah,” and so I give him two tickets, but in one of the blank envelopes, which I’ve suddenly decided to reserve for non-donators.

I watch as Derrick disappears through the cafeteria doors across from me, and then I scan the lobby again.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve decorated ten envelopes, arranged them in multiple flower patterns on the table, sold three pairs of tickets and gotten two very small donations, and texted Jenna four times. I really think you should let a person know if you’re planning on just not showing up for something. Especially when that person is spending their free evenings showing up for you. And especially when they need you—logistically, I mean, because I’m almost out of change. Really, at least leave a person a cashbox.

At that very moment, a metal box lands, rattling my flimsy folding table. It’s not the universe hearing me and making cashboxes fall from the sky. No, it’s Marcus Mason, smiling at me and saying, “Try not to spend it all on art supplies.”

“Hey. Thanks. Where’s your sister?”

“I don’t know. She texted me to get this to you and help out if I’m needed.”

“Oh. She texted you? Is she okay? Is she sick?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” He joins me behind the table. “Sorry, you look … disappointed that I’m your co-seller?”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s good that you’re here.” I gesture to the nonexistent line of people in front of us. “As you can see, I’m swamped.”

“Yeah.” He smiles. “Good thing I came along when I did.”

Marcus and I do end up pretty busy and selling tickets nonstop for a while near the end of the hour. After our last big rush, I plop down in my chair, doodle-decorating one of the blank envelopes, wondering why Jenna never bothered to text me as well.

“So I have to ask”—Marcus turns to me, closing up the cashbox, and gesturing to my package on the far edge of the table—“what’s in the box?”

“Oh. Some … glasses.” I pop open the cardboard flap so he can see inside.

“Wow. All for you?”

“No. Well … um, they’re not mine. I mean, I ordered them, but they’re not mine. I mean, they’re mine, but they’re for—”

“Wait a minute.” He sifts his fingers through the contents, looking at me now the way Allissa does when I tell her about a new symptom. “Why did you order glasses in every color of the rainbow?”

“Um … it’s actually … it’s for color therapy,” I mumble really fast.

“What?”

“Color therapy,” I repeat, taking out a pair—the green ones—and handing them to him. I watch as he holds them up by the stems, like a lab specimen. Maybe Marcus can actually tell me more about how color therapy works since he knows so much already about science and anatomy. Maybe he even knows the details about what certain colors do, or the best ones to use.

“Color therapy,” he repeats. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say, frowning.

“Is this for class? Did Bayer cover light refraction or …?”

“Oh. No, no, I read about it myself. I was on Symptomaniac and this guy commented on a thread and linked to this site and … anyway, then I read about them and how certain colors can balance out certain organs and—”

“Oh. But why did you— No wait, first, why were
you
on Symptomaniac?”

“Oh, um …” Crap.
Well Marcus, I go on Symptomaniac for a lot of different reasons. For instance, I had a headache last week that wouldn’t go away even after I took three Advil, and I read this article once that said headaches that don’t go away can be a sign of a brain tumor. Then I saw on the news that they think now cell phones give you brain tumors, and I use my cell phone a lot. Also, one of my breasts is oddly bigger than the other. Have I ever mentioned that? No? Oh, and did I tell you I’m aging prematurely? Or that, most disturbingly,
I’ve recently had trouble breathing?
“I don’t know,” I say at last. “I’m just bored sometimes, I guess.”

“Oh. Well, I think it’s more fun reading medical journals. They’re more reliable than the websites and sometimes they have really detailed pictures too.”

“Really?” I ask, excited about the detailed pictures.

“Yeah, my dad has tons of them in his office.”

“So you really check to see what kinds of diseases you have in medical journals?”

“Check to see—no, no, I don’t think I have any diseases. Just interested in anatomy, medicine …”

“Wait, I thought you wanted to go into engineering or something?” I ask, hoping for a subject change.

“I don’t know. I’d like to end up doing something with computers, but medical school isn’t completely out of the question. I guess it just depends— Wait, you look up diseases and stuff for personal reasons? Because you think you have them?”

“No, of course not. I mean sometimes I do, sometimes I think I may have a symptom or something, but I’m not sure, so I look and …” I stop myself and trail off.

Marcus looks at me for a long second. And then he starts to laugh. He starts to laugh at me, and it feels like someone heaved a bowling ball into my stomach.

“Izzy, that’s hilarious.”

“Well, good,” I mumble, “I’m glad you find me so amusing.”

“Oh,” Marcus says, his face going still. “No, I didn’t mean to laugh. I don’t find
you
amusing. I mean I do, but not in
a bad way. It’s just I’ve never met anyone who thinks that they have things, things other than a cold or the flu, things that they actually have to … look up.”

“Uh-huh.” The bowling ball sinks farther.

“Izzy, you’re a hypochondriac,” he says to me, smiling.

“What? No I’m not.”

“Actually, no, you’re not. You’re a cyberchondriac.”

“No, no, I’m not a … I’m not one of those either.” Note to self: Look up
cyberchondriac
on Symptomaniac later.

“Right.” He nods. “No, you’re definitely not. Listen, next time you’re on Symptomaniac, do you mind looking up some symptoms for me? I think I may have the Black Plague. The late 1600s London strain.”

“Okay, I get it.” I fake smile. “You think I’m insane and that I’m going to end up in a mental hospital or something. I get it, trust me.”

“Oh. No, I don’t. I don’t think you’re insane.” He stares at me for another long second and then looks down at the green-tinted glasses in his hands. “I do think that color therapy is insane, though. As if seeing a color would just magically zap energy through the eyes, to the hypothalamus, and on to the pineal gland to mess with our hormones and heal an organ.” He chuckles again, and says “Color therapy” in this amused way that makes my bowling ball stomach turn.

“Well, then I guess you think I’m pretty stupid for getting them for my mom.” I snatch the glasses out of his hands.

“No, no, it’s just that—no, Izzy you’re not. For your mom?”

“It’s fine, really. I’m used to this by now, so—”

“Used to …”

“People … just not … not really understanding that—” I cut myself off. “Forget it.”

“No, I understand. I mean … I do. I guess it all kind of makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“You being obsessively interested in illness, diseases, and such, you know, because of your mom being sick and—” Marcus stops speaking, seeing the expression on my face. I’m telling myself to look unfazed and nod casually, but I can’t because it’s like I can see Marcus’s last words floating in the air between us. I can’t stop seeing them. I shake my head, trying to make the words go away, surprised at the shaky sound of my own voice when I say, “I … I’m not obsessed with illness and disease. I’m—”

“No, I didn’t mean …” He holds up a hand, palm circling toward his chest, as if trying to propel his sentence to a close.

“—and my mom being sick doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

“Sure, no, let me rephrase—”

But I don’t let him rephrase, I just keep talking, moving my face closer to his, my voice wobbling more but rising in volume. “You know, Marcus, some people are just interested in being as healthy as they possibly can.”

“Of course. No, Izzy, I didn’t mean to—”

“And some people think that the truly crazy people are the ones who close their minds to everything you can’t …
test
with Mr. Bayer’s stupid scientific method!” I grab my
backpack and my glasses, and take off, not sure where I’m going till I see the sign for the girls’ bathroom.

I charge through the door.
Stop it, Izzy. What are you doing? Stop crying!
I open my eyes wide and look toward the top of the mirror. What is wrong with me? So what if Marcus thinks color therapy is insane, and that I’m insane? Why am I so upset about one more person thinking I’m mentally unstable?

I splash some water on my face and pat my palms to my cheeks.

Marcus is wrong, you are not a cyberchondriac. Okay, yes, maybe you look up symptoms and health-related information on the Internet, but it’s not without good reason. You never look up any symptoms without first experiencing at least a little bit of it physically. You’re not a cyberchondriac. And you’re not a hypochondriac either.

Okay yes, I know all about hypochondria. I’ve read all about it. But my mom being sick is not the “contributing cause of my neurosis.” In fact, there is no “contributing cause” to my neurosis because I don’t have a neurosis originating from … contributing causes.

And okay yes, I know what neurosis means. I have Jewish relatives. Plus the word
neurosis
is in almost every article I’ve ever read on panic attacks, which apparently neurotic hypochondriacs have all the time. But I don’t. I also don’t obsessively go to the doctor and I don’t unreasonably take medicine—well, except for Advil, vitamins, the occasional herbal supplement, and sometimes flu-be-gone tea.

And yes, okay, I do self-diagnose, but that’s called doing research. And doing research is important. Research can lead to people feeling better, to cures, to things going away.

I treat my face to a final splash of water and gather my stuff together. Then I book it to government, actually looking forward, for once, to Mr. Harada’s mind-numbing oration on checks and balances.

•   •   •

Three outgoing voicemails, six texts, and not one response from Jenna.

I’m wondering if she’ll even be at rehearsal today as I head to the auditorium. Maybe she’s going to ditch that too.

Nope, there she is, leaning against the side of the stage, chatting with Ryan Paulson.

“So this lady keeps asking me, is the soap gluten-free? And I keep pointing to the words on the wrapper that say
gluten-free
in huge fancy cursive. And she’s like, ‘Yes, but is it
one hundred percent
gluten-free?’ I mean, does she honestly think that Soaptastic secretly fills their gluten-free soaps with gluten?!”

Ryan Paulson is laughing hysterically and saying, “Yeah, like it’s this gluten conspiracy.”

“I know.” Jenna laughs. “Exactly!”

“Hey, stranger!” I chime in, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Hey Izzy, what’s up?” Ryan says, still laughing.

Jenna turns to me and then back to Ryan. “So yeah, I can get your aunt a discount. We have this crappy new bar called
Nursery Lime. It’s a citrus scent for toddlers. Parents go gaga for it because the shea butter is wild-crafted from Senegal.”

“I don’t even know what that means.” Ryan shakes his head in wonder.

“Hey!” I say a little louder. “What happened to you today? Did you get my voicemails?”

Jenna turns to me again and gives me a glare that I think drops the temperature of the auditorium by a hundred degrees. Ryan frowns at Jenna and then glances at me. Jenna just turns back to him smiling. “It’s a shame we discontinued Grape Gatsby, though, ’cause that would be the one I’d recommend.”