Compulsion (15 page)

A stream of moonlight slips through the tear in the blackout blind. For a moment I wonder if the light will erase my image forever.

I have the weirdest fucking ideas.

Kasey’s lying next to me in the hallway. We’re covered with her princess blankets—the ones she hides in her closet when friends come over since it’s not cool to have Cinderella blankets when you’re in ninth grade. “Kase,” I say, and tap her on the shoulder. “Wake up. Go to bed.”

I half carry her to bed and tuck her in, pulling up her curtains so moonlight spills into her room, casting shadows on the walls. The silent street is dimly lit by the soft yellow light of the streetlamp. The yellow light sputters and flashes. My eyes burn from tiredness but I can’t sleep, waiting for the sputtering to end.

I stay awake until the sputtering ends and the glow is swallowed by dawn’s first light. I turn to my clock.

6:07 a.m.

Christ.

Six-oh-seven. Six plus seven is thirteen. OK. Seven minus six is one plus six is seven. OK.
The numbers are working. I close my eyes and think about the game—the release.

The webs disintegrate. I just have to make it through one more day like this. Then I’m free. Later I’ll deal with Coach and the scouts and Luc. My stomach knots; the dull pain sharpens.

Today everything will go right again. I can’t blow it.

Future.

Scouts.

The game. Twenty-two guys—shit number. Don’t count the other team.

Eleven guys. One ball. I push everything aside and rework my brain.

Focus on the game.

We
have
to win. The anxiety I feel is blanketed by a feeling of excitement—hope.

Today I will be normal.

I mentally work my way through the maze of Gorman’s players, passing the ball, creating opportunities, feeling light as air.

Goal.

Seventy-Three Beginning Perfection

“J
ake!” Kasey pounds on my door. “Jake, wake up!”

Light floods the room. The frost has melted and my windows drip with last night’s cold. I turn to the clock.

Saturday, 9:08 a.m.

Nine-oh-eight. Nine plus eight is seventeen. OK. Eight times nine is seventy-two minus nine is sixty-three plus eight is seventy-one. OK.

The door flies open and Luc walks in. “
Guevón.
What’s up? We’re meeting the team for breakfast. We leave in five. Goddamn, it smells like Teen Spirit in here. Do you
ever
shower?”

I open one eye and look at the clock. Then open the other eye.

9:10

Nine ten. Nine plus one is ten. WAIT. WAIT.

Nine eleven. Nine plus one is ten plus one is eleven. OK.

“I’m not gonna wait around for your lazy albino ass all day. C’mon.”

I slip my left foot out from under the covers and count.
One, two, three.

Fifty-six, fifty-seven—

Right foot.
One, two, three.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

Up.

9:11

Luc glares and says, “What the . . . Did you not hear me? We’re
late
.”

I nod. Counting words. Nine if I count
we’re
as one. I think I can.

Nine words. Not OK. Shit.

“And I need some gas money for tonight, okay?”

Nine words. Nine. Fuck. Nine.
It’s just out there, dangling in front of me. Pinpricks of pain start to climb up my temples.

“Okay,
guevón
?”

Ten, eleven. OK. I sigh.

I nod.

Eleven.
Good number.

I hardly notice Luc. He’s just taking up space, not time. Well, a little time. I head to the bathroom. The conditioner has more in it than the shampoo so I spill it out until they’re level and step into the shower.
Left, right, left, right
. Lost in the numbers until I hear someone pounding on the door. I drip a little more conditioner out until it’s level with the shampoo and shower gel.

“Jacob Daniel! Get out of the shower and downstairs. Now!”

“Thanks, Mr. Martin,” I hear Luc say.

I count to one hundred one and turn off the shower, watching as the water drips down my body to the drain—pieces of curly hair swirling in the stream of water.

I stare at the pubes and want to vomit but can’t stop staring until the last of them slip into the drain. I squat down and look closer but don’t see any more, and I pull myself away from the drain before I begin to count its holes.

Luc pounds on the door again, saying something to the effect that if I don’t leave the bathroom right now, he’s going to drag me out and hang me by my balls.

“Leave him alone, Luc!” Kasey’s voice gets pretty squeaky when she’s about to cry. I feel like shit. This isn’t her battle. I’m the one who’s supposed to look out for her. Not the other way around.

Luc and Kasey really get into it, their voices cutting my concentration, fucking with my numbers. I holler, “Just. Shut. Up. I’ll get out when I’m fucking ready to get out. Shut. Up.”

My head throbs in time to the drip, drip of the faucet. So I turn the knob tight until the drips stop and I can sit and wait until the mirror defogs on its own. I rest my head on the sink—the cool porcelain feels good against my cheek; the whole place is fogged in steam.

Vapor. Condensation. Mist. Haze.

Water particles.

Bazillions of visible water particles floating in air.

I’m just glad I don’t have the urge to count them.

Take that back. I’m just glad they’re too small to see to count.

When the air clears, I say, “Coming.” I run my fingers through my hair and open the door with both hands.

Luc sits outside my bedroom door, head banging against the doorjamb. He glares at me from underneath the scrunched-up monobrow. I push past him and get dressed, just the way I need to get dressed. Luc can wait. Everything can wait.

“
Guevón
, do you think we can leave sometime today?” he hollers through the door. “It’s not like every tomorrow is riding on today. Not at all. Take your time. Can I offer you fucking tea and biscuits?”

He doesn’t get that right now is tomorrow and every other day in my life unless I get it right today. I can’t afford another day like yesterday, trying to put broken pieces together.

Today has to be perfect.

Magic.

I look at the clock.

10:14

Ten fourteen. One plus one is two plus four is six plus ten is sixteen minus one is fifteen minus one is fourteen minus one is thirteen. OK.

I turn from the clock and walk into the hallway. “Ready.”

Luc stares at me, mouth gaping. And I realize he has no idea who I am—his preconceptions of me have evaporated. They’re gone.

And so are mine.

I am crazy.

Seventy-Nine Triggers

Saturday, 10:15 a.m.

Ten fifteen. One plus one is two plus five is seven. OK.

I skip steps eight and four on the way down, touch the grandfather clock, and go into the kitchen, where Mom slouches next to the sink, clutching a thick coffee cup that looks too heavy for her to hold; her thin fingers look brittle like dried twigs, her eyes vacuums of nothingness.

For a second I don’t feel anything but anger.
Stop being a victim. Stop being like that.

Stop leaving us.

And this is what Dad must feel when he sees me do my weird-ass things—like a fire consumes his insides and burns slowly until all he sees is red.

I won’t be Mom. I won’t have Dad feel about me like I feel about Mom right now. Parents are supposed to love their kids—be proud of them.

Kasey sits cross-legged on the window seat where she always sits to eat breakfast: a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, half a glass of orange juice, and a third of a cup of fruit. She takes a silent bite of cereal and stares at Luc like he’s evil incarnate. Dad holds the newspaper in front of his face.

We’re silent.

It’s like all appearances have been peeled away this past week. I try to go back to where it all started to go bad. If they hadn’t done that lame-ass breakfast yesterday; if my memories hadn’t been set loose. If Mom hadn’t left . . .

What if Mom was a mom . . . just for once?

I shake the thought off and stare at her. But she’s gone, so I push the anger away. The burning in my stomach dulls to a tired ache. I start to count events, going back, trying to fix the frazzled wires.

Future.

My future is stuck in the past.

My chest constricts and I count the seconds on the grandfather clock, watching the hand tick around. I turn away when the minute hand inches forward and the second hand is on fifty-nine.

10:16

Ten sixteen. One plus one is two plus six is eight minus one is seven. OK.

Kase is wearing one of my old soccer sweatshirts. “I’ll be there early. Everybody’s gonna be there, you know.” She points to my soccer bag. “Got everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Change of clothes?”

“Yeah, Kase. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve packed my soccer bag.”

“Okay. Just making sure.”

“Thanks.” I sigh. Somebody’s got to be the mom.

“Got your back,” she says.

“Got your back,” I say.

She squeezes me hard and smirks with a raisin stuck in her teeth. I crack a smile.

Mom looks up at me with empty eyes. “Jake, honey.”

“That’s okay, Mom. I get it. You better rest.” I push her hair back behind her ears. She always has it covering her face. And she’s pretty. She could be really pretty if . . .

Lots of
if
s in this family.

Dad lays his paper on the table. “I’ll be there.”

He looks at me in a way that erases the craziness for a second—like he’s proud for real, not just because he has to say so.

“Thanks, Dad.” And my head feels a little clearer. All I need to do is get on the field and everything will go away.

Luc nudges me. “Enough of the Osbornes, okay? Let’s go.”

I open the door with both hands, then jump into Luc’s car, easing the door shut. He turns the radio up thirteen notches, staring at me from his peripheral vision, as if he’s really seen who I am.

I am real.

This is me.

But that’s not acceptable and I know it.

The pulsing in my head doesn’t get worse. The auras don’t come. I’m going to kill out on the soccer field to erase this morning, these past few days, from Luc’s memory—to get back preconceptions, because it’s way better when people don’t know. What people want to see is better than what is before them. It’s always been that way, and the only person who has ever shifted that train of thought is Mera.

I’ve got to learn to move slower, more deliberate. I’ve got to watch my words so that I don’t say something that will eventually cause a tsunami in Asia. Action/reaction. Cause/effect. Everything is under my control if it’s all contained.

The numbers are mine.

The spiders are mine.

I
own
them and don’t have to explain that to anybody. And after we win today, they’ll be sent away because I’ll have control.

I look at the time on my watch, and my mind works out the numbers until we pull into Coach’s driveway. Luc turns off the radio.

“Okay,” Luc says. He looks at me weird, like I’m not Jake anymore. That bugs the shit out of me because I’m not different. He’s just seeing me different.

Perception.

Reality.

“Okay,” I say, and open the door.

“Just a sec,” Luc says.

I brace myself because I’m not sure how things will be now that he knows about me—the truth—whatever that truth is, because I sure as fuck haven’t figured it out yet either. We’re walking the line between perception and reality, like too much has gone on the past two days to blow off.

Maybe I can tell him why we need to win—the
real
reason.

Luc leans his head against the steering wheel and looks me in the eyes. “You were right.”

Silence. I search through my memories to try to figure out what I could possibly have been right about in the twelve years Luc and I have been friends other than the fact that Aquaman is the biggest pansy-ass superhero with virtually worthless powers.

I clear my throat. “About what?”

“Yesterday and me and my dad.”

Exhale. “Nah, man. I was just talking bullshit—”

“Let me say this,” he says.

It’s just us again. It’s time to be real.

Real
.

“It’s like he’s still here, you know? He’s this dead motherfucker that never leaves me alone. Sometimes something just sets me off, triggers it, and I go all bloop tube. What if—” He lowers his voice. “What if he never leaves? That shit freaks me out, you know. Like I can’t trust myself. I
can’t
be him.”

But he is.

And I can’t be Mom. But I am.

But for just one more day.

Then the spiders will go away.

“What triggers it?”

Luc shrugs. “I don’t know. You. Fuck, man, you and your weird-ass shit. And other shit that shouldn’t matter, but just one thing can get me raging. Does that even make sense?”

Every time I’m stuck somewhere, I go back to that day in the closet—the day I first remember the spiders not leaving, figuring out how to get them to by holding fast to the numbers, willing away the sticky webs. Does that make sense?

It’s all about the trigger, like a domino that falls and collapses a thousand others. If I can just stop the first one . . . I push the slight tingle from the back of my neck down.

“I don’t know,” I say, and feel like the biggest oxygen waster on the planet because I can’t tell my friend how to not be his dead dad. “I wish I knew.” It’s like some vacuum has sucked out all the happy air and left us with a future repeating the past.