Chick

  Copyright © 2015 Alex Van Tol

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Van Tol, Alex, author

  Chick: Lister / Alex Van Tol.

  (Orca currents)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1000-6 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1002-0 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1003-7 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents

  PS8643.A63C45 2015 jC813'.6 C2014-906665-1

  C2014-906666-X

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014952056

  Summary: Fourteen-year-old Chick struggles with obsessive–compulsive disorder and his father’s expectations.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  Author photo by BK Studios

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  My shoes are too tight. My mouth is dry. And I’m more than a little embarrassed after having pronounced a word wrong in Spanish class. I tried to ask Isobel how old she was, in that weird backward Spanish way. Turns out “How many years do you have?” is just a shade different than “How many anuses do you have?” I’m pretty sure Isobel isn’t going to talk to me for the rest of eighth grade. At least it made people laugh.

  Now I just want to get home.

  Angeline and Maryke pass me in the hallway. “Have a good weekend, Chick.” Maryke smiles at me.

  I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that my younger brother couldn’t pronounce my full name when he was little. And how he got Chick from Tadeusz beats me. But it stuck.

  And it’s a good thing. You should hear how people massacre Tadeusz. It’s supposed to sound like “today-ish.” But last year we had a substitute who couldn’t work it out. My friends called me Ta-douche for a month.

  “Thanks, you too.” At least they’re not cracking butt jokes. That’ll come on Monday.

  I want to get into my locker so I can grab my books, and then I’m splitting for home. As fast as I can get there. I’ve got a bit of pressure I need to release.

  My fingers tingle as I spin the numbers on my lock. A list of the afternoon’s insane events begins to form in my mind.

  1. Jazmin asking me if I’m going to the dance.

  2. Audrey smiling at me, twice. Twice, people!

  3. The big A inside a bright red circle on the front page of my math test.

  4. The anus thing.

  I wish I could write it out instead. That’s where I find my release. In the writing.

  In my mind, I am sitting with a clean, white sheet of paper in front of me. There is a jar of pens. They’re all different colors. I look carefully at each one before choosing dark green. I hover there, my imaginary pen poised over the clean page. I savor the anticipation. It’s a pleasure-pain feeling, like clamping your teeth together after having your braces tightened.

  Back in the real world, I swap a few books, grab my jacket and close my locker. I can’t wait to write down all the crazy things from today. And then I’ll write a list of all the things I have to do this weekend. All the things I’m not supposed to forget. I’ll explode everything out onto the page. Get it out of my head.

  And get my anxiety back under control.

  As I sling my bag onto my back, my fantasy is interrupted. “Yo, Chick, wassup?”

  I don’t even have to look. I’d know Finnian’s cheesy hip-hop speak in a crowd of a hundred. My stomach dips and twirls when I see Audrey coming along behind him. She drifts to a stop near my locker, a sweet smile on her face.

  My palms start to sweat, and I take a deep breath to steady myself. I am desperate to get home, but I don’t want to seem rude or abrupt. Especially to Audrey.

  “You heading out?” Fin claps me on the shoulder, even though he has to practically bend down to do it.

  I let my knees buckle and bang my head against the locker for effect. Audrey giggles.

  “Heading out,” I nod, rubbing my forehead. We have a good comic chemistry, Fin and I. It’s a good thing we’re not debate partners. For the judges’ sakes.

  I shoot Audrey a smile and follow Finnian through this weird-fist-bump-hand-slap-over-the-top-something-or-other that he’s been developing. It’s lame, but I do it anyway, because it’s Finnian. He’s my best friend. And everybody loves Finnian. He’s a rugby superstar, and girls think he’s cute. I mean, they think I’m cute too, but my cute is more of the Aww, look, he’s not even five feet tall variety.

  “You want to go shoot some hoops?”

  I look down at myself, then back at Finnian. “You want to go tie two butterflies’ tongues together?”

  Audrey laughs. I like the way she looks up at me, even though I’m technically shorter than she is. She has this way of dipping her chin down and looking up through her eyelashes. I appreciate it. Maybe if I hung out with Audrey more I wouldn’t always be reminded of how short I am.

  “Aw, come on, man,” Finnian says. “You know how to jump, don’t you?”

  “I forget.”

  “Actually…” Audrey interrupts. She pauses in this quiet way she has until we both turn to look at her. “I was going to ask Chick if he could walk me home.” She glances at me. I can see she’s a little nervous. “There are a couple of things I wanted to talk to you about, for the debate tournament.”

  Holy schnitzel. Really? I’ve been struggling to think of a way to ask Audrey to hang out and work on our debate. And here she is, doing it for me.

  Finnian rolls his eyes and throws his hands in the air. “Oh, what is that? Here I am, the number-one basketball god in the whole school offering you a chance to play. But then a girl shows up, and you’re all like ‘Yeah, baby, let’s debate!’ ”

  It’s my turn to laugh. As if Finnian would ever truly be upset about this. He knows I’m into Audrey. And he knows I haven’t been able to get the ball rolling with her. Well, here it is, rolling. I think.

  I look back at Audrey. I search for my tongue, but I must have swallowed it.

  Finnian looks from me to Audrey. “Yeah, so um…” He looks from Audrey back to me. “How about I just…leave you kids to it?” He gives a twinkling wave, then spins on his heel and heads for the double doors at the end of the hall. Audrey watches him go.

  “You and Finnian are always so funny,” she says.

  “Thanks.” Ah. There’s my tongue. Except it feels like it’s full of concrete.

  “So. Are you headed home now?”

&n
bsp; I shrug, but I’m not sure what to say. The idea of walking all the way home with the girl of my dreams makes me feel light-headed. You’d think that’s a good thing, right? But it’s not. The way my heart is racing, I don’t think I can do it. I was already tense when class let out. I’m feeling super anxious, because Audrey is with me.

  I don’t know if I can hold it together.

  Chapter Two

  “So…do you want to walk with me then?” Audrey is looking at me a little funny. Ah, God.

  I run my hand through my hair. Feels like I’m breathing like a locomotive. Are my eyes rolling as wildly as I feel like they are? I feel like the Hulk right before he splits through his clothes. The pressure is that bad. And it’s a twenty-minute walk home. There’s no way I’ll make it without having a breakdown or a full-blown panic attack.

  This is so stupid. Any normal guy would die to walk home with the girl he’s been crushing on for five months.

  I’ve got to do something.

  I look Audrey straight in the eye. “Yes. Yes, Audrey, I would love to walk home with you. Can you hang on a couple minutes?”

  She blinks. “Uh, sure?”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be right back.” I turn and bolt for the bathroom down the hall. I’m sure she’s wondering what my problem is, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Maybe it’s better if she thinks I have diarrhea. At least that’s only a temporary condition.

  In the bathroom, I slam myself into a cubicle and lock the door. My hands shake as I unzip the top pocket of my backpack. I yank out the little red book I keep with me. My book of lists. For emergencies only.

  Crazy, right?

  I flip the pages as fast as my fingers will go, accidentally tearing one in half in my panic. I find a blank page, whip the pen out of the center coil and wipe my sweaty hand on my jeans. I know I’m breathing hard—I can hear myself. Anyone who comes into the bathroom now is going to think I’m either wickedly constipated or having too much one-handed fun during school hours.

  I start with the title. Crazy Stuff From Today.

  With each item I scribble onto the page, my tension ratchets down a notch. It’s a physical relief. Like taking a long pee after having to wait in line for an hour.

  I almost laugh at the idea that here I am, in the actual place where people go to pee, but my relief doesn’t come from a porcelain bowl. My relief is supplied courtesy of Staples.

  I’m still shaking as I finish number ten, but I’m feeling way calmer. I pack my book away and step out of the stall. The empty bathroom echoes around me as I wash my hands and dry them. I glance at myself in the mirror.

  It’s funny that I can look so normal. No one can see the screwed-up problem inside me.

  I pull the door open, arranging my face into a sly grin. I’ve got a funny one-liner cued up to make Audrey laugh. But when I get out into the hallway, I don’t see her anywhere. I look up and down the corridor, but there’s no sign of her. Maybe she went to the girls’ bathroom.

  I wait near a big pot that holds a skinny, leaning fig tree, my hope fading with each passing minute. Does she think I’m a freak for bolting like that?

  Oh no. What if she somehow heard me through the door? Slamming cubicle doors and unzipping things and… grunting and…panting?

  Oh. My. God. What if she heard me? My anxiety creeps back up until it’s squarely in the orange zone. Again. But, still, I wait.

  After ten minutes, I get it.

  She’s gone.

  Chapter Three

  We win our soccer game on Saturday afternoon, but that doesn’t matter. I know Dad will be upset with me for not scoring more goals. And I’m still upset with myself for flaking out on Audrey yesterday.

  Everybody decides to celebrate with a burger at Legacy’s. Except me. Dad wouldn’t like me changing plans like that. I say goodbye to the team in the parking lot and then lope toward our green Range Rover. I can almost feel my blood pressure rising as I approach.

  The fact that the car is green is a karmic flip-off to the environment. Every one of that monster’s eight cylinders guzzles gas like a frat boy in a drinking game. Mom has suggested that maybe we should downsize to something that suits a four-person family a little better.

  I could point out to her that we never actually go anywhere as a family.

  Anyway. Dad isn’t into fuel-efficient, environmentally responsible cars. He likes the big truck. And he likes the fact that we live in a big house in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city. Status symbols matter to him.

  He likes people looking up to him. Maybe that’s because he’s short too.

  I hear the doors unlock as I approach the truck. I open the gate and heave my soccer bag inside. Dad’s eyes watch me in the rearview mirror. I mentally check off the things he’ll want me to report in about. What happened during the game. How debating is going. Whether I’ve put any more work into my speech for my bar mitzvah.

  I close the gate and come around the passenger side, my palms prickling with sweat.

  I climb into the leather seat. It’s cold. I want to turn on the seat warmer, but it’s halfway across the ocean of space between my father and me, so I don’t.

  “Thanks for coming to watch,” I say. Even though he only showed up for the last fifteen minutes. And he was on his iPhone pretty much the whole time.

  He starts the engine. “Nice that you won.” As he backs out of the parking spot, my eyes pick out the receding forms of my teammates on their way to lunch.

  He clears his throat. The knot in my stomach tightens.

  Here it comes.

  “You sure do pass that ball around a lot,” he says.

  Translation: Why didn’t you score more goals? With Dad, it’s all understatement. He’s not the kind of guy who’ll ask you why you didn’t take more shots on goal. He comes at you sideways. Like a crab. You don’t see it coming until you feel this huge pinch. He wants me to be a lawyer so bad, but he’s the one who thinks all clever and manipulative. My brain just doesn’t work like that.

  I think about a few possible ways to respond. I frame my answer carefully—but truthfully. “Coach wants us to pass the ball.”

  And it’s true. We spend a lot of time passing in our drills. What soccer team doesn’t?

  Dad grunts. I know I’ve picked the right answer, because he doesn’t argue.

  My feet are sore. These cleats are so uncomfortable. If I were in Mom’s car, I’d take them off.

  We drive in silence for a few minutes. I wish I could think of something to say. But it’s easier not to say anything at all. It’s so cold between us that my teeth could chatter.

  I could keep the ball to myself when I play. That’s what Dad would like me to do. Keep the ball on my own fast feet and pound in the goals. But that doesn’t help build team morale. People like having me on the team because I’m not a ball hog. I’m fast and I’m good, and I don’t need to always be the one who scores the goals.

  But Dad doesn’t get that. His approach to life is different from mine. He’s a one-man show in his job. Everything he does is for and by himself. He owns a mortgage brokerage. He has a staff of brokers, but they all work for themselves too. There doesn’t seem to be much teamwork involved. Just a lot of phone calls and paperwork and handshakes. Closing deals. Racking up the fees. That’s what it’s about for my dad. Cold hard cash.

  He drums on the steering wheel briefly before speaking again.

  “Are you spending some time this weekend preparing for your debating competition?”

  “You bet,” I say.

  “Good. You need the practice. What’s your topic?” Even though he’s asked me twice already.

  “Today’s kids being overprogrammed.”

  “And you’re arguing for?”

  “Against.” He’s always testing me.

  “How many sources have you consulted in your research?”

  “I think nine.” As soon as I say it, I wish I had dropped the I think.

  “Sources?
”

  For a second, I think he’s clarifying: Nine sources? But then I realize he wants me to list them.

  “The New York Times. KidsHealth. The Atlantic. The Center for Family Wellness.” My brain spins like a series of flywheels, scanning back over the names of the magazines and websites I’ve used. “The Mayo Clinic. National Alliance on Mental Illness.” I stretch for one that I know will impress him. “National Institutes of Health and the National Library of Medicine.” I’m missing one, but I think I’ve given him enough for now.

  He grunts again.

  I release a breath I didn’t even know I had been holding.

  More silence as we drive. I wonder what my friends would think if they saw me having a conversation with my dad. They wouldn’t recognize me as the same guy who cracks jokes that make even the teachers laugh. I brought home a 93 percent average on my report card last term. I made the boys’ A soccer team. I win almost all my debates. I babysit. I cook. I even walk Mrs. Pensak’s yappy little Yorkshire terrier three times a week.

  But it’s not enough.

  Dad turns onto our street. My heart is pounding now, and I’m feeling dizzy. By the time we pull into the garage, my anxiety is nearly unbearable. I need to write. To get away from the stressed-out way he makes me feel. Like I can’t ever do anything right.

  I wait for him to climb out and close his door before I get out. I heave my soccer bag out of the back and follow him inside, pressing the button to close the garage door behind us.

  I unpack, putting my dirty clothes in the laundry basket. I think about the rest of the team, enjoying a burger together. I think about how Audrey took off on me yesterday.

  I hear Mom in the kitchen, probably getting lunch ready. Dad has already gone into his study and shut the door.

  I hang my empty soccer bag on the hook behind the door. My hands are shaking.

  “Chick?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I call. I kick off my cleats.

  “How was your game, honey?”

  “Great, Ma. We won by a point.” I hold my cleats over the sink and tap the dirt off. I drop one and pick it up, then drop it again. I force myself to slow down. I place them on the shoe rack. All I can think about is the feel of a pen in my hand.