Chick Read online

  “That’s fabulous!” she exclaims. “Are you coming in here? I need someone to set the table for lunch.”

  “I’ll be there in a sec,” I say. My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “I just gotta run up to my room. Be down in five?”

  “Five minutes sounds good, honey.”

  I take the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter Four

  I cross the floor to my desk. My mouth almost waters to see the clean white paper neatly stacked on the left-hand corner. A jar of pens sits on the right-hand side.

  I pinch a sheet off the paper stack and slide it into place in front of me. I’m strung so tight I can hardly see straight. I try to slow my breathing, but it’s no use. I’m like a stone bumping down a hill, picking up speed as I go. I need to feed my addiction.

  I jab my hand into the pen jar, not caring whether I pull out a black, blue, green or red. I just need to get started. Is this how it feels to be addicted to drugs? I feel like I’ll never be able to get away from this.

  I can barely uncap the pen before it hits the paper.

  Saturday, September 27th

  1. Help Mom set up for lunch

  2. Eat lunch

  I feel an instant pressure release. Like popping the top of a soda can after it’s been shaken.

  3. Tidy up

  4. Photocopy note-taking sheets for this week’s practice debate

  5. Read Chapters 6 and 7 in Animal Farm. Margin notes

  I savor the calm that washes over me.

  6. Take Wookie for a walk

  7. Schedule Wookie’s walks for the next three weeks

  8. Write a letter to Bubbe (Butter tarts)

  My pulse slows. I am getting organized. I am getting things under control.

  9. Laundry

  10. Movie night? Games night? Mom’s turn to decide

  Just a couple more and I’ll head downstairs.

  11. Review yearbook outline for vetting with Ms. Bartel

  12. Audrey: debating tournament?

  The thought of trying to talk to Audrey after making such an idiot of myself on Friday makes me nervous enough to want to write a list about things that make me nervous.

  I glance at the clock. I have one more minute. I’ll make this one quick.

  I take another sheet of paper.

  Things That Make Me Nervous

  1. People who drive too fast

  2. Asking hot girls out (especially after I’ve made them run away)

  3. Forgetting something important

  My fingers fly across the page, capturing words almost as quickly as I can think them.

  4. Shots at the nurse’s office

  5. The first time I tell someone I’m Jewish

  6. Talking with Dad

  7. Anything with Dad

  8. Sweating when I start to feel panicky

  “Chick?” Mom’s voice calls up to me.

  I yell loudly so she can hear me through the door. “Yeah, Mom! I’m coming. I’ll be down in, like, thirty seconds.”

  “Okay, honey.”

  I write faster.

  9. Talking with Audrey

  10. The two hours before a test or exam

  11. Swimming in the ocean

  I tap my pen against my teeth. One more, to make it a nice round dozen. I skim back over my list. Oh yeah. How about the most important one?

  12. Needing to make lists to keep my anxiety under control

  I realize that really that’s thirteen, not twelve. Maybe I should split them up?

  “Tadeusz!”

  “Okay, okay!” It’s a sign of impatience when Mom uses my full name. If she pulls out the Yosef, I’m done for.

  I fumble for the key that’s magnetized to the underside of my desk. I unlock the bottom drawer and slide it open.

  I drop in the lists and slide the drawer shut. I lock it and replace the key in its hiding spot.

  I stretch, grin and crack my knuckles. My stress has vanished.

  I feel awesome.

  I actually skip across my room to go help Mom with lunch.

  Chapter Five

  “Put Froot Loops on the list.” Elijah turns the page in his book and takes another bite of his peanut-butter-and-banana toast. He’s reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid for the nine hundredth time.

  I write Froot Loops on the list. This is a Sunday-morning ritual for the three of us. Elijah, Mom and I have breakfast, and while we eat, I write our shopping list for the week. Mom made this my job in first grade when Mrs. Hodgins told her I needed to practice my printing. The teacher suggested I be put in charge of writing our grocery lists, and Mom was happy to comply.

  She’d probably have a fit if she knew how deeply I have since taken Mrs. Hodgins’s advice. I make about twelve lists every day. Some days I make twenty.

  “Erase that, Chick. I am not buying Froot Loops.”

  “Why, Mom?” Elijah says it like it’s one word: Whymom?

  “You boys have enough sugar in your diets already. You don’t need to add to it with junky cereals.”

  Pretty much anything that’s not 100 percent bran, oats or spelt counts as junky for my mother.

  “Please? Just as a one-time treat?” Elijah’s voice rises an octave.

  “Breakfast is not a time for high-sugar foods,” Mom says. “It’s important that your body gets a balance of protein, fat and carbohydrates to start your day. Otherwise your brain doesn’t work properly.”

  Mom is full of these explanations. Depending on the topic, she can lay a killer argument on you that’s backed by research and “best practices.” She spends a lot of time reading about how to raise healthy kids.

  “But Mom, I hate oatmeal.”

  “I never said you had to eat only oatmeal,” she counters. “There are plenty of healthy options in the cereal aisle.” She turns to me. “Chick, just write cereal on the list, and then when we’re at the store, I’ll let you choose, Elijah, okay?”

  “Whoop-de-doo,” Elijah says under his breath. He takes a bite of toast and turns another page.

  “You’re not supposed to read at the table,” I say.

  Elijah’s head snaps up. “Yes, I can read at the table.”

  “No, you can’t.” I love getting him riled up until his voice climbs to a squeak.

  “Yes I can! Just not during family meals,” he adds.

  “Well, what do you think this is?” Mom asks.

  Elijah points at me. “He’s writing a list.”

  I shrug. “I always write our lists on Sunday mornings.”

  “And anyway, Dad’s not here, so it’s not a real family meal,” Elijah finishes. He puts the last bite of toast into his mouth.

  He’s got a point. I guess we’re not technically complete without Dad. Although, come to think of it, Dad doesn’t add much. Just stress.

  “Can you please write ground flaxseed and quinoa too?” Mom says.

  I groan. “When are you going to get off this health kick, Mom?”

  She looks at me. “When have you ever known me not to be on a health kick?”

  “Good point.” It’s pretty much a steady rotation of kale and lima beans around here.

  She stacks our cereal bowls and puts them in the sink. “Chick, did you take your vitamins?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about you, Elijah? Did you take your omegas? You need omegas for your brain, honey.”

  “My brain is good, Mom,” Elijah says.

  “I’m not saying your brain isn’t good, Elijah. I’m saying omega-3 fatty acids are essential for helping your neurons work their best.”

  “You should have been a nutritionist, Mom,” Elijah says.

  “Totally,” I say. “Forget the drop-in center. You should go work at Planet Organic.”

  Mom turns to flick me with the corner of her dishtowel. I pull away with a little scream of terror. Elijah laughs.

  Dad appears at the kitchen doorway. Immediately, the air in the room changes. Mom folds the dishtowel and hangs it neatly on the s
tove handle. Elijah stops laughing and goes back to his book. I duck my head down and pretend to be writing, ignoring the way my underarms just broke out in sweat.

  Dad crosses the kitchen and opens the cupboard above the phone. He takes an Elevate Me bar from the box in there. Breakfast for his golf game, I guess.

  Elijah looks up. “Are we still going to get that poster paper later, Dad?” Elijah asks.

  “What poster paper is that?”

  Elijah has bugged him about this three times in the past week.

  Why does Dad always make us explain ourselves, over and over again? He can’t possibly have forgotten. It’s like it’s some sort of power play.

  “For my natural-resources project,” Elijah says.

  “Can’t you guys pick that up today?” Dad looks at Mom, who has suddenly become determined to get the coffee machine really, really clean.

  “Sure we can,” she says. “We can stop at Staples.”

  I write Staples on the list. A bit of pressure eases.

  “Dad, you said you’d take me today.” Elijah sulks.

  Dad sighs. “I won’t be home until after two, and then I’ve got some paperwork I need to catch up on. Maybe before supper. If I have a chance. If you aren’t able to pick some up first.” He looks sideways at Mom.

  Elijah sighs, longer and heavier. “Fine.”

  I wonder what it would feel like to be ignored and forgotten by Dad. Instead of being constantly under the microscope. The way he treats us is so different. I really got the shaft when God decided I’d go first. For some reason, all of Dad’s unfulfilled dreams are pinned squarely on me as the firstborn child.

  Well, at least one unfulfilled dream—I’m the one who has to go to law school since Dad never got a chance to. (Oh, and that’s my fault too, since my unexpected arrival was the reason he had to quit pre-law and get a job at the bank. Even as an unborn fetus I was causing him headaches.)

  I get scrutinized and criticized. Elijah barely gets noticed. It’s bizarre.

  I was hoping Dad would leave after getting his energy bar and hassling Elijah, but no such luck. He looks at me.

  Mom sees it and tries to save me. “Bread and cheese, Chick. And garlic.”

  I write them down. Slowly. My fingers roll the pen between their tips, itching to write more. My pulse pounds as I wait for Dad to leave, but even as he’s standing there, I’m making a list in my head. How will I fall short of his standards today? What will I forget to do?

  “And what are you working on this afternoon, Tadeusz?”

  As far back as I can remember, Dad has never called me Chick. Not once.

  “A report,” I say, but it comes out as a whisper. I clear my throat, but that only seems to make it narrower. “A report.For Social Studies. On the formation of political parties.”

  “When is it due?”

  Crap. This is one detail I’ve missed.

  My head spins. When did Mr. Gomez say the report was due? I swear I knew this when I looked at the assignment sheet last night.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “Not for a week or so.”

  Dad takes a step closer and leans his hands on the breakfast bar. “In order to be successful in this life, you must always know what is expected of you. How are you supposed to manage your time if you don’t even know when the report is due?”

  I speak too quickly, which makes my words run together into a jumble. Dad looks at me like I’m some confused animal that’s wandered out of the forest and vomited at his feet.

  I back up and repeat myself. “The deadline is written on the assignment sheet. I have it upstairs.” My heart is pounding so fast and hard that it’s difficult for me to hear my own voice.

  He grunts and his gaze slides away. He chooses a banana from the fruit bowl and leaves without another word to any of us.

  Relief fills me. Still, my heart rate is high now, and I’m breathing in short little bursts. The three of us pretend not to listen as he puts on his jacket and shoes.

  When the door to the garage closes behind him, Elijah speaks. “He’s so unfair.”

  Mom sighs. “He’s not trying to be unfair, honey. He’s just busy and stressed out.”

  “Well, you’re busy too, Mom,” Elijah points out. He pushes his chair back from the table. “And you have a stressful job. But you’re not mean.”

  I let my breath out very slowly.

  1. Gas station?

  “I don’t have deadlines like your father does,” Mom says. “Deadlines add a lot of pressure.” She closes the fridge. “Can you write potting soil?”

  I do.

  “Maybe Dad needs to change jobs,” Elijah grumbles. He starts toward the stairs.

  And walk away from all that money? Like that would ever happen. He brought in nearly three million dollars in commissions last year on his own. I overheard him telling Uncle Cecil. Why would he quit that? Making money is the only thing that seems to make him happy.

  I tap the pen against the tabletop, trying to turn my thoughts away from obsessing about making a list. Because making lists offsets the stress of thinking about how much I disappoint my dad.

  But it’s useless.

  2. Garden center (potting soil)

  3. Library?

  “That’s enough, Elijah,” Mom says. Her voice says the subject is closed. “Now both of you, go get ready. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

  I glance down at the shopping list, at my tidy printing and neatly numbered list items. I feel better.

  But I don’t know how long it’ll last.

  Chapter Six

  I go up to my room and change out of my pajama bottoms. Then I sit at my desk. I’ll whip off a couple while I’m waiting for Mom to get ready.

  Mom thinks I’m totally dedicated to my schoolwork. For her it’s the best thing ever. She tells people that I’m a keener. “He comes right home from school and goes straight to his room to start his homework,” she says.

  If only she knew.

  It’s sad, actually. Most people my age hang out at friends’ houses playing games or shooting hoops while I’m hunched over my desk, trying to keep my brain from flying apart.

  Sometimes—like Friday, with Audrey—I even have to stop in the middle of what I’m doing to make a list. So I can get my composure back. Because if I reach a certain point of stress…I can’t.

  I’m not sure when I first began keeping lists. It’s been a while now. A few years, maybe. It became a habit when I realized it calmed me down. And like habits seem to do, over time it has turned into something I need. The thought of trying to stop now makes me feel afraid. I don’t think I could do it.

  I glance at the deep drawer in my desk where I keep my lists. There must be thousands by now. Tens of thousands? I should chuck them. But that idea makes me feel queasy. There’s something about knowing they’re all here, in my drawer, that gives me some peace. They’re like a security blanket.

  The really funny thing? I never read them over. Once they’re written, I can relax. Their purpose has been served, and I don’t need them anymore. But I still can’t throw them away.

  I know this isn’t normal. I’ve spent some time reading up on obsessive– compulsive disorder. When people hear the term ocd, they think about people who are always washing their hands or having to check and recheck that they locked the door or turned off the oven. Over and over.

  But there’s more than hand washing. There are all kinds of things people do to make themselves feel better. To make their obsessions go away. Some people count or do something a specific number of times to make sure they end on the right number. Some people pray or think good thoughts every time a bad thought happens, so they can “cancel” the bad thought out. Some people rearrange their sock drawers over and over.

  I make lists.

  We’re unlocking a shopping cart when I see her across the parking lot. She’s standing at the front entrance of the store.

  She’s dressed in her field-hockey uniform. White shirt, blue skirt,
knee socks.

  My stomach does a low dive as we start toward the entrance. I’m thrilled and terrified at the same time. My heart starts to beat faster.

  She’s standing behind a table piled high with white, red and green boxes. Krispy Kreme donuts. A fundraiser for her team.

  She’s alone. A couple of her teammates are at the other door, where people exit the store.

  I want to run. And at the same time, I want to grab her and kiss her madly and smother her with my burning love.

  I stare at her perfection as we walk toward the entrance. I am helpless to look away. She hasn’t noticed me yet.

  What if she blows me off?

  I fix my gaze on her neck where her hair pulls up into her ponytail. I could eat it.

  Elijah rolls the cart up the curb. Audrey looks up as the automatic doors slide open. Elijah keeps rolling, straight through the doors and into the store entrance. Mom follows right behind, and then they’re gone. It’s a miracle.

  Audrey sees me staring at her and smiles. She has the most incredible smile. It starts off slow, but then it spreads and lights up her entire face.

  I think my heart will explode. I am acutely aware of the expression on my face. I am certain I look like one of those cartoon characters, all cross-eyed with little hearts floating above my head.

  “Hi, Chick,” she says.

  “Hi,” I breathe. Nothing else comes to mind.

  A couple beats pass.

  “Oh, listen,” says Audrey. “I’m so sorry I took off the other day. Ms. Jeffs wanted to speak with me about the fundraiser, and I had to leave.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s okay.” I suppose I should feel relieved that she hasn’t figured out I’m a total freak, but I’m too distracted by her magnificence.

  “So…you’re shopping?” Audrey says.

  “Yes. Yeah. Yup.”

  I nod, just in case she didn’t get the message the first three times. I realize I’m being an idiot, but I seem helpless to behave otherwise.