Chick Page 3

  “That’s good.”

  There’s another pause, and I realize I’m supposed to fill it.

  “So…you’re doing fundraising?” I point to the boxes on her table.

  “Yeah, we are,” she says. “It’s going pretty well. I think the people on the other door are selling a lot more than me though.”

  I nod again. My mind flies around like a gnat in a windstorm, desperate to land somewhere. I don’t want our conversation to end, but I don’t know what else to talk about.

  “Are you going to buy a box?” Audrey asks.

  “A box?”

  She points to the donuts.

  “Ah, oh. Well, ah, yes. We might,” I say. “On our way out. I will. I’ll make sure my mom buys some. For sure. I’ll come back here and buy them from your table, so you can say you sold some donuts too. Not just the people at the exit.”

  I sound like I’ve got a talking disorder. My palms break out in sweat.

  “Okay, cool.” Audrey nods again and smiles. “So…what are you shopping for?”

  I realize that she doesn’t know what to say to me either. It gives me a boost of confidence. Which might be why I blurt out the next thing.

  “Do you want to get together sometime so we can prepare for the tournament?”

  Audrey’s eyebrows go up.

  Suddenly I wish I hadn’t said anything. Maybe I wasn’t reading her right. Maybe she was only being nice the other day because she thinks I’m a total doofus.

  I open my mouth to tell her never mind, it was just a random suggestion. But before I can say anything, she says, “Sure. I’d love to.”

  It’s my turn to look surprised.

  I blink. “Uh. Okay. Great!” The tournament is two weeks away. What do I do now?

  My head feels light. Oh. Crap. Next comes the—yup. There it is, my heart roaring out of the gates, hammering like a tin roof in a rainstorm. The nerves in my hands leap to attention, instantly craving the feel of a pen and paper.

  “Do you want to call me sometime?” Audrey says, her voice muffled by the growing static in my head. “And then we can figure out when to meet and stuff.”

  “Sure,” I bark. “Yes. Can I have your phone number?”

  Oh God, please save me from myself.

  “I’ll write it down for you,” Audrey says. She looks around on the table, but I spot the pen first. I slap my hand over it and pull a small square of paper toward me. A raffle ticket. “Is this okay to use?”

  “Sure.”

  I flip it over and write her name on the back. “Okay, shoot.” With a pen in my hand, my head clears a little and my breathing slows. I write the numbers as she says them, then Audrey Hervieu.

  “Hey, you spelled it right!” she exclaims.

  She watches as I keep writing.

  “Your printing is so neat,” she says. “It’s, like, these perfect tiny little capital letters.”

  I snatch another little piece of paper. Audrey thinks Chick’s printing is cool, I write.

  She laughs again.

  I do a smiley face, then straighten. I’ve got a big silly grin of my own. But that’s okay—she’s wearing one too.

  I fold up her number and fumble it into my pocket with sweaty fingertips. I push my dorky message across the table toward her.

  I stare at her hands as she picks it up. Her nails are perfect. Clean. Short. Not fussy.

  “Well, call me, then,” Audrey says.

  “You got it.” I hold out the pen. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it. I almost fall over.

  Somehow I find a few more words inside my head. “Good luck with the fundraiser.”

  “Thanks, Chick.”

  I spend the whole ride home twitching.

  Nervous questions stack up in my mind, one on top of the other. About spending time alone with Audrey. About getting ready for the debating tournament.

  I can’t wait to get home so I can write them all down.

  My hands burn. I ignore Mom and Elijah and instead try to distract myself with a graphic novel about clones. I try to breathe. I try to calm myself, to talk myself down from the growing panic inside me. Panic that if I can’t write stuff down, I’m going to lose control.

  But it doesn’t work. There’s only one thing that does.

  Chapter Seven

  My mood is edgy, to say the least, as I push a stack of chairs along the gym floor. I just want to get home and make a couple of lists, and then maybe chill out and listen to music for a while, but I have to set up five rows for tonight’s band performance first. How come I always get stuck doing this kind of stuff? Sometimes it’s a pain in the butt to have your teachers like you. And where is Finnian? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. And who cares about band anyway? There are better ways to spend a Monday night than sitting in a gym, listening to a bunch of hopeless nerds play hopelessly bad music.

  Wait. What does that say about Debate Club?

  I peel off my hoodie and glance at the clock. 3:27. It has been another monster-stress day. Mr. Gomez asked me to run for student council in the spring. Great. Another thing to pile onto my plate. Another thing to have Dad breathing down my neck about.

  I wipe my sweating palms on my pants. Maybe I should try using antiperspirant on them. But what if I accidentally forgot I was wearing it and left big white streaks across the front of my thighs?

  The thought makes me want to make a list of all the ways sweat is embarrassing.

  When I’ve got all the chairs in rows, I move the music stand into place at the front and look up.

  My heart stops. Maryke and Audrey are standing outside the gym doors. As I watch, Audrey pokes her head around the open door and looks at the band setup. She sees me and smiles.

  I swallow. And sweat.

  I don’t think I can handle talking to her. I’ll end up being rude to her. I can’t control it. I need my fix, to get rid of the day’s stress, before I can be normal again.

  It’s not you, it’s me, I think.

  I bite back a sudden giggle.

  I have to get out of here. I can’t talk to Audrey like this.

  Just then the universe intervenes. Someone behind Audrey says something, and she turns to look.

  And so I bolt, racing toward the double doors that lead outside. I smash through them without a backward glance.

  Once outside, I don’t stop running. I burn around the side of the building and hammer for the bushes that line the school property.

  Id-i-ot. Id-i-ot.

  My feet pound out the word, one-two-three, one-two-three, over and over as I pelt toward home. I run the whole way, all seven blocks. Soccer lungs.

  I take the front steps in a single leap, turning my shoulder sideways and smashing it against the door to break my speed. This would be a very bad time for the neighbors to be looking out their windows.

  With shaking hands, I crush my key into the lock and slam the door open.

  I scrape one shoe off but only get my foot half out of the other one. Doesn’t matter. I keep moving, taking the stairs two at a time.

  The toe of my sneaker catches on the top of the stairs, and I go sprawling. I grunt as my chest hits the floor. My palms squeal as they burn across the hardwood. One fist slams into the hallway table and a vase of flowers rolls off the top, thunking to the floor and soaking me in a slosh of water and petals. The bottom of the heavy vase leaves a dent in the hardwood floor. Mom’s going to love that.

  I get my feet under me and stagger toward my room, a gorilla in an earthquake. The cold metal of the doorknob slides around inside my sweaty grip.

  And then I’m in.

  My hands stretch ahead of me, reaching as I run for my desk. I snatch at the paper stack with two hands, sending a spray of loose paper into the corner.

  Pen. Pen. Pen.

  My lips shape the word as my right hand dives for the jar. Too fast. I over-shoot, plowing my fingers into the side of the container. It leaps off the desk. The pens hit the floor, fanning out everywhere. />
  I moan.

  I leap into the middle of the pen spray and snatch up a blue one. I crouch on the rug, smoothing out the paper that my sweating hand has crumpled. I yank the cap off the pen with my teeth and spit it across the room. My fingers slip on the shaft of the pen, and the nib punches through the paper. I can’t write on the carpet. Groaning, I crawl a couple of yards to the hardwood.

  I pull the first thing out of my brain.

  How to Know There’s Something Really Wrong with You

  1. Go to school

  2. Act normal

  3. Pretend you’re interested in other people’s conversations when really, all you can think about is making a stupid LIST

  4. Fight the urge, every minute of the day, to write a stupid LIST

  With each number, my messy scrawl becomes larger and angrier. My heart is pounding in my throat. My ears ring.

  5. Fake smile and laugh while dying to escape

  6. Be a grumpy, surly jerk because you need to get away from school so bad (because you need to get home and make a stupid LIST)

  7. Take off on your new girlfriend because you can’t handle being nice to her because you have to MAKE A STUPID LIST

  8. Run home like a big stupid fricking BABY

  A sob escapes me as I write this last one.

  My mind flashes back to the flowers lying on the floor.

  9. Destroy stuff in your desperation to make your stupid LIST

  10. Cry like a big stupid fricking BABY because you realize there’s something really stupidly wrong with you that you need to act this way

  By number ten I’m still breathing hard, but my heart rate has returned to something less like a freight train. I stop writing and sit back on my heels.

  I look at the scattered pens and paper that surround me. What a mess.

  I wipe my face with my hands.

  I leave everything where it is and go out into the hallway. I pick up the vase. I put new water in it. I replace any flowers that are still in one piece and put the broken ones in my bathroom garbage. I take a hand towel and mop up the water from the floor, running my fingers over the dent in the hardwood. I hope Mom doesn’t notice it.

  I wipe the splashes off the wall, then go back into my bedroom. I close the door behind me and survey the disaster.

  I cross the rug to my desk and unlock the drawer of endless lists. I pull a bunch out and flip through them. The one I recently wrote about Audrey is on the top.

  I scan the titles. Points to Remember in a Debate. Elijah’s Irritating Table Manners. Places My Father Goes to Avoid His Family. How to Look Busy So Mom Doesn’t Make Me Do Chores. Persuasive Speaking Skills. Why Cynical People Suck. Occasions Where Finnian’s Loud Farts Have Made People Laugh. Mom’s Epic Recipe Fails. My Favorite Memories from When I Was Little.

  I don’t even remember making some of these.

  I drop the bundle of lists onto my desk. I feel suddenly exhausted.

  I gather up the blank sheets of paper that are strewn around the floor. I replace them neatly on the pile on my desk. I stoop to pick up the pen jar, then drop to my knees. I crawl around the rug, gathering pens and putting them back into the jar. My hands are shaking.

  This is so messed up.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. I feel a shock to see the crouching, wild-haired, tear-streaked goblin reflected back at me.

  I put my head down on the floor and cry.

  Chapter Eight

  I hear the garage door opening as I’m getting into the shower. Mom’s home.

  I don’t want to think about what might have happened if she had returned ten minutes earlier. And what if Elijah had been here?

  What if Dad had come home?

  As I step under the warm stream, an involuntary shudder shakes me. I feel a sudden urge to puke.

  I take a big mouthful of water. I gargle, then spit. I take another one. I swish the water around in my mouth. Spit.

  Whatever happens, Dad can never know about this. He would freak out if he knew his kid had something wrong with him.

  Something even more wrong, I mean. I already know he thinks I’m not smart enough or strong enough or organized enough. If he knew about the lists, he would think I’m crazy too.

  I scrub my face.

  Am I crazy?

  How do I get away from this? How do I stop?

  In frustration, I turn the shower handle all the way to Cold. The water shocks my skin and I gasp. I want to pull away, but I force myself to stay under the frigid spray for a few seconds.

  I look at the letters on the tap. Cold. I rearrange a few and drop another.

  OCD.

  When I can’t stand it any longer, I turn the handle back to the warm setting. I take a deep breath and splash more water on my face. I feel much better.

  I squeeze a little blob of shampoo into my palm and rub my hands together. A manly, woodsy smell fills the shower. I soap up my hair. Mom calls to me, but I ignore it. If she needs to tell me something badly enough, she’ll come stand outside my bathroom door.

  I feel kind of calm after my impulsive arctic bath. It’s like I shocked myself back into a normal state. I wonder if I could do something at school to pull myself out of the anxiety zone when it starts to get heavy. Could I pinch myself or something? Or maybe find a way to deliver an electric shock?

  Yeah, that would go over well—a teacher discovering I was carrying around a tiny electric cattle prod. They’d send me to a shrink faster than you can say aberrant sensation seeking.

  And if that ever got back to my dad…

  I rinse the bubbles out of my hair and stand under the water for a few more minutes, until my goose bumps are gone.

  I step out onto the warm tiles and reach for a towel. I hit a switch and the fan whirs to life.

  I use the towel to rub a circle on the mirror so I can see my reflection. I lean close, inspecting my chin for any possible whisker growth. Last year Garrett Blume told me that if you just start shaving, your hair grows in faster. But I don’t think it’s working. I’ve shaved my entire beard area three times in the last month, and all that keeps growing back are these little fuzzy blond hairs.

  I scan my groin. Nope. Nothing there either.

  I finish toweling off. My stomach grumbles as I climb back into my jeans. Maybe I’ll go help Mom get supper ready.

  I whistle as I run the towel around on the floor with my foot, mopping up the drips. I throw the towel into the laundry hamper and open the bathroom door.

  The first thing I see is Audrey. She’s standing on the other side of the room. Near my desk.

  The second thing I see is the look of surprise on her face.

  The third thing I see is the bundle of papers she’s holding in her hands.

  Chapter Nine

  What are you doing here? My brain asks the question, but my lips don’t move.

  Why didn’t I put everything away and lock the drawer? When do I ever forget to do that?

  If this is a joke that God is playing on me, then He got me good.

  Audrey and I stare at each other for a long time.

  Then she sets the papers down on my desk. She swallows. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  Sorry for what? For not knowing she was getting involved with a schizo crazypants? For even talking to me in the first place?

  “How did you get in here?” I ask. My level voice surprises me.

  “Your mom.”

  Mom never just lets people go upstairs. She must be super happy about Audrey coming over to bend her own rules like that.

  I can’t think of anything to say. I wait for the head rush to begin, but it doesn’t. I am strangely calm.

  Audrey glances down at the stack of lists. She looks back at me. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I think I should leave.”

  I stand, paralyzed and speechless, and watch her go.

  For the next week during Debate Club, it’s like nothing ever happened. We still talk and take notes and nod when Mr. C
hadderton gives us tips. But we’re not talking talking.

  It’s Friday by the time I summon enough courage to approach Audrey. I have so many things to say. I’m sorry being chief among them. I don’t know what she thinks about me, but I do know she saw the list about her, because it was in the pile she was holding. And even though she was in my room, looking at my things, I have this need to apologize. And to find out if she thinks I’m a total freak.

  The thought of talking to her makes me sweat. I focus on breathing deeply, so that when I round a corner and find her standing at her locker, I don’t faint from stress.

  “Audrey.”

  She turns. When she sees it’s me, she turns back to her locker. But she’s standing in a way that doesn’t shut me out entirely. So I go closer, until I’m standing next to her. I cut straight to the chase.

  “Did you read the list about you?”

  Audrey blushes, and I know she found it. I am so glad I didn’t write anything about her boobs on that list. Because they’re right up there with all the other stuff I like about her.

  “I’m glad you like my fingernails,” she says shortly.

  I swallow. “I’m really sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I do.”

  She sighs then, and shakes her head. “No. I was in your private space.” She looks down. “It’s snoopy to read someone else’s stuff.”

  “Pretty hard to resist.”

  She smiles a little, and I breathe again. Then I take a huge chance. “That list isn’t finished yet. I still have more to add.”

  “Oh.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. I love the way she does it. I want to ask her to marry me, to bear all my children, to live on a mountainside farm with me and grow roses and rainbows.

  She smiles a little and looks at me then. “I…only came to your house because I wanted to give you my number. You dropped it the other day when you went into the store. And then when I tracked you down in the gym on Monday, you left before I could catch you.”

  My mind flashes back to my bionic rush home the other afternoon. What must she think of me?

  “I didn’t mean to be rude on Monday,” I say. “I just had to get home.”