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.
“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.