Lexapros and Cons Page 8

  “Are you okay, Chuck?” Amy asks. “You look a little pale.”

  That’s because the blood from my face is rushing to my dick.

  “Yup, I’m fine,” I grimace.

  The one thing I want in life more than anything is to be with Amy, romantically. We’re friends, we talk about everything (well, besides my OCD), we see each other all the time, but it’s just not happening. That’s why I’m wearing my white Cons again today: so fucking frustrated.

  “Stand up,” Amy says. “I want to see who’s taller. Let’s go back to back.”

  I glance at my crotch. I won’t be standing any time soon.

  Dad is dropping me off for another worthless session with Dr. S. because he needs to run some errands. It’s annoying because it seems like my appointments are on different days every week, depending on who needs which car. Dad is listening to a basketball game on the radio. I can’t follow it for the life of me.

  “How’s school?” he asks.

  “Fine.”

  Conversation is sparse. But I don’t think it’s because we have nothing to say to each other; I think Dad just wants to listen to the game.

  “Mom says you’ve been tutoring a girl?”

  Mom had forced it out of me during one of her trademark interrogation sessions.

  “Yeah,” I say, “my friend Amy.”

  “How much is she paying you?”

  “She’s not.”

  “Why not?” Dad looks at me, unable to hide the accountant within.

  “I don’t know, Dad, it just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Least you could do is chip in for some of these therapy sessions. There’s a co-pay, you know.”

  I have no idea what a co-pay is and I think he’s kidding, but I also know that Dad has been skeptical about this process from the beginning. I’m not sure he thinks OCD is a real thing.

  “Very funny,” I say. “But I can’t charge her.”

  “You like this girl or something?”

  I take offense at the way he says this. So what if I do like this girl? Is that so hard to believe?

  “I dunno. Maybe,” I say.

  Dad nods his head in a kind of “I both understand and am impressed” sort of way. He reaches over and turns the game down ever so slightly.

  “What’s her name again?”

  “Amy.”

  “Have you asked her out?”

  I roll my eyes. “Dad, people don’t just, like, ask people out anymore.”

  “They don’t?” he says coyly. “Then what do they do?”

  Good question. I don’t know what they do.

  “She probably doesn’t even like me like that anyway.”

  “Have you told her how you feel?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

  “What?”

  “You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. Wayne Gretzky said that. He’s a hockey play—”

  “I know who Wayne Gretzky is, Dad.” At least I’m pretty sure I do. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It means that if you never try, you’re gonna fail a hundred percent of the time.”

  “But what if I do try, and I still fail?”

  “Then at least you know you tried.”

  That seems like little consolation. This theory has holes. Hockey is stupid.

  “Dad, I just need to figure out if she likes me or not, without looking like a total idiot.”

  “Well,” he says, “do you have physical contact? Does she touch your arm or your shoulder, that kind of thing?”

  Is my dad getting girl advice from one of Beth’s magazines?

  “Yeah, she’s touched me on the arm a couple of times.”

  “Does she laugh at your jokes, even when they’re not funny? Which I’m guessing is most of the time?”

  “Dad!” I say, smacking his arm. “Yeah, she laughs at my stupid jokes.”

  “Does she talk about other guys in front of you? Other guys she might be interested in?”

  I have to think about this for a second. “No, not that I can remember.”

  “That’s a very good sign. Women don’t talk about other guys in front of guys they’re interested in.” He looks at me and grins. “Michael Jordan said that.”

  I laugh. That was a good one. And this may actually be the longest conversation I’ve ever had with my dad. More importantly, I think he’ll finally stop reading so much into my pink Cons.

  The phone rings in the car and Dad picks up on speakerphone. It’s Mom.

  “Ray, I just wanted to see if you dropped Chuck off yet.”

  “Not yet. He’s still in the car with me. We were just chatting.”

  “Oh, hi, honey!”

  No need to yell …

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “What are you two talking about?” she asks. Does she really need to know everything?

  “Nothing, Molly,” Dad says, winking at me. “Just guy stuff.”

  I’m in my room after school, Facebook chatting with Steve. He claims Wendy wasn’t wearing any underwear today. Steve really needs to get out more.

  I get a text and assume that Steve is sending me some sort of grainy, inappropriate picture message. But it’s not Steve; it’s Amy. She says she made something for me and wants to bring it over. I tell Steve I’ll BRB, then close the chat window, reply to Amy, and try not to hyperventilate.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Mom yells from downstairs, “Chuck, your friend is here!” And next thing I know, Amy is entering my bedroom holding a box in one hand.

  “Guess who I brought!” she says. I hear something, but hope it’s not true. I pray it’s not true. But there she is: Buttercup, on a leash, walking behind Amy. Amy, wonderful, beautiful, perfect-in-every-way Amy, has brought a dog. Into. My. Bedroom.

  She lets Buttercup off her leash and the dog immediately makes a beeline for me. I think I might pass out. Buttercup stops and licks my socks. I’m not even wearing Cons—everything is happening so fast.

  Amy gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, Chuck!” she says. The cheek kiss is new. My brain is chugging on all cylinders.

  I manage a “Hi” and we sit on my bed—where no girl has gone before. Buttercup thankfully seems a lot more docile than she was the last time I saw her. After losing interest in me, she lies in one spot on the floor, watching us with her big brown eyes. As long as she remains stationary, and away from me, I think I can handle it. I keep a silent inventory of everything the dog touches so that I can disinfect it later.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Amy says. “My parents aren’t home and I didn’t want to leave her all alone.”

  “It’s okay,” I say meekly, and I’m pretty sure my voice cracks, seventh-grade style.

  Amy puts the box in my hands. “So,” she says, “I was thinking. You’ve been so amazing, helping me with calc and everything. And since you’re so sweet, I decided to make you something sweet. Check ’em out.”

  I open the box. There are four cupcakes inside. Each one has a different formula written in frosting:

  She made me antiderivative cupcakes.

  “Since you like math, you’re gonna love these,” Amy says.

  I’m speechless. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for anyone, ever.

  “Well?” she says.

  “This is awesome. You didn’t have to do this.”

  “I wanted to. Try one!”

  I reach into the box and pick up a cupcake. I don’t know if I make a weird sound or a weird motion or what, but something spooks Buttercup and she starts jumping around my room, slobbering and shedding everywhere. I start to feel nonexistent hives forming on the back of my neck again.

  Amy reaches into the box and grabs a cupcake as well. I have one eye on the cupcake in my hand and the other on Buttercup. Every fiber of my being is focused on not freaking out.

  I peel the cupcake wrapper away, a task that m
illions upon millions of normal teenagers do every day without even a second thought. My fingers sink into the spongy bottom of the cupcake. I feel a lump in my throat. Amy is already munching away. She licks her lips, which in any other scenario would be the hottest thing of all time.

  Hold it together, Chuck. Hold it together.

  I manage to take a bite. I can’t even taste anything. Buttercup is sniffing at the door of my closet, behind which lies my absurdly massive collection of Cons.

  “Do you like it?” Amy asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to act convincing. “It’s great.”

  “Good, I’m glad.”

  My hands are starting to shake. I can feel cupcake crumbs and frosting on my lips and on my fingers. I have goose bumps everywhere. I feel itchy.

  Act normal. Act normal. ACT NORMAL!

  I feel like I might throw up. That dog smell. It’s in my room.

  “Are you okay?” Amy asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, “just a little hot.” And cold. At the same time.

  “Anyway,” Amy says, “thanks again for everything.” She smiles at me. I feel my eyes start to water. Must wash hands.

  “Okay” is all I can muster.

  Suddenly, Buttercup loses interest in my closet, bounds over to me, and jumps up into my lap. I have no choice but to quickly put my cupcake back in the box and put the box beside me—right on my fucking bed. Buttercup is in my arms in a flash.

  Amy giggles. “She doesn’t usually like boys.”

  Amy looks at me. Her eyes are so blue. I look at her. Something is happening.

  Buttercup starts to lick the frosting and crumbs off of my fingers.

  THERE IS A FUCKING DOG ON MY FUCKING BED LICKING FUCKING FOOD OFF MY FUCKING HANDS.

  “Aww, I’ve never seen her do that before,” Amy says.

  My back is soaked with sweat.

  She looks me in the eyes.

  She licks her lips.

  She closes her eyes.

  She moves her face toward mine.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  I lose it.

  I jump up from the bed just before Amy’s lips touch mine, tossing Buttercup onto the floor and accidentally knocking over the box in the process. Buttercup lands in the open box, squishing the remaining cupcakes with a yelp. I run out of my room and into the bathroom in the hallway.

  I throw the faucet on full blast and plunge my hands and face into the water. I pump the soap dispenser furiously. My mind goes blank. The soap and the anxiety meet in the middle like a battle scene from Braveheart.

  The soap slowly begins to win out. After what seems like an eternity of scrubbing, I regain consciousness. I realize what I just did. Oh shit.

  I dry off and scurry back into my room. Amy has cleaned up the cupcake box and put the leash back on Buttercup. She’s crying. It occurs to me that she still looks beautiful.

  “Amy…”

  She struggles to speak through the tears. “Don’t ever talk to me again.”

  “But…” I stammer.

  She sobs. A great big, sad sob. My heart feels like it has ceased pumping.

  She grabs the box and the leash and blows past me out of my room, Buttercup in tow. I can still hear her sniffling as she goes downstairs and leaves my house.

  I start to cry, too.

  “I started taking the Lexapro.”

  “Excuse me?” Dr. S. says, removing her glasses. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her do that before.

  “I started taking the Lexapro,” I repeat.

  “When?”

  “A couple days ago.”

  She puts her glasses back on and starts to scribble in her stupid notepad.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Chuck. May I ask why you had a change of heart?”

  “I dunno,” I murmur, and shrug my shoulders. I don’t really feel like talking.

  “Is everything okay? Did you get into an argument with your parents?”

  “No.”

  “Again, Chuck, I’m glad you’ve decided to take this step. But it would be helpful to find out why?”

  I close my eyes. I wish I was somewhere else. I wish I was someone else. I take a couple of medium-sized breaths. I rub my eyes. I open them.

  Nope. Still in Dr. S.’s office. Still Chuck Taylor: Professional Asshole.

  I rub my eyes some more.

  “Chuck? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I just want to get better,” I finally mumble.

  “You just want to get better?”

  I hate when people repeat what I just said!

  “Yeah, I just want to get better. Whatever I have to do.”

  “So there was no specific incident that made you change your mind?”

  First she wanted me to take the fucking Lexapro, now I decide to take it and she grills me on why? Leave. Me. Alone.

  Dr. S. finally interprets my silence correctly and moves on.

  “Well, Chuck, it will take at least a week for the medication to start having any effect, at which point we can attempt some CBT and try to beat this once and for all, yes?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do you have any questions about the medication?”

  I squeeze my fists together tightly. I just want to leave. The Incident with Amy was the worst moment of my life. Just thinking about it makes me shiver. Poor Amy. I threw her dog and her cupcakes on the floor and ran out of the room when she tried to kiss me. I’d hate me, too. Worst of all, I can’t even enjoy the fact that Amy actually wanted to kiss me because I fucking ruined it. Now she won’t even look at me in class. It’s like her first day all over again.

  “I Googled it,” I say. I can’t even muster the energy to utter more than one sentence at a time.

  “You Googled Lexapro?” Dr. S. asks.

  “Yeah.”

  One of the first things that came up? That there might be “sexual side effects.” No problem there! Why does the universe taunt me?

  “I read,” I continue, “that some of the side effects could be insomnia and anxiety and, like, other bad stuff.”

  “That’s true, in some instances?” Dr. S. says.

  “Well, aren’t those all the things I’m trying to get rid of? That makes no sense.”

  “In the short term, Chuck, you may feel an uptick in your existing symptoms. But in the long run, hopefully, you should start to feel some relief?”

  I’m confused and I’m angry and I’m frustrated, but most of all I’m kicking myself. I should have tried to get better sooner. I shouldn’t have been such a pussy. Then maybe I wouldn’t have screwed everything up with Amy. Now I’m taking weird drugs that may possibly make me even crazier, but it doesn’t even matter because she’s gone. I know I need to somehow get her back, but I can’t do that if I’m acting like a raving lunatic. So I decided to take the stupid pills.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to ask, Chuck?”

  I just stare at my Cons. These are the only pair in my collection where the color and the emotion actually happen to make sense together. I nervously tap my sneakers against the floor.

  They’re black: depressed.

  I stare at my food without touching it. Steve looks at me like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

  We’re sitting at our table in the cafeteria alone. Kanha got sick again in Calc this morning and went home afterwards. Either he’s allergic to integrals or he keeps getting food poisoning. This time I didn’t laugh when he threw up. Amy didn’t even turn around.

  “Come on, Chuck,” Steve says. “We’ve been over this. You’ll get Amy back. It was just a misunderstanding.”

  “It wasn’t a misunderstanding. She thinks I’m a freak. I am a freak.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Steve, what you would do if you tried to kiss me and instead I threw your dog on the floor?”

  Steve isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Perhaps it’s not the best example.

  “Look,” Steve says, “you always say how co
ol Amy is. So you should just go talk to her.”

  “She said she never wants to speak to me again.”

  “Girls always say that.”

  I look up at Steve, calling him out.

  “Girls always say that … according to the many movies and television shows I’ve watched on the matter,” he clarifies.

  “I can’t,” I grumble. “I don’t even know what I would say.”

  “Try texting her.”

  “I did. No response.”

  “Oh.”

  I have sent Amy a few texts. Sure it’s a little informal given the circumstances, but I can’t get up the nerve to call her and I know she won’t pick up anyway. Plus, I wasn’t lying when I told Steve I didn’t know what to say. I swore I would never tell her about my, well, mental issues. My first text was beyond lame: So sorry about other day. Pls call me. Tell buttercup I said hi. She didn’t write back. I don’t blame her.

  “What about Facebook?” Steve asks. “What have her statuses been like?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “She defriended me.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Actually I can’t even see her page at all now.”

  “So she blocked you?”

  “I guess so,” I admit.

  “Shit,” Steve says, scratching his head. He looks genuinely concerned.

  I yawn for like the tenth time at lunch and Steve takes note.

  “Did you sleep at all last night?”

  I’ve been taking the Lexapro for about a week but haven’t told Steve about it. I don’t feel any less OCD-ish. Still checking the stove, making lists, and keeping embarrassingly detailed records about my masturbation regimen. I do, however, feel kind of sluggish. I’m sleeping slightly better—not because I don’t have the urge to get up to pee fifteen times—but because I’m so exhausted. The weird thing is, even though I’m sleeping more, I feel even more tired during the day. These pills are strange. I hope Dr. S. knows what she’s doing.

  I pick at my food. “Yeah, I slept,” I say.

  “You wanna hang after school?” Steve asks.

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  I don’t really want to do much of anything. I feel very blah. And I miss Amy’s laugh—with me, at me, whatever. I also haven’t told Steve that I never put in a good word for him with Beth. I know he’s chomping at the bit to ask me about it but won’t say anything while he knows I’m wallowing in my own misery.