Lexapros and Cons Page 9

  “Kanha sent me a text before,” Steve says, trying anything to get my mind off Amy. “He wrote: Can’t stop yacking yo. I gots to check myself.”

  Steve’s impression of Kanha is spot-on. My first instinct is to think about how much Amy will laugh when I tell her about it. Then I remember that’s not gonna happen. I look down at my untouched food.

  Steve seems worried.

  I have become a cartoon character.

  I’m literally hiding behind a bookshelf in the library, peering at Amy through an opening in the books. I’m toeing the line between spying and stalking. Neither, I realize, is very becoming.

  Amy isn’t sitting at our “usual” table, which is unoccupied. Instead she’s sitting at a much smaller table a few feet away. It’s so small there’s really only room for one person. I assume this is not a coincidence.

  As I’m gathering up the nerve to approach her, the situation takes on an additional, unwanted element: Ashley Allen. What the fuck is he doing here?

  He walks by Amy’s table and stops to say something to her. I’ve never seen them interact before (or ever even seen Ashley in the library before, come to think of it), but I’m too far away to hear anything. I glance up at what section I’m in. It’s Women’s Studies. Even the Dewey decimal system is mocking me.

  Amy is craning her neck to look up at Ashley, he’s so fucking tall. Whatever he says, it makes Amy smile. I feel myself involuntarily smiling as well, which makes me feel even worse.

  At last, Ashley walks away and Amy goes back to her books. That seemed like a friendly chat, which enrages me. Was Ashley … hitting on her?

  I struggle to compose myself and finally do. I try to think of all the nice times me and Amy spent together. She let me try on her camouflage jacket. She picked an eyelash off my cheek and asked me to make a wish (guess what I wished for). She made me calculus themed cupcakes. She tried to kiss me. I decide it’s time to talk to her face-to-face.

  I take a roundabout route to get from where I’m hiding to Amy’s table, hoping to avoid her seeing me for as long as possible. She spots me about ten feet away. I think she frowns. I mean, I’ve never really seen her frown before, but it looks like a frown. At least she doesn’t get up and run away or blow a rape whistle or anything.

  I get to her table.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says back.

  This is about as far into the conversation as I’ve planned ahead of time. I’m a fucking idiot. I’ll have to improvise from here.

  “Can I sit?”

  Amy just shrugs.

  I pull up a nearby chair and sit across from her, but the table is so small that I’m uncomfortably close to her. If you were gonna devise the most awkward configuration possible in which to have a conversation with a girl who has recently shunned you, this would be it.

  I notice she’s looking at her calc textbook, picking up right where we left off. Not even missing a beat without good ol’ Chuck.

  “Amy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  This response baffles me. So does that mean she doesn’t hate me? Why are girls so confusing?

  “So…” I say.

  “You really hurt my feelings, Chuck,” Amy jumps in. “I’m totally humiliated. I feel like an idiot. And Buttercup got really scared.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I say.

  “I don’t know what happened or why you did that, but I just think it’s better if we not be friends anymore.”

  Hearing Amy say that in the heat of the moment at my house is one thing. Hearing her say it a week and a half later when we’re both calm is much, much worse. I want to tell Amy about my “condition.” I want to tell her that cycles in my brain get stuck on repeat and that a dog licking frosting off my hand causes a chemical reaction that I can’t control—so much so that I’m actually seeing a shrink and taking drugs just to try to fix it. But I can’t do it. She’ll think I’m a psychopath. She’ll definitely never talk to me again.

  “But,” I stammer, “can’t we just forget what happened? Like, start over?”

  “Chuck,” she says, “I wish we could. But we can’t. What happened, happened. I know you’re a good guy, but I can’t look at you the same way after that. I put myself out there and you were just so … mean.”

  Amy starts packing up her books.

  No one has ever called me mean before. I’ve been called loser, weirdo, fuckface. None of which hurt more than when Amy Huntington called me mean.

  “I wasn’t trying to be,” I say. “I just…”

  Amy stands up and looks at me, presumably expecting some sort of explanation.

  “I’m just sorry, Amy.”

  She frowns again. Definitely a frown. “Goodbye, Chuck,” she says.

  She walks away, her ballet flats barely making a sound on the carpet in the library.

  The stove is off. The stove is off. The stove is off.

  I’m lying in bed, desperately fighting the urge to get up, go downstairs, and check the burner thingies. I checked them before bed. I put my hand on each burner and all four were cold to the touch. I stared at the knobs. They were all turned to Off. I listened and smelled for gas. No surprise there—my parents’ electric stove did not in fact sound or smell like gas. It’s definitely off. O-F-F off.

  I can’t tell if the Lexapro is working. The sluggishness has pretty much worn off. But I can’t tell if it’s, like, made me feel less crazy or not. Dr. S. keeps saying that I should try CBT when I feel like I can handle it. I don’t know. Maybe the Lexapro is working, because this is the first time I even feel like I can sorta maybe try it.

  It’s hard. Much harder than I thought. All I have to do is not check the stove.

  It’s off. It’s definitely off. Mom and Dad didn’t even cook tonight. But I can’t help but wonder if I checked all the burners. Did I do it right? Did one of them feel a little warmer than the others? Was one of the knobs slightly askew? I should really check again. What’s two minutes of getting out of bed to double/triple/quadruple check just to make sure my family doesn’t die in a fire? Must fight it …

  * * *

  My alarm clock blares. Ugh. It’s so fucking early. I don’t wanna go to school. Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. I didn’t check the stove. I did it! I leap out of bed. I come downstairs. Mom, Dad, and Beth are all eating cereal. They haven’t been burned to death.

  “Morning, honey,” Mom says.

  I ignore her. I head for the stove. I check the burners. Still off. I stare at the knobs. Still off. I get that rush that comes with checking and rechecking. But it feels ever so slightly different this time. It feels … kinda stupid.

  * * *

  A few days after my modest stove triumph, I’m at my locker. The bell has rung. I’m already gonna be late for class. My locker is still open. I know that once I close it, I’ll want to turn the lock fourteen times. I’ve tried to CBT that sucker after every period so far, with no luck. This is my last class of the day. Close your locker, spin it once. I put my hand on my locker. I feel the familiar sensation that precedes one of my compulsions. Must fight it …

  I slam my locker shut. I spin the lock once. I quickly jump back a few steps. Had anyone seen me they’d think I’d just trapped a wild animal in there. I stare at my locker. I know it’s locked. There’s no way it can’t be locked. I force my feet to move. I walk away, keeping my eyes fixed on the locker. I finally reach a corner. I turn. I jog away, victorious.

  * * *

  A few days go by. I’m walking from lunch to my next class. I just ate a sandwich. To the naked eye, my hands are pristine. Not a crumb, not a drop of mayo. But I can feel it. I try to tell myself that even if my hands are dirty, it’s not a big deal. I watch the other, normal kids leave the cafeteria. Not one washes their hands. They’re not going to die of E. coli and neither am I. Act like a human being. Go to class, Chuck. It’s just bread.
Your hands are fine. Must fight it …

  I pass a hand sanitizer dispenser. It calls to me. A chill crawls up my spine. I look at my hands. They’re clean. They’re clean. I rub my fingers together. They’re not clean. I give in. I head to the hand sanitizer. It squirts onto my hands. I spread it all around. It feels amazing. But I also feel a little guilty. And discouraged. I have a long way to go.

  “I heard they’re canceling Senior Weekend.”

  “What?” Me and Steve are driving to school and what he’s just said causes me to nearly gasp.

  “Yup, apparently there’s some problem with the permits for the campgrounds, so they’re just canceling it. I saw some kids talking about it on Facebook.”

  “Steve, are you serious?”

  He looks at me and grins. “April Fools!”

  “What?”

  “It’s April 1st, Chuck. I’m just fucking with you.”

  Goddamnit, Steve.

  “Oh,” I say, slumping in the passenger seat.

  “Would you really be that excited if Senior Weekend got canceled?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Then I wouldn’t feel so bad about not going, and I’d know Amy isn’t spending the night in the middle of a field somewhere with Ashley Allen.”

  “Chuck, you saw them talking once. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “I guess,” I admit.

  “So listen,” Steve continues, “Kanha’s brother is still home from college for spring break. He told Kanha he’d get us some beer as long as we can hide it until the camping trip.”

  “Steve, how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going. And we don’t even drink.”

  Last year, me, Steve, and Kanha waited outside the deli for like an hour begging people to buy us beer. Some guy finally did and we drank it in Steve’s basement while his parents were out for the night. I hated the taste, Steve fell asleep, and Kanha, of course, threw up.

  “I thought you were, like, working on some of your shit,” Steve says.

  I still haven’t told Steve I’m taking Lexapro but I did tell him a little bit about CBT. He was bound to figure out that I was acting stranger than usual—or is it less strange?—sooner or later.

  “Yeah, I’m working on it,” I say. “But it’s one thing to try not to wash my hands, it’s another thing to sleep on grass and take a shit in a hole.”

  “We’re not sleeping on grass and shitting in holes. You’re gonna sleep in a tent, and there are bathrooms, Chuck. I’m sure there’s even Wi-Fi. The campgrounds are like two miles away. We’re not going to the fucking Amazon.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Fine,” Steve says in a huff. “Don’t go. But I’m telling you right now, I am going to prom whether you go or not. I’m not missing everything.”

  “And who are you going to go with?” I ask.

  “I don’t know yet, but the guys are starting to ask the girls. I don’t care if I have to get a mail-order bride, I will go. And, actually, I Googled it and they’re not that bad—”

  “Steve!”

  “What?”

  “You’re not ordering your prom date from the Internet. I don’t even know why you want to go so bad anyway. It’s so corporate.”

  “Corporate?” Steve mocks. “Did you just say that prom is corporate? What does that even mean? Who says that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just stupid is all.”

  Only a few weeks ago, my grand plan was to take Amy to prom. That would be the crowning moment of my otherwise pitiful high school career. It actually seemed like it could happen, too. But clearly I fucked that up big-time. As much progress as I’m making with my OCD, I’m going the opposite direction with Amy. Winning her back now seems more daunting than befriending her was in the first place.

  Senior Weekend is ruined. Prom is ruined. Me and Amy are ruined. Everything is ruined. My only solace is in an orange pill bottle sitting in a drawer next to a sheet full of tally marks.

  All I want to do right now is concentrate on studying for the AP exams and stop imagining Steve putting a corsage on a hooker.

  “Okay, Number Thirteen, it’s just me and you.”

  I’m in the elevator in Dr. S.’s building, talking out loud to myself like a crazy person. Mom is out shopping with Beth and Dad is swamped with tax season so I came by myself. There’s no one around to press the elevator button and I’ve resolved not to push it with my elbow like I’ve done in the past.

  It’s just a cycle in your brain, Chuck. Nothing is gonna happen if you touch the button. Press it and you’ll see.

  I quickly press it. I stab it, really. It lights up and we’re off. That’s one of the techniques I’ve been trying to use in my CBT—just do something real quick before I have a chance to talk myself out of it. It works about half the time.

  I stare at my finger. It seems gross. But I try to remind myself it’s fine. It’s so hard. I feel like a fraud in my brown Cons: I’m definitely not as confident as I was when I put them on.

  * * *

  Dr. S. has been in a much better mood in the past few weeks since I started taking the Lexapro. Which is good. It’s really awful when you think your shrink hates you.

  I give her the update. Dr. S. said I should concentrate on one thing and take it slowly, but I feel like I want to tackle everything at once and just cure myself. Plus, with a certain female companion avoiding me like the plague, I have plenty of free time to work on my rituals.

  “The stove and my locker are where I’m doing the best, I think. I haven’t gotten out of bed to check the burners at all this week. And I’m pretty good at turning my lock just once. And I pressed the elevator button coming up here.” I proudly hold up my finger like I just voted in an Iraqi election.

  “That’s great, Chuck. I’m thrilled to hear you’re making progress. How about your urination issue?”

  “Uh. I’m still getting out of bed to pee a lot even though I don’t have to.”

  “And the hand washing?”

  “Yeah … still doing a lot of hand washing. And list making. And knocking on wood. And walking the same route in school…” I start to trail off.

  “Chuck, don’t get down on yourself. You’re making excellent progress for such a short period of time? This will not be fast or easy.”

  Dr. S. has been pounding that into my head for weeks: This will not be fast or easy. I mean, it’s fucking discouraging. I’m taking the medication. I’m doing what she tells me to do. Why won’t this just go away?

  “OCD won’t just go away, Chuck?”

  For a second I think Dr. S. has read my mind. She’s on point today.

  “I know,” I say. “But I wish it would.”

  “The process of habituation—”

  I know what Dr. S. is gonna say so I break in with my own impersonation of her, complete with Indian accent: “—takes time. You’re retraining your brain, yes?”

  I grimace a bit. Did I just offend her? Then, Dr. S. smiles.

  “Yes, exactly. I guess I do sound a little like a broken record?”

  I shrug in agreement. “A little.”

  Dr. S. nods and continues smiling. I am pretty funny sometimes. She puts her notepad down.

  “So what do your parents think about your progress?”

  “They’re relieved I think. Mom doesn’t really ask me because she knows I get annoyed. So I tell my dad and he passes it on, usually getting most of it wrong.”

  Dr. S. grins again. I’m on a roll.

  “And how does Amy feel about it?”

  I forget to breathe for a second. She catches me off guard with that question. Things with Amy haven’t changed. When she sees me, she looks away. If we make eye contact and she has no other choice, she’ll give me a little halfhearted hello nod. We haven’t spoken or texted or Facebooked or sent smoke signals since the Incident. I think maybe it’s time to tell Dr. S. what’s going on.

  “Me and Amy had a fight,” I say haltingly. “I sorta did some stupid t
hings and now she hates me. That’s why I started taking the Lexapro.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Chuck?”

  “I should have listened to you. If I had tried some of this stuff sooner, maybe she wouldn’t have found out I’m all, well, messed up.”

  Dr. S. chooses not to acknowledge this statement. “I had a feeling something was wrong. You haven’t mentioned her in a while?”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t talked to her in a while. But now that I’m taking the Lexapro and I’m getting better, I’ll show her that I’m not some weirdo. I’m gonna get better for her.”

  “Chuck?”

  I wait for her to say more. Every once in a while her random question mark insertion still throws me for a loop.

  She finally continues: “This is very important. What you are doing is admirable? But you have to want to get better for you. From what you’ve told me about Amy she seems like a really great girl, yes? But I’d be worried if you are basing your recovery on the actions of someone else. You are the one who suffers from this disorder and you are the only one who can beat it. It’s a part of you. This is your fight? It’s all about you.”

  I nod my head obediently. What Dr. S. is saying makes sense, I guess. But who are we kidding? It’s all about Amy.

  I think she’s crying and I don’t know why.

  I’m standing down the hall from Amy’s locker, which is in the sophomore hallway because that’s all that was available. I’ve begun to watch Amy a lot from here, occasionally having to scurry away either when I think she sees me, or if Beth (who I avoid in school at all costs) is in the vicinity.

  I’m far enough away to feel safe, and from here I’m pretty sure Amy is crying. She takes tissue after tissue from her purse and wipes her face and nose. The scene of course brings back a lot of bad memories. The last time I saw Amy crying was the Incident. I didn’t like it then and I sure as hell don’t like it now. If I only knew why.