Compulsion by Heidi Ayarbe Read Free Book Online
Authors: Heidi Ayarbe
totally cut off. My diaphragm won’t contract. I’m about seventeen seconds away from shoving my face into Mom’s paper bag of sandwiches.
I need out.
Now.
And our eyes lock.
Mera.
She stares at me and I worry that her eyes will dry up and fall out of her head if she doesn’t blink soon. She was Bordewich School’s fourth-grade staring champ. But now, in high school, it’s just creepy.
Just blink, goddamnit. And I count the seconds until she does— twenty-three. Kids at school call her UNICEF ’cause she has that sunken-cheek look you see on those ads for third-world countries.
I close my eyes. Go away .
I need the numbers.
But malnourished Mera’s head is blocking the fucking clock.
Christ.
I’ve got to get grounded.
Kasey.
What would she say about Mera?
Inhale.
Crackers.
What would she say about me if she knew who I really was?
I brush the thought off and think Baked Whole-Grain Wheat Rosemary and Olive Oil. Kasey helps. She always helps.
Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one. Exhale.
The bell rings; five minutes to get to class.
Late.
Seven tardies. Now eight.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I can feel people moving away and open my eyes. The courtyard empties. The spiders crawl from my brain back to the top of my spine. It’s gonna be hell to keep them there. They’ve come awake twice now.
Mera stares at me like I’m some kind of zoo animal.
I lean on my knees, feeling weak, wiping the sweat from my forehead, pushing my hair back behind my ears. Dad’s one allowance—long hair.
Mera’s still staring. She’s quiet. But a loud, cacophonous kind of silent that rattles in my mind. It’s like all those words she never said to me and Luc have settled inside her and seep through her pores.
I’ll just not look her way. I’ve done it since we were twelve, I can do it until I get through the weekend. She reminds me of things. Too many things. I need to sort through the webs.
The second bell rings.
Rushed footsteps echo in the huge courtyard as the last students rush to their classes, disappearing in the adjoining hallways. The smells dissipate and I breathe in the stale school air, tapping the column with both hands before heading to my locker.
I’m late.
Fuck them.
It’s A schedule. I can be late. Mr. Adams won’t count it. I shake the confetti from my hair, and it drifts to the floor. When I stand up, my head pounds and I feel woozy, so I work my way to the water fountain and gulp down the icy liquid. It dribbles down my chin. I drink, counting to forty-one.
I pull my watch out and slip it back on my wrist. Just for today.
I can be late.
I’m Magic Martin.
I’m the star center midfielder of Carson High School. Our state championship game is this Saturday, November 5, against Bishop Gorman High School.
And we can’t lose.
We have the magic.
Twenty-Three The Doubting
Thursday, 8:00 a.m.
Eight o’clock. Eight. Shit number. My palms feel clammy.
I knock on the door three times with each hand and peek in.
“Nice of you to show up, Mr. Martin,” Mr. Adams says over his glasses. “You now have ten minutes fewer than your classmates to finish the quiz.”
Some girls giggle in the back of the class. I catch Tanya’s eye and wonder if she’s told anybody about yesterday—about the french fries and greasing up the vinyl booth with a gallon of sweat. I half smile, trying to act like everything’s normal. I should be used to acting normal by now.
And even though Tanya reminds me of a yappy rat dog, I feel the blood draining from my heart and heading south. She’s wearing an extra-extra-small Carson Senators shirt that creeps up when she reaches up to sharpen her pencil. Individually tattooed dandelion fluffs settle on her lower back, leading my eyes to the Never-Never-but-Maybe-If-I’m-a-Lucky-Bastard Land.
Christ. That’s all I need. Get a boner in AP history. I wonder which shade of red my face is about now. Red. At least it’s a primary color.
Think of
I need out.
Now.
And our eyes lock.
Mera.
She stares at me and I worry that her eyes will dry up and fall out of her head if she doesn’t blink soon. She was Bordewich School’s fourth-grade staring champ. But now, in high school, it’s just creepy.
Just blink, goddamnit. And I count the seconds until she does— twenty-three. Kids at school call her UNICEF ’cause she has that sunken-cheek look you see on those ads for third-world countries.
I close my eyes. Go away .
I need the numbers.
But malnourished Mera’s head is blocking the fucking clock.
Christ.
I’ve got to get grounded.
Kasey.
What would she say about Mera?
Inhale.
Crackers.
What would she say about me if she knew who I really was?
I brush the thought off and think Baked Whole-Grain Wheat Rosemary and Olive Oil. Kasey helps. She always helps.
Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one. Exhale.
The bell rings; five minutes to get to class.
Late.
Seven tardies. Now eight.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I can feel people moving away and open my eyes. The courtyard empties. The spiders crawl from my brain back to the top of my spine. It’s gonna be hell to keep them there. They’ve come awake twice now.
Mera stares at me like I’m some kind of zoo animal.
I lean on my knees, feeling weak, wiping the sweat from my forehead, pushing my hair back behind my ears. Dad’s one allowance—long hair.
Mera’s still staring. She’s quiet. But a loud, cacophonous kind of silent that rattles in my mind. It’s like all those words she never said to me and Luc have settled inside her and seep through her pores.
I’ll just not look her way. I’ve done it since we were twelve, I can do it until I get through the weekend. She reminds me of things. Too many things. I need to sort through the webs.
The second bell rings.
Rushed footsteps echo in the huge courtyard as the last students rush to their classes, disappearing in the adjoining hallways. The smells dissipate and I breathe in the stale school air, tapping the column with both hands before heading to my locker.
I’m late.
Fuck them.
It’s A schedule. I can be late. Mr. Adams won’t count it. I shake the confetti from my hair, and it drifts to the floor. When I stand up, my head pounds and I feel woozy, so I work my way to the water fountain and gulp down the icy liquid. It dribbles down my chin. I drink, counting to forty-one.
I pull my watch out and slip it back on my wrist. Just for today.
I can be late.
I’m Magic Martin.
I’m the star center midfielder of Carson High School. Our state championship game is this Saturday, November 5, against Bishop Gorman High School.
And we can’t lose.
We have the magic.
Twenty-Three The Doubting
Thursday, 8:00 a.m.
Eight o’clock. Eight. Shit number. My palms feel clammy.
I knock on the door three times with each hand and peek in.
“Nice of you to show up, Mr. Martin,” Mr. Adams says over his glasses. “You now have ten minutes fewer than your classmates to finish the quiz.”
Some girls giggle in the back of the class. I catch Tanya’s eye and wonder if she’s told anybody about yesterday—about the french fries and greasing up the vinyl booth with a gallon of sweat. I half smile, trying to act like everything’s normal. I should be used to acting normal by now.
And even though Tanya reminds me of a yappy rat dog, I feel the blood draining from my heart and heading south. She’s wearing an extra-extra-small Carson Senators shirt that creeps up when she reaches up to sharpen her pencil. Individually tattooed dandelion fluffs settle on her lower back, leading my eyes to the Never-Never-but-Maybe-If-I’m-a-Lucky-Bastard Land.
Christ. That’s all I need. Get a boner in AP history. I wonder which shade of red my face is about now. Red. At least it’s a primary color.
Think of
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