Compulsion by Heidi Ayarbe Read Free Book Online Page A

something. Stop the flow.
    Christ.
    Mr. Adams clears his throat and thrusts a paper at me with rough hands and gnawed-on hangnails. “Now you have eleven minutes fewer.”
    I go limp. Pop quiz’ll do it.
    I look at the clock.
    8:01
    Eight-oh-one. Eight minus one is seven. OK. Eight plus one is nine plus eight is seventeen. OK.
    I grab the paper and get to my desk, turning away from the clock, breezing through the quiz about inventions and resource development. Nine questions. Two extra credit. Eleven. I finish all eleven questions in nineteen minutes.
    8:20
    Eight plus two is ten minus eight is two. OK. Eight divided by two is four times eight is thirty-two minus eight is twenty-four minus eight is sixteen minus eight is eight minus two is six.
    The numbers spin in my head.
    “Eight twenty-one, people. Time’s up.” We pass our papers forward.
    8:21
    Eight plus two is ten plus one is eleven. OK. I watch the clock until it’s 8:21 and 59 seconds, then turn my back to it.
    Tick-tock.
    It’s like the tree-in-the-forest thing. If I can convince myself the clock isn’t there, then I don’t have to look at it. I don’t have to think about the numbers. Then my mind can rest.
    Math class can be a fucking nightmare.
    I don’t turn around for the rest of the period, even when somebody throws a balled-up paper at me. It ricochets off my desk onto the floor behind me. I hear giggles and Tanya’s soft voice. “Pick it up,” she purrs.
    I feel a familiar stirring and concentrate on Ramón the Chihuahua and blue-painted claws. It’s easier to imagine that when I look at her. But she has one of those husky voices that chicks usually have on the Spice Channel. And that’s hot. Really hot.
    Chihuahua Ramón. Chihuahua Ramón .
    I don’t pick up the note. I don’t have time to turn around and get stuck on the clock. Plus it’s about the most archaic way of sending notes ever. Can’t she just text me?
    I sigh and rub my temples, trying to semiconcentrate on Mr. Adams’s lecture about American industrial economy blah blah blah.
    During nutrition, I dodge the courtyard frenzy and hide out near my locker, gulping down Mom’s turkey sandwich, skimming through our assigned chapter in East of Eden . Mera walks down the hall toward me, hugging her violin case to her chest. I shove my nose into the book.
    I look for the words to—what’s the word? Transpire . Yeah. Transpire through her skin and fill the hallway. I bang on the side of my head. Christ.
    “Hey, Mera,” I say, not looking up.
    “Crazy morning.”
    “Yep.” Don’t look. Don’t look. Bad luck.
    I can feel her standing over me. Goddamnit. What did I say? What if she knows about me? I clear my throat. “Do you wanna at least sit down? You’re hovering.”
    “You’re in front of my locker.” Her voice is flat, detached.
    “Oh. Yeah. Um, sorry.” I move over and she takes out some books, pulling out East of Eden , reading aloud. Steinbeck’s words bounce off the lockers.
    I sigh. Relieved.
    “You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect,” she says. Then she repeats it, saying it just a little louder.
    I look up and regret it instantly, because I can’t stop staring into her eyes. Hazel with flecks of gold. But like one of those store mannequins. Because her hair is so pale, it looks like she has no lashes, like Kasey’s dolls when she was a baby. Kasey used to pluck the lashes.
    I’m not usually into the makeup thing, but I think Mera should use mascara.
    “Huh?” I finally say, pulling my eyes away, staring at the floor and its zigzag design. Blue pentagons. White tiles. The hallway is a perfect geometrical symmetry of color and shapes. I like this hallway the most. It makes the most sense. I stare until the lines of color blur, then get sharp again. Seventeen times.
    “Page one hundred sixty-one. I like that line.” Mera’s voice cuts through my