Compulsion by Heidi Ayarbe Read Free Book Online Page B

thoughts.
    “Sure,” I say. “Maybe.” One sixty-one. Six plus one is seven minus one is six. No. Six times one is six plus one is seven. OK. I skip to page 161 and find the line: 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. “What is,” I mutter, and think about Mera playing violin or running seven hours straight. That’s real, right?
    And the magic that sweeps away the sticky webs that cover my frontal lobe? The magic. Is that real?
    I shrug it off and take another bite of my sandwich and try to chew quiet. Hearing people eat sends Mom over the edge, so we’ve become masters at great silences at the table. No chips. And no pudding. She hates that squish, squish sound.
    One, two . . . seven, swallow. And again. Left side, right side. Balance. There’s time. Always.
    “You, um, want to sit down?” I ask.
    She moves to sit down, then stops. “What? The Great Jake lowers himself to my level? Does Magic Martin , the M&M, want to be seen sitting next to UNICEF?”
    “Ouch,” I say. “I don’t figure your orchestra-slash-band-slash-ultramarathon friends are too into my soccer accomplishments. So any reputation ruining will be bilateral.”
    “Touché,” she says, and laughs. She sits down—her stick-figure arms and legs collapsing at my side. She smells like gingerbread cookies. My stomach growls. “It’s a good book,” she says. She has a nice voice. I offer her half my sandwich and she pushes it away. “Vegetarian,” she says. “Not a pesca vegetarian or vegan. More lacto-no-ovo vegetarian.”
    “Huh?”
    “I eat dairy, no eggs though. Not into scrambled pre-embryos.”
    “Thanks for the visual,” I say.
    “Call it culinary consciousness.”
    “Sure. Whatever.” I swallow another bite of turkey sandwich, kind of relieved I’m not that socially, or food, conscious. “So that’s what the Stormtrooper getup was all about this morning?”
    She nods.
    “Wow. What do your parents think about the vegetarian thing?” On top of owning Hartman Meats on Carson Street, Mera’s dad is one of those champion big-game hunters, and half their house is decorated with stuffed animal heads. One of them is even an African antelope. She has four big brothers who smell like flanks of steak. Major carnivores.
    “Well, at first I tried to hide it. But you know how hard it is to hide something like that?”
    I clear my throat. “I can imagine.” I think for a bit. “So when’d you tell them? I mean, how?” If she told her big secret, maybe I could tell mine. But what do I have to tell? It’s not like anything’s really wrong with me.
    “When our dog, Max, choked on a chicken bone I fed to him during dinner and died, I told them.”
    “Uff,” I say, and try to stifle a laugh. “Sorry. Don’t mean to laugh. That’s, um, so sad.”
    “The irony is not lost on me,” she says. “It was a long time ago, anyway. Nobody can keep a secret that big for long. It’s bound to leak out.”
    “How do you still work at your dad’s? Isn’t that against some kind of lacto-no-ovo vegetarian principle?”
    “Yep. But my dad feels like I need a reminder of where my clothes, violin, and everything else he does for us financially comes from, so every now and again, I get to work in the shop. This morning was one of those days I needed that valuable reminder. So to answer your question: They think I’m weird.”
    “That sucks.”
    She laughs. “What about you?”
    I look at her. “What about me what?”
    “Do you think I’m weird?”
    “A little.” I nod.
    “Thanks.”
    I shrug. “Well, you asked.”
    “I did.”
    “You still watch the Home Shopping Network when you can’t sleep?” I ask.
    She cocks her head to the side. “Good memory.”
    I blush. “Yeah. I guess.”
    “Nah. Now it’s the Travel Channel. Or I play violin.” Dark rings circle her eyes.
    The notes from her violin music form in my