OCDaniel (4 page)

I laughed. “Funny.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What? I mean it.”

“Max doesn't want to be like me,” I said, still amazed that I was having a full conversation with Raya Singh. “He's a star football player and one of the most popular kids in school. And I'm . . . me.”

“What's wrong with you?”

“I'm the backup kicker.”

Raya snorted. “I didn't ask what position you play. What is with you boys and equating football to social status? I don't care if you're the backup water boy.”

“I kind of am.”

Raya laughed. “Of course you are. But the point is, you are smart, funny, and actually nice. I think that's a lot more important than being the backup kicker, don't you?”

I was dreaming again. I had to be.

“I guess,” I said meekly. “And thanks.”

“No problem. Unless you screw up this project, in which case, I'll kick your butt.”

“Deal.”

The bell rang, and for the first time ever, I wished it was broken. Raya rushed off, and I tried not to float off my chair after her. My entire body was tingling, but not with the feeling of dread. It was like a warm glow, as if I was out in the sun. When Max came back, I was smiling so much, he just laughed.

“How happy are you on a scale of one to ten right now?”

“Eleven.”

“I figured. But wipe that grin off your face and get your cleats. We have practice.”

The smile was gone in an instant. “Make that a two.”

  •  •  •  

“You call that a push-up?” Coach Clemons yelled at me.

I was using my knees again. I couldn't help it. I couldn't do twenty push-ups.

“A type of push-up,” I said hopefully.

“Lift those knees up, Leigh!” he blustered, spittle flying everywhere.

I did as I was told and face-planted into the grass. He sighed deeply and walked away.

“Laps!”

We ran for a while, which wasn't that bad, as it was a cold day. I usually spend most of my time sitting, and it can get chilly in football clothes.

“All right, Kevin,” Coach Clemons said when we got back, “let's practice a few field goals.”

Kevin was the starting kicker. He loved football almost as much as Max did. I trotted out with them, since I have to kick field goals too even if I am not officially invited.

I missed from the thirty and twenty-five. Coach Clemons just bit his lip.

“Go get the drinks ready, Leigh,” he said eventually.

“Finally,” I muttered, watching Max catch a pass with one hand.

“Nice one, Max!” Coach Clemons shouted.

I started arranging the cups of Gatorade and watched as Max continued running his routes. You'd think I would be jealous, but I wasn't really. I mean, it would have been nice to get some of his football skills, size, or general good looks, but I was at least happy that he was doing so well. When we were younger, we'd both been just social outcasts, and it was nice that he was becoming popular.

Part of me wondered if our friendship would survive high school when he was on the team there and had seniors to look cool in front of, but there wasn't much point worrying about it now. I hoped he would stick with me, but I knew things changed when you got older.

Just look at Steve. He used to be half-decent.

I arranged the Gatorades on the table in neat rows that were swiftly decimated on the first break. We actually did have a water boy for games, but it was my job in practice—though, last Saturday our water boy had had plans so I'd had to do it for the game too. I saw my dad watching as I filled cups in my Erie Hills Elephants uniform. When our eyes met, he quickly looked away.

But today Coach Clemons had different plans. I was sitting on the bench imagining a horde of goblins bursting through the chain-link fence at the end of the yard. I was right in the middle of snatching up a sword and charging, when Coach Clemons stepped in my way like a bulbous clipboard-wielding ogre.

“Leigh,” he said. “Get out there. You look like a toothpick, so I'm assuming you can run. I want you to get down there as gunner and see if you can take down the returner. We're getting killed on that.”

I looked up at him, frowning at his square-jawed grimace. “Did I do something wrong?”

The coach sighed. “Most kids want to play, son. Aren't you sick of the bench?”

“No. I quite like it.”

“Go.”

Sighing, I trotted out onto the field and took up position on the special teams unit. Max saw me and hurried over, looking alarmed. “You're playing?”

“Theoretically.”

He patted my arm. “Go get 'em.”

“Right.”

I looked at the opposing line. Taj was there, eyeing me like I was a piece of beef jerky. Our returner, a superfast, stocky kid named Pete, was waiting at the far end of the field. I just had to run around the line, get down there, and tackle him. No problem. I fidgeted nervously, waiting for the snap.

I missed the bench already.

“Hut!” the punter shouted, and our long snapper tossed it back to him.

I took the long way around the line, just missing an arm bar from Taj. I really wasn't very fast, but I wasn't slow either. I made it around the defensive line and started for Pete, who was already positioning himself to get under the ball. I just ran as fast I could, grinning as I sprinted down the field. This wasn't so bad. As long as I didn't think about the actual hitting-anyone part, it was just like going for a run. Which I didn't do much, but that old lady across the street did, so how bad could it be? I didn't have time to worry out here. I just had to go hit a kid and try to get the football back. Simple.

I was ten feet away when Pete caught the ball. He pivoted, heading right and then left. I followed him, closing in fast. I couldn't really see much through the helmet, so I was just locked on Pete like a bloodhound. He started past me, and I turned to chase after him, still grinning. This was kind of fun.

I didn't see the impending collision until it was way too late.

There was a flash of a big, smiling Taj running at me for a block, and then it felt like I was hit by a truck. Suddenly I was flying through the air and wondering vaguely if Max would tell my family that I sort of played before I died. My dad would be happy. The ground hit just as hard as Taj, and I lay there, staring up at the afternoon sky. It was clear and blue. I smiled, but probably because I was concussed.

Max appeared over me. “You okay?”

“I don't think I want to play football anymore.”

Max laughed. “Fair enough.” He grabbed my hand. “Let's get you home. I think you're going to need some ice.”

As we walked away, I saw Taj laughing. He was wearing number nine.

Later that night I was lying on the couch eating pudding in the family room. Not because my jaw was broken or anything—I just liked chocolate pudding. Max had walked me home, and my mom had made a big fuss and waved her fingers across my eyes and inspected my skull for cracks. Then she'd just clucked and made me lie down.

When my dad got home, he walked in and said, “I heard you took a knock at football today. Were you playing?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was the gunner. Kind of got blocked and sent flying.”

He smiled. “That's my boy. A few hits are good for you. Keep it up.”

He went to put his briefcase away, and I frowned. Making my dad proud was painful.

I liked staying on the couch because it meant I could delay the Routine, but my mom wouldn't let me sleep down there. So at ten thirty I shuffled upstairs, exhausted.

She was going to check on me every two hours through the night in case I had a concussion. I wasn't going to get a lot of sleep. I changed into my sleep pants and started the Routine. I know most people call them pajama pants, but all I do is sleep in them, so it seems like a better name. I only had two hours before my first checkup, so I needed to start the Routine quickly.

Oh, you might be wondering what the Routine is. I've been doing it for five years. It grew out of a few different habits, and now it's permanent. There is no room for error. It looks like this:

1. Take ten steps from my bedroom to the bathroom

2. Brush my teeth with ten vertical movements on either side and five horizontal ones

3. Take five steps to the toilet

4. Pee, and then use two strips of toilet paper to wipe the rim in case I missed

5. Wash my hands with ten overlapping squeezes to either hand

6. Wipe hands on stupid pink doily towel—five squeezes to either hand

7. Take ten steps back to the bedroom

8. Flick lights on and off five times

9. Get to bed in five steps and climb into bed

As you can see, it's fairly simple. It might even be normal. I mean, how many times does anybody do anything when they walk the same distance or brush their teeth the same way? I just happen to know.

But that's not the problem. It rarely looks like that, because perfection is hard. I have to restart when I do it wrong, like if I take an extra step or pull off three strips of toilet paper instead of two or wash my hands nine times. I concentrate really hard, but sometimes I stumble or take four strips of toilet paper off by accident. And how do you accurately count hand washing?

Other times I just get Zapped out of nowhere, and then I have to do it again. It's all Zaps really; I think the Routine is just when the Zaps take over. Usually the fear is me thinking,
Do it again or you won't wake up in the morning,
and I keep doing it until I think I will wake up in the morning.

It was a particularly bad night. Since I was usually scared that I would die in my sleep if I did the Routine wrong, having a concussion and a real threat didn't exactly help. As a result the Routine looked like this:

1. Take
ten eleven
fifty steps from my bedroom to the bathroom

2. Brush my teeth with
ten eleven
 . . . one hundred and ninety-two vertical movements on either side and
five
 . . . three hundred horizontal ones

3. Take five steps to the toilet—and redo fifteen times and don't step on cracks

4. Pee, and then use
two
entire roll and replace roll and then use another roll and replace roll
strips
of toilet paper to wipe rim in case I missed

5. Wash my hands
with ten
twenty-fifty times and cry a little
overlapping squeezes to either hand

6. Wipe hands on stupid pink doily towel—
five
one hundred squeezes to either hand

7. Take ten steps back to the bedroom—and redo twenty times

8. Flick lights on and off
five
three hundred and five times

9. Get to bed in five steps, feel bad, flick lights again, then redo light-flicking and steps one hundred times and climb into bed

When I finally finished the Routine, I lay in bed for a long time, letting my silent tears soak back into my skin or evaporate into tiny little hydrogen and oxygen particles that would maybe get outside and rain on me tomorrow. That thought made me relax. I like cycles. They are so much less permanent than making a field goal or missing one.

That night I dreamed about Max and me watching TV. Except at one point Max looked at me and his eyes were totally black, like his pupils had taken over everything. Then he opened his mouth and his teeth were suddenly pointed fangs, and his features started to twist into something cruel and demonic, and I realized that it wasn't Max beside me at all. I woke up in the middle of the night sweating profusely.

Then I went to go flick the lights.

  •  •  •  

It was lunchtime. I had just missed a layup and was now standing dejectedly on the sidelines, as I had been “subbed out” by Taj, even though there was no one to take my place. I think “benched” would have been the more apt term, but there was no bench either, so finding the correct sports-themed colloquialism was difficult. I like the word “colloquialism.” It's one of those inherently ironic words where it is the complete opposite of what it describes. I like words in general. They have established meanings but can vary, depending on how they're used or who uses them. They're like people—they're different depending on who's looking and how you read them.

For instance, Taj thinks I'm a useless nerd. Emma thinks I'm a clever older brother. Steve thinks I'm a Lame Wad. My mom thinks I'm not cool enough to date Raya Singh. Raya Singh thinks I'm . . .

Actually, I don't know what Raya thinks.

I immediately directed my attention to Raya. She was standing with a group of girls by the washed-out red bricks of the school, like she was on an indie rock cover. I know what they look like because Raya likes indie rock, and I did my research. She was also wearing a turquoise shawl and jean shorts, which I think was considered retro chic according to
Cosmo
. I hoped she asked if I liked them.

That's when something odd happened. Raya looked at me and waved.

The other girls followed her gaze and all shared some sort of similar reaction, like confusion, scandal, and bewilderment. Ashley Peters was looking behind me in case someone cool was hiding there. It felt like someone was putting a blowtorch to my cheeks, but I managed a smile and a wave.

The girls quickly turned back to Raya and started talking. What had just happened?

I stood there for a moment, pondering. And then Raya started walking toward me.

Now I would have to say something. My brain was spinning.

“Hey, Daniel,” she said warmly.

“Hi,” I replied. It was the best I could do on such short notice.

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you the coach, or what?”

“More like the reporter,” I said. “I was going to do the postgame interviews.”