OCDaniel (10 page)

I didn't have a photographic memory like Sara, but I didn't need it.

The handwriting was the exact same as in the note.

Sara was waiting for me at her street corner, wrapped in a light windbreaker and shivering. Her hair was swept across her face as she stared at the passing cars.

When she saw me, her eyes became hard. I wondered again about Sara Malvern. She completely transformed with me; this Sara was intent and fiery and completely lucid, like an army commander or something. While she waited for me, she clasped her hands behind her back, and I half-expected a lecture about punctuality.

“Well?” she asked.

I handed her the note. She stared at it, and her face darkened. We stood there in silence, and her whole arm started shaking. Her eyes started to water.

“Are you okay?”

She didn't look at me. “The note was all I had of him,” she whispered. “I told my mom the handwriting was off, but she said he must have been rushed. She said he was in a bad place when he left. The handwriting was similar to his, of course; John must have had a sample. But this is the same. They lied to me. He killed my dad.”

“Whoa,” I said. “This doesn't prove that by a long shot. Maybe your dad left and they just wanted you to know it was okay—”

“My dad wouldn't leave,” she said sharply. “Ever. Do you understand?”

I was taken aback. “Yeah. Of course. So, what do we do now?”

“We learn more about John Flannerty,” she said. “Are you free tomorrow?”

I opened my mouth.

“After your stupid practice,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Uh . . . sure,” I said.

“Good. We'll meet at my house. Bring your laptop. I better get back.”

“Can I ask you something?”

She looked at me. “Sure.”

“Do . . . Did . . . you talk to your parents?” I asked curiously.

Her dark eyes flashed again. “That's none of your business.”

The harshness in her voice caused me to flinch. She moved from thoughtful to angry very quickly.

“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have pried. I'm just . . . frazzled.”

Instantly her thin white lips pulled into a smile. “I like that you use words like ‘frazzled.' You're very smart, Daniel Leigh. I guess that's why you were in the Gifted Program.”

“It wasn't anything special,” I said awkwardly.

“I know,” she replied. “I was in it too.”

“You were?”

“Yes. But I was labeled ‘socially limited,' and the counselors encouraged my parents to put me back into regular classes.” She smirked. “That really worked out for me, as you can tell.”

She was very open about her condition. If “condition” was the right word. I always found “condition” to be a bit of a strange way to describe a mental illness, since people also used the word to describe their physical health. So did she have a sickness, or did she just not take very good care of her mind, like exercising or something? I think I was spacing again, because Sara was staring at me.

“What?” I said.

“Where do you go?” she asked quietly.

“Nowhere,” I said.

“Liar.” She smiled. “Don't worry. . . . I think we'll have some time to get to know each other. I bet we have a lot in common. See you.”

I hurried home, hoping that we didn't have as much in common as she thought.

  •  •  •  

I wanted to write, but I was too preoccupied with football and John Flannerty and the fact that I was no closer to making Raya like me. I figured Steve could help me with two of those problems. When he got home from football practice, I knocked on his door, and he sighed when I walked in.

“Now what?”

“I need more advice.”

He turned back to his computer. He was messaging his girlfriend, Rachel. She was a cheerleader who was kind of mean. My mom didn't like her, so Rachel didn't come around much.

“What?”

“Raya still doesn't like me. And I have to play on Saturday morning, and I stink.”

I kind of watched as he typed a message to Rachel. It said,
I just think you're spending a lot of time with Adam.
I hoped they didn't start fighting. Things got bad when he was fighting with Rachel.

He glanced at me. “Have you worked out yet?”

“No.”

“Have you cut that mop you call hair?”

I paused. “No.”

“So you haven't taken my advice.”

“I need more practical advice. Look at me—I'm not going to win her with looks.”

He snorted. “True. Here's what you're going to do. Hold on.” He typed:
Yeah, well, that's what he was saying in the locker room. Don't be like that now.

Uh-oh. I had to make this quick. He turned back to me.

“You're going to make light conversation. You're going to slip in compliments. ‘I like your outfit.' ‘You look hot.' I don't know . . . whatever you feel comfortable with. You're going to do all that, and then you're going to win the game for your team on Saturday, and in that moment, you're going to kiss her.”

I looked at him, confused. “I think you're missing the problem. I suck at football.”

He shrugged. “That's how I got Rachel. Everyone likes a hero. Be one.” He turned back to the computer and smacked the table. “Are you serious?” He started typing furiously. “Get out.”

I was already making a break for the hallway.

  •  •  •  

I stood in front of the light switch in my bedroom, shaking. I had spent the night reading
The Hobbit
, and I had felt better. It always made me feel better. But it didn't matter. The Routine had still gotten to me.

My hand was cramped and hurting. I had been flicking for a while, and I was two hours into the Routine in general. Everyone else was in bed, except for Steve, who had left to go fight with Rachel. I was quiet and stealthy. But there were tears on my cheeks, and I was biting my lip so hard, I tasted blood. I was stuck in the usual trap. If I didn't do it right, I wasn't going to wake up again.

It's probably hard to understand. But during the Routine, my mind breaks. I fall into the Great Space, and nothing makes sense in the world except for fear and desperately trying to fix it. I flicked the switch and thought,
You did it wrong. That was one hundred and twelve, which is 1+1+2, which equals four, and four is not okay.
Then there is only dread—the kind that sits on your back and claws at your head and doesn't let you see happiness or hope or anything. So I flick the switch again. And again. And then I taste more blood and I feel tears and I am clawing at my face because I know I am insane, but I can't stop doing it because I don't want to die. I try to think of Raya and my family and anything but fear, but it is hard.

Finally I manage to flick it, turn away, and get into bed. My mind goes to Sara.

Am I a Star Child? Is that why I am suffering?
I liked that thought. It was better than crazy.

I was deep in the Great Space, but I could sleep now.

I rolled over, and the pillow was immediately soaked.

  •  •  •  

On Monday I watched as Max laid up another basket at first recess, and I jogged back into position. I was supposedly playing today, but really I was just skillfully avoiding actually touching the ball. It was my best bet to keep playing.

The weekend had been pretty uneventful: Max had dragged me out twice to the football field to practice kicking, and he hadn't let me leave until I hit from the thirty-five. I tried to tell him that my nerves were the problem, but he didn't listen. He thought everything could be solved by practice. It sounded right, but it didn't seem to be working.

Other than that it had just been homework and reading with Emma. Oh, and three terrible Routines. I think the stress of investigating a possible murder and an impending football game were getting to me. I wrote five chapters of my book trying to calm down on Sunday afternoon, so that was something. Fake Daniel was already on his adventure. Real Daniel was still busy counting his steps and crying himself to sleep. Sometimes I really wish I was fake Daniel . . . I like him more.

Taj dribbled it up the court, heading right for me. I was supposed to be covering Scott Fields, who was the portly right guard on our football team. He was obviously capable of crushing me, but he was also really bad at basketball and usually missed his shots anyway. It was the perfect pairing. But obviously Taj was hoping to target the weak point of our defense today, which was me.

“Help!” Tom Dernt called, unable to get back in time to block Taj. It was up to me.

I left Scott and went for Taj, crouching low and putting my hands out like Max had taught me. Taj pulled up, clearly surprised that I had even bothered to try to stop him. He grinned and started to dribble. I was now in a one-on-one situation. The other players stood back, cheering us on.

Taj went left, and I followed, stepping in front of him. He pulled up again, dribbling in between his legs and meeting my eyes. He had this sneer that twisted half of his face, scrunching up his right eye.

“Trying to cover me, Leigh? Bad move.”

“Technically it's the right move,” I said. “Seeing as how the point is to stop you from scoring.”

“You're not much of a smack talker, Leigh.”

I reached out to steal the ball, and he stepped back, dribbling behind his back. “I just play.”

That sort of seemed like smack talk. I was proud. From the corner of my eye I saw Raya and the other girls watching from their usual hangout along the wall. Raya was focused on the showdown. This was one of those moments Steve had been talking about. Be a hero. Stop Taj, and win Raya's heart.

Or something like that.

I refocused, trying to keep my eyes on Taj's chest. My dad always said to keep your eyes on the player, because the ball couldn't go very far without him. Taj finally made his move. He dribbled behind his back and went hard right, cutting for the basket. Normally I would have followed the ball and been totally deked out, but I stayed with him, and he was forced to step back and post up—turning away from the basket and backing in. I stayed with him again, reaching for the ball, and kept him at bay.

That was when he swung his elbow around and clocked me right in the chin.

I toppled backward, stunned, and he dribbled once and laid the ball up. As the ball fell through the hoop, he looked down at me and smiled. “Nice try, Leigh.”

I felt my mouth. It was dripping blood. Who was I kidding? I wasn't a hero.

Max pulled me up, giving Taj a dark look. “Offensive foul,” he said.

“Only the defender can call it,” Taj said, looking at me. “You want to call it?”

He was looking at me with these pitying, mocking eyes that did not make my chin feel better.

“No,” I muttered.

Max scowled and looked at me, eyeing the dripping blood. “You better go to the office,” he said. “That looks pretty nasty.”

I nodded and started inside, holding my shirt to my mouth. I was almost there when Raya caught my arm. She looked concerned.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “That was dirty.”

“Fine,” I said through my shirt. “Bad luck.”

“Sports are bad luck for you,” she said, frowning at the blood pooling on my shirt. “Come on. I'll take you to the office in case you pass out from blood loss or something.”

She grabbed my free arm and pulled me inside. I grinned under my shirt.

Maybe being a hero was about more than winning the game.

  •  •  •  

Ms. Redler, the secretary, let Raya sit in the office while she put a Band-Aid over my chin. It was just a cut, and she didn't think I needed stitches. Ms. Redler was plump with a shock of red hair and the most soothing voice I had ever heard. I wasn't sure how she worked with Principal Frost every day, but she certainly had the patience.

“All better?” she asked, checking to make sure the Band-Aid was secure.

“Much,” I replied. “Thanks, Ms. Redler.”

She clucked. “Be careful out there! You boys and your sports. Gives me gray hairs.”

She sent me on my way, and Raya smiled and stood up as I walked out.

“Look at you,” she said. “Now you're battle-hardened.”

I nodded. “You should see the other guy.”

We headed out into the hallway. I tried not to stare. She was wearing lip gloss today, and I could actually smell that it was cappuccino flavored. It made her dark lips glisten in the ugly phosphorous hall lights, and I suddenly really wanted a cappuccino. She glanced at me, and I quickly turned straight ahead again.

“You should probably take up a new hobby,” she said.

“But I'm so good at sports. It would be a shame.”

She snorted. “True. What else do you like to do? Writing, I know. Maybe you can write more.”

“I'm not very good.”

“I doubt that. What do you usually write about?”

I shrugged, hoping to change the conversation. “Anything. I'm writing a book. It's nothing.”

“A book? What's it about?”

“It's . . . about a kid who accidentally wipes out the human race. He's left alone on the planet, and he has to try to find a way to bring everyone back.”

She looked at me. “So it's about loneliness.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I guess.”

“I write sometimes.”

I looked at her in surprise. “You do?”

“Yeah. Poetry. Stupid stuff. I could show it to you sometime, if you promise not to laugh.”

“Deal.” I tried to think back to what Steve had said. Compliments. “I like your outfit, by the way.”

She looked down at herself—ripped jeans and an overlarge white sweater that hung down over her right shoulder. “Thanks,” she said. “I didn't take you for a fashion guy.”