Finding Perfect Page 9

  “You’re a liar.” 12, 16.

  I see the anger seeping out of her, but I don’t stop. “You stole them. You wanted to hurt her. You’ve been punishing her ever since she said she was leaving. Admit it!” I yell. 20, 24.

  Her phone rings and she glances at it, then at me.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You drag that stupid sea glass everywhere like it’s going to magically fix things. You think Mom’s working and loves us and in a year everything will go back to normal. Well, guess what, Mol, there is no normal!” She turns away from me and answers her phone. “Kevin, hold on.” She covers the phone with her hand and says to me, “Be careful what you wish for, Sis.”

  She storms away as I yell, “I’m not giving the necklaces back!” 28, 32.

  I inhale Mom’s mint/jasmine combo to quiet the chaos that’s pulsing through my body. Kate’s wrong.

  I shove her accusations and lies into a deep, dark well in the corner of my brain, and then open my computer. 36, 40. I discover 2,310,000 results have popped up from my search. “Do ‘Neat Freaks’ Have OCD?” “11 Things Messy People Will Never Understand About Neat Freaks.” “International OCD Foundation—5 Things OCD Is Not.” “14 Beautiful and Perfect Gifts for the Neat Freak in Your Life.” “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder—Kids Health.”

  My brain swirls. The numbers tumble and then go quiet. Neat Freak. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I remember when I went over to Bridgett’s house one time and she laughed at me when I wiped off the table four times. “You’re so OCD. That’s what your obit is going to say.” I laughed, too, but there was a tiny speck inside me that thought, maybe.

  I need to know. Now. My finger shakes when I click on the article that tells me what OCD is not. Apparently, OCD is not a joke. Good to know, but not particularly helpful.

  I move to the top of the OCD Foundation page, to where it says “OCD in Kids,” and click. The page opens with a message in big letters across the top: “There is Hope.” Not likely. Then it asks, “So what is it, really?” If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be on this stupid website. “OCD is made up of two parts—obsessions and compulsions.” I read on. Some of the stuff sounds like me, but not all of it. I mean, I worry about bad stuff happening to Ian, I like even numbers and want to get good grades, but I don’t worry that I will hurt someone by accident or have bad religious thoughts. I read on and on. Then I make a list to see how many of the obsessions I have.

  I count up my answers.

  Yes: 4

  No: 6

  Fewer yeses. That has to mean something. Right? I read on. It says if I have these thoughts, I likely also do the compulsive stuff. I look at that list. Sure, I do some of those things, but not all of them. I mean, who doesn’t wash their hands? And how am I supposed to know how much is too much? And is there some site talking about kids who don’t wash their hands enough, because I’d like to share that with Ian?

  My brain feels jumbled and full. I think about my family. Ian, Kate, Dad, Nana Rose, Papa Lou, and me. All their weird stuff seems to be about who didn’t put the chips back in the cupboard. Mom’s neat, but not list-worthy weird about it. Dad’s a slob whose only obsession is work. Kate’s between a slob and regular and so is Ian. Nana Rose was always saving stuff, but that was just her, and the only thing Papa Lou cared about was Nana Rose.

  I read and search and read. One in every two hundred kids has OCD. At least, if I had OCD, I wouldn’t be alone. For now, though, my confusion lands on the only decision it can understand. I made a list and have fewer yeses. I should be relieved, but I’m not. Because now I don’t know what I am. Maybe just crazy and by myself. No site for that. I stay here for a while longer. Then I search online for articles or blogs or any space where kids are sharing their secrets.

  PARKER RAY: I’ve been counting ever since I learned my numbers. It’s time to let go. Even of my favorite number eleven.

  Who would love that number? I read on.

  MARIA F: Sometimes, well actually lots of times, I’m scared I might hurt or even kill my little brother with my dirty, germ-infested hands.

  I sit on my hands.

  LYLE G: I lick my palms and slap the wall seven times before I can move into the next room. Yesterday, I got stuck in my bedroom for an hour.

  What’s with the love of odd numbers?

  ANNA: I ate my homework. Literally. I can’t stop eating paper.

  MICHAEL: I wish that was my problem. I screamed things at my neighbor that I’m too embarrassed to write. And she’s a nice person. I just couldn’t not.

  My phone buzzes. I look at my watch and think it’s Mom, but it’s Hannah. I hit Ignore. I jump on Facebook and Twitter. The pages open under the name Lynx Lomain. Lynx was the brainchild of one rainy day last summer. Since Hannah’s dad and my parents collectively decided to ruin our social lives by banning all social media, we both created fake accounts so we could stay in touch with Benji and Nick from camp. Mine was under the name Lynx Lomain and hers was Miley Martin. Now Lynx is doing reconnaissance. So glad I have her. Some groups are closed, but eventually I find kids talking.

  Getting better but can’t stop organizing my desk.

  Why do people think I can just stop?

  Does anyone out there pick at their skin?

  I can’t eat food that touches other food.

  This girl from my school always says she’s so OCD and she’s not. I hate her.

  Is my list wrong? Are there kids like me? Do they hide like me? Confusion floats to the front of my brain. Again.

  I close my computer, leave Mom’s closet, and go back to my room. I sit on my bed for a while and let my head sink into my hands. I don’t know what to do. Finally, I take out my ruler and make sure the cow, piglet, owl, mouse, and eagle are all evenly spaced.

  Exhausted, I fall asleep. Sleep is the only time my worry’s quiet. But tonight’s different. Tonight it gets into my dream.

  Someone’s broken into my room. He’s lurking in the closet and I feel him staring. I want to scream, but I’m frozen. My eyes scan the room. My glass figurines are scattered; my poems are torn out of my journal and shredded into confetti all over my floor. I hear him counting by threes and laughing. I hear Ian crying in the next room, but I can’t move.

  I jolt awake. I must’ve screamed in my sleep because Dad’s standing stiff and tall at my door. My clock flashes 2:00 a.m.

  “What’s the matter? Are you okay?” Dad rushes over to me and feels my forehead, his look of anxiety pouring down on me.

  “I’m fine.”

  Everything is fine.

  There’s that word again.

  “Fine? It’s the middle of the night and you’re screaming and trembling. Molly, look at your hands!”

  My hands are shaking like the Spider-Man bobble-head doll that sits on Ian’s nightstand. I shove them under my butt.

  “I’m okay. It was just a stupid bad dream,” I say, convincing myself. I pause. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “For school, we have to find a thing—you know, a disorder that’s hereditary. And I, um, found this one called OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. And…”

  What are you doing? You already made a list. Counted. You don’t have it. Stop. Talking.

  But there’s that small speck of me that WON’T SHUT UP.

  “Mol, as long as you’re not sick, can we talk about your schoolwork another time? It’s two in the morning, and I have a big day tomorrow.”

  “Sure. I mean, I just wanted to know if you knew anything about it. Like, did anyone you know have it? It’s, um, hereditary, so a kid wouldn’t have it unless someone in her family had it. Most likely.”

  His sigh is loud, followed by a long empty pause of nothing.

  I hold my breath, not even sure what I want him to say.

  28

  lonely, the number eleven

  DAD SAYS HE DOESN’T know anyone with OCD. “I’m a borderline slob.” He winks. “Mom’s neater, but nothing
unusual.” He pauses. “No one comes to mind, but you can ask Mom tomorrow. Maybe she knows more.” His face twists at the mention of her. He turns and walks out of my room. In the hall I hear, “I love you.”

  Now what? Part of me celebrates that I don’t have the thing that makes kids lick stuff, but then my happy dance ends. Because if it’s not OCD, then what’s wrong with me? Is this just some weird version of me?

  I grab my journal and write what’s crashing in my head.

  Not like you.

  Lonely raft.

  Not like you.

  Single tear.

  Not like you.

  Empty cart.

  Not like you.

  Burned forest.

  Not like you.

  Vacant eyes.

  Not like you.

  Then I hide under my covers and let the salty tears flow into my pillow. Help me. Somebody. Please.

  * * *

  TODAY IS ROUND TWO.

  I inhale all the air I can and wish hard for a different me. A me who can slam and talk and live without hiding.

  But I already know wishes don’t come true.

  So I check my desk.

  Need.

  Everything.

  In.

  Place.

  Lucky sea glass.

  Sharpened pencils.

  New eraser.

  Ready.

  My cowboy boots scuff the wooden floor, but this time it’s harder to tuck the real me away. She won’t be ignored. 4, 8. Last night when I couldn’t fall back to sleep, I learned how to weave the numbers in my head into the rhythm of my poem. They’re still hidden. No one will even know.

  The applause comes to a slow stop as I tap the microphone. I twirl my lucky sea glass in my pocket. I see Hannah and Bridgett in the front row. Not together.

  I don’t wait for my mind to quiet because I know it won’t. 12, 16. I pray I can keep it together for the next ninety seconds. I take a deep breath in and the words stream out.

  Lonely, the number eleven—

  frightened, scared, and out of place

  Odd

  Lonely, the crumpled page—

  damaged and without a home

  Broken

  Lonely, the blue glass whale—

  out of line and can’t get back

  Lost

  Lonely, the last song beat—

  over when the music’s gone

  Quiet

  Lonely, the lying girl—

  hidden behind the glass door

  Seen

  Lonely, sometimes

  just so lonely

  Me

  I exhale. I did it, I got to the end. And kids are applauding. And snapping. And hooting. I find my seat and listen to my heart and the numbers rapid-fire in my head as the finalists from Mr. Henshaw’s class share their poems. 64, 68, 72, 76.

  When they finish, Ms. P. takes the microphone. “The winners of Round Two will be announced on Tuesday morning. The final competition will immediately follow the announcement. Again, great job, everyone.”

  Bridgett comes over as the crowd thins. “You’re definitely going on to the final round,” she says. “Just think, Slam Poet Extraordinaire can be added to your obituary.”

  “Not exactly what I was going for, but thanks.”

  I look around for Hannah, but she’s gone.

  “I thought it was kind of depressing, but in a good way,” Arianna chimes in.

  Then Nate walks up. “Cool poem.” Dimple.

  I smile. And count. 80, 84, 88, 92.

  “Thanks.”

  “You heading home?” Nate asks.

  I look around once more for Hannah, but still don’t see her. Then I remember she said something about an orthodontist appointment right after school.

  I nod.

  On the walk home, Nate tells me about his friends Jed and Nate B. from DC. Everyone always mixed up Nate and Nate. He smiles and laughs.

  I pretend to laugh with him and realize that I kind of have another Molly. Except they’re both me.

  Then I keep counting. 96, 100.

  He stares at me for a long second. I pray I have something green in my teeth because otherwise he’s just wondering what’s wrong with this girl. I wriggle my tongue across my teeth. Nothing. I do it again. And again. And again.

  Please don’t see me.

  He moves on to a story about Jed and Nate B. and him in some soccer tournament. I half listen and fake smile and count.

  I’m grateful when I realize we’re in front of Mrs. Melvin’s house. She’s waiting on the porch for Nate.

  “Well, see you at Mac’s tomorrow night?” he asks.

  I wave goodbye.

  104, 108.

  29

  doesn’t look like nothing

  I TURN OFF MY alarm and the sun streams in through the pinholes in my window shade. I hide under my covers. It’s Saturday and I hear Dad calling me from downstairs, but I pretend to be asleep. Pretending is something I do well. Too well.

  Under my covers, I think about what Kate said. She’s wrong. Mom didn’t leave us. Kate’s just mad. She doesn’t get that Mom went to a job. I get it. Most of the time. And when I don’t, when I’m scared Mom will forget us, I snap a picture. Like yesterday I took a pic of me and Ian and Spider and sent it to her. She hasn’t replied. Yet. But it was late. And I know she’s really busy.

  My mind switches to Round Two of the slam poetry competition. I pray I make it to the finals. Last night I slept and slept and slept. Hiding is tiring. I jump online and reread Parker Ray and Maria F. and Lyle G. and Michael and Anna’s stories again. And again. I know them. Not the real them, but the kids who do all that weird stuff. I unwrap the plastic from my new journal and start writing:

  In the darkness

  There is fear

  In the fear

  Hope is lost

  Beyond the hope

  There is me

  Imperfect and frightened

  Me.

  I lie like this for a while and read my poem over and over again. The sadness wraps me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I dig in my brain for answers, but find none.

  “What are you doing?”

  I peek out from under the covers and see Ian and Spider staring back at me. He’s so little, so sweet, and so normal.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like something.” Pause. “Can I do it, too?”

  “There’s nothing to do.”

  “Well, you’ve been in here forever. Daddy says maybe you’re sick.” He hops on one foot thirteen times.

  My stomach flips, wishing for one more hop.

  “Are you?” he asks.

  I think about how to answer that. Finally, “No.” At least, not sick in that way. “You?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t think so. My brain doesn’t feel all hot and mushy anymore.”

  Relief sweeps in.

  “Does your brain feel hot and mushy?” he wants to know.

  I shake my head no.

  “Then why are you still in bed? I’ve already had breakfast and lunch and gone to the car wash with Daddy.”

  “I was tired.”

  And scared. And sad. And crazy.

  “Oh.”

  I love that he believes me. He walks over to my glass figurine collection and looks back at me. “Can I hold the zebra?”

  I slide out from my covers and wait for the numbers to flood my brain.

  They don’t. Quiet wins the battle for now. Maybe it’s Ian. Maybe he’s my shield.

  “Put Spider away and I’ll give you Beethoven.”

  When he speeds back into my room, I go over to my collection and gently hand him the zebra. I got the zebra the day Mr. Klein, my fourth-grade teacher, took our class on a field trip to the Parkway Zoo. There was a contest to name the new baby zebra. My vote was Beethoven since his stripes reminded me of the keys on a piano. Hannah and I walked around with Lily, Kyle, Kendra, and Kendra’s mom, who spent most of
the time on her cell phone. My dad said he wanted to come, but he had a last-minute deadline to meet. The zoo named the baby zebra Wayne, but I bought the zebra glass figurine from the gift shop and called him Beethoven.

  “Want to go to the zoo?” my little brother asks, as if that’s an actual possibility. As if the thought of dirty pastures and muddy paths and smelly pens doesn’t burrow under my skin like a bloodsucking parasite.

  “Can’t.” Or won’t. “Another day, okay?”

  He hands me the zebra back and hugs my middle. I wonder if he’ll still love me when he finds out I’m crazy.

  I text Hannah that I will come over to work on her application and photo before the party. By the time I get there, I’m late. It takes me four tries to get my sock drawer just the right amount of neat.

  “Where have you been?” Hannah asks.

  “Getting the stuff for your photo shoot.”

  Half true.

  Hannah stands in front of me in beige sweatpants and a mucus-colored long-sleeved tee that says I Love My Camper.

  “You can’t wear that for your contest photo,” I tell Hannah as I take inventory of her closet. Beige pilled sweater. Brown turtleneck. Tan corduroys. I open the large suitcase I brought full of clothes. “Take off the sweatpants from fifth grade and the shirt from your gram and put these on.” I pull out a dark gray suede vest I borrowed from Kate when she was at work (I figured she’s already mad), jeggings, and a great pair of boots. Hannah hugs me. Super close. She stares at me too long.

  Is my crazy showing?

  I tighten my hair clip and pull up my socks. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” She looks away and wriggles into the clothes I brought for her.

  “You look cute,” I say.

  “Thanks, you too. I like your hair in that silver clip. And, um, your poem yesterday was really good.”

  “Thanks.” I smile, but not with my eyes. It’s fake. Like me.

  Hannah twirls her hair and says, “I liked it a lot. It was just kind of sad.”

  “I guess.” I’m not looking at her.

  “Is everything all right?” she asks.

  “Everything’s fine.” I refold the other two shirts in the suitcase.

  The lie hangs.

  I ignore it and grab my phone. “Do you want me to take those pictures?”