Total Constant Order (12 page)

I
t's official,” Thayer said. “I'm now the oldest kid in our class.”

When I saw him leaning against my locker at lunchtime, I wanted to choke him. He was fiddling with his tape recorder again, hitting the “play” button on and off so Ms. Armstrong's week-old lecture on plate tectonics resembled a complicated rap anthem.

“I haven't seen you in centuries,” I said, struggling to balance my violin case. God, I sounded obnoxious. “I mean, I heard you got suspended.”

“I've been hella busy,” he said, rubbing his nose.

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Getting suspended,” he said.

“For smoking?”

He glared. “No. For skipping a Saturday detention.”

I almost laughed. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I forgot.”

Classroom doors slammed. Jocks prowled the hall, grunting and swearing. Sharon's high-pitched giggle floated above the noise.

Thayer said, “Let's make like a tree and leave.”

We couldn't hide in the music room anymore, not after Mr. Clemmons had caught us eating there, so we met in the grassy clearing behind the science lab, on a marble bench beside a stranger's memorial.

“I'm almost the same age as her.” Thayer brushed off the slab. “This girl died, like, a decade ago.”

“What happened?”

“A car crash. She was at the wheel, drunk. Can you guess why she gets a memorial?”

“No. Why?”

“Who the hell knows?”

“I bet her family had a ton of money,” I said, reaching into my backpack and finding my pencil box. Inside was the mangled jigsaw of Ms. Armstrong's trombone-playing son. I sprinkled the
pieces over the memorial. They fluttered at odd angles, cartwheeling into the weeds.

Thayer pulled out his pipe. I couldn't believe he had the nerve to smoke at school, much less an illegal substance. No wonder he had been held back.

“Happy birthday,” I told him.

“Muchas gracias,” he said. “So where's my present?”

I wasn't sure if he was joking. His stare was making me nervous, so I changed the subject.

“There's nothing historic to see in Miami.”

“Except me,” he said, coughing.

“You'd be lucky to find a fifty-year-old building. And they'd probably knock it down and build a giant condo.”

“You don't really know this city,” he said. “I understand why you hate it here. But you have to look a little harder.”

“For what?”

“Mysteries.” He stood. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“You'll never guess.”

I could hear people laughing, talking on their
way to class. “We have to get back.”

“Says who? Oh, ye of little faith.”

Not for the first time, I was ditching Ms. Armstrong's lecture on forces and motion to ride the Metrorail downtown, a half-hour ride from my house. One moment I was a hostage at Miami Dade High, and the next I was on a bridge with Thayer.

Mama would flip if she knew I used public transportation. I associated it with germs. She associated it with thieves and rapists.

We stood near a construction site, looking down at a smattering of holes. The Miami Circle. Or, as Thayer would suggest, a landing pad for spaceships.

Just a few years ago, a real estate mogul was going to build a million-dollar condo on the banks of the Miami River. When the old apartments on the site were demolished, archaeologists swooped in and discovered the holes chiseled into bedrock.

How had the Circle remained undiscovered for so long? The site lay buried beneath rusty pipes and slabs of cement. So far, the archaeologists had dug up thousands of artifacts: beads and bones.

“I saw this psychic on TV,” Thayer said. “She
thinks the Tequestas made human sacrifices here.”

“Tequestas?”

“The People of the Glades.”

Now the sun had slipped behind a clump of gleaming skyscrapers. We walked closer. Thayer was sweating in his army jacket. He peeled it off, exposing his pale shoulders.

“I know how to get over the fence,” he said.

I snorted. “Yeah, like I'm going down there.”

Still, I followed him out through the parking garage.

We stepped outside and stood on the root-buckled sidewalk. I watched an iguana scuttle through the sawgrass, its tail whipping.

“Iguanas eat flowers,” Thayer told me.

The bottom of the Circle was pecked with gaps. Thayer dubbed it “Valley of the Holes.” The archaeologists had left little flags raised like exclamation points. He wedged his feet into the chain-link fence and scurried up.

“Hurry,” he urged.

“Are you crazy?”

He hit the ground. I could hear him breathing
hard. Thayer ran to the Circle and, a couple of minutes later, returned with his prize—a flat piece of stone, thin as a splinter.

“It's cool,” he said. “Everything's cool.”

He climbed the fence again and dangled there, silent. Then he took out the stone, holding it up for me to see.

“You stole that?” I said. Could I sound any dumber?

Thayer tossed it to me. “Anyone who holds it must speak their mind. If you don't, it will heat up and burn a hole through your skin.”

I didn't like where this was headed. I threw it back. He caught it one-handed. “Who's got it now?” I said, trying to laugh.

“Okay, okay.” He closed his eyes. “I'm thirsty.”

I laughed for real. “No fair.”

He pressed the stone between his eyebrows. “I want to see…something I've never seen.”

“I don't know,” I said. “Is that possible?”

“It's my birthday. I can do whatever I want. That is, if you're up for the challenge.”

I looked away. The Circle was amazing. I loved that he shared it with me. “I'm up for it.”

He smirked. “Nah. You couldn't show me anything I haven't already explored.”

“You better give me that stone.”

“As you wish,” he said.

 

We rode the Metrorail along US 1, from Brickell down to Dadeland South station. Tourists think the Metrorail works like a subway, only aboveground. This is mostly true, except the Metrorail doesn't take you anywhere convenient. You get off at Bayside mall, but you still have to walk a mile to the entrance, which kind of defeats the purpose of public transportation.

I decided to bring Thayer to the empty house. My neighborhood was just a short walk from the station, across from a vacant lot, the only one left. Everywhere we looked were McMansions that could've dropped from the sky—like Dorothy's house in
The Wizard of Oz
.

I got off the train and clomped down the stairs. We dodged the honking, swerving sea of cars on South Dixie Highway and raced through the parking lot of Pollo Tropical. Finally we slipped into the gridlike suburban avenues of Pinecrest, all numbers,
no names. You can't even cut through people's backyards, thanks to the chain-link fences and concrete walls. Not to mention block after block of “gated communities.”

“So you live around here? Where's your house?” Thayer asked.

“I live a few miles south,” I said, not wanting to share more. “Usually I ride my bike to the station.”

He nodded. “You live in one of these chichi villages?”

“No. Gated communities suck. They're like apartment buildings with doormen who block you from walking into the lobby. Instead, they block you from walking on the sidewalk.”

“It's the fortress mentality,” Thayer said.

When we reached the empty house, Thayer hopped over the fence, ignoring the
NO TRESPASSING
signs. A busted lock dangled from a chain. Thayer stuffed the lock in his bag. What he'd do with it I couldn't tell.

I trooped toward the door, which was swung open so wide, you could herd camels through it.

Thayer whistled. “How did you find this joint?”
He didn't wait for my answer. “Man, I could blow the wall with tags.”

I lifted the sofa pillow and took out my pills.

“You might want to get a couple fat Pilot markers,” Thayer said, not paying attention. “Practice tagging. Especially letters. Patterns and fades aren't as important.”

I tallied the leftover pills. Lost count, started again.

“Yo, where'd you get the candy?” he said.

“It's mine.”

He coughed four times. “No shit?”

I passed him the bottle.

“Paxil, huh? I forget. How long you been eating it?”

“Since the beginning of school.”

“Is this why you've been seeing the Bone Lady?”

“What?”

“That's what I call Dr. Calaban.”

“Oh.” I smiled. “Yeah, she's got that weird bracelet. Maybe it's a good luck charm.”

Thayer rolled his eyes. “I don't believe in luck.”

“Really?”

“There's nothing you can do about it. Whatever happens isn't good or bad. It's just what's meant to be.” His gaze met mine.

“It's taken me a while to figure that out.”

“For real?” He moved so close, I got a whiff of smoke. There was nothing left to do but spill.

“Listen. I have this…obsession…with numbers. I need to count things to feel in control. I've been doing it all my life, but it's gotten much worse lately.”

“You have OCD?” He said it so matter-of-factly.

“It sounds dumb, right? I thought Paxil would help me get over it. But it made me sick. So I quit. Only it's like…the drug hasn't left my body.”

“No shit?”

“You think I'd make this up? Besides, I still have the stone.”

“Left or right pocket?” he said.

“Um. Left, I think.”

He slid his hand inside my pocket. “Now it's my turn.”

“Wait,” I said. “If you use it too much, the stone loses its power.”

He stepped back. “Okay. You can keep it for now,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Thanks for hearing me out.”

“No problem. It's good you quit the meds.”

“I hope so.”

“But you should've tapered off slowly,” he added.

“Dr. Calaban said I might need antidepressants for the rest of my life. I thought they were training wheels, something to change my perspective so I could deal on my own.”

“Who says you need to change your perspective? Maybe OCD is like perfect rhythm. It's in you, right? I think you can learn to roll with it. You don't need that Paxil garbage banging around your cranium.”

Just mentioning Paxil made my head buzz.

I could still feel the heat from Thayer's fist warming my pocket. I'd told him about my freakishness and he hadn't run away. What's more, he seemed to get it. My obsessions belonged to me, for better or worse.

Once we got back to school, nothing was different. I waited on the bench, looking for
Mama's car. Thayer rolled off with a noisy pack of skaters. I didn't recognize any of them, so I guessed they went to another school. I waved but he didn't wave back. I took out the stone, another crumbly hunk of coral for my collection. I pitched it in the road. Two seconds later, I decided to go back and get it.

Standing there, kicking the pebbles around, I realized that all the rocks looked the same. I couldn't be sure if I had picked the right one, not that it mattered so much. I grabbed the flattest piece of coral and shoved it in my pocket. Then I remembered to breathe.

I
was tired of keeping secrets.

I came home from school and sniffed Raid hanging like a cloud in the air, and found the kitchen in shambles. Mama was on “ant patrol” again, ripping the cabinets off their hinges.

“They're everywhere,” she muttered. “I can't seem to get rid of them.”

She had tried cucumber sprays and ant traps, not to mention every bug repellent known to man. They came back in droves, popping up in my cereal bowl, floating in the milk like punctuation marks.

While putting back the groceries, stacking cans in Mama's preordained order (soup up front, tuna in the back), I asked, “Do you ever think about Dad?”

She slid her eyes across the kitchen. Maybe she
had been waiting for this question.

“It's perfectly normal to miss him,” she said.

This wasn't really an answer.

I said, “Dr. Calaban and I have been talking a lot.”

“That's good,” she said, folding a paper bag to reuse later. She kept creasing the corners until they were straight.

“She thinks I have obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

Mama shoved the folded bag behind the refrigerator. “Oh, we all have that to some degree.” She laughed a little.

“It's not a joke,” I said.

She didn't turn around.

“This disease is controlling my life and I want it to stop,” I said. “Dr. Calaban says it tends to run in families. It's, like, genetic or something. Do you know anything about this?”

“Oh, gosh, Fin,” she said. “Your grandmother used to wash her hands over and over. That was her thing.”

“Well, my thing is counting,” I said. I didn't tell
her that hand washing was my thing too.

“You mean, like a magic number?” she asked.

“Yes.” That was it exactly.

“It will go away on its own. You have to be strong and say, ‘I won't let it bother me anymore.' That's what I did. I mean, when I was a lot younger.”

That was it? Just tell it to go away? Did she really know what it felt like, living under an evil spell, following the rules and never feeling in control? I couldn't believe that she had anything in common with me, despite our DNA.

“Did you ever try medication?” I asked.

Mama was rearranging the fridge now, clinking bottles. “That's not your business,” she said.

“It
is
my business. You gave this to me. Now I have to deal with it.”

“Fin, I don't want to discuss it anymore.”

“But I do.”

She slammed the refrigerator door. “My physician gave me belladonna. It's a homeopathic remedy. He said it would calm my nerves. I didn't know any better back then.”

I considered the word “belladonna,” tasting it on my tongue until it made no sense. It sounded like an evil princess in a fairy tale. “Did it help?” I asked.

“In the beginning, yes. Then I couldn't stand it,” she said.

I clenched my fists behind my back. Opened them. Clenched again. “What do you mean, ‘couldn't stand it'?”

“I didn't like the way it made me feel. Detached. Like I was dreaming all the time and couldn't wake up.”

I nodded. I knew how that felt, sleeping while awake, everything at a distance.

“So I stopped taking it. I got really sick, Fin. I laid in bed for days, just shaking. I thought I was going to die. Then I finally told the doctor and he tapered me off slowly. But I will never go back on it again.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Please, Fin. I don't want to keep talking about it.”

“When?” I repeated.

“After you were born,” she said, looking at the floor.

I shoved my finger in my mouth and chewed the ragged edges. I'd said that Mama had given OCD to me, passing it down through our genes like dirty blond hair and skinny hips. Now it seemed the other way around.

“Was I a bad baby?” I asked, my voice cracking.

Mama folded her arms around me, squeezing so hard, my ribs ached. I could feel her pulse thumping out of sync with mine. She smelled the same as always—Ivory soap and cigarettes.

“You were a delightful baby,” she said. “Your face lit up whenever someone walked into the room. You would stretch out your arms, asking to be held.”

“I did?” I said. This was hard to believe.

“But taking care of you was a lot of work. You never wanted to sleep. I wasn't prepared for it,” she said.

Even as a baby, I was an insomniac.

“What about Dad? Did he like taking care of me?”

Mama smiled. “He was the only one who could get you to dreamland. He would throw a blanket over your head and dance you around the living room, swinging you back and forth and singing those crazy rock songs. I was always afraid that he would drop you. Especially when he pushed you on that swing.”

The swing in my old backyard was built by my dad, a tire looped with fifty feet of ragged rope. The knots reminded me of cords on Venetian blinds. It scraped my thighs when Dad pushed me to and fro, soaring higher until I imagined flipping over, like a cartoon, and looping around the oak tree.

My mind spun in circles. I glanced around the kitchen. Mama had a pile of junk on the cabinet—a toy car from Taco Bell, a stack of envelopes I assumed were bills, a paintbrush so clean, I knew she had never used it.

For someone obsessed with cleaning, I found it strange that she saved everything. It wasn't much different from my bottle-cap collection. Of course, she had no problem selling my toys at a tag sale.

I looked outside. There was a green glow over the neighbor's backyard, spotlit like a stage. Their pool light was a Cyclops eye hovering above nothing. I saw my own reflection in the sliding-glass door. For a moment, I seemed pale and less than solid, like a ghost.