times. All of it. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Prayer-clock-clock-street. Until I saw their car turning the corner onto our street. Then I ducked back into the house and lay in my bed, pretending to be asleep. Pretending to be normal. Scared to death because I wasn’t either. Knowing they knew it too. The phone screamed like a siren. It’s never good news when the phone rings late at night.
“Hello.” My mother’s voice sounded tired. “She did
what
in the middle of the
schtreet
… street? Tonight? Hmmm.”
I was sent to another psychiatrist for an evaluation—a woman whose teeth were so badly capped that she was storing her last Cobb salad between them. She was very casual, and I don’t just mean about flossing. Her desk was untidy, and when I looked closely I could see tiny flaws or rips in her clothes. I suspected she bought them that way at a discount, and I doubted her hygiene was up to par.
“How would you describe yourself, Tara?”
I looked from the spinach in her teeth to an ashtray overflowing with paper clips. “Neat. I’m neat.”
I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my right index finger. Then I did it again … and again. I felt odd, out of balance. As if I might tip over. So I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my left index finger to balance it out. I realized instantlythat even if you balance yourself that way, one side always starts first. So one side always starts second. Therefore, you can never really achieve perfect proportions unless you tap at the same time with equal pressure every time. I thought about walking. Did I always start with my right foot? Did I always raise my right hand? If I did, I wondered whether my left side would wither and come to look like a big beige raisin with eczema.
“Neat as in special or cool?” the shrink asked.
“No. Neat as in orderly. I like things to be neat. Really neat. Actually,
really, really neat.”
I couldn’t help looking at a pile of messy papers on the floor behind her for emphasis.
“You mean like tabletops and counters and floors?”
“No. I mean like eyelashes, flower petals and even rice.”
“I think we’ve got a lot of work to do, you and me,” she said, in such a controlled monotone I wondered which one of us was odder.
Diagnosis: Attention Deficit Disorder. Immaturity.
9
Scared of Being
B y winter of seventh grade, my friends were sick of ignoring my quirks and started ignoring me. I couldn’t blame them. I was so wrapped up in myself that I hadn’t been much of a friend to them. Kristin was busy being hospitalized for anorexia, where she was actually scouted by a modeling agent and signed right there in her hospital room.
When Keesha heard that, she gave up all hope of ever liking Kristin, or fashion magazines, ever again. Even I didn’t have much hope for Kristin’s future, though I was sure she’d be rich and famous and happy to be getting a lot of attention for a while.
Anna was playing on a volleyball team that took up all her time. And even though Keesha and I still ate lunch together, it wasn’t fun anymore. We missed our old selves. We missed Kristin. And we really missed Anna, who now ate lunch with Wendy, the volleyball captain who hated me. I couldn’t help feeling betrayed by a weird fate. And sad. Also, it was a really cold, snowy winter and most of the cracks in the sidewalk were covered, which was not impossible, but irritating, to deal with.
Sometimes I’d just count a crack that was covered because I
remembered it was there.
And then I’d be plagued by doubt. Sometimes I’d have to kick the snow away to be sure. I hated people who didn’t shovel their sidewalks.
“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred, a hundred and one, a hundred and two …”
“Hey, Tara!”
“A hundred and three, a hundred and four …”
“Tara! Wait up!”
It was Keesha. “A hundred and five, a
“Hello.” My mother’s voice sounded tired. “She did
what
in the middle of the
schtreet
… street? Tonight? Hmmm.”
I was sent to another psychiatrist for an evaluation—a woman whose teeth were so badly capped that she was storing her last Cobb salad between them. She was very casual, and I don’t just mean about flossing. Her desk was untidy, and when I looked closely I could see tiny flaws or rips in her clothes. I suspected she bought them that way at a discount, and I doubted her hygiene was up to par.
“How would you describe yourself, Tara?”
I looked from the spinach in her teeth to an ashtray overflowing with paper clips. “Neat. I’m neat.”
I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my right index finger. Then I did it again … and again. I felt odd, out of balance. As if I might tip over. So I tapped the smooth surface of the leather chair with my left index finger to balance it out. I realized instantlythat even if you balance yourself that way, one side always starts first. So one side always starts second. Therefore, you can never really achieve perfect proportions unless you tap at the same time with equal pressure every time. I thought about walking. Did I always start with my right foot? Did I always raise my right hand? If I did, I wondered whether my left side would wither and come to look like a big beige raisin with eczema.
“Neat as in special or cool?” the shrink asked.
“No. Neat as in orderly. I like things to be neat. Really neat. Actually,
really, really neat.”
I couldn’t help looking at a pile of messy papers on the floor behind her for emphasis.
“You mean like tabletops and counters and floors?”
“No. I mean like eyelashes, flower petals and even rice.”
“I think we’ve got a lot of work to do, you and me,” she said, in such a controlled monotone I wondered which one of us was odder.
Diagnosis: Attention Deficit Disorder. Immaturity.
9
Scared of Being
B y winter of seventh grade, my friends were sick of ignoring my quirks and started ignoring me. I couldn’t blame them. I was so wrapped up in myself that I hadn’t been much of a friend to them. Kristin was busy being hospitalized for anorexia, where she was actually scouted by a modeling agent and signed right there in her hospital room.
When Keesha heard that, she gave up all hope of ever liking Kristin, or fashion magazines, ever again. Even I didn’t have much hope for Kristin’s future, though I was sure she’d be rich and famous and happy to be getting a lot of attention for a while.
Anna was playing on a volleyball team that took up all her time. And even though Keesha and I still ate lunch together, it wasn’t fun anymore. We missed our old selves. We missed Kristin. And we really missed Anna, who now ate lunch with Wendy, the volleyball captain who hated me. I couldn’t help feeling betrayed by a weird fate. And sad. Also, it was a really cold, snowy winter and most of the cracks in the sidewalk were covered, which was not impossible, but irritating, to deal with.
Sometimes I’d just count a crack that was covered because I
remembered it was there.
And then I’d be plagued by doubt. Sometimes I’d have to kick the snow away to be sure. I hated people who didn’t shovel their sidewalks.
“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred, a hundred and one, a hundred and two …”
“Hey, Tara!”
“A hundred and three, a hundred and four …”
“Tara! Wait up!”
It was Keesha. “A hundred and five, a
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