OCD Love Story by Corey Ann Haydu Page B

looking at Lisha’s face.
    â€œAh,” Lisha says after a pause.
    â€œYeah.” I take the biggest possible bite of waffle, and before swallowing, follow it up with three French fries.
    â€œWell, listen. Don’t let her lock you up,” Lisha says with a grin. She is the only person I let talk to me this way.
    â€œOn a scale from one to ten, how weird am I? Be honest. ’Cause I thought I was rocking, like, a four, but I feel like Dr. Pat giving me these brochure things lifts me to at least a six, right?”
    â€œI love you too much to rate you,” Lisha says carefully. “I mean, aside from in hotness. In hotness you are a totally solid 8.5 and if you showed off your legs instead of hiding them in those weird hippie pants you’d be a nine for sure.” I can’t help smiling.
    â€œMy legs are stumps,” I say, and stuff down a few more fries. Lisha keeps sticking her fingers in her mouth to suck off the stickiness of syrup. Part childish, part sexual. I want to pull the fingers out of her mouth and set them in her lap. She’s not a lost cause, exactly, but she loses track of her hands, her words, her facial expressions too easily and it’s gotta be at least part of the reason she’s still never kissed a guy.
    â€œThat guy Beck likes them though,” Lisha says, and kicks me under the table.
    â€œUh, that guy Beck has never seen my legs. Will never see my legs.” I purse my lips and swallow, because actually I’m not so sure I want that to be true.
    â€œIs he hot? I feel like you’re holding back details.”
    â€œHe looks like Kurt,” I say, before I can stop myself. I clear my throat and go in for more waffle, but we have impressively demolished the plate. “I mean, he doesn’t really. Just like, body type. Or whatever. Not even. Whatever.”
    â€œGod, Kurt,” Lisha says. “I never think about him anymore.” We make eye contact over the empty plates and even emptier coffee mugs. I am supposed to say I never think about him either.
    â€œYeah,” I squeak out. It’s not a lie if I just nod my head and say “yeah” a lot. But Lisha’s not letting it go. She wants to know, for sure, that I do not think about Kurt anymore. Ever. She raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to say more. When I don’t, she fidgets in her seat.
    â€œI mean, you don’t talk to him or anything right? Or, like, see him?”
    â€œOf course I don’t see him. You know I can’t see him,” I say. Lisha nods too enthusiastically. “I don’t know why I even mentioned his name.” That thing in my chest grips and without thinking, I pinch my thigh.
    Is that a compulsion?
    I move my hand under my thigh, sit on it in what I hope is a supremely not-obvious way, and beg Lish with my eyes to change the subject. Lisha knows the look well—we have perfected it, in fact—and she waves her hand like we’re going to just erase the last few minutes of conversation.
    â€œDessert?” she says.
    â€œIce cream?” I say. Ice cream is safe, and soft and cool. Numbing.
    â€œI’m all over it,” Lish says. Her hand motions for the waiter, but her eyes stay on me just a moment longer than they should. I have the impulse to cover myself in makeup—liquid foundation and dark eyeliner and the kind of mascara that glitters. Anything to hide whatever it is she sees on my face. But when I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, I onlyapply a fine layer of bronzer and ruby-red lip gloss. I don’t want to look too long in the mirror, don’t want to see what a teenage girl with OCD might look like. But I’m not ready to go back out to the clanging utensils and speed-talking waitstaff either. So I reach into my purse for something even better: my pink notebook. Reread notes from Austin and Sylvia’s sessions. Record Sylvia’s outfit from earlier today. With every curve of my