Total Constant Order by Crissa-Jean Chappell

Calaban thought I could sleep off any side effects—the headaches and nausea. Instead, I didn’t sleep at all. I heard noises that weren’t real, like electronic doorbells. When I moved my head, their rhythm picked up speed.
    On Saturday, I hid under the covers, but Mama kept banging on my door, saying we should talk. I thought she must have figured out about the Paxil. But how could she know unless the pharmacy called or something? So I rehearsed this speech about how I was almost fifteen and I could make my own decisions.
    I needed to do something with my room. Onthe wall was a patch-eyed pirate’s head carved from a coconut. I could feel it gawking at me. I flopped on my back and stared at the ceiling fan, whirling and churning above like a blender. I used to pin a million things up in my room back in Vermont. Not posters of stupid bands or supermodels. More like dried maple leaves I found while taking a walk. Or this amazing skeleton of a squirrel. I even made a throne of Popsicle sticks for him. Mama called it disgusting. I called it art.
    Here, the concrete ruined all attempts at decorating. Besides, Mama wouldn’t let me glue stuff on the walls. So I had to think of something new. I tried doodling in my sketchpad, but nothing came out right. I hadn’t drawn anything serious in a long time.
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    I got up and opened the window. Whoosh went the cars like drag racers, so noisy compared to my old neighborhood. I thought about where the drivers were rolling and wished they’d take me along. Then I fell asleep and thought about nothing at all.
    Mama barged in and turned on the lights.
    â€œThis place is a pig sty,” she said.
    â€œSo what?” I said. “I like it that way.”
    Mama was having another cleaning fit.
    â€œWhat’s all this junk?” she said, dragging out my bottle-cap collection.
    â€œIt’s my crap.”
    â€œDon’t use that word in front of me, young lady.”
    We sat there in silence. I felt sorry for Mama. She didn’t know I was on Paxil or that I tapped a light switch for her, exactly the same way, every night. She didn’t know anything about my life. She seemed so pitiful sitting there, picking up my bottle caps.
    Every so often, an electric zap would buzz behind my eyes. I had the same out-of-body sensation I got with the flu. I couldn’t sleep but never really woke up.
    â€œGo outside. You’re making me crazy,” said Mama.
    For me, it was the other way around.
    I slammed the screen door so hard, it rattled. The humidity squeezed all the air out of me. Nextdoor, the neighbor’s twin boys were playing in their pool. Their toys floated iceberg-style: tons of crayon-colored foam sticks called “noodles,” a couple of pseudo–Native American canoes painted with wigwams.
    The boys chattered in Spanish. They waved. I waved back. For a minute, I almost asked if I could join them. Their house was another McMansion. Their treeless yard was surrounded by a gleaming metal fence. On their telephone wire, a pair of shoes dangled, left over like bones on a plate after a meal.
    I crossed the street, jogged a few blocks to the park, and watched the little kids play on the exercise bars. I tried to picture them grown up, with boring jobs like Mama’s, selling insurance over the phone. Then I almost crashed into two skater boys. They looked at me and I jumped.
    â€œYo, shortie. Where you headed?” said the first boy. He was wearing a skully cap and a chain belt.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said.
    â€œYou don’t?” he asked.
    The other boy laughed. It was Thayer. He hadleaves in his dreadlocks and splotches all over his hands. He was actually taller than me.
    They were smoking weed and scribbling graffiti on the wall. Huge, puffed-up letters. Not spray paint. Something thicker. Like shoe polish.
    â€œShe’s gonna narc on us,” said the first boy.
    Thayer shrugged. “Just chill,