Total Constant Order by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page A

man. She won’t.”
    â€œHow can you tell?”
    â€œBecause,” he said. “I know her.”
    He stood near me, much closer than was necessary. I could smell ashes on his breath. Thayer put his splotchy palm on me. I almost did the same to him, just to make it even in my mind. Something held me back. His hand stayed put, getting warmer, as if pulling me to him. Then he and the other kid took off on their skateboards.
    I touched my shoulder three times. It was still warm.

Protected Species
    I was living the life of a junkie. The side effects of swallowing Paxil had started right away. Sunlight hit me like noise, which only made the headaches worse.
    For weeks, my dopey, drugged existence was making it impossible to concentrate on school, and my stomach was worse. I had grown used to my headaches, those brain zaps like the sizzle of a nine-volt battery behind my eyes. But I couldn’t take the ringing in my head. It hurt to turn my eyes. Aspirin helped a little, but the headache never left.
    At school, I felt okay until P.E. We were going to swim laps around the pool while Coach Kiki filed her nails near the diving board. No way was I going to puke in front of Sharon Lubbitz and herpersonality-impaired clones. Besides. I had other plans. This was the day I would meet NERS.
    Maybe NERS was already looking for me on the elementary school playground. Could I wait another forty-five minutes? My stomach flip-flopped.
    The coach thought I was faking. Maybe I didn’t look as deathlike as I felt. She raised one overly plucked eyebrow and told me to “suck it up” unless I wanted to see the principal. Since I was already in enough trouble, between my miserable grades and countless lunch detentions for doodling in class, I dipped my toe in the shallow end.
    I felt the whoosh of air before I smacked the ground. Afterward, I saw the scummy undersides of the bleachers. The pool throbbed.
    â€œGive her some air,” said the coach in a quivery voice.
    She told me to sit with my head lodged between my knees. I heard Sharon Lubbitz say, “She’s faking.”
    The coach asked, “Can you walk to the nurse?”
    I blinked twice, a telegraph for yes.
    In the private recovery room, I leaned back onthe cot and considered all the things to count, from the tongue depressors jutting out of a glass jar to the galaxy of pressure points swirling around a yoga poster.
    Nurse What’s-Her-Name slapped an ice pack on me. I just needed to lie down. She asked a lot of dumb questions: Do you have any bleeding tendencies? Difficulty sleeping? Are you taking any prescriptions?
    â€œNo,” I lied.
    When I asked for an aspirin, she said, “I’m not allowed to give out medication.”
    â€œBut it’s just aspirin. What if I took some from your purse?”
    â€œDo you want to see me get fired?” she asked, yanking the curtain shut.
    Dr. Calaban could dish out mind-altering drugs, but the school nurse couldn’t give me an aspirin.
    I sat with the dripping ice pack, counting while I thought about busting out of there. The whole idea of meeting NERS was shooting darts through my stomach. She could’ve been anyone—a wacked-out painter who took a job as a janitor. Or a prepubescentgenius who would beat me at chess.
    The curtain slid back. There was the nurse, blinking at me.
    â€œI heard you,” the nurse said. She had a lipstick stain on one of her front teeth. “You were counting. Over and over again.”
    I looked out the window. I saw boys shooting imaginary guns at each other. My head sizzled. I needed to keep counting.
    â€œAnswer me,” the nurse said.
    I counted to three. Somehow it didn’t feel right.
    The nurse watched my fingers tapping.
    â€œFrances,” the nurse said. “How long have you been doing that?”
    She grabbed my hand.
    â€œHow long?”
    â€œA few minutes,” I said.
    This wasn’t the right answer. “Were