Free Total Constant Order by Crissa-Jean Chappell

leaves.
    Dr. Calaban cleared her throat. “What do youmean ‘counting the clock’?”
    â€œThat’s why I can’t sleep.”
    â€œFrances,” she said. “Why can’t you sleep?”
    I shifted in the chair, squeezing its legs like I’d done during our first session.
    â€œI count while I do things.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike brushing my teeth.”
    â€œCan you tell me what it feels like?” she asked. “Counting?”
    â€œI can’t stop doing it. If I lose count or finish on an odd number, then I have to start all over again.”
    Dr. Calaban locked her dark eyes on mine. I decided not to tell her the other part of my tooth-brushing obsession. I couldn’t stop thinking about germs. A toothbrush is crawling with microscopic bugs. Amazing what you learn by watching the Discovery Channel.
    â€œDo you know when you started counting?” she asked.
    Â 
    It was the last month of school before we left Vermont. I was lying in bed, unable to move.
    When I think about my old room, I imagine it exactly the same, only dustier. There was a stuffed hound dog slumped by the door—its sole purpose, keeping my room open. Beside it was one of those cheesy lamps that glowed like a movie screen. (It depicted a forest fire, not the most comforting bedtime scene.)
    A thought popped into my head. “I wish Dad would die.” So I said the words out loud. “I wish Dad would die.” The words just bubbled up. I tried to ignore them, but they kept rolling: “I wish Dad would die, I wish Dad would die.” I tried thinking, “I love Dad,” but it didn’t help.
    I glanced at the clock. If I could squash the words before the next minute rolled around, everything would be okay. I squeezed my arms against my chest and counted.
    Eight minutes. Nine minutes. An uneven number. For some reason, it looked wrong, so I counted again. And again.
    I couldn’t go to class and concentrate on A Tale of Two Cities or the life cycle of a fruit fly or El Niño’s effect on global weather patterns. I startedcounting everything in the room. I counted the boys with unlaced sneakers and the girls with curly hair. I counted stains on the ceiling and fingerprints in the window.
    It was never enough.

Chester Copperpot
    T hayer passed notes to me in class. Not the junior high variety, with felt-tip boxes along the margins: “Check ‘yes’ if you’re bored.” Thayer had other questions.
    â€œIf you could be happy for a year,” he wrote, “but remember nothing, would you do it?
    â€œWould you put up with horrible nightmares for the rest of your life if you could win a million dollars?
    â€œWhich is better: to die like a hero or in your sleep?”
    I honestly didn’t know.
    For the entire week, Thayer would pass me a note before science class. His random thoughts took this order: electronic voting booths, thedifference between Haitian voodoo and Cuban Santeria, night swimming, Internet blogs, and hairless cats. Soon I had a collection of notes hidden in my desk. I read them over and over until my eyes blurred.
    At lunch, I sank back to earth. I knew that everyone was staring at Thayer and me. So we hid in the music room. Thayer materialized there with his binder and markers. He picked the lock with a paper clip and snuck into the empty room, with its thicket of music stands. We cranked the stereo, a dusty Panasonic that only played tapes. It was a relief dodging the lunchroom, with its sour popcorn smells and gossipy caste system.
    Thayer wasn’t born in the ’80s, but he had memorized the decade in movie quotes.
    â€œCome to me, son of Jor-el. Kneel before Zod.”
    â€œI’m a mog. Half man, half dog. I’m my own best friend.”
    â€œChester Copperpot, Chester Copperpot.”
    â€œSir, you are a vulgarian.”
    He could be Chunk in The Goonies , Barf in Spaceballs. Gasping, he