Free Total Constant Order by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page A

ranted about Klingons and Kryptonite. He knew all the music: the stutteringbeats of Kurtis Blow, the robotic bass lines of Big Daddy Kane.
    His energy had an edge, as though he might combust, Wile E. Coyote–style, if I stopped paying attention. I was his audience, a human laugh track.
    Thayer Pinsky could quote lines from commercials so ancient, they pre-dated the Internet.
    â€œCrisp and clean and no caffeine.”
    â€œWhen you eat your Smarties, do you eat the red ones last? Do you suck them very slowly or crunch them very fast?”
    Thayer said that it all started in elementary school. Fed up with his miserable grades, Thayer’s mom dragged him to a doctor.
    The doctor asked a lot of questions. “Do your thoughts bounce around like a pinball machine? Does your brain feel like a TV set with all the channels on?”
    The night before a test, he found himself battling man-eating robots on the PlayStation or walking Bozo, his English bulldog. He wasn’t lazy. When he studied between video game sessions, he felt okay. But when he sat at his desk, he couldn’t concentrate.
    The doctor offered Thayer a weapon.
    Ritalin.
    When Thayer swallowed the pill, he went to school and waited for the static to return when the meds wore off. Instead, he got a tingle between his eyebrows. In class, sitting quietly at his desk, he crunched up math equations like Pac-Man.
    In the final hour of school, waiting for his second dose, his mood turned sour. Ritalin’s magic didn’t last long. At home, he took another pill. Soon he was tingling, though not like before.
    He began to lose weight. His long, flat feet no longer fit his sneakers. He missed the way he used to feel, his needle hovering at ninety miles per hour. Most often, he floated in space.
    Â 
    â€œA group of foxes is called a ‘skulk,’” Thayer said at lunch.
    We were hiding in the music room, listening to gloomy old jazz records. It was getting late. Soon lunch would be over. Mr. Clemmons would shove his key in the lock any moment now.
    â€œSometimes they’re also called a ‘leash,’” he added.
    Thayer reminded me of an orphaned animal.His dad had split once Thayer started walking and talking. His mom worked in a hospital all the time, helping sick kids.
    â€œShe sees them more than me,” he said. He was fiddling with his glove. If Thayer was in a bad mood, he wore a mechanic’s glove on his left hand. He’d growl, “I’m agga-rah-vated.” He’d been wearing that stupid glove for a week. Finally he took it off.
    When I asked why, he said, “Because I’m not agga-rah-vated anymore.”
    Thayer couldn’t’ve cared less about his SAT vocab. All day, he had doodled robots during class. Sometimes he’d write down his dreams. In them, he was always an animal—a lion, a dolphin, a fox. He believed that he morphed into these creatures.
    â€œIt’s not the fact that my mom’s dating,” he told me. “It’s the fact that she’s replacing my dad. I don’t need more adults in my life.”
    â€œMy dad’s dating someone. It’s weird. But I guess it’s good that my parents aren’t together and fighting,” I said.
    â€œYeah. I just wish Mom would wait until I was older.”
    I turned off the record. The melody spiraled out of measure. “Thayer, you’re like one of the smartest people I know. Why are you bombing English?”
    He shrugged. “Because it’s tedious and I really don’t care.”
    â€œYou should care.”
    â€œWho gives a crap about mapping sentences? It bores me spitless. And poetry sucks beyond comprehension. My interpretation is always ‘wrong’ because it doesn’t match the teacher’s.”
    â€œBut what about rap?” I asked. He was always writing rhymes on every available scrap of paper. “Isn’t that poetry?”
    That got his attention.