Free Total Constant Order by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page B

“Look, I can handle writing on my own time. In class, it’s different.”
    â€œTrue,” I said.
    â€œBesides…English is my last subject of the day. That’s when my Ritalin wears off and I zone out.”
    I wanted to tell him about my Paxil nightmare. If anybody would understand how it messed with my head, it would be Thayer. But he had already switched gears.
    â€œIt doesn’t help that I’m dyslexic,” he said.
    â€œDoes that mean you see words backward?”
    â€œNo. That’s what most people think.” He jiggled his foot. “Really, it means I’m ‘memory impaired.’ Written words don’t stick. So I bring a tape recorder to school.”
    A knot tightened my throat. I said, “Do you think you’re, like, dependent on Ritalin to help you study?”
    Thayer stared right into my eyes. Maybe he was examining his own reflection. “If you’re trying to say I’m addicted, you’re wrong.”
    â€œDon’t get mad. I didn’t mean to be in your face about it.” I studied the clock on the wall. “We should get going.”
    He grunted. “Maybe I am hooked,” he said. “Did you know that Ritalin belongs to the same class of drugs as cocaine? You can snort crushed Ritalin for a rush.”
    â€œHave you ever done it?”
    He didn’t answer.
    â€œWhen I eat Ritalin, I’m not watching the clock, counting the seconds,” he said.
    Counting seconds was my forte.
    â€œYou don’t know what it feels like,” he added.
    Yes, I did.
    I chewed my lip. “Thayer, I want to tell you something.”
    â€œYeah?” His foot hadn’t stopped jiggling.
    I yanked down the denim that had creeped up my thighs. There was no way to begin. I was ashamed of my “depression,” a word that conjured Monday-morning blahs.
    Thayer tapped my knee. “So what’s crackin’?”
    I was starting to get dizzy. “It’s weird,” I said. “You’ll laugh.”
    Thayer tapped again, only this time, he didn’t let go.
    â€œI won’t laugh,” he said.
    I believed him.
    â€œTalk to me, Fin. We’re buds, right?”
    â€œYeah. Sure,” I said.
    If that was true, then why was I staring at his hand—all five digits curled like they belonged on me? My own hand was trembling, getting ready to match Thayer’s movement. That would mean evening out the gesture, in other words, skimmingthe hard shell of his kneecap.
    So I did.
    He didn’t seem to mind.
    There was the wheeze of a door unlocking. All the lights snapped on.
    Mr. Clemmons hustled inside. Students were funneling into lines. Their voices droned.
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” I whispered.
    â€œWe’re gonna dip outta here,” Thayer said.
    Before I could stop him, Thayer snatched my hand, plowing a path through the maze of chairs and music stands. Kids stared. Mr. Clemmons was so flabbergasted, he only managed to croak, “Frances? What are you doing here?”
    I could’ve strung him a paragraph of lies, but he wouldn’t have heard it anyway. When we finally made it to class, Ms. Armstrong wrote our names on the board, a form of public humiliation.
    I glanced at Thayer. He was too busy doodling to notice.

Tagging
    I ’ll show you how to drop a tag.” Thayer ripped a page from his notebook and drew: NERS .
    When I asked why he tagged the girls’ bathroom, he said, “So you could see it.”
    I shoved him. “No, really. I want to know.”
    â€œI like it better in there,” he said. “It smells nicer. Has a nicer view, too.”
    I sighed. No hope of getting a straight answer.
    He scribbled graffiti the way I drew numbers, his hand squeezing the tip.
    Thayer would tap my arm and say, “Check it.” He would stare at a fence, at the block letters in thick black ink. Or a mailbox trimmed in balloon-shaped tags. He would