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  I slept with my dad’s old-school Walkman under my pillow, just to muffle the static between my ears. I tucked the blanket around me, all four corners. But nothing seemed to help.

  My chest felt clogged. I checked my alarm clock. According to its glow-in-the-dark digits, I had slept two hours and sixteen minutes. I grabbed my bathrobe, shrugged into the sleeves, and padded across the tile floor.

  There were fourteen steps from my bedroom to the office. Fourteen was an even number, so I was okay. I sat in front of Dad’s old computer. The keyboard sounded extra clackity as I typed in my password: Damnitall. My only e-mails were spam:

  “Receive good luck within thirty days.

  If you do not forward this letter to ten friends, you will suffer a horrible misfortune.”

  If I had already “received good luck,” how could things go wrong? Since I didn’t have ten friends, I hit delete.

  My eyes burned from lack of sleep. I considered going back to bed. I could try cough medicine, but I refused to take it, in case I nodded off and never woke up. I knew it sounded crazy, but I couldn’t stop worrying. I turned on the TV, hoping it would take my mind off the squeezing in my chest.

  The Weather Channel. Mama’s favorite. A frizzy anchorwoman stood in the rain, screaming into her mike. “It’s really blowing out here.” I hated the way newscasters talked about storms. They sounded like Ms. Armstrong gushing over the “elegance” of natural selection.

  Me, I preferred the elegance of counting. Not that my number obsession helped in the algebra department, where letters symbolized entire equations. It didn’t do much for earth science either, where I had already failed a test with a big fat zero. The note from Ms. Armstrong was crumpled at the bottom of my book bag. I had to hide it from Mama.

  I turned off the TV and I hopped on my bike, even though it was dark and the sky had started to sprinkle. I pedaled around the neighborhood, counting alligator walls. Those are what people built to keep reptiles out of their backyards. There were six.

  The sidewalk was dusty and cracked. I could feel pearls of sweat sliding down my neck. I cruised past burned-looking lawns and a cartoonish row of mailboxes. One was a headless parrot that looked as though it might flap its feathered wings and take off, giving new meaning to the term “air mail.” Next came a squat, concrete manatee, clutching the mailbox in its mitteny flippers.

  In Vermont, I could bike for miles without seeing another house. In Miami, it’s all cinder block malls, sweltering parking lots, intersecting freeways, roads, and lanes that Mama calls “urban sprawl.”

  There’s no decent bus or rail system, and the Metrorail, an aboveground subway, shuttles back and forth on a single line. Our suburb, Kendall, is filled with flat, manicured lawns and pools sparkling in the backyards. You won’t find many parks. Except those that charge admission.

  My parents had fought for as long as I could remember, but they didn’t split up until a couple months ago, a year after we moved here. I could’ve blamed the move for all their drama, but I knew better. If I had seen this move coming, I would’ve locked myself in the bathroom, the way freaky people barricaded themselves after reading a horoscope marinated in doom and gloom: “Lie low, play waiting game.”

  I biked around identical, quasi-Mediterranean houses, the windows X’ed with masking tape, as if that would protect them from hurricanes. You could buy shutters shaped like metal accordions. They were mucho expensive. Our house, with its maze of sliding glass doors, was too complicated for that kind of store-bought, Home Depot convenience. We stuck to old-fashioned plywood. Some people kept them up year-round. I couldn’t believe that they were willing to live in the dark, always worrying about the next storm.

  By the time I got home, it was pouring. Mama was bustling around the kitchen, checking everything a million times—the stove, the lights, the ever-present leaks. Maybe insomnia was passed down in my genes.

  “Is there a reason you’re riding your bike at two in the morning?” she asked.

  I stood, dripping all over the floor. “I needed some air.”

  Mama glared. “Couldn’t you get some air in here?”

  The house smelled like leftovers—the highlight of the refrigerator—something fried and reheated. Dad was better at domestic details. He used to cook all our meals. He taught me the definition of al dente pasta: If it sticks to the wall, it’s done. Once Mama took over, my school lunches were green apples shoved in grocery bags. She gave me a couple dollars to buy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the cafeteria. Dinner was “smush”—a dish that consisted of canned peas on instant rice—until I taught myself to cook from the back pages of Better Homes (meaning better homes than yours). Mama still ate tuna from the can, like a cat.

  And her control-freakishness was getting on my nerves. She never sat still. Mama dragged every portable container we owned and dumped them like a tag sale in the living room. I stared at a fondue pot about to overflow with rainwater.

  “Candles?” Mama asked, looking around. “In case the lights go out.”

  I told her to check the pantry.

  “Pantry?” Mama repeated, as if she’d never heard the word before.

  Did we have a pantry? The word sounded odd—almost dirty, four-lettered.

  Mama leaned across the table and fired up a cigarette. Despite the heat, she wore sweatpants that hung off the skinny handles of her hips. That’s one thing we have in common: our head-bumping height and lack of curves. Mama is a sharp, bony woman.

  Goop shone in her hair, which was scraped into a ponytail. I wanted to wear my hair long, but Mama said it tangled too easily.

  Mama took a drag and coughed so hard, I could hear froth in her throat.

  “Fin, we need to have a discussion,” she said.

  I counted the freckles below her collarbone. God, why couldn’t I have freckles? “Right now?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I flopped down beside Mama, ready for her to drop the bomb.

  “Your teacher called this afternoon,” she said.

  I scratched my hands. They tingled so badly, I wanted to lick them.

  “She’s concerned about you. Apparently she caught you doodling in class. I told her we would discuss the possibility of finding a tutor.”

  “Mama, it’s like the middle of the night. Can’t we talk about this tomorrow?”

  But once I heard her words, I knew there was nothing I could do. I leaned against the table, ignoring the tingling that had crawled up my arm.

  Mama glared at me with her coffee-isn’t-working-anymore face. “She also says that you’ve been skipping P.E.”

  “Who cares about P.E.?”

  “Well, I care. What is the reason for this?” Mama asked.

  I studied the clock above the oven. It flashed “12:00,” which I took for a bad sign. I let it blink three times before I spoke.

  “Mama, I have something to say.” I sucked in a breath. “I hate swimming.”

  “Fin, you used to love swimming in Lake Champlain.”

  “Well, this isn’t a lake. It’s a pool and it smells nasty. I’m probably going to get sick from the germs.”

  “Honey, it’s chlorinated. There aren’t any germs.”

  “It’s more than that,” I said. No stopping now. “Sometimes I get these thoughts.”

  Mama frowned. “What sort of thoughts?”

  “Like when I’m folding laundry. I’ll start worrying about folding the sleeves in a certain order.”

  Mama stared at the cigarette glowing between her fingers. “What do you mean a certain order?”

  “Well, if I’m getting ready for school. I’ll be brushing my teeth and then I’ll tell myself, if I don’t brush a certain number of times, something bad will happen.” Mentioning the ritual made me want to count again. I drummed the table three times.

  She got quiet. “Are you hearing voices?”

  I squeezed my fists. “I’m not crazy.”

  Mama took my hand. I cupped the other one on to
p to make it even. She said, “I don’t think you’re crazy, Fin. Sometimes when you don’t get enough sleep, your mind plays tricks on you.”

  “I’m not imagining things. When it tells me to do something—”

  “Who tells you? I thought you didn’t hear voices,” Mama said.

  This wasn’t going anywhere. I tried another approach. “Remember when I used to think there were monsters in my room? You would get out the ‘monster spray’ and banish them.”

  Mama looked away as though listening to a more interesting conversation someplace else.

  “It’s not like I believe in monsters anymore. I just worry all the time.”

  “Worry about what? The divorce?”

  “Everything,” I said.

  Mama grabbed an empty jelly jar on the table and tipped ash into it. “Well, I think we should find someone for you to talk to.”

  It took me two seconds to figure this out.

  “I’m not going to see a shrink,” I said. Their offices were full of crazy people. Maybe it was contagious.

  “Look, Fin,” Mama said. “I don’t know what else to do.” She ground out her cigarette. No wonder I couldn’t breathe. The house was clogged with toxic fumes. I needed to wash my hands, so I stood up to leave. Mama tried to hug me, but I broke away.

  “How long have you felt this way?” asked Mama. She sounded worried.

  “Ever since we moved, it’s been so much worse.”

  “You miss your father.”

  I nodded. Whatever.

  “You’d rather live in Vermont.”

  What was I supposed to say? I didn’t have to say anything. She didn’t want to hear it.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  I kept watching the clock. The numbers glowed.

  Mama slammed the table. “I told you to look at me.”

  My head was throbbing. My hands were throbbing.

  “Look here.”

  I peeled my gaze off the clock. I looked Mama straight in the eyes. When I was little, she used to count, “Three, two, one,” until I stopped messing around. She never made it to one.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” she said.

  Why bother? She wouldn’t believe me.

  “Fin.”

  “Just leave me alone, okay? You’re not getting it. And no stupid doctor is going to get it.”

  Mama slid her arm around me. “Please,” she said. “Help me understand.”

  Legally Blind

  I slouched in my creaking metal chair. The day had just started, and I was already counting the seconds to leave. Sharon Lubbitz had made a big deal about me breathing too loudly or sitting too close. She wiggled my desk, mumbling what she’d do if given a chance.

  “What if I shoved that pen in your eye?” Sharon whispered. Her braces glinted.

  “Shove a pen in my eye?” I echoed, just loud enough for Ms. Armstrong to hear.

  After that, I was moved to a corner desk near the busted window. I didn’t consider this a punishment. The desk was clean, a blank canvas.

  My new neighbor, Thayer Pinsky, tapped my shoulder a lot.

  “Quit it,” I whispered.

  He grinned. “Don’t you like boys?”

  “Not if they’re like you.”

  He actually looked hurt.

  I kept hearing Sharon’s words in my head. Pen, eye, pen, eye. They wouldn’t stop unless I took action. So I grabbed my pen, the tip sharp as a weapon, and lightly touched my eyelids. This didn’t do the trick. I drummed faster.

  Ms. Armstrong was watching me. Maybe she had called out a question. She seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  Her dirty look sent me over the edge. I combed my lashes with the dagger-tipped pen. My eyes itched like crazy. I rubbed them until the room blurred. Oh, God. I could tell by the awful, papery sensation under my left lid that I had pushed my contact lens where none had gone before.

  Panicking, I kneaded my fist into the aching socket. This only made it worse. Tears leaked out of my eyes and splatted on my paper.

  “Are you okay?” Thayer asked. He had been in the middle of another rant, telling Ms. Armstrong about some dead rapper, as if she cared. “His lyrics are ill, but his delivery and flow aren’t anything special,” I heard him say between sniffles. “Some of his tracks got weak-ass punches.”

  I blinked, rapid-fire. Finally, the contact dribbled out. Where it had landed I couldn’t guess. Now I had another problem. I couldn’t handle walking around with only one contact. Forget the fact that I couldn’t see straight. When I looked forward, a swirling fog hovered in every corner. I covered half my face with my hand. It didn’t help.

  One contact. Only one contact.

  So there was only one thing left to do. Flinching, I pinched the remaining contact from my eye and flicked it on the floor. No use saving it. They were disposable anyway. Mama made me get them last year when I couldn’t read the blackboard. I had been losing my sight so slowly, I had no idea. I didn’t start out wearing glasses before I got contacts because I didn’t know that I needed them. When I popped in the lenses, I remember staring at the trees out the window.

  “They have so many leaves,” I had said.

  Without my contacts, I couldn’t see anything. I needed to be two feet from a blackboard that others could read from twenty feet away.

  Ms. Armstrong caught me waving. “Do you have a question?”

  My mind summoned four hundred possibilities. I narrowed them down to one.

  “May I use the restroom?”

  The class laughed.

  “Loser,” I heard Sharon say. I couldn’t see her sneer, but I could imagine.

  “No more bathroom breaks,” Ms. Armstrong said.

  “It’s an emergency. My contact fell out.”

  For some reason, this always worked. The line came in handy, even for those who wore glasses.

  “For real?” said Thayer’s raspy voice. I noticed a boy-shaped blur fumbling in front of me. “I’ve got good eyes. I’ll help you find it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Hey, I don’t bite…hard,” he said.

  We hunched on the floor, raking the carpet with our fingernails.

  “I didn’t know you wore contacts,” he said.

  “Not on purpose,” I told him.

  “But you always hold your notes so close.”

  “What?”

  I had to get out of there. I grabbed my bag and scrambled past Thayer, bumping elbows as I cruised down the aisle. Somebody stuck out their foot and I tripped. More giggles as I gathered myself up. I slammed into the door before I found the handle.

  Outside, the sunlight burned. My school didn’t look anything like the cozy hallways I’d studied on cable. The covered walkways didn’t offer any UV protection. Our lockers weren’t full-length closets where you could store coats as well as books. Who wore coats? Instead, we got mailbox-size cubes and we had to buy our own locks. If they weren’t standard black, the principal would cut them off with a hacksaw. This actually happened when I picked out a hot pink lock, just to seem un-boring.

  The school reminded me of a parking garage. Replace the cars with rows of numbered doors and you get the idea. No grassy lawns where I could turn cartwheels or play Ultimate Frisbee (people had laughed when I asked if anyone was into it). Just a few cracked tennis courts and the icy glitter of broken glass. No wonder I considered the bathroom a place of solace.

  I stumbled inside the girls’ room and headed for the nearest stall. Those stupid girls would take forever. I pictured them outlining their lips, though it looked fake as hell. I could stay in my hiding spot for a while. I was safe as long as I was invisible.

  Pressing close to the wall, I made out words. Beneath I love Brandon McCormick (a particularly lush senior who inspired godlike worship) somebody had penciled, Not enough to keep you from vandalizing the bathroom.

  And underneath, in puffy little-girl script:

  If U luv him, have some class.

  Don�
��t write his name where U wipe your ass.

  When nobody sees you, it’s so much easier to be real.

  Think: Nobody knows U R here. Do they really know U?

  Did I really know them?

  There were twenty-three of us in my class. Which of them had decided, “I’ll bring a pen to the girls’ bathroom and express my deepest feelings”? I scanned the handwriting for clues. Who wrote in all capital letters? Who dotted their i’s with hearts? Some of the tags were signed NERS, which made me think of “nerve.”

  My eyes darted around, searching for my name. Apparently, my weirdness wasn’t worth mentioning.

  Burning clouds, shooting stars, three-eyed unicorns. Everything was cool as long as you didn’t take credit for it.

  The same concept applied to high school as a whole. For example, if a popular girl like Sharon Lubbitz said, “I like your shoes,” it could mean one of the following:

  • You’re trying too hard.

  • You should burn those nasty Chuck Taylors.

  • I don’t really like your shoes. I’m saying this so you’ll turn around and tell me, “Don’t mention my feet. They’re the size of Ping-Pong paddles. I should really see a plastic surgeon.”

  That’s the way things worked. Somebody paid you a compliment and you pretended it didn’t matter. But it did matter. It mattered a lot. Still, if you scored well on a math test, you said, “My brother helped me study.” If a boy smiled in your direction, you said, “He needs glasses.” If you sang better than everybody at assembly, you said, “That wasn’t me.” And that’s true. It’s never you.

  Taking credit was like taping a bull’s-eye to your back. You were just asking for trouble. Better put yourself down before somebody beats you to it.

  NERS broke the rules, signing all her felt-tipped doodles. The bold-faced letters floated beneath the wall’s best cartoons. I couldn’t figure out if NERS was a name or just extra-long initials. She drew scenes from nature. Not counterfeit palm trees and pink flamingos. She sketched mangrove roots that curled around the doorframe. Manatees hovered like Goodyear blimps.

  Who was dumb enough to take credit for their own drawings? NERS made a museum out of the bathroom wall. So what if they drew penises in the manatee’s flippers?