Total Constant Order by Crissa-Jean Chappell

Author:Crissa-Jean Chappell
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780061972119
Publisher: HarperCollins

Round Numbers

The number ten was a round drum with a thin stick. Ten minutes into a test left me looking for numbers, as if counting could snap off the lights or fire up the pencil sharpener (not to mention the air-conditioning). How could I concentrate when I was dying in slow motion? One minute my teeth knocked together, as if I had morphed into an ice sculpture. The next minute, sweat dribbled down my back and I could smell everyone breathing on me, the air so warm and soupy.

Taking Paxil was like having the rug pulled out from under my brain cells. So I quit. I didn’t plan on popping pills for the rest of my life. I wanted to declare myself “cured” and go on without the neurochemical cocktail. I couldn’t tell Dr. Calaban because I was afraid she would prescribe more medication.

Dr. Calaban wanted me to be happy artificially. If that didn’t work, she’d toss me in the loony bin and turn me into an ever-smiling idiot.

Quitting made me feel sicker.

Paxil’s aftereffects had turned my body into a busted thermostat. I had sworn off the drug and it still hadn’t left my system. I was contaminated.

I glued my eyes to the door and prayed that I wouldn’t throw up.

At school, the windows were bolted with metal bars “for our safety.” I was thinking how those so-called security bars could trap us during a fire when the alarm buzzed. Ms. Armstrong didn’t even look up from her desk. I wished that she’d take off her stupid hat. Mama said it was bad luck wearing hats indoors.

“Second false alarm this week. Somebody thinks they’re funny,” Ms. Armstrong said, popping a grape in her mouth. Lately, she’d been eating during class, which didn’t seem fair. For example, she’d pull a wrinkly avocado out of her purse, as if it had grown there, and gobble the whole thing with a spoon. The last thing I needed to see was Ms. Armstrong chewing.

“What if it’s the real deal?” Thayer blurted. He never raised his hand. “We’d be torched like KFC. Then my mom would sue the school.”

Ms. Armstrong said, “Quiet, please,” which seemed pointless, given that a fire alarm was buzzing in the background. As she wove between the desks, she asked, “Did anyone lose power during last night’s storm?”

Thayer’s hand shot up. It was just him and this weird girl from England. Two hands.

Brit-girl wrinkled her nose. “It’s absolutely disgusting,” she said in this bitchy voice, reminding me of Posh Spice or the unfunny comedies on PBS. “You can’t even flush the toilet without running water.”

The boys in the back row, all burnouts, laughed and made flushing sounds with their mouths. Ms. Armstrong told them to shut up (or “restrain themselves”). Thayer rambled on about the evils of Florida Power and Light and how they should bury the power lines underground.

The lava in my stomach had morphed into needles. I squirmed in my chair, trying to find a position that didn’t prick me.

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