“Actually, it does. The pain caused by cutting causes the central nervous system and pituitary gland to release endorphins, which inhibit pain signals and produce feelings of euphoria. Simultaneously, the pain also hinders amygdala function, suppressing emotional overactivity.”
Calvin’s explanation did nothing to clear up why he’d cut himself. It sounded scientific, but it also sounded like bullshit, and it begged two questions: Why did he need to suppress his emotions, and what would he do if cutting stopped being enough? “It’s dangerous,” I said.
“Nah. It’s harmless.” Calvin shrugged, brushing me off. “I used to get hurt worse during wrestling practice.”
“If you say so,” I said, though I remained unconvinced.
Calvin fidgeted with his earbud cord, looking at the register and his papers and not at me.
I turned my attention back to our assignment, so we could finish and Calvin could leave. I shuffled the papers and said, “I should copy these so I can go over them at home.”
“Sure,” Calvin said. That and nothing more. I was angry at him for messing with me, but I also felt sorry for him. Yeah, he was a dick for making me think he’d remembered Tommy, but, though I didn’t know why he’d done it, I didn’t get the impression he’d acted out of malice.
I spread the pages on the floor and snapped pictures of them with my phone. Calvin stood close to me—too close—and each time I scooted away, he edged even nearer. Clearly he lacked a basic understanding of personal space. When I finished, I returned his papers.
“I should go,” Calvin said. “It’s a long bike ride home.”
“You rode your bike here? How far is that?”
“A few miles. No big deal.” He stood near the door but didn’t leave. “You doing anything over the break?”
“Not really,” I said. “I’m trying to forget it’s almost Christmas.”
“You should take my number.”
“Why?”
“In case you want to work on our roller coaster.”
Against my better judgment, I unlocked my phone and handed it to him. When he returned it, I said, “Have a good Christmas,” though I was thinking, Try not to cut yourself.
“Hey, Ozzie?” Calvin called as I turned back toward the register; Mrs. Petridis would kill me if I didn’t finish shelving before we closed.
“What?”
“I’m really sorry about Tommy.”
Calvin stood half-in and half-out of the store, wearing his baggy jeans and hoodie, his hands shoved in his pockets, and his face angled down. His messy hair looked weedy, like he hadn’t bothered to brush it in weeks, and he looked up at me through his lashes.
“Whatever,” I said. “Just . . . don’t pull anything like that again and we won’t have a problem.”
“That’s not . . .” Calvin shook his head. “I mean, I’m sorry he’s gone.”
Calvin looked like such a lost soul. His hunched back and bent shoulders and drooping head gave him away. Like in a world of seven billion people, he felt completely isolated from everyone. Calvin stared at me for a long, strangled second before walking out of the store. I watched him through the windows as he mounted his bike and peddled away.
5,560,000,000 LY
I FOUND MY MOM SHARPENING knives in the garage when I got home from work. I’d always thought my mother was the most beautiful woman on the planet. Straight dark hair; intelligent, slightly devious eyes, like she was smarter than you and knew it. My anger at her over the divorce hadn’t dulled that feeling, though she did look sinister sitting in a lawn chair next to her sedan, dragging a long carving knife across the surface of the whetstone in silence.
“Feeling stabby?” I asked. Since my parents had announced their divorce, I’d tried to avoid my mom whenever possible. Maybe I was treating her unfairly, but she was the one who’d pushed Dad for the divorce, and blaming her took less effort than trying to understand her.
Mom looked up. I thought she’d heard me pull into the driveway, but she froze like I’d snuck up on her. “What?” She glanced at the knife in her hand. “Oh. They needed sharpening.”
“Right. Well, if Dad winds up dead and full of holes at the bottom of a canal, the police might find this moderately suspicious.”
Mom rolled her eyes and continued working on the knife. She drew the blade slowly and precisely across the whetstone, the measured sound hypnotizing. “I’m not planning to murder your father, Ozzie.” She paused for a moment. “At least not today.”
Maybe I would’ve laughed if she weren’t surrounded by an arsenal.
“Why aren’t you working inside? It’s hot as balls out here.”
“I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” she said, her tone implying that I’d interrupted her. Whatever. I was sweaty from unpacking the extra stock Mrs. Petridis had ordered for the holidays and answering stupid questions posed by deliberately clueless customers, and all I wanted at that moment was to take a shower.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Leftovers.”
“Oh boy.”
Mom tested the edge of her knife against her thumb. Satisfied, she set it aside and chose a delicate paring knife. “You and Renny are welcome to prepare your own meals if you’re unhappy with mine.”
I figured it unwise to challenge my mother while she was armed. “It’s fine. Pot roast is always better the third time.” I watched her work and had to admit there was something soothing about the repetitive motion and the soft scrape of metal against stone. “Besides, remember what happened the last time Renny tried to cook?”
Mom pursed her lips. “There’s still chicken stuck to the ceiling.”
This was our longest conversation in weeks, and I couldn’t wait to end it. I edged toward the door. “Yeah, so enjoy your nonmurdery knife sharpening. I’m off to wash away the retail stink before it sticks permanently.”
Mom paused. “Oh, Ozzie, I almost forgot—”
“To tell me we’ve won the lottery and you’re buying me a new car? Gosh, Mom, thanks!”
“To talk to you about your therapy.”
I stopped my hand on its way to the knob and stared at my mother’s bare feet. “Sorry, those discussions are confidential.”
Mom set the knife and stone aside and leveled the full power of her guilt-inducing stare at me. My mother had two superpowers: the ability to be in two places at once, and that glare. She didn’t have to remind me that she’d carried me for eight months and clothed me and fed me for seventeen years. Her stare said it for her.
“You need to stop playing musical psychologists, Ozzie.”
“It’s been a long day. Can we talk about this another time?”
“We’re not talking,” she said. “I’m telling you that if you don’t find a permanent therapist to stick with, I’m going to select one for you.”
My mother and I may not have had much in common, but the one quality we did share was our stubbornness. “It’s not my fault every doctor you send me to is incompetent.”
“Now I am feeling stabby,” Mom said, mostly to herself, and I was grateful she’d set her knives down, though they were still within easy reach. “Enough excuses, Ozzie. Choose a doctor. We will not have this discussion again.”
I snorted. “A discussion implies a two-way stream of words in which my input is equally valued.”
Mom shook her head. “Your grandmother is laughing in her grave right now.”