Am I Normal Yet? (23 page)

We could already see a flurry of kids under the park's best and biggest conker tree.

“Race you,” Guy yelled and we both thrust ourselves in the direction of the sun, pulling each other back using the straps of our rucksacks, trying to laugh through our breathlessness. I dropped to the ground the moment we got there and started scouring – ignoring the looks of the children around me. Their pockets bulged with the brown conkers, the last of the season probably, their hands packed full of them, a conker wedged in-between each webbed gap of their fingers, cramming as much conker into their being as possible. They were amateurs though – all their picks were massive. Every conker champion knows big conkers are the weakest.

“You have three minutes to pick your warrior,” Guy yelled solemnly, from the other side of the tree.

“Who made you rule master?”

“The universe.”

I spotted a likely-looking conker nestled amongst a pile of browned leaves. It had been out of its pointy cocoon for a while by the looks of the skin. Nice and tough. I dived my hand into the pile of decomposing leaves and retrieved it.

BAD THOUGHT

Shouldn't you be worrying about your hands, Evie?

Good thought

Nope. Bugger off.

I squeezed the horse chestnut between my fingers, checking it for weaknesses. There were none. I used to bake mine in the oven when I was younger to make them harder. But this game was hardcore conkers, vanilla conkers, conkers without the CGI.

“Found one,” I called in a sing-song.

Guy held two in his hands, inspecting them closely and muttering to himself.

“Are you the conker whisperer or something?”

He grinned and dropped his spare one to the ground. “I am the whisperer of many things.”

“Yeah. Bullshit. You're the whisperer of bullshit.”

“Let's play over there.” Guy led me to this copse-like bit, right at the side of the clearing. Some trees had grown in on each other, forming a circle. Half the leaves still clung stubbornly to the branches, surrounding us in dappled sunlight. A log provided a makeshift bench and a scorched mark on the ground was a sign of bonfires past.

“This place is so cool,” I said, looking up at the sky through the gaps. “It's the sort of place I imagine an Enid Blyton story being set – you know? With goblins and fairies and such?”

Guy sat himself on the log and took his screwdriver out of his pocket. He held his conker up to the light, choosing the best place to pierce it. “Joel and I get stoned here quite often.”

I rolled my eyes. “Enid Blyton would be so proud.”

“Oh, she would. Her books are blatantly all about drugs. Who was that guy, Moonface? Blatantly off his tits. Chomping down all those pop biscuits – bet he had the munchies. And I bet the Magical Faraway Tree grew marijuana at some point.”

I was surprised he had read her books as a kid, though I guess Enid was pretty universal. “The problem with people who do drugs,” I said, “is that they think the rest of the world is taking drugs too.” I sat next to him on the log – just far away enough so our bums weren't touching.

“You should do drugs, they're amazing.”

“Trust me. My brain gives me enough of a rollercoaster ride without the aid of extra chemicals,” I said.

Guy nudged over so we were sitting cheek-to-cheek. He looked up from his half-pierced conker to give me one of his special smiles. “You know what? I can believe that.”

I blushed while he finished his conker off – threading the string through and tying a firm double knot at the bottom. I took his tools off him and got to work on my own conker.

“Hey,” I said, catching him trying to cook his over his lighter. “No cheating.”

Soon we were ready. We stood up, facing each other, our conkers braced for combat.

Guy cocked an eyebrow at me. “Is this weird? This is definitely weird.”

“Shut up, loser,” I replied, and I took aim and smashed my conker into his. It was a straight-on hit and it whirled round on his string. “Gotcha,” I yelled, delighted.

Guy bent over like he'd been shot. “Oooo, help,” he said. “She got me, she got me.”

I did a triumphant air punch and spun round, twirling through the air.

“Right, my turn. You hit me but you didn't destroy me.” Guy faced me again and I suddenly felt a bit scared – worried for my conker, wanting it to be okay. I looked up at his face and found him staring right at me. I caught my breath and stared back. There were flecks of grey in his eyes, flecks I never saw because they were usually so bloodshot. But today Guy's eyes were clear, intense, searching mine. I wanted his face nearer mine. I wanted the tip of his nose to brush against mine, nuzzling me gently, making room for his mouth.

Nobody's mouth had ever touched my mouth before. Sixteen and never been kissed. And not because I couldn't get a date for prom or whatever, but because the thought of brushing lips with another person had always horrified me… Until now.

Now my own lips thumped from the blood speeding into them. Guy tilted his head a bit, grinned cheekily and leaned in further.

I closed my eyes and felt the dappled sunlight burning through my eyelids.

SMASH.

My entire hand reverberated from the impact. Splinters of demolished conker rained down on my fingers like hailstones. My string swung emptily.

Guy whooped in delight.

“HE'S DONE IT. HE'S ONLY GONE AND BLOODY DONE IT. THE CROWD GOES WILD. THE CONKER CHAMPION IS GUY SMITHFIEEEEEELLLD.” He ran a victory lap around the copse, his arms raised above his head.

My body parts didn't know which was more confused – my brain, my heart, my empty lips, my shaking hands. In my humiliation, all I could do was laugh. “Rematch!” I yelled, loudly, hoping the noise would bury my disappointment. “I demand a rematch.”

“NEVER.”

He rugby tackled me, scooping me up and holding me upside-down over his back, repeating his victory lap.

“Put me down,” I squealed, in a voice so girly I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself.

Guy flung me down and I landed with a thump on my back on the soft grass. He landed on top of me – catching his body weight with his hands. His face was directly above mine, his body pinning me down. I could feel every blade of grass on my back, every beam of light on my face; I could see every pore of his open sculpted face.

His mouth was even closer than before. This time though, I didn't dare close my eyes. I looked at him, asking him questions with my stare.

What are we doing? Do you want to kiss me? Are you going to kiss me?

Guy looked lost. He readjusted his weight onto an elbow and used his spare hand to very slowly brush my face. From my temple, trailing down my cheek, lingering at the side of my mouth. My breath deserted me…

Was he? Was he?

Guy sat up. “Told you I would win.”

Disappointment seeped through me, like I'd wet myself with too much hope. I blinked a few times then I got up too and brushed my jeans off. “You just got lucky.”

“I better be going.”

With a quick gathering of his stuff, a “see you at college” and a wave, Guy stopped being the boy who was about to kiss me and became the spot in the distance.

I shouldn't have messaged him. He was two-up. I was two-down. It wasn't my turn. I sat in the copse for a while, watching the sun set, the day draw to a close. Reliving what'd happened. I
could
message, I supposed. After what had happened, surely it was fine.

Before I overthought it, I fired one off.

Hey, Conker Champ, I had fun today.

No kiss. I purposely didn't leave a kiss – well he hadn't.

As I walked home through the chilled air, I had a thought.

New thought

If I touch every streetlamp on the way back, he'll reply.

I brushed each one with my hand as I passed, regularly checking my phone as I did. No message. So I started brushing each street light twice.

My phone remained undisturbed.

By the time I'd got through my front door I'd been tapping each post six times, muttering “message message message message message message”. I don't know why it was six. But six just felt…right.

Rose was in the living room when I got in, watching TV.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

I evilled her. I hadn't forgotten her betrayal just yet. “Why? Want to tell Mum about that too?”

Her face crumpled. “I told her about the cleaning box for your own good, Evelyn. I'm worried about you. You seem…a bit wired.”

“I'm fine.”

“Want to watch a film together? It's still early.”

I did, I really did. I was just about to suggest a few titles but I stopped myself. I wasn't quite ready to stop being mad. “Not tonight.” I said it kindly, and sisters being sisters, she understood. She still looked sad though.

“Okay.”

No message by dinner. No message after dinner. Nothing at bedtime.

All the goodness that had been bubbling in my belly fizzled out. All the haze in my brain cleared. The bad thoughts launched themselves at me as I sat in bed, trying to read my book.

BAD THOUGHT

You touched leaves. Leaves! A dog could've peed on them!

BAD THOUGHT

He didn't kiss you because you stank of dog pee from the leaves.

BAD THOUGHT

Conkers are poisonous. You held them and then you had dinner and you only washed your hands once, and you may have passed some unwashed-off poison from your finger to your mouth.

BAD THOUGHT

You're going to get sick. You're going to get sick. You're going to get sick.

I got up and clambered desperately into the shower to wash the sweat bucketing from me. My legs were too shaky to stand so I huddled in the corner, the scalding water pouring down my face, smudging my make-up into my eyes. I grabbed my loofah and scrubbed and scrubbed my hands. I kept retching up tiny bits of nothing and watching it spiral down the plughole.

I was crying so hard I was surprised my family couldn't hear me over the drone of the pouring water. There was no knock though. They can't have heard. I knew I didn't have long to pull myself together – I couldn't stay in the bathroom for longer than twenty minutes without raising suspicion. I forced myself to stop blubbing and started to work on brushing my teeth, flossing my teeth, using two types of mouthwash.

As I padded back to my bedroom, cleaner than I'd been in ages, it really hit me.

WORSE THOUGHT

Oh, Evie, it really is coming back, isn't it?

The next day. No message. No sighting. If Guy was at college, he wasn't hanging in our regular spots.

The next day he sat with us at lunch but said nothing. He just slumped next to Joel, who was loudly discussing their set list and droning on about boring amps.

Guy didn't look at me once.

Next day. Two days before the gig. Another day of stony silence.

Then, at exactly 1 a.m., my phone buzzed and woke me.

You are still coming, aren't you?

I didn't reply. I did smile at my phone.

Maybe my mental health condition was chronic stupidity.

That, or delusion.

That, or plain old hope.

Hope is a mental health condition, right?

I was touching every street light I passed six times – glad Jane kept flaking on walking to college so I could do it in peace. I'd started having to leave the house twenty minutes earlier to fit it all in.

I raided my purse and bought a vat of antibacterial hand gel which I hid in my college locker.

I was twitchy, and uncertain and within days I'd lost weight as I worried away all my calories.

I should've rung the emergency doctor person. I should've told my family. I didn't even have to tell them in person, I could've left a note on the kitchen table.

Dear family,

It's back. I'm not coping. Send help.

Evie.

But I didn't.

Rational reasons I didn't tell anyone

1) Er…

Irrational reasons I didn't tell anyone

1) They were all so proud of me, of how I was doing. The other morning, when I was carefully pouring my medicine onto the spoon, Dad actually slapped me on the back, making me spill some down me. “You're doing so well, Eves,” he'd said. “Not long to go.”

2) Maybe it wasn't “back”. I was still functioning. I was still going to college, seeing my friends, doing my coursework. Yes, okay, I washed a bit more but I was still living an outwardly normal life. Like a swan gliding on a pond, from the surface I was a regular person – swimming through life – it was just my feet paddling madly under water, pummelling hard to stop me drowning. If I was still doing stuff, then the OCD wasn't really back, was it?

3) And it's not like I was doing all the same things as before. Especially after my cleaning box was confiscated. I'd never touched street lights before. I'd never counted to six before. And think how dirty street lights are – I mean, dogs pee on them like literally every day. I was still touching them. Maybe this was a sign of progress? Maybe I was doing my very own exposures?

Maybe I should insert a joke here about Denial being a river in Egypt?

4) If it was back, I'd have to up my medication again. I'd failed. I'd always be on it. I'd never know who I was.

5) If it was back than all the therapy hadn't worked. If it was back it meant it would never truly go away. If it was back I would always be like this. I would always have to fight, every day, to stop myself slipping down the slope to Crazysville. Just the thought of that was exhausting. If it
wasn't
back, then I was cured. I was normal again. I was just like everybody else. Everybody else, with their easy lives and normal problems and lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky.

6) If it was back, my friends might find out. They might not want to be my friends any more. Like what happened with Jane.