Obsessed Page 3

  And with this movement the world falls immediately and completely silent. The sharp pain and noises fade away into a vapor, disappearing as quickly and unexpectedly as they appeared. I lower myself into a sitting position, hang my head heavily between my knees. An ant crawls across the heel of my shoe, and with a long exhale I swirl a few early autumn leaves around on the ground. Cracks cause brain cancer.

  I knew it.

  “Allison, is that you?” I look up from my thoughts to see my friend and cross-country teammate Lindsey approaching with a concerned look on her face. Crap. “What are you doing? Are you okay?” Caught by complete surprise, I leap from my perch on the sidewalk and frantically scan the horizon, searching for a plausible excuse.

  “I . . .” Why am I on the ground? Alone. In the middle of third period.

  “Oh my gosh, you have dirt all over you! What happened?”

  “I . . . fell!” Classic. “I was just walking along and got all tripped up on my flip-flops here,” I say, gesturing at the golden culprits. “I’m okay now, though. No worries.” I nod at her to show just how okay I am.

  “I guess it’s fine to laugh at you, then, since you’re not actually hurt, right?” she teases with a smile. “Why aren’t you in class?” she asks, extending her arm to help me up. Her vibrant red hair is on fire in the sunlight.

  I accept her hand and we both groan as she pulls me to my feet. “I got called down to the office during Civics,” I explain, wiping off pieces of gravel and dirt stuck to my jeans. “I’m headed there now.”

  “Oh, me too! I think it’s for some award. Ms. Michaels was telling me about it yesterday.” She stares at me, smiles, and tightens her ponytail. “I’ll walk with you.” My eyes look up at the long sidewalk ahead of us. Crack after crack after crack after crack.

  “No, no,” I say a bit too quickly and loudly. “I mean”—she looks at me—“I just have to . . . wait here. I’m . . . waiting for someone.” Sidewalk cracks cause cancer. Sidewalk cracks cause cancer.

  “Who are you waiting for?”

  “My friend,” I say over my thoughts. Lindsey’s continued blank stare tells me she isn’t satisfied. “Who is in the bathroom,” I overemphasize, pointing over my shoulder to the brick building on the slight hill behind us. “I’m waiting for her . . . while . . . she is in there.” My eyes dart around campus for ideas, inspiration, distractions. I am floundering. Lindsey’s eyebrows crease at me. “It might be a while. Her stomach, you know. No need to wait with me.”

  “Oh. Um, okay,” Lindsey says as she shoots me an offended glance and turns to continue walking toward the office. “Well, bye, then. See you in the office?” Her questioning voice trails off and she begins to move away.

  “Yep! Bye! Be right there!” I stretch my best Miss America smile across my face and wave at her until she has turned the corner out of sight. As she enters the main office, my shoulders fall and the smile drops off my face. Left in peace, Lindsey no longer a threat, my mind is once again flooded with the ominous message: Cracks cause brain cancer. I can feel the thought’s importance. And with a certainty I’ve never known before, deep in my gut, I feel the danger. I survey the sidewalk that lies ahead of me. Each crack is a rogue cell poised to mutate, a dangerous carcinogen waiting to pounce.

  Ten full minutes after the initial message, I am still standing in the same place on the path. Behind me lie dozens of cracks pockmarking the route back to class, while the path to the office looks just as treacherous. A minefield of cancerous cracks. Moving in either direction, it seems, is to tempt fate. I am surrounded.

  As I eye the obstacles, a glimmer of an idea flits into my consciousness. If this recent message is correct and cracks cause brain cancer, then maybe avoiding them altogether can help cure it? I tilt my head in questioning, but I can feel the thought gaining power, a snowball growing as it rolls downhill. If stepping on a crack means certain death, then avoiding a crack must mean certain life. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction! (Thank you, Isaac Newton.) I nod to myself, knowing I’m on the right track, and allow an almost imperceptible smile to pull at my cheeks for the first time today. If I can avoid all the cracks on the sidewalk, I can stop the progression of my cancer. Or maybe even cure it!

  I’ve discovered the truth: Cracks may cause cancer, but avoiding them helps cure it. And I’m free! Free at last! Bolstered with renewed confidence at the promise of safety ahead, I delicately proceed toward the office, avoiding all the cracks in the path along the way. Relief sweeps through me as I step over one crack, two cracks, three. I don’t know why or how cracks are connected to cancer, but I do know that escaping them brings me a welcome swell of calm. For the first time since waking up from my dream this morning, I feel in control of my future. I have an escape route. As I open the doors to the main office, I look over my right shoulder at the concrete path leading down from Mr. Roberts’s classroom and feel a wave of pride for having discovered the relationship between sidewalk cracks and brain cancer. I’m taking this situation into my own hands.

  The administrative office building smells like printer paper and cleaning products. As I walk through the lobby, my eyes scan the familiar whitewashed walls covered in plaques and pictures from throughout the school’s history. The air is filled with a chorus of ringing phones, copy machines, and polite female voices. I smile shyly at a grumpy-faced woman in a sweatshirt featuring a litter of kittens in a basket with a giant bow. She glares at me through thick red-rimmed reading glasses.

  “Hi, I’m here to . . . Well, I was called up . . .”

  “Hey there, Allison. Did you get lost?” Our school principal, Mr. Castillo, greets me from the other side of the office. “You kind of missed the party, but come on, come on, I can tell you about it in my office.” With a second glance at the kitten sweatshirt, I hurry after him down a long hallway. He is wearing a tweed jacket with elbow pads like a misplaced European fox hunter. We pass the mysterious teachers’ lounge, adorned somewhat sparsely with a microwave and mismatched couches from the 1970s. The grainy TV in the corner is blaring The Price Is Right. I imagine Ms. Griffin in there eating leftovers with saggy Mr. Roberts, giggling about a pop quiz she has planned for the afternoon.

  “Have you ever heard of the Young Artists Program?” Mr. Castillo asks as he ushers me into his office and gestures to one of the chairs across from his desk. I shake my head, surveying the contents of his bookshelf, and he continues. “Here are the packets I provided the other students.” He hands me a navy folder embossed with golden letters that is thick with papers and brochures as he settles into his presidential oversized desk chair. “The Young Artists Program is a way to recognize high school art students of exceptional ability and promise. Each honors and Advanced Placement teacher in the state recommends one student from each grade who they feel excels.” His gray hair is thick but receding. As he talks, his bald forehead emphasizes his thick bushy brows and friendly blue eyes. “You have been nominated by Ms. Michaels in the individual-piece category as well as for your overall portfolio.” He looks at me and, smiling widely, smacks his hand on his leg. “Congratulations! I hope you know what an honor it is to even be nominated. And twice!” His eyes grin at me across an imposing wooden desk.

  “Oh, wow, that’s so . . . great! Thank you!” I have never heard of the Young Artists Program, but Mr. Castillo’s excited expression tells me I am expected to act interested. I love art class and I love Ms. Michaels. My heart thinks about a small pump of happiness, but it’s quieted quickly by my brain. There is no point in getting excited. I can avoid cracks all I want, but from the lump in my gut I know I’m still dying.

  “Yes, yes, well, additionally, the administration of each high school is permitted to select a handful of students who they feel best represent the . . . what was it?” He looks down his nose through his glasses at the sheet of paper on his desk. “The ‘artistic vitality and spirit’ of their school.” He sticks out his lips and nods, seemingly approving of the wording. “This year, yo
u have been selected to represent the sophomore class of Samuelson.” He pauses, perhaps for effect, perhaps waiting for a response.

  “Oh, nice. Wow. I don’t know what to—”

  “The program spans the summer,” he says, interrupting me. “Each student must . . .”

  Mr. Castillo continues his explanation as my eyes glide around his office. I’ve never been in here before. His desk is cluttered and crowded with six-inch-high stacks of paper. The wood-paneled walls boast framed pictures of Mr. Castillo with a former student who went on to play in the NFL, along with a large signed jersey. The thick dark curtains and oversized leather chairs make me feel like I’m in a cigar lounge rather than the office of a high school principal. Looking down, I notice my chair is sitting on a small throw rug while my flip-flopped feet are stretched out in front of me onto the black-and-white floor. They are extended casually, crossing over multiple tiles, rolled slightly to the side against the cool surface. The picture freezes in my mind like a Polaroid and the world stops. Mr. Castillo’s voice disappears into the background and my entire being is focused on the two limbs that seem to have once again doomed me to death. Looking at my feet on the floor, I don’t see my bright pink painted toenails or the wear on the edges of my favorite shoes. I see the grout-filled spaces between the individual tiles. I see cracks. Hundreds, thousands of cracks. Vertical, horizontal. They are everywhere. Frantic, I scramble up onto the aged leather chair, into a tight ball, my legs multiple feet above the dangerous floor. My heart pounds in a spasm of panic as I look out over the sea of cancer below. How do I know which cracks are the dangerous ones? I’ve only been paying attention to the gaps between concrete slabs. But now, here we have the sidewalk crack’s close cousin: cracks in tile floors. My brain begins spinning, whizzing with questions. What about the spaces between planks in hardwood floors? And what about the cracks within each sidewalk slab—the natural cracks caused by years of exposure to the elements? I have been provided no specifics along with my anonymous inspiration, and my mind is now feasting on the possibilities. Looking down at the tiled floor, I nod to myself, knowing the truth. From now on, all cracks are created equal.

  “This is genuinely something to be proud of, Allison. I encourage you to seize this opportunity and make the most of it. We are very proud of you.”

  I hear his words but cannot bring myself to speak. My mind is tangled within itself and overwhelmed by the size of my new discovery and all its implications. I look down at my fingernails and fidget with an inflamed, angry hangnail.

  “Allison? Is everything all right?” I glance up at him. He is inclining his head toward me meaningfully. The overhead lights reflect off his forehead.

  “What? Yes. Yes, yes. I’m sorry, Mr. Castillo.” I see his eyes shift obviously to my feet, which are planted safely, and clearly inappropriately, on the leather cushion. Sheepishly, I slide my legs down from the chair, careful to ensure they rest safely on the small rug below, protected by its fabric from the cracks beneath it. “I’m just exhausted. With practice, studying. You know me, just working too hard.” I humor him with a chuckle and smile across the desk. “Thank you for thinking of me for this opportunity.” I need to get out of this office. I need to get away from the sea of cracks. Without looking away from him or dropping my smile, I quietly gather my book bag and purse from the floor and pull them closer to my feet. “I’m so excited to learn more about the program.” In one awkward motion, I lift my bags, stand, and turn toward the door. I step to the edge of the small protective carpet. “It seems like it will be such a good learning experience,” I throw back at him over my shoulder. There is a three-foot chasm of cracks between the safety of the throw rug and the thin carpet of the hallway. “Please tell Ms. Michaels that I appreciate the nomination.” It seems close enough to jump, but I know that my loaded book bag is going to weigh me down significantly. Behind me, Mr. Castillo is clearing his throat to speak again. I can feel him rising in his seat, about to call me back to one of his leather chairs. Dipped into a slight crouch, I rock back and with a little jump push off hard with my right foot. I land cleanly, if clumsily, in the hallway and, still falling forward, pull Mr. Castillo’s door closed behind me. It slams louder than I intend. “Thank you again!” I yell through the window in his door with a wave. He is half standing behind his desk, one eyebrow raised. I scurry into the hallway and clench my teeth as I walk as fast as possible out of the building.

  The warm southern air rushes into my lungs. Even in the first few days of October, the sun carries on with the strength of summer. I’ve placed both my feet safely in two adjacent sidewalk squares with the doors of the main office behind me. At the same time that I breathe a sigh of relief, I shudder with embarrassment thinking about Mr. Castillo’s face as I jumped out of his office.

  From a small courtyard ahead, six different breezeways snake off in multiple directions. I look closely at the concrete, scouring the surface for hints of cracks or crevices. It’s a minefield. Not only are there the obvious cracks between slabs, but each square is littered with additional veins of danger. The concrete has given in to the years of rain, snow, and sun—each square buckling into multiple pieces over the decades. I move back and forth on my toes, imagining the best path through the obstacles. Carefully, slowly, I lean forward, placing the toes of my left foot into the corner of the square in front of me. I hop four feet to the right, landing flat-footed in a large, crack-free slab. I continue skipping and hopping through the breezeway, tongue out for added power of concentration, slowly picking up speed and confidence.

  And then the bell rings.

  I know from experience that I have about thirty seconds before I am consumed in a tsunami of bodies. The entire school of more than two thousand students is getting ready to pour out of their classrooms onto this very pathway. I move as fast as I dare through the treacherous sidewalk, but the specter of cancer emanating from the cracks keeps me from getting too much farther. I must resign to my fate. Brace for impact.

  I hear the crowd before I see it. A swell of chattering students funneling through one main corridor. I plant my feet sternly in place and mentally map out my coming steps. It flashes across my mind that I will be walking alone to class, an enormous social faux pas. Mildly terrified as the mass sweeps me haphazardly toward the innumerable sidewalk cracks ahead, I am also strangely energized by the challenge. It’s me against cancer, and losing is not an option. Jostled and pushed from all directions, I am consumed by the living, breathing herd. I fold seamlessly, anonymously into the crowd. Behind a wall of bodies, I can barely see upcoming cracks until they are immediately upon me. I find myself jumping frantically from side to side, darting diagonally, then horizontally, through the knots of students. I smash into arms, book bags, metal poles, ignoring the blatant mean stares shot at me from every direction. About a hundred feet down the path, I leap dramatically, and what I hope is gracefully, through an opening in the crowd to reach the doors of the foreign-languages building. Landing perfectly on the toes of my right foot, I stretch out my arms, envisioning myself in Swan Lake. A full orchestra twinkles in the background. I hold the pose for a moment, lost in my thoughts, until my airborne leg is slammed hard by a passing trombone. The symphony in my head crashes to a halt, and I collide with the glass doors of the building.

  In all my time at Samuelson, I have never thought to examine the floors of the academic buildings. Until today. The air-conditioning dries the small beads of sweat on my forehead, and I crouch down to look closely at the stone floors, running my hand over their surface, feeling for a seam, a crease, a source of illness. Wiping my hand around the floor, I soon gather a small, unappealing pile of dust, hair, and paper scraps. “What the hell, Allison?” Steven Woodlock jars my shoulder hard with his leg as he passes. “Get out of the way!” I look up at him with a hurt scowl, but he is already disappearing down the hall. My hand is covered in a thin layer of floor residue. I gag when I see an old Band-Aid dangling from my pinky.

  The b
ustling crowd around me thins, signaling that I only have a few more moments before the final bell rings. I stand up with a triumphant smile and good news: There are no cracks in the school hallway floors. It seems to be one long contiguous slab of speckled gray rock. I walk freely down the hall, ignoring my throbbing trombone injury, smiling to myself at this pleasant surprise.

  I am in the doorway to Señora Ramirez’s room just as the bell rings. About half the class is already seated, but many are still unpacking their binders or chatting with friends. The room bursts with color, passion, excitement. She has a mannequin in the corner wearing lipstick and a flamenco dress and three Dora the Explorer piñatas hanging from the ceiling. The entire back wall is covered with last week’s homework assignments: drawings of our bedrooms labeled with that week’s themed vocabulary. She is playing loud pop music with lyrics recorded in Spanish. The room bubbles with positive energy.

  I catch my foot halfway through its first step into the room. Tile floors. The same danger that covered Mr. Castillo’s office sprawls threateningly across the Spanish classroom. How have I never noticed this horrible tile in all the time I’ve been a student here? In the school’s forty-year history, am I really the only one to know the truth about—

  “Siéntate, por favor, Allison.” Señora Ramirez beams at me from in front of the dry-erase board and gestures toward my open desk in the second row. She is slightly pudgy but in an endearing, maternal way: the kind of body that looks like it would give really good hugs.