Ten | newtmas

one

    Ten.

    I walk ten steps then stop. My mind races. Quickly, I snap my fingers ten times. Looking around me, I see the other kids in the hallway. They all try not to look at me. I see their faces; they know not to stare at me, so they just walk. Not a readable expression in sight.

    Looking back down again, I continue walking to class. I take another ten steps and repeat the process. Again, and again, and again.

    My school gave me a special pass that allows me to be late to class, so I don't worry when I'm the only one left in the hallway and the bells already rung. A school administrator walks past and nods in my direction. I purse my lips and nod once.

    Oh man. I wait till he's not looking then nod nine more times. I used to cry when I had to do more unexpected rounds of ten, but its been so long I can't even find it in my heart to cry anymore.

    It all started in freshman year. I had a decent amount of friends back then. We hung out, laughed. Like normal teenage boys. Then it all changed.

    Close to the middle of the year, I started doing things differently. Just small at first, like tapping my pen in even numbers, fixing books at the library to stand straight.

    Then by the time I was in tenth grade, I had started my tens. Its not all tens, though. I have to fix certain things that I see if they aren't arranged how I like it. Also, I've recently taken to cleaning and dusting my room every day. Things like that.

    I told my friends in sophomore year. At first they acted like it was no big deal, but I could tell they were uncomfortable. So, naturally, I cut myself off from them. They don't need a freak like me around. Besides, my OCD had already become my life.

    I finally make it to my class, twelfth grade english. I'm five minutes late, as usual, and the class looks up when I walk in. As usual. I take long steps to get to my desk, making sure I get there in less than ten.

    I get there in seven, sitting down and lightly tapping my feet to make it ten. Ms. Baret starts talking so nobody hears me when I snap my fingers. This whole thing has become a routine. I think anyone can guess that I like routine.

    I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and I take it out. The text is from my mother, asking if I need my anxiety medication.

    My mother likes to check all my pill bottles to make sure I'm taking them. I'm not sure if she doesn't believe me that I do take them or if she just doesn't want me forgetting, but either way she's obsessed with checking up on me. I guess its not a bad thing, but she's very overly worried about me. About everything. I think I get my anxiety from her.

    My father, on the other hand, is very uncomfortable with my... situation. He likes to avoid the topic. He'll pay for my meds, and all my appointments, but he doesn't quite enjoy discussing it openly. We don't even talk much, actually. I don't mind it. He's not the most interesting man.

    I quickly text my mom saying I don't need my medication, putting a heart next to it. The heart will probably calm her down.

    "Newton," Ms. Baret says my name in a tame yet warning voice. I quickly look up, terrified. She's standing next to me, the rest of the class busy working.

    "I'm collecting the homework. Also, if it wasn't an emergency, I've said no phones in class," she says. My heart is at a steady rate of forty thousand a minute. I reach into my backpack and grab my homework, shakily handing it to her. She takes it without even glancing at it.

    "I-I'm sorry Ms. Baret. My mom texted me about my anxiety medication," I tell her. Her face softens, clearly embarrassed.

    "Well, then, thats fine. Tell your mother I said hello. The class is doing questions one through eleven on page two hundred and fifty three of the textbook," she quickly murmurs before walking away.