Read Compulsion for Free Online Page B

and count to forty-seven, then twenty-three. His voice gets louder, clearer.
    I look back down at my watch.
    7:33
    Seven thirty-three. Three primes. Seven plus three is ten plus three is thirteen. OK.
    Great number.
    I twist my watch around my wrist so I can’t see the face, just wanting to keep everything at 7:33 for the rest of the day.
    Focus.
    And it’s like going back to the time and numbers have screwed me up. I was okay for the last few weeks, then something got all fucked up. I retrace my steps from this morning and last night, trying to figure out when I messed up the routine, when the dead memory slipped in.
    It’s like finding a glitch in a computer program, then reprogramming it. That’s how my brain works; that’s what keeps the order.
    Seven thirty-three .
    I unclasp my watch and shove it into my backpack, ignoring the chill that climbs up my spine. I need to focus on the game—go timeless the next couple of days until I can get it under control. I just need my mind to jell and stop racing so much—too much rides on these next few days.
    My future.
    So I don’t need the time. The numbers.
    And for just a moment my mind believes what I tell it. Everything that happened this morning becomes a hazy memory, dulled by the thump of 3 Pesos. The tingling stops. The spiders sleep. I turn the volume up to seventeen so the music crowds the rest of my thoughts out. We rock our way into the school parking lot.

Nineteen Lost Time
    I look down at my wrist. No watch.
    Luc smiles, “Plenty of time, man. Seven forty-five.”
    Seven forty-five. Seven plus four is eleven minus five is six plus seven is thirteen. OK.
    We make it way before the first bell rings, walking through the side door, waiting for three people to go in ahead of us. Then I slip in the door without touching anything. I haven’t touched the handle of a school entrance or exit since I was a freshman.
    I think about how weird that is and that nobody’s ever noticed.
    Luc pauses in the doorway. We stand in that place between the outside door and inside door. I can tell Luc is trying to figure out how to make his entrance. He always makes an entrance, no matter where we go.
    “Time to shine,” he says.
    I have been holding my breath for thirteen seconds when he finally speaks. Thirteen. Good number.
    “C’mon.” We work our way to the indoor courtyard where half the school is gathered talking about Saturday’s game. Banners hang from rafters. Before I can get away, we’re shoved into a blizzard of blue and white streamers, confetti, and spray string. The cheerleaders and our other teammates surround us, and the Senator mascot does some weird break-dance routine. They circle us; we’re closed in with nowhere to go. I clutch my lunch sack, back myself against a column, and look for Luc.
    Tick-tock.
    Luc’s too busy doing some Colombian grind with Amy to find my escape route. I’m on my own.
    Fuck. Inhale. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one. Exhale. Then I begin again, counting the seconds, wiping the perspiration from my forehead, searching for a clock until I find one hanging just thirty feet in front of us.
    It’s like watching a reel of my last two days backward, searching through the times, trying to figure out what went wrong.
    The fucking streetlight.
    I shouldn’t have cheated and held my breath longer on thirty-seven. I should’ve just started counting again. The right way. Then I wouldn’t be here. And I can think of another million things I could’ve done to change this—make this not happen.
    I inhale again, but this time air doesn’t enter my lungs. All I breathe in is perfume, body odor, hair spray, and the canned smell of spray string. I gasp for breath and lean my head back against the column, looking up into the open space of the courtyard. Keep cool, I think . And it’s like I can hear myself talk—which isn’t myself—saying, “Right on. Yeah. We’re gonna rock it on Saturday.” But it feels like my airways have been