Needy Little Things
Channelle Desamours
For my readers.
As strong, resilient, and magical as you are, may you still receive the love, protection, and softness you so very much deserve.
CHAPTER 1
I spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about brains. It’s to the point where I’ve started to empathize with the zombies in horror movies. Not that I have any interest in eating brains—I’m just preoccupied with how they work, how mine is different, and what it’d be like to have a normal one.
People love to be like There’s no such thing as normal, and for the most part, I agree. I do. But let’s be real, knowing what people need before they know they need it? That’s some next-level stuff. And trust, I’ve browsed all the forums: audio hallucinators, mind readers, psychics. There may be a label out there that suits me, but I haven’t found it yet.
Paper clip. Crayon. Shoelace. Chewing gum.
Dr. Stone clears her throat and side-eyes me for the third time this period. I stop tapping my pencil on my desk and angle it as if I intend to write, even though she and I both know this notebook is staying blank.
Balloon. Chewing gum. Tennis racket. Chewing gum.
I fidget in my seat. Lean forward until the back legs of my chair lift from the floor.
Chewing gum. Lanyard. Gloves. Chewing gum. Gum. GUM.
The words fill my skull until I think it may crack and spill its contents, like a broken candy machine. I scratch my neck, trying to resist before shoving my hand into my bloated red duffel, dubbed “Santa Bag” by my little brother. It’s full of random items meant to save me from moments like this. My fingers grasp the familiar foil wrapper of the stick of spearmint I tossed in last week. I get out of my seat and slam it on Corbin’s desk.
“Is there a problem, Sariyah?” Dr. Stone asks, her patience with me about as thin as dental floss.
“No, ma’am. Just a fly.”
My bootleg little ability doesn’t come with any fancy visions or reasons why people will need the things they do, so while she continues droning on about spinning objects or whatever, I watch Corbin out of the corner of my eye. There’s no telling if he’ll use my donation this class period, or even this week, but my curiosity quiets the other needs some. Maybe he’s about to get paired up with his crush and had a garlicky lunch. Or maybe it’ll help him focus. He’s the only one in this class doing worse than me.
He looks around before sneaking the gum into his mouth, only to then smack on it like a cow. Little dots of saliva sprinkle his desk. If I hang around after class, no doubt I’ll sense a need for disinfectant as whoever sits there next approaches. The girl in front of him leans back and stretches. She flips her ponytail over her shoulder and accidentally knocks Corbin’s abstract art project onto the floor where it breaks into two sad pieces. She doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, and Corbin doesn’t say anything. He quietly picks it up and stares at the remains until suddenly his eyes go wide. His jaw muscles bulge and relax as he chomps the gum. I assume he’s trying to work the last remnants of flavor from it until I see him raise his fingers to his lips and pull away with a sticky, slobbery chunk.
“You cannot be serious,” I say, as he uses the gum to repair his ugly little project.
The entire class turns their heads to look at me.
“My bad.”
“Nope. Sorry, Sariyah. Two strikes, you’re out. Disrupting the learning of others is where I draw the line. I’ll be making a call home.”
A guy in the front row takes off his hat and ruffles his hair. “Been a minute since you watched a baseball game, huh, Dr. Stone?”
Laughter erupts throughout the room and I wait for Dr. Stone to announce that he’ll be getting a call home, too, but the bell rings before she can get everyone settled.
Corbin waves his unhygienic project in my face on his way out. “Hey, thanks for the gum!”
I give him a tight smile and thumbs-up, then take my time gathering my things. My mind is an endless loop of the immediate or future needs of the people around me. Tangible, everyday items … usually. Intrusive thoughts that pester me relentlessly until (a) I fulfill the needs, (b) they meld into a crippling migraine, or (c) the person with the need moves out of range of the anomaly that is my brain—a range that I have determined to be twenty-one feet, three inches. Such a distance is, unfortunately, impossible to achieve in the cramped classrooms of East Lake High and 100 percent the reason my grades are a mess. How am I supposed to learn about—I glance at the whiteboard—centripetal force when Nevaeh needs potting soil, Ayo needs a cotton swab, and Dr. Stone needs a stapler?
Before venturing into the hall, I toss a mini pack of Lysol wipes on Corbin’s seat, jab my squishy orange earplugs into my ears, and put my ear defenders over those. They won’t drown out the needs, but at least I won’t have to process them and the latest school gossip at the same time.
Toothpick. Mirror. Paper. Condom. EpiPen. Dryer sheet. Deodorant.
Funny how EpiPen tried to sneak its way in one ear and out the other while Corbin’s chewing gum wanted to holler like a toddler who dropped their lollipop in the sandbox. It’s no use trying to pinpoint who’s walking around with some ticking time bomb allergy. Not with so many people around. And it’s not like I have an EpiPen anyway. I’m pretty good at getting my hands on strange or hard-to-come-by things, but prescription meds are a territory I have no plans to trespass through.