A Taxonomy of Love by Rachael Allen (6)

Fact: Full-body tics suck.

It didn’t hurt the first time. It does now. I wait for it like I’m waiting for my own execution, the moment when the skin over my ribs and hipbone feels so warm that I can’t fight it anymore. My body snaps to the side, feels like it’s snapping in half. My hip tries to slap my ribcage a vicious high five, and my head bobbles with the aftershock. And it hurts. Neck, back, abs, everything. I’m sore all over.

I’m putting my hands on the table to steady myself when my body whips in the opposite direction, not once, but twice. And the second one is a real beast. I rub the back of my neck as I work my way back to a sitting position in my chair. Both Pam and Mimi are watching me with their best Concerned Mom Faces.

“So, I guess that’s why I’m taking this, huh?” I attempt a grin, but neither of them laughs at my feeble joke.

The pill sits on the place mat in front of me. It’s the color of lichen and mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, pistachios and luna moth wings, with the medication name chiseled into one side and “25 mg” on the other.

“Let me get you some water,” says Pam. It makes moms feel better when they’re doing something.

She fills a glass and sets it beside the pill.

“There you go.”

“Thanks.”

And we’re back to the tag-team staredown. I now know what the lightning bug on the inside of the jar feels like.

“You know this is because we feel like there’s no other option,” says Pam.

“I know.”

I get how scary this is for them. The full-body tics are so intense, they thought for sure I was having seizures when they started up a few weeks ago. And we’ve talked the subject of me and meds into the ground. My brain is still developing, Mimi says. My body is a temple, Pam says. But the tics were so bad I couldn’t get to sleep at night, even with my weighted blanket, and they came at me in tornado bursts that left me feeling like I’d been in a car accident without a seat belt. Then one day Pam found me crying on the floor of my room, wadded up in a ball of pain, and everyone got on the meds train real quick after that.

I take a big gulp of water and hold it in my mouth. Then I push the pill in between my lips and swish it to the back so it’s floating right over my throat. And I swallow. I sure hope this works—they don’t make drugs specifically for Tourette’s syndrome, so it’s kind of a toss-up, and the doctor said it could take a while to find something that works for me.

Mimi pats my hand. Pam nods her head and says, “Okay, then.”

And I have another tic. A full-on spring-loaded convulsion.

“Oh,” says Pam.

“Well, it’s not like it was going to be immediate,” I say.

“Of course not,” says Mimi, and I don’t miss the look she shoots Pam across the table. “So, listen. You tell us if you feel sick or anything, okay, honey bear? Any side effects at all.”

Pam nods furiously. “I’ve been reading all the Tourette’smom forums, and sometimes kids will get on the wrong meds and do really terrifying things, like try to jump off the roof.”

She puts her hand to my forehead, like it’s a scientifically proven way to gauge roof-jumping tendencies.

“I’m not going to jump off the roof,” I say.

They go back to eyeing me like I’m some kind of petri dish project. Again.

“Okay, I’m gonna go see if Hope wants to ride bikes or play basketball or something.”

Anything. I would do anything to get out of here before I drown in sympathetic scrutiny. I wave my way out the door before either of them can think of a reason to keep me.

I know I’m lucky to have Pam, but whenever she goes all supermom, it makes me wonder about my real mom. I used to try to Google her and stuff, but I could never find her. I don’t know. Maybe she goes by a stage name.

I wish I could remember more about what she was like. Dean told me she was a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, which I guess means she turned Dad’s world upside down by making him shoplift cotton candy or dance around in the rain or something. That’s what happens in the movies, anyway. But the movies don’t ever take you out past the Happily Ever After. They don’t show you what happens next.

Apparently, Manic Pixie Dream Girls aren’t built for dinner on the table at five or car-pool lines or small-town gossip. Or kids. So they have to choose, I guess. Tamp down all the light inside them and be everything for everyone else with smiles that never reach their eyes. Or tear themselves in half so they can fly away and keep their souls.

I want to think it tore my mom to pieces to leave us, even if I can barely remember any of it. I know it must have been hard. But I’m glad she chose to keep her soul, I really am. I like to imagine her somewhere happy. So, I’m fine with it. Really. I’m totally good. Better than good—I’m great.

When I find Hope, she’s in her garage, sitting by her bike and lacing up her shoes.

“It’s like you can read minds,” I say.

She grins and puts two fingers to her temples. “I sense that you want to ride to the Citgo with me and get a slushie.”

“You sense right.”

She stands, and I’m struck all over again by the fact that my nose only comes up to her chin now. When did she get so tall? She pulls at her tank top, where it’s suddenly tight across her boobs. Probably about the same time she got those.

I shake my head like I’m trying to get water out of my ears and run back home for my own bike. The tics don’t harass me nearly as much when I’m riding, so this slushie mission is going to be a relief on multiple levels. (Plus, slushies!)

As I wheel my bike up to Hope, she asks, “You okay, Spence?”

I’m going to tell her about the meds, but for now, I just want to be around my friend and not think about anything that has to do with me and my tics.

“Yeah. I’m great.”

We pedal off down the street together, and every now and then, I’ll have a tic that makes my bike swerve, but they mostly stay inside the threshold of pest territory. Hope’s right there beside me, just like every other day this summer. We go hiking or swimming or to the movies, but we’re always together. So, how come we’re not together? Maybe it’s because neither of us has the guts to ask. Maybe it’s because she’s waiting for me to do it. Could it really be that easy? If that’s all it takes, I mean, maybe I should try it. Like now.

As soon as we come to a complete stop, I go for it.

“Hey, Hope?” I say all cool-like as I nudge my kickstand into place with my foot.

She pulls off her helmet and sets it on her seat. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking, I mean, we hang out, like, all the time. And we’re really good friends, and we both like each other a lot.” Her eyes get big, but I keep going. “So, do you think we should—”

“Race each other to the slushie machine right now?! HECK YES, I DO.”

She sprints inside, and I don’t know what else to do, so I tear inside after her.