Compulsion Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hartman is expecting you at half past six. You better hurry if you expect to get there and back here before school starts.”
    “Late,” I mutter, the numbers blurring. 6:23. Goddamnit. 6:23.
    “What do you want for breakfast?” Mom peeks around the kitchen corner, her cheeks sunken and pale, a stark contrast to the raccoon-black circles. The car keys are on the table beside a crinkled map of Carson City with red X marks all over it. Christ. She probably drove all over Carson, retracing her steps from yesterday all night long again. She does that—looking for accidents she might’ve caused, unreported hits and runs, retracing her steps to stores, carrying receipts to prove she hasn’t stolen anything.
    In a state that’s open twenty-four hours, retracing steps is hell. Sometimes I think we should move to Utah. Everything there probably closes at five thirty or something.
    Dad brushes past me and sits at the table, opening up the paper to the business section. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot too. He mutters about bailouts, IRAs, oil prices, and wars. He takes it all personally, like the economy went to shit just to piss him off.
    “Jacob,” he says through the paper. “Get moving. One more school tardy and you get in-house suspension. And that means no soccer. No Saturday game. No scouts. No future.” And that last word— future —lingers in the air. He tosses me the “last warning” notice the school sent out to my parents. “Jacob . . .”
    I look at the dates with big red marks on them. Principal Vaughn has signed the bottom of the notice in tiny, squiggly letters. Fucking tight ass. “I’ve been late seven times?”
    Dad sets the newspaper on the table and nods. He does it kind of like Godzilla—like somebody’s shoved a steel rod in his spine, making his neck unmovable. “Mr. Hartman is waiting.” The game begins. Dad sets a nearly impos-
sible goal, and I run my ass off trying to make it. Today it’s called the Hartman Meats Time Trial, in which all opponents must get the family meat pack, turhamken included, put them in the deep freeze, and arrive at school on time. Your future depends on it .
    Seven tardies . Seven. OK.
    “Don’t mess this up.” Dad’s talking through the paper again. This means future. Mine or his, though, I’m not sure. “Mr. Hartman is waiting for you.”
    I stare at the clock, the minute hand slipping into place.
    6:25
    Six twenty-five. Six plus two is eight plus five is thirteen. OK.
    Mom looks from above the refrigerator door, her eyes pleading with me.
    I sometimes feel like this entire house is a wind-up toy just one turn away from exploding wires, levers, and coils all over the place.
    “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll get there.” I walk upstairs, skipping steps four and eight, and move toward the shower. I hesitate. I don’t have time.
    But I’ve got to have a shower.
    My palms sweat and I stand in front of the bathroom door, holding my breath, counting to seventeen, then starting over again. I do this three times.
    Fuck it.
    I don’t need to shower.
    Who gives a shit?
    But I need to shower.
    Fuck.
    It’s A schedule. I can be late—just a little bit.
    No big deal.
    Kasey stomps past me in the hallway, pinching her nose. “You know, in this country we shower every day and use a thing called deodorant .” She glares. She has to leave the house a good half hour earlier than I do. But it’s not like I can make Luc take her to school. Who knows who he’s gonna pick up? He’s King Carpool. Especially when he’s low on gas.
    “Kase, I took the bus when I was a freshman too.”
    One foot in the bathroom, one foot out. I almost burst out laughing because I am the hokey pokey incarnate. Fuck, I’m such a joke.
    She huffs. “Dad went Cracked Pepper and Olive Oil this morning when he saw the tardy notice. Lucky he didn’t see it last night, because that with the In-N-Out incident would’ve sent him totally Thin Crisps Quattro Formaggio.”
    We have a code for