Compulsion by Heidi Ayarbe

way things stay the way they’re supposed to.
    That way, we win.
    Luc runs his fingers through his bed-head hair. “C’mon, Martin. Lighten up. It’s not really a big deal.”
    It is.
    I rub my eyes and look for the clock. It fell to the floor, coming unplugged when they poured into the room.
    Unplugged.
    Fuck.
    No time.
    I yank my watch off the nightstand. It’s stopped. I forgot to wind it. See, windup watches are better because batteries go dead. So you never have to worry about your watch not working.
    As long as you wind it.
    Shit.
    I slap it on my wrist even though it’s stopped.
    Time. Has. Stopped. The hands don’t move.
    What day is it?
    Friday.
    Winding days: Thursdays and Mondays.
    Yesterday I didn’t wind my watch.
    And now time has stopped.
    Tick-tock , tick-tock . I put the watch to my ear, aching to hear that sound, but nothing comes.
    I look around at the faces surrounding my bed. Kasey pushes her way through the crowd and tries to get everybody to go away. “Let him get ready,” she says. “Just give him five minutes.” God, I love Kase.
    One of the cheerleaders pats Kasey’s head like she’s some kind of puppy and says, “Oh so cute,” then shoves her aside.
    Dad and Mom huddle together in their robes. Dad smiles. “It’s almost impossible to surprise this guy. I don’t know how you pulled it off.”
    Mom looks tired, distracted. She leans closer into Dad, like this is a home invasion. I wonder if anybody else notices the quiver in her lips. I’ve got to get them out of here. I don’t know if it’s to spare Mom or to spare us the embarrassment of Mom.
    Tanya tugs on my arm. “Let’s go. We’re going to the Nugget for a breakfast banquet.” Everybody chants our soccer song—one we took from Manchester United.
If you want to go to heaven when you die
Keep the Carson High flag flying high;
Get yourself a Senator bonnet;
And put “F*** Bishop Gorman” on it;
If you want to go to heaven when you die.
    “Why bonnet ?” Kase asked once.
    “Because no other article of clothing rhymes with ‘on it,’ ” I told her.
    Nobody else at school cares. And three years ago, for the final game, everybody showed up in bonnets. Now it’s our soccer tradition at the school for home games. It’s absolutely insane—like whatever Luc does, goes. “Power,” Luc says. Luc’s the guy who could weave gold out of air and get the president to wear the invisible clothes. It just doesn’t make him a better soccer player.
    “C’mon, Martin. I’m famished.” Luc yanks me out of bed all the way, and the cheerleaders laugh. He leans into me. “Relax. It’s not a big deal, okay?”
    “Tighty whiteys!” They giggle.
    I hurry and pull on a pair of sweats.
    Out of order.
    I need time—to work out the numbers. Then sock, sock, sweats, shirt, then shoes. I freeze, trying to find a way to reverse everything—make it all okay.
    They’re messing up the magic.
    They shove me downstairs, blocking the grandfather clock, pushing me out the door before I can do anything the way I’m supposed to.
    It’s still too dark—a starless blackness.
    I can’t go.
    I push my way toward the front door, my fingers brushing the flamingo’s beak. I’m supposed to go back inside. Touch beak. Go inside. My fingers tingle. But they grab me and shove me down the walk.
    The streetlight sputters.
    I just need to stop. Stop. Breathe. Count. And get things okay.
    Goddamned light. It shouldn’t sputter.
    I need to wait for the light.
    Wait until dawn.
    Start. Over.
    My fingers start to burn. I touched the beak. I have to go inside.
    Instead, I’m crammed in the back of someone’s car with Tanya on my lap. The air is impregnated with the smell of overripe guava and tangy citrus—like the produce section of Supermercado Chalo on Sundays, where Luc’s mom buys these funky tropical fruits. I breathe through my mouth but then taste the fruity air particles and have to swallow back the acidic bile that has worked its way up