Peeves

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I’m not going to start at the beginning because that would be my birth and it’s probably gross and boring and I don’t actually remember it. And I’ll also save you the full “origin story” of my superhuman ability to be freaked out. The “previously on” version is that I woke up one night two years ago and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I started dry-heaving and sweating and crying and shaking. I was so convinced I was dying that my parents rushed me to the ER. When the doctor saw me, she literally laughed in my face. “It was just a panic attack.” As if that made it feel any less like a near-death experience. With the scribble of a pen and a rip off a prescription pad, she assured me it would most likely be a one-time thing. But those sounds are something I’ve been very used to hearing ever since.

And I still wake up in a panic some nights. Except now I’m in a different home. Or homes, really, because the divorce ended with two of them. And even though that went down a few months ago, it’s just one more trigger for the panic to pull. Once I start to worry, it’s only a matter of time. And so many things make me worry. It can start with a comment or an irritation or even a noise or a smell, and then I’m off. I can’t stop it. “You’re too young to be so stressed out,” is what my parents would say. But any twelve-year-old can tell you that grown-ups don’t have a monopoly on grown-up feelings. That is, if any twelve-year-old were willing to talk about it. That was one of my problems. Maybe my biggest problem.

But that was before the “incident” in Old Wayford. Before the end of life as I knew it.

And that ending actually begins with my name.

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“Are you Steve?” came a surprisingly pleasant voice.

It was the first day at my new school, I was sitting in the principal’s office, waiting to be shown around, and I was trying to decide which seat I should get used to just in case I wound up being sent to the office as much as I did at my last school. It’s bad enough being new, but I was also transferring mid-semester, which is kind of like walking into the middle of a movie and not knowing any of the setup. My leg was bouncing uncontrollably, a clear sign that I was anxious about being dragged around by some random kid who would have to pretend to be nice to me all day.

I was predicting that I’d be completely abandoned by third period.

But then I heard my name called.

I looked up to see a smile.

A real smile. Not a “grown-ups are making me do this” smile.

“I’m Suzie. Suzie Minkle. Welcome to New Old Wayford Middle School!”

My face flushed and my throat closed up before I could even croak out a mumbled, “Slim Pickings.”

She cocked her head curiously, which made her dark, natural curls bounce like they were alive and excited to be there. Then she laughed, but not at my expense. “I guess you have a point. It’s not like there are a lot of schools to go to in town.”

I blinked at her as if trying to clear floaters from my eyes. Suzie was one of only a handful of black kids I’d seen walking into this school, but if she felt the slightest bit like an outsider, I couldn’t tell. She was wearing a Twenty One Pilots T-shirt under a blue mesh cover-up with yoga trousers and red Doc Martens. The whole look gave her a cool, relaxed vibe that made her seem at ease in ways I didn’t know existed. And man did she smell nice. I had no idea what it was, but whatever soap or perfume or shampoo she used, it was literally a breath of fresh air. “No. It’s my name. S-S-Slim,” I stuttered as I followed her into the hall.

And believe it or not, she smiled when I said that. “Slim – that’s a cool name. Mine sounds like an annoying neighbour on a sitcom, but that’s okay. I’m used to it.”

Despite my trouble talking like a human, Suzie made me feel like I belonged. Which is something I never felt at my last school – or anywhere else, really. The funny thing about Suzie is that she genuinely wants to be friends with everyone. “My dads own a yoga and wellness centre in town, so I think it’s important to be centred and mindful, don’t you?” I liked the sound of those soothing words strung together, even if I didn’t understand what she meant. So I nodded. I wanted to agree because I wanted her to keep smiling. Normally I’d find it strange for someone to seem so obviously, outwardly happy. I’d overanalyse what it means and what she’s hiding and wonder if she’s making fun of me. But somehow Suzie made it work. I guess happiness can be a genuine thing. Imagine that.

Instead of going straight to homeroom, Suzie gave me a tour of the whole school so I would know my way around. And as we walked the halls or popped our heads into the library, cafeteria and gym, she greeted everyone we saw by telling them, “This is Slim. He’s new and interesting.” I’d never seen anything like it before: everyone liked her. I liked her. In fact, I pretty much instantly “like-liked” her. There’s no point in pretending I didn’t because you’ll figure it out, and even if you didn’t, my sister Lucy would tell you. She’s a total blabbermouth; she’ll do anything to get a little attention.

But at the time, walking the halls in New Old Wayford Middle School, with Suzie Minkle treating me like a normal human being, it felt like maybe I wouldn’t have to be the freak at this school. Maybe I wouldn’t have any meltdowns. I even made it through most of my classes and a whole lunch period without any issues. And I got to sit next to Suzie in algebra! By the time I headed for my last two classes of the day, I thought maybe, just maybe, there was an upside to the divorce, the two homes, the change of schools, the whole life ruined for ever thing.

“Mr Pickings,” said Mrs Bowers in an exasperated manner that made me realise she’d been saying my name repeatedly. Why do teachers always think using your last name will make them sound more intimidating? It never does, especially in the raspy monotone Mrs Bowers uses that makes her seem so bored even her glasses lose the will to stay on her nose. Upon hearing my last name, the whole class snickered. And I felt the cold shudder of familiar insecurities running up my spine. The same thing happened at my last school. Otis Miller would hide behind his book to my right, stick his finger up his nose, and pretend to flick boogers at me while whispering, “Picky Pickings,” as if it were actually clever.

I had been so relieved when his family moved across town and he got transferred out of my school. But one disgusting sniffle behind me was all it took to remind me where he had been transferred to.

Like a slow-motion reveal in a horror movie, I turned round to see Otis Miller and his lanky limbs folded into a desk right behind me. “Picky Pickings!” he said with a wicked smile and a finger up his nose.

I instantly felt a rush of blood heating my cheeks as I turned to face the front. “Mr Pickings,” continued Mrs Bowers, “since you missed homeroom this morning, would you please stand up and introduce yourself now? Tell us something we should know about you.” I should have seen it coming. Despite multiple periods of glorious anonymity, there was no way to make it through an entire first day at a new school without some sadistic teacher torturing me with unnecessary personal introductions.

My legs wobbled as I forced myself to stand. Everyone was staring at me. Dismissive. Expectant. Judgemental. A paper crumpled. Another loud, gross sniffle from Otis followed. Then whispers. And snickers. And a couple of subdued laughs. I was frozen. Tunnel vision set in and the room felt uneven. I didn’t want anyone to know anything about me. That was the whole point of today. I wanted to be no one. I wanted to not exist. But I couldn’t and I did. I had to at least say my name. Just as I managed to prise my dry mouth open, something hit me. Literally. A wet, sticky glob was stuck to the back of my neck.

I spun and saw that Otis looked almost as shocked as I did that he’d actually flung his actual booger and that it was actually stuck to my actual neck. He clearly didn’t mean to take it that far and I didn’t know how to respond now that he did. Normally his disgusting sniffling was enough to get under my skin. But this time, his booger-snot was on my skin.

I wiped it with my hand, but then it got stuck there and I tried to flick it back at him, but it just got stuck to my finger instead. Mrs Bowers was yelling something unintelligible. In my panic, I started to flail around like I was trying to get away from my own hand. I felt a full-blown panic attack coming on. Who knows what noxious germs are in Otis Miller’s boogers?! So, I did the only thing I could think to do: I wiped it on Heather Hu. She was sitting in front of me and I thought it would come right off on her perfectly curated hair.

I’m not exactly sure what happened after that. There was a lot of squealing and stampeding. I heard more than one person yell “Booger!” But I was paralysed with panic on the cold, cracked floor tiles. There were a lot of squeaking shoes and crashing chairs, a lot of screams and shouts that all melded together into one overwhelming ROAR. I clenched my eyes tight, but when I opened them again, the whole class was blurry. They were one giant, roaring MONSTER. I curled up into the smallest ball I could be, willing myself to be anywhere but there.

Next thing I knew, I got my wish. Mrs Bowers was dragging me by the ear to the principal’s office. The panic had faded enough that I could sort of breathe again. “You’ve made quite a first impression, Mr Pickings,” she proclaimed, as if I somehow started this. “And it’s not a good one.”

“He flicked a booger at me. What did you want me to do?” I asked, as if there couldn’t possibly be a more rational response to a wet booger hitting my neck than a total and utter meltdown.

“Get a tissue,” was her exhausted response, punctuated by shoving her glasses back onto her nose and slamming the office door behind me.

I took a seat in the lumpy chair I had started the day in and tried to calm down as I waited for the familiar soft shuffle of Nurse Nellie’s feet coming down the hallway to deliver a child-size Xanax. But then I remembered – Nurse Nellie is in my old school and I’m on a medication vacation. I don’t even know if my parents told this school about my issues or gave them my emergency prescription. They haven’t been on top of things lately. And there wasn’t even a receptionist at the front desk at the moment. The principal’s door was closed. And I was left sitting there all alone.

Just me and my thoughts.

I thought of Suzie, thankful that she wasn’t in that class to witness my meltdown. But then I realised that she knows everyone and will totally hear about it anyway. Some of the kids probably even caught it on their phones. I’ll be a meme before the last bell, I thought. It will almost certainly haunt my existence right into high school. I’ll be known for ever as “Picky Pickings” and taunted for sport!

My heart was racing. My thoughts were totally spiralling away from me. A therapist once tried to teach me how to reframe my thoughts while deep breathing, but I had my own unique take on that exercise. I slumped over in my own lap, squeezing my head between my knees, inhaling and exhaling and trying to focus. Trying to regain control of my own brain.

A thought spiral. One push down that slippery slope and my brain will just spin faster and faster until I feel totally out of control. I’m getting better at slowing myself down now, but back then, I thought it would never end. It was like falling into a bottomless pit. I was a mess. I was furious. I was mortified. I was really sad. I had a chance to be normal – or at least to seem normal – and I’d blown it. I’d totally blown it. It took less than a day for my new life in my new school to become just like my old life in my old school.

At some point, a grumpy, wrinkled receptionist who smelled of butterscotch and air freshener came back from the copy room and found me slouched down and dejected. “The new kid is back already,” she announced to Principal Waters, who opened his door, smoothed out his jarringly plaid trousers, straightened his jarringly plaid matching tie, and took me into his office to give me a pep talk about fresh starts and adjusting to a new school and giving myself a chance.

But I had zoned out and couldn’t focus on anything he said. I had entered my standard post-panic recovery period. I felt numb and couldn’t manage much more than to nod and mumble back a perfunctory “Yes,” and “Okay,” and “I will.” I’ve learned that adults need to feel like they’re being heard even when they have no idea what they’re talking about. It makes them feel good and it earns you some peace and quiet a lot faster.

“I’ve seen your file and I just don’t want you to have the same problems you had in your previous school, Steven,” said Principal Waters, leaning forward on his desk. “Do you prefer Steven or Steve? Or even Stevie? I’ve always liked Stevie. But I’m a big fan of Fleetwood Mac.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he clearly expected an answer, so I opened my mouth and told him way more than anyone needs to know: “My family used to call me Stevie because it’s cute to do that when you’re a little blob of nothing and no one takes you seriously. But eventually I formed a personality and I guess it wasn’t cute any more. So, they started calling me Slim – as in ‘Slim Pickings’. I think they meant it as a term of endearment, but I think they also thought it was funny. It doesn’t bother me, except when it does. But I’m easily bothered. And I don’t know, I guess if you were looking for something that wouldn’t bother me, it would be slim pickings, so they call me Slim Pickings. It’s really not even that clever. But it’s my name now – so I guess you can call me that too.”

And Principal Waters stared at me slack-jawed for a moment. Like a lot of people I try to talk to, he had no idea how to respond to me. I think we were both happy that my dad burst in at that moment. “Hey, Slim,” he said with an air of wariness and disappointment I’ve grown accustomed to. He had on a suit, so I knew he must have been on his way to (or pulled out of) an important meeting.

He’d barely introduced himself to the principal when my mom rushed in, all frantic and full of questions. “Slim? What happened? What’s the problem? What … are you doing here?!” She skidded to a stop when she realised Dad was already here. “Dale, it’s my day,” she continued as she pulled out her phone to double-check her schedule. Mom is the queen of checklists and schedules, even though she’s been all over the place lately.

Dad rubbed the stress stubble that seems to have become a permanent fixture on his face and replied, “Does it matter any more? I got pulled out of work for this.”

Mom couldn’t help but correct him: “We both did.”

Principal Waters sent me back outside to the lumpy chair and shut the door. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I could see Mom and Dad having a serious conversation with him through his frosted window. It actually looked a lot more like couples therapy than anything else, and it was making me feel anxious again. So when the grumpy receptionist wasn’t looking, I slipped outside so I could breathe.

That worked – for about thirty seconds.

“Way to go, Booger Boy,” said Lucy as she walked up to me and shoved her phone in my face. My life literally flashed before my eyes. Or the most recent episode did. My meltdown had, in fact, gone viral before the last bell. “My new friend Maya sent this to me,” she explained. “Luckily it was after she introduced me to the whole soccer team and I got invited to their sleepover this weekend. Otherwise it would be super embarrassing for me,” she added. Because of course she had already made new friends.

Lucy’s technically my little sister, but it’s weird to call her “little” since she’s almost as tall as I am. “Younger” is more accurate. She’s only ten, but according to that horribly awkward sex education class in my old school where sweaty Mr Felcher stuttered his way through a lesson on puberty, boys hit their growth spurts later than girls.

Most comparisons between us tend to fall in her favour. Lucy’s strong where I’m scrawny, she’s focused where I’m distracted, and she has an effortless sort of poise about her while I have an effortless sort of dork about me. To paraphrase Dad when he didn’t know I was listening, “She’s got her poop together.” Except he didn’t say “poop”.

BRRRRING! The last bell rang and kids were purged from the school like vomit, which is what I felt like, considering everyone was still laughing at me. “Hey, Bestie!” shrieked a girl I quickly deduced was Lucy’s new best friend, Maya Rodriguez, which seemed impossible since they just met today. Maya raved on and on, “I love your jeans, and your bag, and you have to send me a link to those cleats you got so we can all get the same ones for the team. The sleepover this weekend will be so much fun!” As if I needed a reminder that Lucy did not have the same problems as me.