of being here. She’d hit my fear on the head.
I had to hustle to get across campus for my second-period class. Our teacher was standing on a chair when I arrived, fiddling with the string of paper lanterns he’d hung from the ceiling. His classroom looked like a classroom should, with rows of metal desks and a single screen on the front wall. The only not-in-public-school-anymore aspect of his room was the handheld dock built into the upper right corner of each desk. I docked my Gemini and my name turned from red to green on the class roster projected onto the screen.
“Welcome to Cognitive Psychology,” our teacher said when everyone was seated. “I’m Mr. Rudman. But you guys can call me Rudd.” He was young, mid-twenties I guessed, and in his hipster horn-rimmed glasses and sneakers wasn’t nearly as intimidating as Dr. Tarsus. He was cute, in a Seattle tech-geek sort of way. An older, more brainy version of the kind of guy I was used to from back home. The familiarity was disarming. I relaxed a little in my seat.
“In this class, we will look at how people perceive, remember, think, speak, and solve problems,” Rudd explained. “We’ll study how the healthy brain operates, what its limitations are, and how those limitations, if exaggerated, can lead to psychosis.” He punched a button on his handheld and the wall behind him lit up with a sign-up sheet. The left-hand column contained a list of twenty-four mental illnesses, in alphabetical order, from Acute Stress Disorder to Trichotillomania. The right-hand column was blank. I glanced down at my desk and noticed that my Gemini was lit up with the same image.
“Topic choices for your first term paper,” Rudd explained. “Due in five weeks. Simply put your name down next to the disorder you’d like to study and tap ‘confirm.’ And don’t fret: If you’re feeling indecisive or indifferent, there’s an auto-select button at the bottom of your screens that’ll let you use Lux to decide.” He tapped his screen once more and the topic list went green. “Happy picking.”
I scanned the list from the bottom up. “Akratic Paracusia Disorder (APD),” the third topic from the top, caught my eye.
Choose that one.
The voice was unequivocal, a quiet scream. Twice in two hours. My insides went taut as the words of a nursery rhyme I’d sung as a child sprung to mind, an incessant refrain in my head. Watch out, little girl, for the Doubt, watch out, watch out, watch out.
Beads of sweat popped up along my hairline. I hadn’t heard the voice since my eleventh birthday and now I’d heard it three times in less than twenty-four hours. I gave my head a firm shake to clear it. Don’t make this a big deal. Just let Lux decide and be done with it.
I tapped the auto-select button and my name appeared in gray next to “Claustrophobia.” All I had to do was press CONFIRM . My eyes darted back to topic number three. The space next to it was still blank.
Choose that one.
It was ironic, the Doubt telling me to choose the Doubt. That’s what APD was. The medical term for adults who listened to the inner voice. I knew because I’d heard Beck’s parents use it. It was the diagnosis they were so desperate to avoid.
When we were kids, Beck’s parents would tease him about the voice he heard, asking what the Doubt wanted for dinner, whether the Doubt liked chocolate ice cream, if the Doubt wanted milk with its cookie, to which Beck would patiently respond that the Doubt wasn’t a person, but a spirit, and spirits couldn’t eat because spirits didn’t have bodies. When we got older, and the rest of us began to ignore the voice, his parents stopped laughing. He was ushered to a psychiatrist who prescribed the antipsychotic Evoxa and recommended that Beck double up on extracurriculars and spend more time interacting online to keep his mind occupied. Beck ignored his advice, and the voice kept talking. He told his parents he didn’t hear it anymore, just so
I had to hustle to get across campus for my second-period class. Our teacher was standing on a chair when I arrived, fiddling with the string of paper lanterns he’d hung from the ceiling. His classroom looked like a classroom should, with rows of metal desks and a single screen on the front wall. The only not-in-public-school-anymore aspect of his room was the handheld dock built into the upper right corner of each desk. I docked my Gemini and my name turned from red to green on the class roster projected onto the screen.
“Welcome to Cognitive Psychology,” our teacher said when everyone was seated. “I’m Mr. Rudman. But you guys can call me Rudd.” He was young, mid-twenties I guessed, and in his hipster horn-rimmed glasses and sneakers wasn’t nearly as intimidating as Dr. Tarsus. He was cute, in a Seattle tech-geek sort of way. An older, more brainy version of the kind of guy I was used to from back home. The familiarity was disarming. I relaxed a little in my seat.
“In this class, we will look at how people perceive, remember, think, speak, and solve problems,” Rudd explained. “We’ll study how the healthy brain operates, what its limitations are, and how those limitations, if exaggerated, can lead to psychosis.” He punched a button on his handheld and the wall behind him lit up with a sign-up sheet. The left-hand column contained a list of twenty-four mental illnesses, in alphabetical order, from Acute Stress Disorder to Trichotillomania. The right-hand column was blank. I glanced down at my desk and noticed that my Gemini was lit up with the same image.
“Topic choices for your first term paper,” Rudd explained. “Due in five weeks. Simply put your name down next to the disorder you’d like to study and tap ‘confirm.’ And don’t fret: If you’re feeling indecisive or indifferent, there’s an auto-select button at the bottom of your screens that’ll let you use Lux to decide.” He tapped his screen once more and the topic list went green. “Happy picking.”
I scanned the list from the bottom up. “Akratic Paracusia Disorder (APD),” the third topic from the top, caught my eye.
Choose that one.
The voice was unequivocal, a quiet scream. Twice in two hours. My insides went taut as the words of a nursery rhyme I’d sung as a child sprung to mind, an incessant refrain in my head. Watch out, little girl, for the Doubt, watch out, watch out, watch out.
Beads of sweat popped up along my hairline. I hadn’t heard the voice since my eleventh birthday and now I’d heard it three times in less than twenty-four hours. I gave my head a firm shake to clear it. Don’t make this a big deal. Just let Lux decide and be done with it.
I tapped the auto-select button and my name appeared in gray next to “Claustrophobia.” All I had to do was press CONFIRM . My eyes darted back to topic number three. The space next to it was still blank.
Choose that one.
It was ironic, the Doubt telling me to choose the Doubt. That’s what APD was. The medical term for adults who listened to the inner voice. I knew because I’d heard Beck’s parents use it. It was the diagnosis they were so desperate to avoid.
When we were kids, Beck’s parents would tease him about the voice he heard, asking what the Doubt wanted for dinner, whether the Doubt liked chocolate ice cream, if the Doubt wanted milk with its cookie, to which Beck would patiently respond that the Doubt wasn’t a person, but a spirit, and spirits couldn’t eat because spirits didn’t have bodies. When we got older, and the rest of us began to ignore the voice, his parents stopped laughing. He was ushered to a psychiatrist who prescribed the antipsychotic Evoxa and recommended that Beck double up on extracurriculars and spend more time interacting online to keep his mind occupied. Beck ignored his advice, and the voice kept talking. He told his parents he didn’t hear it anymore, just so
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