Caren Lissner - Carrie Pilby (Harlequin Teen)

Grocery stores always give me a bag when I dont need one, when Ive bought just a pack of gum or a banana or some potato chips that are in a bag already, and then I feel guilty about their wasting the plastic, but the bag is on before Ive noticed them reaching for it so I dont say anything. But in the video store, on the other hand, they always ask if I want a bag, and even though, theoretically, I should be able to carry my DVD without a bag, and the bag is another waste of plastic, I always need a bag at the video store because, for reasons that will soon be understood, I believe all DVDs should be sheathed.

The camouflage doesnt work today. Im only half a block out of the store when I see Ronald, the rice-haired Milquetoast who works at the coffee shop around the corner, approaching. Hey, Carrie, he says, looking down at my DVD. Whatd you get?

Uh-oh. I have to give this speech again.

I cant tell you, I say, and theres a reason I cant. Someday, I might want to rent something embarrassing, and I dont necessarily mean porn. It could be a movie thats considered too childish for my age or something violent or maybe Nazi propagandafor research purposes, of courseand even though the movie I have in my hand is considered a classic, and nothing to be ashamed of, if I show it to you this time but next time I cant, then youll know for sure that Im hiding something next time. But if I never tell you what Ive rented, it puts enough doubt in your mind that Im hiding something, so I can feel free to rent porn or cartoons or fascist propaganda or whatever I want without fear of having to reveal what Ive rented. The same goes for what Im reading. I want to be able to pick a mindless novel, as well as Dostoyevsky. And I also want to be able to choose something no ones heard of. Most of the time, people say, What are you reading? and if I tell them the name of the book and its not Moby Dick, theyve never heard of it so I have to give an explanation, and if the books any good its not something I can explain in two seconds, so Im stuck giving a twenty-five-page dissertation and by the time Im done I have no time to finish reading. So books I read and movies I rent are off-limits for discussion. Its nothing personal.

Ronald stands there blinking for a second, then leaves.

My rules make perfect sense to me, but people find them strange. Still, I need them to survive. This world isnt one I understand completely, and it doesnt understand me completely, either. People think Im odd for a nineteen-year-old girlor woman, if youre technicalthat I neither act excessively young nor excessively girlish.

In truth, I feel asexual a lot of the time, like a walking brain with glasses and long dark hair and a mouth in good working order. If we were to talk about sex as in sex, as opposed to genderas everyone seems to want to these daysI would say that my minds not on sex that much, and I was never boy-crazy when I was younger. Which makes me different from just about everyone. I did have crushes on two of my professors in college, one of which actually turned into something, but thats a story for later on. That whole saga only confused me in the end. So much of the world is sex-obsessed that it takes someone practically asexual to realize just how extreme and pervasive it is. Its the main motivator of peoples activities, the pith of their jokes and the driving force behind their art, and if you dont have the same level of drive, you almost question whether you should exist. If its sex that makes the world go around, should the world stop for those of us who are asexual?

I graduated from college a year ago, three years ahead of my peers, and now I spend most of my time inside my apartment in the city. My father pays my rent. I could leave the house more, and I could even get a job, but I dont have much motivation to. My father would like me to work, but he has no right to complain. I remind him that it was his idea to skip me three grades in grammar school, forever putting me at the top of my class academically, in the bottom fifth heightwise, and in the bottom twenty-second socially.

My father is also the one who told me what I refer to as the Big Lie. But that, like all the business with my professor, is a story for later on.

When I get back to my apartment building, Bobby, the superintendent, asks how Im doing, then takes the opportunity to stare at my rear end. I ignore him and climb the front steps. Bobbys always staring at my rear end. He is also too old to be named Bobby. There are some names that a person should retire after age twelve. Sally, for example. If Sally is your name, you should have it changed upon reaching puberty. Grown men should not be called Joey, Bobby, Billy, Jamie or Jimmy. They can be Harry until the age of ten and after fifty, but not between. They can be Mike, Joe and Jim all their lives. They cannot be Bob during their teenage years. They can be Stuart, Stefan or Jonathan if theyre gay. Christian is not acceptable for Jews. Moishe is not acceptable for Christians. Herbert is not acceptable for anyone. Buddy is good for a beagle. Matt is good for a flat piece of rubber. Fox is good for a fox. Dylan is too trendy.

I get in through the front door and the stairwell door and the apartment door. When I am finally inside, I experience tremendous afterglow. They make the apartments in New York as hard to get into as Tylenol bottles and almost as big.

I see a therapist, Dr. Petrov, once a week. He and my father grew up in London together. I dont really need to see him, but I go each week because I might as well get my fathers moneys worth.

The morning after I rent the DVD, I leave my apartment to see Petrov. Its drizzling softly outside. The air, a soupy mess, scrubs my cheeks, and the few remaining leaves on the trees bend under the weight of raindrops and dive to their deaths. A pothole in front of my building catches them, emitting a soggy symphony.

Theres something I love about visiting Petrov: His building is on one of those quaint little blocks that almost make you forget how seedy other parts of New York can be. Both sides are lined with stately brownstones whose bright painted shutters flank lively flower boxes, the tendrils dripping down and hooking around wires and trellises. The signs on the sidewalk are extremely polite: Please Curb Your Dog; $500 Fine For Noise Here. Its idyllic and lovely. But the only people who get to live here are the folks who inherited these rent-controlled apartments from their rich old grandmas who wore tons of jewelry and played tennis with Robert Moses.

Petrovs waiting room is like a cozy living room, with a gold-colored trodden carpet and regal-footed chairs. One wall is lined with classic novels, a pointless feature since one does not have the time to read Ulysses while waiting for a doctors appointment. A person would have to make more than 300 visits to Petrov in order to finish the book, which just proves that someone would have to be crazy to read all of Ulysses. But a waiting room is not the proper place or situation to read any book. All books have a time and a place. Anything by Henry Miller, for instance, should be read where no one can see you. Carson McCullers should be read in your window on a hot summer night. Sylvia Plath should be read if youre ready to commit suicide or want people to think youre really close.