Fourteen

Mark Goodman hated Psychology tests. They always messed with his head. They always made him analyze things. Last week he'd been all but convinced that he had a serious anxiety disorder. Three weeks ago he'd contemplated his likelihood of dying young as a relatively Type B, left-handed, tall, meat-eating male.

The prospect wasn't that good.

Worse was when he started analyzing his friends. It was better, too, in some ways, because it wasn't him with the debilitating mental condition, but it was also words, because voicing his opinions invariably pissed his friends off.

Like, now, with the stress, and the depression. Mark didn't think Chris was quite to the point of depressed, per se, but he thought that his best friend was definitely stressed as hell.



There was just something there, something on the far side of tangible, in the tightness around Chris' eyes, in the way he was holding himself recently--stiffly, with his hands always at his sides, like he was bracing against some unseen ridicule, like he was looking to hold the least offensive position he could think of, lest he suddenly be victimized.

And sure, Chris was always something (the something was certainly a small something) of an odd duck, what with the dumping the pretty girls and the reading F. Scott Fitzgerald all the time. But mostly he was fun, and normal, and popular--

But recently he was really stressed out.

So three days after Mark started his unit on stress in Psych, the day of the first quiz of the section, he asked Chris, "You doing okay, man?" They were sitting (or maybe huddling was more accurate) outside after Mark had basketball and Chris had newspaper, waiting for Mark's chronically tardy (and irresponsible and absentminded and sleepy) sister, Sarah.

Chris looked up from a worn paperback. In the pre-stress days, he would have read a paragraph or two more before responding; now, he snapped his head up with that guarded look that had worried Mark. "I'm fine." He didn't sound fine. He sounded stressed.

Mark wished he could remember what it was that Chris had asked him at lunch the other day. Had it been something about some girl...? That had to be one hell of a girl, to get Chris all worked up. He was usually pretty chill about things like that. He even dumped the pretty ones.

"You don't seem fine."

If there was one thing Mark understood, it was Chris Mathis. Not for nothing had they been best friends since the fourth grade. Not for nothing, indeed. He very carefully didn't look at Chris when he offered this seemingly innocent comment, and then said nothing as he waited for Chris to tell him exactly what he wanted to know. It always went this way.

And Chris didn't disappoint. "It's just weird," he said carefully, as if he had to count his words for a newspaper article. "That girl disappearing."

That was what was bothering him? Chris had never really known Lena, though Mark supposed they'd all been friendly enough when they were kids. Kids always were, in a petty sort of way, where they may or may not have hated each other behind closed doors.

Even though he wasn't exactly sure it would help the situation, Mark said, "You know that was Lena Harrison, right, man?"

Slowly, subtly, as if he were trying not to make any sharp movements, Chris moved his stare away--now he was looking out over the frozen parking lot instead of scrutinizing Mark's face for the most minute of expression changes. "I know."

Mark simply didn't know what to make of it. Maybe one semester of Psychology wasn't quite enough for him to solve all the world's problems, much as he would have liked to. Hell, he couldn't even solve the problems of his best friend.

(Mark Goodman was quite a bit like Chloe Hart in that respect.)

And Chris almost looked like he'd have liked to say more, but just couldn't. Because then Sarah pulled up and threw open the door before she'd even stopped the car, muttering "Sorry, sorry,"--a solid half an hour late. Chris was back to reading his book even before they got into the car.

Mark watched him through the rearview mirror the whole way home, but Chris didn't give any further signs of unrest.