- 20 -

balance.
Michaela White

Tap. Tap. Tap. No, that wasn’t even. Tap. No, too long 
in-between. That doesn’t feel even either. Tap. Tap. Tap. 
Four. Four is even but it’s close to five, and multiples of  five 
are better than even numbers. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap 
tap tap tap. Now it’s even and a multiple of  five. The girl 
sitting next to me is staring. I lower my hands and fiddle with 
my pencil, the itching in my face finally gone now that I’ve 
restored the balance. She turns away but glances back at me 
every so often, waiting to see if  I’ll tap my face again like I’m 
a child —or losing my mind. I might be losing my mind. I 
avoid eye contact.  

Paint. Asphalt. Paint. Asphalt. A misstep and my shoe lands 
on the crosswalk paint strip with maybe an inch landing 
just past it. The balance is thrown off. My other shoe has to 
do the same; paint strip, an inch on the asphalt. That still 
doesn’t feel right. Fine. Now an inch on the paint strip, the 
rest on asphalt, one foot and then the other. A car honks 
at me. The walk sign has long passed. Paint asphalt paint 
asphalt, I hurry to the sidewalk. Can’t step on any cracks. I 
just want to get home. 

Pain in my left hand. I unclench my fist to see four crescents 
dug into my palm—only on my left. No, I don’t want to. I 
need to stop. My right palm itches. I step on a crack in the 
sidewalk and stop, just standing there. The balance, it’s gone 
to hell. The itching spreads from my palm to my foot, to my 
brain, but I’ve had enough. I don’t want to do this anymore. 
I can’t do this anymore. Some days it’s barely there, but days 
like these it stops me every few minutes, interrupting my life 
until it’s taking it over. Balance. I need balance. A bell dings 
at me and a boy on a bicycle flies past. My right fist clenches 
tight. I step on another crack, with my other foot this time. 
Balance is restored. God, I don’t want to do this anymore.