My Attention is a Little Too Divided

When I roll up to Café Camelot Thursday morning, the coffee is brewing and cinnamon rolls are in the oven. But it’s not Mrs. Hess behind the counter. It’s not even Isaiah.

It’s Siri.

She’s bustling about the concession stand like she was born with a coffee pot in hand, a blue apron thrown over her all black outfit and her long hair contained in a hair net. It’s an incongruous look; I’m surprised she didn’t modify the apron to fit her color scheme.

The line isn’t too long yet, which would be a relief if it wasn’t headed - as usual - by Kadarius. I’m not up to his teasing about my math skills today.

He gives me a crooked smile as I pass. Worries about math temporarily vanish. Instead, I’m worried that yesterday’s study failures broke my brain because I could’ve sworn I saw fangs.

“Yo, Westberry,” he says. “How’d that homework go last night?”

Because that’s a topic designed to start my day off on the right foot. Seriously, why does he do this to me?

“Alexa, you wanna take Kadarius?” I ask hopefully, donning my own goofy blue apron.

“I’m busy,” she answers.

‘Busy’ apparently means meticulously filling the creamer basket one creamer at a time like there isn’t a slowly growing line on the other side of the counter. Or maybe the line doesn’t bother her the way it bothers me.

I cast her a look I’m sure is full of crazed desperation. “He’s your friend.”

“Exactly,” she says, carefully nudging a creamer to sit perfectly on top of the one below it. “I talk to him all the time.”

Which means Kadarius’s order is my responsibility.

I twist my drawstring in an echo of the guilt twisting in my gut. I really need to remember to ask Mom about picking Isaiah up. But that’s a problem for future Devin, because current Devin has a job to do.

“Cinnamon roll?” Although I say it like it’s a question, I'm already grabbing one; he never changes his order, which is one of the few things I appreciate about him.

“You got it.” Kadarius leans against the counter to steady himself as he rifles through his wallet with his good hand. “Hey, you comin’ over today or you gonna be too busy studying?”

“Dunno,” I say, glancing at his face again to see if I hallucinated those fangs. Which is a mistake, because not only can I not tell but staring at his lips reminds me of Micah asking if we’d made out. And, even worse, Micah's claim that Kadarius is a good kisser.

I hurriedly drop my gaze to his shirt, which is safer even though I’m sure if I could read the logo a demon would materialize in our midst. My face is so hot it’s probably red enough to match the demon in this hypothetical.

“Micah’s gonna be at auditions all afternoon.” Kadarius plops two dollars on the table and snatches the cinnamon roll out of my hands.

“For real?” That brightens my mood almost as much as the fact that Kadarius dropped the homework topic, because it means Jayla won’t be able to derail our dance practice with TikTok.

“For real,” he says, flashing me another grin, and now I can confirm–yep. Fangs. How did I never notice them before? Maybe I never took a close enough look at his face.

“Did you, like, file your teeth or something?” I ask, squinting at his mouth. You’d think those would have been a problem when he and Micah were making out.

His grin widens, and I get a better view of the fangs.

“What? These are all natural,” he says, but he punctuates that with a laugh that has me doubting.

Once he’s gone Siri casually strolls toward the second register, because she’s finally decided the customers deserve help.

“Since when did Kadarius turn into a vampire?” I whisper to her as the customer I’m dealing with debates between muffins and cinnamon rolls.

“You think Roachie’d bother with school if he was a vampire?” Siri asks. “C’mon, cat boy, think about it.”

In fact, I do think Kadarius would attend school if he was a vampire. But I wasn’t asking because I think he’s literally a vampire; I was asking because I wanted an explanation for the fangs.

Not that I’m going to get one while we’re focused on customers. But as we clean up I try again.

“What’s up with Kadarius having fangs?” I ask as I chuck the coffee pot into the sink.

But Siri isn’t inclined to give an explanation. She isn’t even inclined to help me clean up. She starts wiping down the counter, then kind of zones out and just stares into the distance which is relatable but kind of frustrating. Geez. Is this what it’s like for people to talk to me?

The bell rings again. Siri pulls off her hair net and tosses it in the trash can. “See ya, cat boy!”

And I’m left to wonder: does she also have ADHD or was she deliberately avoiding my question?

---

Both Siri’s evasion and Kadarius’s fangs are ejected from my mind the moment I step into Algebra.

“Ah. Mr. Westberry,” Myrick begins, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“I have it,” I interrupt, slamming my binder onto my desk. A shower of loose papers slide onto the floor, forcing me to dig through them until I find it–the crumpled, grease stained, long awaited apology note.

I march over and drop it on his desk in triumph.

Myrick, however, doesn’t seem to appreciate my successful execution of responsibility. He rubs his forehead and says in a strained voice, “Mr. Westberry, does my desk look like a trash can to you?”

Chewing on my drawstring is highly tempting, but I manage to suppress that instinct. “You asked me to bring this.”

He picks the note up by one corner, examines it with a curled lip, drops it back on the desk, and reaches for a bottle of hand gel. “I see. We’ll discuss this at our meeting.”

What is there to discuss? I wrote it and turned it in, just like he asked. He’s already given me plenty of shit about failing to turn it in on time. He doesn’t need to go over that again.

As the announcements play, my mind drifts back to Kadarius. Did he have fangs when he and Micah were making out? What is it like to kiss someone with fangs? Is Kadarius a good kisser? What is good kissing like, anyway? For that matter, what’s bad kissing like?

Did you know it’s real freaking hard to concentrate on equations and formulas when your brain keeps going back to kissing? The equations are more important, but the thought of kissing is more interesting. Even if my brain currently wants to substitute Kadarius and his weird fangs into my fantasies instead of Shuvam. I have to keep nudging it back to the guy I actually have a crush on and not the one who picks on me. I don’t have much more success with that than I do focusing on math.

If this were a struggle for my soul, I’d be all the way down in Hell.

Which, if you think about it, is basically what grades are. F is the lowest circle, and I’m not getting out anytime soon.

---

“Why’d you run away yesterday?” Jayla asks when I join her at lunch, which is kind of annoying since I’d like to pretend last night didn’t happen. Since Micah didn’t ask me anything about it during ELA, I was starting to think maybe I could get away without ever addressing it.

“I came over to practice for comps,” I say. “And since you said we weren’t doing that there was no point in being there.”

“But we had so much fun.” Micah leans so far over the table in his efforts to address me that his hair is in danger of mixing with his chocolate pudding. “We made some great vids.”

“That’s great and all, but I’m trying to pass Algebra, so if I’m not dancing I gotta study,” I say, and pull math flashcards out of my lunchbox instead of the turkey I normally bring.

The idea is if I speed up my arithmetic, then I’ll start finishing tests within the time limit. That way I won’t have to ask Myrick for accommodations.

Just because practice has never sped up my math in the past doesn't mean it won't work eventually.

But it would be nice if ‘eventually’ would hurry up and happen. Like, I dunno, before I graduate high school maybe?

This isn’t going to happen if Micah has anything to do with it, though. He must want me to fail, because he tugs the flashcards out of my hands. “Stop ignoring us. Math can’t be that interesting.”

“It’s more interesting than TikTok," I say, but admittedly I'm not exactly trying to get the flashcards back.

“Nothing is more interesting than TikTok,” he says fervently. “It’s AuDHD heaven."

There’s that awful portmanteau again. I shove my drawstring into my mouth, chewing ferally and wondering once again if he’s deliberately trying to provoke me.

“It really is,” Jayla says. She doesn’t even mention the stupid way Micah’s smooshed both my disorders into one word, which I consider a massive best friend betrayal. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance, Dev.”

“Speak for yourself,” I tell her, now reaching for my flashcards because she and Micah are annoying me so much math would be preferable. “I’m not kidding, y’all, my parents are giving me shit about my math grades. Let me study.”

Jayla waves her Celsius at me. “You should ask Kadarius for help. Math is his best subject.”

Oh, sure. Like he needs more opportunities to tease me.

“I know how to study,” I say indignantly, snatching my flashcards back from Micah. “I don’t need help.”

Jayla’s shrug is accompanied by an eyeroll so exaggerated even I notice it.

“I don’t,” I insist, hunching my shoulders as I turn my attention back to my flashcards. Her lack of faith in me hurts, even as I secretly worry she’s correct. What if I can’t do it on my own?

What if I’m completely useless?

While I struggle to focus on Algebra, Micah and Jayla turn their conversation to creating more ADHD TikTok videos, which is kind of ridiculous. How is this supposed to help Jayla get attention from dance scouts?

But studying is more important than understanding the way her mind works, so I don’t ask for an explanation. The two of them are making it awfully difficult to concentrate, though, even when they’re not talking to me. Snatches of conversation and TikTok keep jolting me out of the math zone.

“Do y’all have to keep playing TikTok videos while I’m trying to study?” I ask grumpily.

Jayla giggles. “Sorry,” she says, but she immediately undermines her apology by shoving her phone in my face. “But you should see this. Deadass, her house looks like your room.”

The clip she shares is about the perils of housekeeping with ADHD and while it’s relatable as fuck I’m not exactly thrilled at Jayla for pointing this out.

Shame heats my entire body as the camera pans across the TikToker’s kitchen. There’s no room to walk on the floor, the trash can is overflowing, and the counter is covered with more dishes than my family owns. When the camera zooms in on the dishes I can see mold growing in one of the cups.

There’s no way I’m about to admit there’s any truth to Jayla’s comparison.

Micah chews the end of his plastic spoon, frowning down at the video, which is now playing again from the beginning. “Tell me you’re exaggerating,” he says.

Jayla and I speak at the same time.

“She is,” I say.

“Oh, no, no,” she says. “That’s exactly what Devin’s room looks like.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzes. When I check, it’s a text from my dad.

Care to explain this? the message reads. Attached is a photo of my bedroom.

If I felt ashamed watching that stupid TikTok clip, that’s nothing to what I feel now. Last night’s dinner is in the middle of the floor, dried to the plate and surrounded by heaps of laundry and the scattered remnants of plastic wrappers.

Micah, nosy jerk that he is, catches sight of the photo before I can shove my phone into my pocket.

“Oh,” he says. “I see what you mean.”

---

Although the bus drops me off in front of my house, it’s clear home isn’t the safest option. After determining Dad is busy fending Purrome off our dinner, I streak upstairs, peel off my hoodie, grab my dance bag, streak back downstairs, and am out of the house and running down the street to the safety of Jayla’s before he can stop me.

By the time I arrive at Jayla’s, my phone’s phone has buzzed about fifty times. I delay the inevitable lecture by not answering.

Mrs. Deloach opens the door before I even knock, ushering me inside. Her lime green tank top stands out against her dark skin. “Jayla is warming up in the basement. Can I get you anything to drink?”

Shaking my head, I awkwardly bend one arm back to pat the air near my dance bag, which contains my water bottle. “I’m good, thanks.” I say before heading down the hallway towards the basement stairs. As I approach, I can feel the vibration of the bass underneath my feet, which is reassuring. If Jayla is already practicing, Micah can’t be here. Thank you, Kadarius, for telling me the truth.

The Deloach basement is practically its own private dance studio, which is all kinds of amazing. The floor is covered in gymnastic mats and there are full-length mirrors along one wall and a real barre on the one opposite. The other walls are decorated with mementos from past dance competitions - framed programs and wrist bands, t-shirts, even a couple of medals for both solos and group routines.

Jayla has one leg lifted onto the barre for stretches. She’s way too absorbed in warmups to notice my entrance.

I leave my sneakers, duffle bag, and backpack in a jumble next to the door and step out onto the mat, armed with my dance shoes and my laptop.

Maybe I can circumvent the parental yelling if I show them I finished my homework without being reminded.

Before I make it more than two steps Kadarius looms out of nowhere, shoving a video camera in my face. He shouts over the pulsing bass. “And here’s our long awaited arrival now. When’s your birthday, Westberry? I need to get you a watch.”

I step backwards instinctively. “You’re not live streaming this, are you?” I ask suspiciously. Livestreams are rare in Jayla’s world, but they’ve been known to happen, and with her current socmed obsession I have zero trust.

“Say hi to the Jaylings.”

I’m not sure if his lack of a direct answer or his bossiness irritate me more. But I don’t argue. I just sigh and mumble, “Hi, Jaylings. Like and subscribe. Or something.”

Kadarius grins, giving me another glimpse of his inexplicable fangs. “Good thing you’re a dancer and not an actor.”

Ignoring his jab, I fall into a split in the middle of the floor with my laptop in front of me and pull up my homework, ready to multitask math and warm ups.

My intentions may be sincere, but my meds are wearing off, so my concentration is thoroughly non-existent. My eyes slide over the equations without seeing them, and I have to bring my attention back to the beginning.

“And we see a rare instance of a Westberry engaged in math,” Kadarius announces, still training his camera on me. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

This kind of attitude is the opposite of motivating. It also distracts me from the equation I’m attempting to solve. “I can’t think with you narrating at me. Go bother Jayla, it’s her vlog,” I snap.

Kadarius swings the camera towards Jayla and limps across the floor. “And here’s our lovely leading lady.”

“Stop filming, nerd. You’re supposed to stretch with us,” Jayla says, but she pauses her stretch to smile and wave.

“Yes, Mom,” Kadarius grumbles under his breath and lifts the camera over his head.

Stretching is part of his physical therapy for cerebral palsy, so it made sense for him to join me and Jayla once we started rehearsing outside of the studio. He’s made it clear he’d rather film than stretch, but he goes along with it. Who knows why.

“You, too, Dev, stop being distracted by responsibility.”

My parents would never let me come over here if they heard Jayla say that.

“Okay, okay.” I shove my laptop back into my backpack, where it will be less of a hazard.

We warm up, then we do drills. Specifically, Crunch Tosses–she grabs my thighs, I grab her stomach, she kicks her feet into the air and I toss her over my shoulder–because if I’m gonna drop Jayla on her head it’s better to do it here instead of at competition, where points will be deducted from our total score.

Also, I guess it’d probably hurt her more to be dropped without foam mats.

Kadarius has resumed his role of videographer, although he’s no longer standing - he’s found a folding chair and is sitting with the camera in his lap.

“That looks dangerous.” He comments, whether for the benefit of us or for the benefit of Jayla’s vlog, I’m not sure.

There’s a soft whump as Jayla lands on the mat behind me. “People do Crunch Tosses all the time and nobody dies,” she says dismissively, walking back to her starting position.

“Dying isn’t the only outcome that counts as dangerous,” Kadarius says.

I grab her torso and flip her over my shoulder again. “I haven’t dropped her since middle school,” I reassure him, “and she hasn’t headbutted me in the crotch since last year.”

Kadarius lowers the camera. “Thank you for that visual, Westberry.”

I shrug. I was just trying to point out that he doesn’t need to worry. The worst that will happen is that my arms will be hella sore later. But muscle strain is a good kind of pain, a physical symbol of effort.

If only math had a physical symbol of effort. Yawning doesn’t count; yawning makes people think you’re lazy, not that you’ve pushed yourself to the limits of your abilities.

Dance is a different matter. Everyone can tell when I’m exerting myself. Even if the results were garbage it would be obvious I’m working hard. And, to make it better, this is the one area of life where I’m not garbage.

Too bad that means nothing outside of comps.

Fifteen minutes before we need to leave for dance classes, we troop into the living room.

Mrs. Deloach bears down on us like she’s been waiting for us to appear. “Devin,” she says, and something in her tone makes me take notice. “Your parents called while you and Jay were practicing. I told them you were here.”

I bite the inside of my mouth. Shit. The adults are communicating.

“You should call them,” she continues. “They were worried about you.”

I acknowledge this with a mute nod and, I’m sure, a visible amount of dread and horror as the threat of consequences becomes a little too real for my liking.

Mrs. Deloach pats the arm rest beside me. “Good.”

I wait for her to leave before glancing at my phone. Twenty missed calls and ten messages? Big yikes.

I throw my phone into my backpack. Dealing with consequences is a problem for later. Like, when I have no choice. Which is why I’m actually completely happy when Kadarius offers to drive me and Jayla to dance. It lets me put off the inevitable that much longer.

Jackson doesn’t say anything to me all through dance. It’s not until we’re outside waiting for Mom to pick us up that he acknowledges me. And it isn’t to say ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ or even ‘wow, you did a great job during class.’

No, what he says is, “Real big brain moment there, running off like that. You know how much trouble you’re in?”

“I was already in trouble,” I say. Not that this makes me feel better about it. Now that the consequences of my actions are about to catch up to me, I have some regrets.

Can I turn back time and undo hiding last night’s dinner under my bed?

Jackson shrugs. “Just giving you a heads up.”

Is there a reason he’s such a pain-in-the-ass when his girlfriend isn’t around? Maybe he’s experiencing withdrawal.

Pain-in-the-ass or not, his prediction isn’t wrong. Mom orders us into the car with clenched teeth. She doesn’t speak the entire ride home, not even to cuss out other drivers. Neither Jackson nor I break the silence, although in Jackson’s case that might just be because he’s preoccupied with texting Chloe.

When we arrive home, Dad is waiting right inside the door holding a cardboard box, and I get a parental escort to my room. Normally, my room is my favorite location in the house, but the grim silence of my parents fills me with an intense sense of impending doom.

Purrome follows, doing his best to trip us on the stairs because everyone in this house is out to get me.

We halt in front of my door, which is open. I never leave my door open. Of course, I already knew my parents had gone in my room, since how else would they have found last night’s dinner, but seeing the proof of their snooping hits hard. They’re determined not to allow me any privacy.

“Here,” Dad says, handing me the box. “We got you a new sign for your door.”

“Uh, thanks?” I say, confused and suspicious by the lack of yelling. Until I look inside the box. There, staring up at me, is a yellow aluminum sign that reads ‘Cockroach Xing’. Complete with cockroach silhouettes to drive the point home.

Usually if I want to avert my gaze I look down, but looking down means I have to see the stupid sign. I turn my head, hoping my body language displays disgust and not the humiliation that burns so hot my eyes water. “Ew.”

“Don’t ‘ew’ us, young man,” Dad says. “That’s exactly what you’ll be sleeping with if you insist on being a slob.”

Parents are the worst. Especially mine, who force me to take yesterday’s dinner into the kitchen and scrape it into the trash. They even make me rinse the plate off before I put it in the dishwasher.

What do we have a dishwasher for, then?

“I’m gonna work on homework now,” I say once the plate is dealt with, desperate to escape from the judgmental glares of my parents.

“I don’t think so,” Dad says, which has to be the first time he’s ever prevented me from homework. “You still need to clean your room.”

Cleaning my room takes hours. Hours of sorting and trashing and folding and vacuuming and dusting and scrubbing. And sneezing and groaning and wishing none of this was happening.

If my arms weren’t gonna fall off before, they are now. I’m in serious need of Bengay by the time Dad declares my room satisfactory.

And when we’re done, I still have homework. Because of course now my dad wants me to do it.

There’s no time for sleep in the life of a responsible person. Which is a problem when sleep deprivation makes your brain disorders worse.

If I don’t sleep, I’ll make it harder to succeed. If I do sleep, I won’t finish my responsibilities. Either way, Homecoming is looking less and less possible.