Chapter 1

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My name is Daniel, and I am thirteen. Today, I am angry with my school. Nobody understands me, even though some say they do. I see the school psychologist regularly. They send me to her whenever I get nervous, angry, or aggressive. But I might just seem aggressive. I would never harm anyone. That's just not who I am. I get upset because people don't understand me.

They get annoyed because I ask too many questions. I have a good reason to ask—I want to know. I need to be sure. Why don't they get it? Why do they choose to leave me alone with my thoughts, struggling over their simple and short answers? Simple and short answers don't satisfy me. I want to understand things deeply.

Anyway, I'm still fuming about school. On the bus, I talk to the driver, not the kids. He seems to like me. At least, I think he does. He listens.

I ask him how to be a good friend. I want to be a good friend. I want to have friends. I want to be like my classmates—not all of them, of course. Steven, the driver, smiles and methodically explains how to be friends. He thinks I don't get it, but he's wrong. You're all wrong. Do any of you know how deep a person I am? Do you have the slightest idea how well I can process things? I know everything Steven is telling me, but that's not what I'm asking. I'm asking about me. I want to change myself. I want to be like them—my classmates.

My stop comes, and I get out, walking to the house where I live with my parents. Mom greets me with a kiss and says pretty much the same thing every day: "Honey, go change and come have lunch. I cooked something special for you."

That's if she's not in one of her moods. When she is, she doesn't show up at all. I understand. If Dad is home, it's no problem. He'll cover for her. But he travels a lot for work and is rarely home. He must work. Mom doesn't, so I figure we have to manage somehow.

I wash my hands for the first time, counting to sixty to make sure they’re clean enough. I do it slowly, knowing that quality is vital. My hands must be spotless. No bugs. Then, I wash them a second time, counting to thirty. The second wash doesn’t need to go to sixty today. Sometimes, when I’m unsure, I wash them a third time. Maybe not now.

I sit on my bed, gazing out the window, replaying the day in my mind. Do you know how difficult it is not to think? I can't stop thinking, and I can't stop worrying. Sometimes it's too much for me. When one worry jumps over the next, I can't handle it very well.

In moments like that, I always want to scream at my dad. He’s always very casual with me, treating me like everything’s normal, saying things like, “Hey, Daniel, let’s go to the movies today! In those moments, I hate him for it. He adds another burden of choice to my mind, already overflowing with questions and worries. Why do I need a new one? He can't understand that I am not able to distract from my thoughts.

I walk past my mom toward the dining table. She looks at me, thinking I’m too absorbed in my thoughts to notice her. That's not exactly true. I see people even when I’m not looking at them. That’s my gift, you know.

"Anything new at school, Daniel?" she asks.

"Ummm, Mom, can I just eat?" I say, my voice rising to a high pitch. She knows. She leaves the kitchen, obviously unhappy with my answer, but I don’t care right now. My head splits in two, and I wish my thoughts would leave me alone for a while. But they never listen.

I live like this every day, fighting with my thoughts because they bring fear. Every time, they bring fear. What if I get sick and die? What if I have cancer? What if there’s no water in the house, and I can’t take a shower before bed? The thought drives me crazy.

Dad always tries to laugh it off, coming up with puzzles like, "Come on, Danny, say we fly to America. It’s a long trip with two or three connections, and you’ve got to sleep on the plane. There’s no shower. So you’ll be fine, you see?" Of course, I see. There’s no shower on the plane. I can live with that. But Dad is silly. There’s a different fear on the plane, one more important than taking a shower.

As I eat, I fight with my thoughts. I analyze my day, replay every situation, and check if I came close to any danger, bacterial or viral. That’s not even considering the pressures from schoolmates, who talk to me in a peculiar way as if they do it on purpose. They say things that immediately require clarification. Otherwise, I have to battle through my fears.

Like today, Lucas said the war in Europe is imminent. They all laughed, but I was gripped with fear. I ran after him, asking more questions and wanting his insights and proof. He just shook his head and said, "Get lost, Daniel." How fair is that? Why do the kids all love to create fear?

Or, take yesterday! During lunch, Ben casually mentioned that the flu that’s going around now could be "the next big pandemic." Everyone shrugged it off like it was nothing. But I couldn’t leave it alone. My mind was racing. I followed Ben down the hallway, asking how he knew, where he’d heard it, if he was sure. “Ben, do you think it could spread here? How fast? Should we be worried?” I kept pushing for answers, but he just waved me off. “Daniel, relax. It’s just the flu.” But how could he be so calm? How could he not care?

I do have a friend, though. It's my scooter. Please don't laugh or think I'm crazy.

My scooter's name is Jess. I'd like to think of my scooter as a she. Jess is a true friend. She gives me freedom and eases my thoughts. We spend so much time together, even more than I do with my parents. Almost everyone in town knows me as a boy with a scooter because I'm always riding her.

She's not electric or anything fancy—just a simple, down-to-earth scooter. Not the cheapest, but not the most expensive either. My legs are like tree trunks because of her. We go miles together, and Jess is always there for me. By the way, my dad says no one owes me anything, and I shouldn't expect people to "be there for me" as I often do.

That's odd. That's not how I see the world. I am there for them. I truly am. The problem is nobody ever calls. If you asked at my school who wants to go with Daniel for ice cream on Saturday, nobody would. See what I mean? So Jess and I go together.

I'm not mad at the other kids. I understand they want to steer clear of a weirdo like me, especially when I bombard them with my relentless questions. I’m not mad, but sometimes I so, so much want to be like everyone else. It aches in my soul.

Oh yes, the soul. You know, I once heard, and then read, that when a person dies, their soul leaves the body and disappears somewhere up in the skies. I suffered for so long after that. Every strange feeling in my body became a sign of my soul leaving me. I asked my parents the same question over and over—"Can my soul just leave my body?"

"No, Daniel! It is impossible. There is no such thing as your soul leaving your body," they would say. Dad repeated the same thing so many times. It went on and on until another fear pushed the soul fear away and started dominating my mind.

Can you imagine living like that? I bet some of you can. Some of you are like me. But others, like my classmates, they can't.

Until I speak, I look like an absolutely normal kid—tall, handsome, blue-eyed. When I start talking, you might first think I'm just overexcited or nervous, which is why my speech has an unusual rhythm and tone. Like someone on the edge, you know.

Our school psychologist once mentioned she could tell I had anxiety issues by the way I moved—my arms, my legs. I guess she was right.

I feel it sometimes, the way I trip over myself in gym class or mess up in sports. I'm clumsy like everything’s a step ahead of me. But when I ride Jess—my scooter—it’s like magic. I’m not awkward. I’m fast and smooth, like a Formula One driver. Fluid and precise. Funny how movement works like that, right?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. If I keep my mouth shut (which is a problem), people think I’m just a regular boy. No one notices anything. Unfortunately, I can’t stay quiet for long. Everything I hear seems to spark some fear inside me—different kinds of fear—and I have to ask questions to get to the bottom of it. I know it irritates everyone—especially the kids. But even adults excuse themselves after question three or four.

There’s something else - I can solve math problems in seconds, way faster than the others in class, but I prefer to stay quiet. I don’t want them to hate me for it. I don’t want to be the smart kid.

My brain and my hands don’t always match up. I see things so clearly in my head, but when I try to build or create something with my hands, it comes out... weird. Like a four-year-old did it. I mean, I like what I make, but people give me funny looks.

Like the other day, I made this little ship from cans, cardboard, and plastic. I thought it was cool. At least it could sail in the swimming pool. Then Dad came in, saw it, and asked what it was. I told him, "It’s a ship." And he laughed. He said, “Daniel, you could do way better than that at your age.”

What did he mean by that?