The Clicker
I.
First day of junior year. 8:47 AM.
Click.
Mrs. Hillman's explaining mitosis, her voice thick with last night's wine and this morning's Klonopin. The classroom smells like industrial disinfectant and teenage desperation. Formaldehyde from the bio lab next door creeping through the vents.
Click.
There. Again.
My eyes track to the source. Second row, third seat. The girl with hair the color of emergency flares. Ellie Brennan. She's got this gray plastic thing in her hand, about the size of a matchbox. Dog clicker. $3.99 at PetSmart. I know because my sister bought one last summer for her anxious terrier.
Her thumb presses down. The mechanism inside makes that distinct sound—spring-loaded metal tongue hitting plastic.
Click.
She does it when Dylan Torres picks up her dropped pen. Again when sunlight breaks through the clouds and hits her desk. Three times when Mrs. Hillman writes "BEAUTIFUL" on the board, explaining cell division like it's poetry instead of violence.
The thing is, I recognize the technique. Behavioral conditioning. Positive reinforcement. I spent last summer reading psychology textbooks because I couldn't sleep and WebMD convinced me I was dying. You mark the good moments. Train your brain to notice them. Except watching someone do it in real-time is like watching someone swallow pills in public. Too intimate, too desperate.
Ellie's training herself to be happy.
II.
October 15th. I've been counting for six weeks.
My phone notes look like evidence:
- Monday: 23 clicks (quiz day)
- Tuesday: 7 clicks (rain)
- Wednesday: 31 clicks (?)
- Thursday: 0 clicks (absent)
- Friday: 47 clicks (manic)
The pattern makes my teeth ache. Morning clicks come sparse, rationed. By noon she's clicking at everything: a bird outside, someone sneezing, the lunch lady remembering her name. By last period, her thumb's moving independent of events, clicking at nothing, clicking at air.
I'm watching from across the cafeteria when Jake Morrison slides into the seat beside her. Basketball player. Dead-eyed. The kind of beautiful that peaks at seventeen and rots from there.
"What's with the dog trainer?"
Ellie's knuckles bleach white around her chocolate milk. The carton dents. Brown liquid pearls at the spout.
"Psychology project." Her voice is autopilot smooth. Rehearsed.
Jake grins. All teeth, no warmth. "Training yourself not to be such a freak?"
The cafeteria noise continues, trays clattering, sophomore girls shrieking about nothing, the microwave beeping. But there's this pocket of silence around their table. Ellie stands, chocolate milk dripping through her fingers onto her two-hundred-dollar sneakers. She's trying to fit in with expensive clothes, but money can't buy normal.
She walks away. Measured steps. Spine straight.
Ten steps later: Click.
But this one sounds different. Hollow. Like an empty gun firing.