by Trisha Wolfe
On my way to the office, I pass the giant bulletin board in the main hallway, the one situated right under the stairs. It showcases highlights, and updates, and academy news features. Like new students joining Black Mountain Academy.
There’s a picture of Carter under the headline. He’s sporting that cocky smirk he wore in my office. I lift my hand to touch his face…then stop. Glance down either direction of the hallway.
My heart knocks painfully against my breast plate.
A step too far…
I pluck the picture from the board.
It’s just a token of my devotion to my patient, I tell myself. A way to think about him when he’s not around, to keep him in my thoughts, to discover ways to help him.
The words we tell ourselves are just as powerful. We can create any reality as easily as we can distort it. My devotion to Carter is sealed. Even if it means my ruin.
Influence
Ellis
“Student displays signs of Obsessive Love Disorder, responding aggressively when rejected.” I lift my thumb to pause the recording. I use a handheld digital recorder to document private thoughts. No cellphones that can be hacked, or journals that can be misplaced. I have a lock code on the device.
Right now, I’m analyzing Carter’s behavior from the day before, becoming increasingly aware of the possibility that, unless he’s purposely behaving in a way to mislead me, we may share the same disorder.
I press Record. “After his hostile display, I didn’t confirm or deny that our meetings would continue. I’m leaving it up to the student to make the next move, to see what further develops.”
I stop the recording, letting my thoughts wander. It occurred to me, with the little I know about Carter’s home life, there could be a very real link to lack of nurture in his development. Mother or father related.
My mentor speculated that I developed a late onset of OLD when my parents’ car accident took them both away very suddenly. My aunt—my mother’s sister—got custody of me, but she was young and not interested in raising a teenager. I was alone, and the loss of both parental figures caused a sort of break in my psyche, where I in turn latched on to the first boy who showed me attention.
That boy happened to be Jeremy Rivers. The bad boy with adoring admirers falling at his feet. He was already a god at school; it wasn’t a stretch that I put him on an altar.
When the world tells you you’re important, you don’t question it. When every girl willingly hands over her body, as a man, you come to expect it.
And when Jeremy told me I was special, I believed him—I believed I was the one girl he could cherish, that he could love.
That wasn’t my role, though. Jeremy had a girl—one he made believe she was special. I was the other girl. The dirty secret. The one he used and discarded.
I look down at my hands. They’re curled into tight balls, nails sinking deep crescents into my palms. I have fine white scars from healed over wounds.
I chase my thoughts until I realize it’s past nine o’clock, and Carter hasn’t arrived for his appointment. I pick up the phone and push the extension for Ms. Jansen and ask if he’s waiting in the office.
When she confirms my fear, I hang up and snatch my bag from the chair to dig out my keys. I won’t allow myself to make any assumptions. Suspicion demands validation.
I lock my office and pocket the keys before passing a curious looking Ms. Jansen as I cross to the glass door. “Can you please hold any appointments?” I ask her. “I won’t be long.”
Truthfully, I have no plan. Only a pang in my chest that needs to be eased. My heart seized the moment I realized Carter wasn’t coming, and I won’t—I will not—accept anything less than an answer from him.
I was the one who ended the sessions. I told him I could no longer see him. But beneath that stubborn attempt to do the responsible thing, I needed Carter to defy rules and convention and chase me as relentlessly as I’m chasing my feelings for him.
Right this second, I need to look into his pale-blue eyes and know the truth—that I’m not crazy. That he does want me. That I’m not just another tawdry thing to be ignored and discarded.
The clack of my heels against linoleum jacks my heart rate. As I pass each classroom, I briefly peek through the slatted window before moving on. Too late, I realize I should’ve had Ms. Jansen call him out of class. As the thought occurs, the bell rings, and the hallway floods with students.
At 5’ 2”, I’m easily mistaken for a student and find myself backed against the wall to escape the rush. Impatience is a red-hot fire poker prodding me off the wall and carving a path through the crush of bodies.
I spot Carter and instinctively move in his direction. He’s cutting a line through the hallway and knocks into a girl.
“Out of my way,” he growls, and shoves the girl against the wall.
A current of anger slams through me at witnessing his violent action, and I push my way toward him.
I grab Carter’s bicep and forcefully tow him to a classroom alcove. He’s much taller than me at nearly six feet, and I stare up at him, trying to make eye contact. “Look at me,” I demand. When he does, a heated blue flame sparks in his gaze. “What was that? How could you callously shove that girl the way you did?”
He huffs a derisive breath. “Everyone else does it. She got in my way.”
I’m still clutched to his arm, my nails digging past the uniform material. My gaze holds his, each of us daring the other to back down first.
This is his response to my abandoning him yesterday. Had it been any other teacher, Carter would be written up, possibly sentenced to detention or worse. He’s pushing me, testing me.
Willfully, I release his arm and step back. “You have my attention,” I say. “Now stop, before the consequences are out of my hands. Go to class.”
With a defiant edge to his words, he says, “Yes, ma’am.”
I release a bated breath as he storms off. The warning bell rings, and I sink against the wall, needing the support. I spot the girl heading down the hallway in a hurry to escape, her chin tucked to her chest, books held high to guard her.
Carter’s words come back to me: Everyone else does it.
“Hey. Wait,” I call out. She doesn’t acknowledge me. I suck in a fortifying breath and start after her.
Her steps pick up pace, but I catch her right before she dips inside a classroom. “Hey, what’s your name?”
Pulling her lip between her teeth, she keeps her gaze aimed at the floor. “Brie,” she says, her voice worn.
Despite not wanting to bring attention to Carter’s behavior, I empathize with this girl. If what Carter said is true, she might be hurting; she might need real help. I know what it’s like to be ridiculed, mocked. Harassed.
I know what it’s like to feel so helpless, you can’t breathe.
“Brie, you should come talk to me soon.”
Her gaze flits around the hallway, as if she’s worried someone will catch her talking to me.
“Hey,” I say, lowering my voice. “No one has to know. Just…come see me. Okay? I promise it will be our secret.”
She nods once before bolting inside the classroom.
I blow out a tense breath. I came to BMA to escape my past, and everywhere I look, that past haunts me.
Judgement
Ellis
How does one know they’re crazy?
This was a question posed in one of my psych classes, a discussion initiated to understand the fundamentals of declaring judgement. Others may think it’s as simple as a psychologist saying: you’re insane. Stamp a label on you. Send you off to a psychiatric hospital.
There are many micro steps between point A and B—and every one of them carries a hefty weight of responsibility for the declarer.
I found it interesting that no one—not one of my peers—was brave enough to tout they’d declare a patient insane. The fear of losing their license, or worse, retribution from a patient, made them question their sample assessments. Hones
tly, to me, it made them weak.
The only qualifying answer given was: if you’re still able to question whether or not you’re sane, then you haven’t completely lost all sense of reality.
Therefore, the patient must be found of sound mind.
I press the gauze into my palm as I watch the clock above my office door. The secondhand ticks ticks ticks down to the end of the school day. Impossibly slow. My hands burn from where I treated the fresh cuts.
I could clip my nails. Wear gloves. There are ways to condition myself not to inflict pain when my emotions soar. But, it’s part of my reality—a deeply ingrained characteristic of who I am. It’s a way for me to stay grounded to the present.
If we change too much of ourselves, I believe that’s how we start to slip away. Once our foundation is gone, any level of insanity can take root and make us question our reality.
Back in that group therapy…I mean class, I didn’t speak up. Maybe I should have. I didn’t agree with the majority or my mentor. I don’t think it’s as easy as sane or insane. On or off. White or black. And for Carter, the violence inside him might not be as simple as nature versus nurture. Taking a few pills to alter his brain chemistry and boom, he’s fixed.
Like me, that fiend inside him might be just as deeply ingrained. More than a trait, or characteristic. He could be hardwired to experience love and violence on a profound level. So much so that, maybe to him, they’re one and the same.
The part of me that wants to fix him wars with the part that aches to love him—bad parts and all. A strong desire to protect Carter from those who would lock him away or harm him rises up.
He’s why I’m here.
I didn’t know what my purpose was when I first sent my resumé around to schools. I wasn’t sure which direction I was moving in, where I would land. I simply followed the outline I had written for myself, with the help of Dr. Leighton.
She’s been my mentor since before I graduated from high school. She was there for me all through college. And she’s the voice inside me when I feel lost.
The final bell of the day rings, and I’m like one of the anxious students, leaping out of my desk chair to gather my satchel and bag so I can leave the school grounds before the crush of cars congest the streets.
I ignore the niggling urge to look for Carter. After his display in the hallway, I need to reevaluate…everything.
I plug my phone into my car charger and push it into the cradle as I steer onto the main roadway, heading out of the downtown area. I punch Dr. Leighton’s contact into my phone.
She answers right away. “Ellis, how are you? How is Black Mountain?”
Just hearing her voice makes me feel brittle, fragile. “It’s been…challenging,” I say. There’s no use mincing my words or trying to hide my emotions. Dr. Leighton is skilled in the art of reading me. “There’s this student,” I begin, and I delve into the difficult feelings Carter has brought on in just the short time I’ve started my career.
Dr. Leighton is quiet on the line as she gives my dilemma serious thought. Then: “Ellis, I think you know what I’m going to say.”
I grip the wheel, aggravating the cuts on my palms further. I’ve been driving aimlessly, following the winding road as it leads up the mountain.
“Reese—” I use her first name to put us on equal ground; something I’ve never done before “—he’s special. I thought at first it was because of who he reminded me of, but there’s so much more—”
“Do you trust my assessment?” she interrupts.
My foot lays heavy on the accelerator as I climb higher up the incline. “Of course.”
“Then you know how dangerous this situation is for you. This particular student is too much of a challenge for your first year, hell, your first week in the field.” She takes a beat. “It’s my professional opinion that, if you truly want to help this youth, you need to step aside as his counselor.”
A white-hot cinder sparks in the hollow of my chest. It burns as I swallow. “I understand,” is all I say.
“Do you, Ellis? You need to make me believe this, or else I’ll have to—”
“I promise,” I say. “I understand. I don’t want to jeopardize my career.”
“You’ve come so far,” Dr. Leighton encourages. “I’m so proud of you.”
Words my mother never voiced before she left this earth. The fire in my chest consumes. I let the road ahead guide me, not thinking about the destination.
“I’ll do the right thing,” I assure her.
“I know you will.”
The sky purples with the setting sun as it gradually dips behind the mountain top. The trees become dense as I travel around the bend. I should turn around, go home. But I’ve yet to explore my new town, and I’m curious where the road ends.
I’ll do the right thing.
Is the right thing really to walk away from Carter? Who else will understand him on the level that I do? Sometimes, the right thing is speaking up, going against the majority rule, and embracing the unknown, the danger.
A break in the tree line appears, so I ease my foot off the pedal. There’s a clearing off to the right. I flip on my blinker—even though I’m the only car on the road—and turn onto a worn pathway carved between the wooded boundary that separates the edge of the mountain from the road.
I curse as bare branches scratch my Audi and claw the windows. The teeth-grinding screech tearing along the silver paint grates my nerves, but I keep going until I’m through and the clearing opens up around me.
The site is breathtaking. Even in the dim evening light, there’s a shimmering twinkle from the lake water reflected onto the side of the mountain. A high ridge shapes a rock outcropping into a crescent, and just below, a flat plateau overlooks a small cascading waterfall.
I grab my phone and leave my car, needing to get a closer look and take a picture. As I follow the narrow trail around the rocky embankment, I can see where campfires have burned out. Charred remains left to smolder against the rocks.
A smile tugs at my lips as I imagine teens coming here to make out. It reminds me of the beach hangout where I first met Jeremy. Although that memory is now tainted. My smile falls.
I perch my thigh against one of the large boulders, wishing I had a change of clothes in the car, as I angle myself to get a picture of the sky at sunset. A loud rumble startles me, and I nearly drop my phone down the ravine. “Dammit.”
The roar of a motor grows louder. I push off the boulder and wait to hear the vehicle pass, but it only gets closer. Deciding the mood has been spoiled, I start toward my car—and am immediately halted by the sight of a black motorcycle coasting up next to my Audi.
The rider wears a helmet, but I know—I just know—who is beneath the visor. I know, because I’ve stared at that same bike on his social media page for days.
Carter revs the engine once before he switches it off, kicking out the stand to lean the bike. He removes his helmet and hangs it on the handlebar. I watch, mesmerized, as he scrapes a hand through his dark hair, his eyes fixed hard on me.
My stomach is one tightly threaded knot. “What are you doing here?”
His mouth quirks into that sinful grin. “I followed you.”
I open my mouth to say…something. But I’m speechless. This situation is absolutely unfamiliar. I don’t know what to say, what to do—what to even think. I’m the one who has been fighting my urges to follow him. I’m doing everything within my power to behave…and here he is, the devil of temptation.
And we’re alone.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, Dr. Leighton’s words bleeding through. I grip my phone in one hand, my keys in the other, as I carefully step my way across the rocks. “You should leave. Or…I’ll leave.”
My nerves are on fire. My skin ablaze. My heart thumps wildly inside my chest. I can no longer hear the birds in the trees. “That stunt you pulled in the auditorium…and then not showing up for your session today…”
“You told
me we shouldn’t see each other that way,” he says. “I thought about it, and you’re right.”
“See me outside of school was not what I meant, either.” I’m completely out of my element, and I need to gain the upper ground. Figuratively and literally. “This can’t happen, Carter. I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not an effective way to get what you want.”
He just watches me with that cocky grin. Those dimples. “I think I’m having all sorts of effects on you. Watch your step—”
It’s suddenly darker than it was only a moment ago, and gravity clings to my loss of equilibrium. My foot hits a stone wrong and I stumble.
Keys and phone clatter to the ground, but Carter catches me before I fall face-first onto the rocks.
He’s warm and solid and that scent… I take note of every flexed muscle in his arm, his chest pressed hard to mine. I right my feet, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he frees one hand to sweep the hair from my eyes, his face hovering too close to mine.
“Why are you torturing me?”
His features draw together. “I could ask you the same thing.”
I didn’t mean to say that out loud; I’m disoriented and can’t think clearly, with his scent invading my senses, his heat searing my skin. I try to wriggle free, but he closes his arm around my waist, preventing me from escaping.
“If you keep squirming like that,” he says, “I’m not sure I can control myself.”
He effectively ends my fight when he crushes me to his chest. His eyes find mine, blazing with blue intensity, and I can’t breathe, my chest aching with every inhalation.
“Carter…please…” I’m not sure what I’m begging for—for him to let me go? For him to never let go? This is madness. “You can’t talk to me this way—”
He rests his forehead against mine, and my body softens in his hold.
I shiver, but not from the chill in the air. My blood is fire, my skin reactive to the elements in stark contrast. His grip seizes more than just control over my body.
I’ve never felt more powerless and powerful all in the same moment.