by Nyrae Dawn
Turn the World Upside Down
By Nyrae Dawn
They’d have to turn the whole world upside down to understand us…
Hunter Donovan’s temper never used to be a problem. He lived the perfect life with the perfect family before the dark truth came spilling out. Now his dad’s in prison, and after Hunter explodes at school, accidentally hitting a teacher, his mom has him committed.
Hunter doesn’t belong at Better Days. He needs to be stronger, not sent to a well-dressed loony bin. If he’d been better, less selfish, he would have realized something was going on under his own roof. No amount of psychoanalyzing and group therapy can change the past.
But among the bullies, fights, and bad cafeteria food, Hunter meets a group of friends: anxiety-ridden Casey, wild and exciting Rosie, recovering bulimic Bethany, and Stray, a self-harmer who doesn’t think he belongs anywhere. Around this group of misfits, Hunter doesn’t feel so alone and angry anymore.
Still, as he’s making friends and falling in love with Stray, the guilt is always there. If Hunter can’t open up and find a way to deal with what happened, he might fall victim to his mental illness—and he won’t be the only casualty.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Author’s Note
More from Nyrae Dawn
Readers love The History of Us by Nyrae Dawn
About the Author
By Nyrae Dawn
Visit Harmony Ink Press
Copyright Page
This book is dedicated to you. To anyone who needs it. To anyone who has ever felt alone or unloved. Scared or anxious or insecure about your body. This book is for anyone who has hurt, felt guilty, or self-harmed, and anyone who has been abused. You’re not alone. You’re loved. It’s not your fault. You can heal. You’re someone. And also to a boy and a girl I knew a long time ago who had to live through too much. I hope you’re well and happy.
Acknowledgments
I’D LIKE to thank my beta readers who helped me as I stressed over Hunter’s story—Kelley York, Wendy Higgins, Heather Young-Nichols, Kim Marshall, and Jamie Manning. Thank you for everything.
I owe a special thank-you to Lynn Zieske for letting me pick her brain about depression in teens. Any mistakes are my own.
Thank you to my agent, Jane Dystel, and everyone else at Dystel and Goderich. You guys are my rock stars. I owe a big thank-you to Harmony Ink for taking a chance on me, and on my story.
As always, thank you to my family for your support and my readers for always being there. I couldn’t do this without you.
CHAPTER ONE
NOW DAD and I will both be in jail. The difference is that he deserves it, and I don’t.
I pull on the seat belt, which suddenly feels too tight.
There’s a kink in my neck when I turn toward Mom in the driver’s seat. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road, but I know she feels me looking at her. “I can’t believe you’re sending me away,” I tell her. It’s a low blow. She already feels guilty, and I’m trying to play on that, but what she’s doing is wrong. A home for crazy kids? It’s the last place I belong.
“It’s for your own good, Hunter.” Her voice cracks. It sounds the way my insides feel—cracked, broken apart.
When I was a kid, my favorite game was chase. I played it all the time. That’s what her tears are doing now: playing chase, one running after the other as they make their way down her face.
“It was one screwup. One. Kids mess up, Mom. It’s what we do.” But it wasn’t really just one thing. Even I know that. I guess I’m hoping she somehow forgets that I can’t stop getting angry all the time. That my grades dropped, I struggle to sleep, and I quit playing baseball. If I hadn’t been so busy with sports and school to begin with, maybe I would have known what was going on. Maybe none of this would have happened.
She still won’t look at me, even for a second. The urge to call her out on it hits, but I hold it back. Ever since we found out, I’ve been doing the same thing to my sister, Holly. It’s easier not to look at her and see all the ways I let her down written across her face. Big brothers are supposed to take care of their little sisters. But then again, dads aren’t supposed to hurt their kids either. That didn’t stop mine from doing it.
Finally, Mom glances my way. Her skin is a shade darker than mine, but still looks pale. I almost wish she didn’t because she looks sad, her eyes wide and filled with more tears. It’s crazy how we have a never-ending supply of tears. No matter how much you cry, they just keep coming. Well, for some of us, at least. Mom hardly stops crying. I don’t do it at all. “You know it’s more than that,” she finally says.
Without direction from me, my hands pull into fists so tight they hurt. My short nails dig into my palms, and my blood boils.
The urge to hit her isn’t there, but I wish I could hit something—a window, a wall, anything to deflate the tension in my body before I pop like a balloon too full of air.
“You haven’t been dealing with it, mijo. Not in a healthy way. You’re too angry—”
“And you’re not? He was your husband.” The words come out without a thought from me, just push their way past my lips. As soon as they do, I want them back because I know what I just said hurt her worse than any type of physical pain ever could. “I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I didn’t mean that. It’s not your fault.” It’s his. He’s the sicko, the pervert.
Mom wipes her face with her bony hands, and all I can think about is the fact that I let Holly get hurt, and now I’m making Mom feel like crap.
“I know you didn’t mean it, but that’s the point. It’s why we’re here. I can’t… we can’t keep going the way we are. Seeing a counselor once a week isn’t cutting it. Not after this last incident. You need help, Hunter. I won’t lose you or Holly. I’m going to do everything in my power to take care of my kids.”
The only help I need is help going back in time. There’s only one day I’m interested in revisiting—the first time it happened. If I could go back, I’d make sure Dad never hurt her. And if that’s too far, I’d go back to that last day, the one where we found o
ut. If I got a redo, Dad wouldn’t be in jail right now. He’d be dead.
BETTER DAYS Academy is about two hours from home, outside of Denver, on fifteen acres of lush land with gardens, a small lake, a basketball court, and enough stables and trails to support horseback riding. All of that came from the brochure. I’ve been here once before, the day of my entrance examination, but I honestly don’t remember most of it.
Apparently when you come here, better days are just around the corner. What a crock of shit.
It’s so lame how they try to make places like Better Days sound like they’re a vacation resort or something. Really, it’s a dressed-up prison where people who have no business inside your head screw around there—poke and question and decide what’s wrong with you, and what they think you need.
“It’s pretty. Isn’t it pretty?” Mom asks when we pull up. My heart starts going crazy, like a basketball slamming down over and over on a hardwood floor. I’m here for good this time. She’s really dropping me off at this place.
“Mom. Don’t.” She kills the engine, and as soon as she does I reach for the handle. “Don’t leave me here. Please.” Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out. My head starts to feel full. My pulse races too fast. I didn’t want to ask her, didn’t want to beg, but now that we’re here, the words won’t stop coming out. “I’ll get better. I won’t get into trouble anymore.” Anything. I’ll do anything if she doesn’t leave me at this place. “I’m not crazy.”
“Oh, Hunter.” She’s full-on crying now, snot and tears mixing. Her pale skin is flushed, and somehow I see her heart through her clothes, flesh, bone, and muscle. It’s shattered into a million pieces, each of them with my name engraved into it. Mine and Dad’s. We’ve broken her, but in different ways.
She pulls me into a hug, and I let her. “I chose this place because it’s not a hospital. It’s like a summer camp. I know you’re not crazy, mijo. I do. It’s only six weeks. It’ll be like a vacation. Being here just means you need a little break. We all need a little break sometimes.”
But she doesn’t. Her husband, the man she fell in love with and chose to marry, hurt their daughter, my sister. Yet she’s not losing it. Holly spent years living with a secret that should have destroyed her. She had to have been scared and alone, but she doesn’t “need a break,” either. She didn’t get so pissed off that she went ballistic, tearing through her school like the Tasmanian Devil from that old cartoon. She didn’t swing at anyone in sight when they tried to stop her, accidentally clocking a teacher in the jaw.
I’m the one who did that.
I’m the one who “needs a break.”
Just me.
“Whatever.” I pull away from her. If she’s going to send me off like some loser, I’m not going to help her feel okay about her decision.
“Hunter,” she says.
“I’m fine. I need to get my stuff, and then you’re free to bail on me.”
“That’s not fair,” she starts, but I’m already out of the car, slamming the door behind me.
CHAPTER TWO
MY LEG bounces up and down. I watch, trying to stop the annoying jump, but it won’t freaking quit. It’s like my leg took the role of everything else in my life right now, stealing the control away from me. It does what it wants no matter how I feel.
“I think you’re going to like it here, Hunter.”
I tear my eyes away from my leg, which still acts like it’s on speed, to look at the woman on the other side of the desk. She gave her name, but I don’t remember it. She looks young. Well, not young, but younger than I would have thought. She’s skinny, with blonde hair and a big smile. Apparently she’s the licensed therapist who will oversee my needs while I’m here, whatever that means.
She must be crazy too, because… “No. I can pretty much guarantee that I’m not going to like it here. It’s a loony bin.”
“Hunter!” Mom gasps as if I just said something that isn’t true.
“News flash, Mom. That’s what it is.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I look back at my cracked-out leg. Stop it. Stop bouncing.
“We prefer the term residential treatment facility. We’re specifically designed to be a comfortable, almost-homelike environment. It’s not so bad,” the therapist tells me.
“Pfft.” This is nothing like my home.
“I’m so sorry. He doesn’t usually behave this way. He’s been through a lot.” Mom’s excuse makes me want to scream. No, I haven’t been through a lot. Holly has. Holly had to deal with his hands, his breath against her ear, his—My vision goes blurry, and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to make it go away. The memories, the knowledge, they’re always there, trying to break through. Never letting me forget.
“It’s okay,” the therapist says. “I understand how you feel, Hunter. Most people think that way when they arrive. I believe you’ll feel differently when you meet everyone. We have some great kids here, fun activities. I won’t lie to you. It’s work. You have to put in the work to feel better, but if you do, it’ll help. I promise.”
What she said sounds like, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. In one ear and out the other. I have no interest in the stock speeches she shares with everyone whose parents ship them off to this place.
I have a life. I have friends. There’s nothing about Better Days or the people here that I’ll enjoy.
“Would you guys like to have a look around?” She stands.
“Yes. Please.” Mom pushes to her feet, and I do too, figuring it’s the best way to get my leg to stop going nuts. She leads us outside first, showing us where the horses are kept (never ridden one and don’t want to), the lake; the basketball court is nice (there’s no one on it), and there’s a big field that would work for baseball if people in places like this do things like that. Or if I played anymore.
It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s all for show. There’s no one doing anything cool right now. I’ve seen a few people walking around and some sitting and talking, but that’s about it.
From there we go back inside. There’s an activity room with a few games (pool, air hockey, table tennis), and another room with couches, a small TV (with limited availability on what we can watch) and too many books to count. Outside electronics are forbidden. No computer, no phone, nothing.
People don’t stop looking at me, probably trying to figure out why I’m here. She shows us where to eat, and then heads down another hallway. “The group therapy rooms are—”
“Group? We’re, what? Supposed to talk about our problems in a circle? Maybe hold hands, and all our problems will be solved? I’m not doing that. No one needs to know my business.” How am I supposed to tell them what I let happen? What if they think he did it to me too? Or worse… if they think I’m like my dad. “Screw that.”
“Hunter!” Mom shrieks.
I jerk around to face her. “I’m not. You can’t make me.” My leg wants to bounce again, and my chest starts to hurt. I can’t. Don’t make me do it.
“Why don’t we just keep our options open?” the woman interrupts. “No one expects you to share right away. You’ll have private sessions as well. But you never know… you could change your mind.”
I scoff. “Yeah, not likely.”
The lady smiles at me again. Her smile is going to drive me crazy, making it so I really do belong here.
“Where’s my room?” I’m over it. If Mom wants to leave me, then I’m fine with it. Why wait? Might as well get it over with now. There’s no point in dragging it out.
Mom chews her bottom lip, the heaviness that’s surrounded her since that day showing its weight again.
“The boys’ dormitories are back this way.” The therapist points the way we came from. Soon we take a different turn, heading away from the common areas. “There aren’t cameras in the boys’ or the girls’ hall. We don’t want you guys to feel uncomfortable. We need to be safe, but also provide a normal environment. But there are cameras in the other hallways, and common
areas. You can’t get to the girls’ dorms without passing some, and they’re monitored. There are also hallway sweeps every hour, and random room checks.”
Of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think about cameras. Like they aren’t going to want to watch everything we do.
“Your roommate’s name is Casey. He’s a very nice young man. He plays the clarinet. You should hear him. He’s really good. We’re trying to talk him into having a concert for us one day. Maybe you can help us persuade him.”
Not likely. I open and close my hands as she goes to one of the doors, near the far end of the hallway. Number twenty.
“Look. It’s your number,” Mom says.
“My old number.” Mom flinches. She hates it, but baseball was something I shared with Dad, and nothing is going to get me to play again.
When she opens the door, the first things I see are two beds. There’s a window between them, a small table beneath it, with a lamp. The dark blue blankets look thin. There’s a dresser on each side of the room and a small bathroom. No closets. One of the beds has a shirt lying on it, and a case that must be the clarinet she was talking about. There’s nothing else that tells me anything about the guy I’m going to be rooming with.
There’s never been a time in my life that I had to share a room with someone and now I have to do it with a stranger. Yes, I can see how this is all supposed to help me feel better… or not.
“I’ll leave the two of you to say good-bye.” The therapist backs out of the room.
“Thank you, Mrs. Spencer,” Mom says, and I finally know the woman’s name.
I walk farther into my dorm, my back to Mom. College is the only place I assumed I’d stay in one of these, and I planned to have a whole lot more fun than I’ll have here. My stomach hurts like two people fighting inside of it, maybe using my kidneys and liver for a punching bag.
“Hunter,” she says, but I don’t turn or reply. Or maybe it’s that I can’t. It’ll hurt to look at her. I know it. “You know I love you. I love you so damn much. You’re my boy. I just…. Oh, God, this is so hard. I wish I knew if I were doing the right thing. Please, someone tell me if I’m doing the right thing.”