by Nyrae Dawn
The second I sit down at one of the only empty tables in the room, I see them. The kid with blue hair, Casey, and two girls—a really skinny blonde with short hair, and a Mexican girl with long, black hair, who’s animatedly talking with her hands.
They’re on the other side of the room, but it’s like Casey installed a beacon in me while I was sleeping or something. He looks up, his eyes immediately catching mine. He tries to hide it, but I see him nudge the kid with blue hair, who looks my way. My leg starts the crazy bouncing again. It’s driving me insane, but not as crazy as these people.
I hate people looking at me, dissecting me. Trying to figure out who I am and seeing what my dad did when they look at me.
The room spins. Fades in and out, as I suddenly start feeling hot. And then, “What’s up? I’m Rosie. You’re Hunter, right?”
The Mexican girl stands next to me, and I have the urge to bolt. To run. Hide. Not from her. From myself. She got up and walked over to me, and I somehow missed the whole thing.
Maybe I really am crazy.
CHAPTER FIVE
I KEEP looking up at her, not sure what to say. I guess hey would work. Or yeah, I’m Hunter. Nice to meet you, Rosie, but I don’t say anything. My mind is back in time, a minute or so ago, when she was at the table and I was looking at them, trying to figure out how I missed things happening that I shouldn’t have missed.
“Stray said you’re hot, but I didn’t realize he meant this hot.” She reaches out and ruffles my brown hair like my mom would or something.
That snaps me out of my time-jump and back to the present. “What?” It’s not like I’ve never been called hot before. I just didn’t expect it here. And then a second thought hits me. “Stray?”
She rolls her eyes. They’re a deep brown, but they have this glint in them that tells me this girl is trouble. “It’s just his nickname.”
This time it’s me who rolls my eyes. “Faded blue hair? He’s a douchebag.” The hot compliment is automatically canceled out because it’s him. I want nothing to do with the guy.
Rosie shifts her weight from primarily her left leg to her right, and crosses her arms. It’s pretty obvious I just pissed her off. “Actually, he’s not.” She eyes the table, then me. “Are you going to ask me to sit, or what?”
“Honestly?” I really didn’t plan on it. Making friends here isn’t high on my priority list; going home is.
“Oh, I like you, Hunter.” Rosie sits next to me. “What are you in for?”
Walls sprout all around me, like those pop-up tents, springing up and into place. The only difference is my walls are a whole lot stronger than those tents. “Murder.”
She laughs. “Funny boy. I might call you that. Funny Boy. I’m here because my parents have no clue what they’re doing. My mom’s sixty-five and my dad’s sixty-eight. Who does that? Has their only kid at forty-nine and fifty-one? They’re old-school Catholics. They would rather think I’m crazy than believe that I’m just a girl who likes to have fun and isn’t sure she believes in God. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Rosie playfully slaps my arm like we’re best friends instead of two people who just met in the loony bin five minutes ago.
She grabs my right arm and studies it. “You’re not a cutter. A little skinny, but obviously not an eating disorder.”
Jerking my arm away from her, I say, “Who are you?”
“Rosie. I said that.”
Totally wasn’t talking about her name there. “I don’t want to be your friend. The only thing I want is to get out of here.” Turning away from her, I take a bite of cold, lumpy oatmeal. It’s gross. I’m actually hungry but don’t know if I can stomach it.
“Oh, anger. I got you.” Rosie pushes to her feet. “If your parents had the balls to bring you here, you’re not going home until they think you’re ready. Might as well get used to it now. It goes a lot faster if you have friends, but it’s your call. Whichever way you go, Stray isn’t a douchebag, and he was right about Casey. Be nice to him. See you at therapy.” Rosie smiles and then walks back to her table. This time I see her go. This time I can’t stop watching her, watching them all. She sits back down, and they start talking and laughing. Casey doesn’t look like he wants to curl into a ball and hide like he did last night. The blonde girl with the short haircut picks at her toast, nibbling the smallest bite before laughing at something.
They seem normal.
They seem like my friends.
Like me.
They can’t be, though, and I’m not like them. There’s not a part of me that will ever believe that.
I don’t get what they have in here to be happy about, but then I notice Stray. He pushes his tray out of the way and crosses his arms on the table before leaning forward and letting his head rest on them.
My brain keeps telling me that I need to look away. I don’t give a crap about him or anyone else at that table, but I can’t seem to make myself turn. I think maybe, walls just went up around Stray too. He’s there, with his friends, but in this moment, he isn’t part of the group. He’s on a small boat in the middle of the ocean, while they’re dancing on the shore.
Stray doesn’t even try to reach them. Doesn’t try to swim their way.
And then, head still on his arms, he looks at me. My gaze darts away. That kid was a punk to me today. I don’t want to talk to him, look at him or anything else, but then, I don’t really have a choice either. It’s like my line of sight is pulled toward him, and when it hits Stray again, he’s still looking at me.
Rosie seems to notice he’s checked out. She leans over and kisses the top of his head before she goes back to whatever they’re talking about.
Maybe they’re together. But then, Rosie said he told her I’m hot. He could be bisexual, or they could just be friends. Dude. Why am I even thinking about this?
Just as I’m about to turn from Stray and eat my gross chunk of oatmeal, he moves. His right arm slides out from under the other one, his hand raises, and… he flips me off. Then he smiles and looks away.
Yeah, fuck you too.
CHAPTER SIX
MRS. SPENCER finds me when breakfast is over to lead me to my therapy group. I guess they have different ones at different times, because everyone isn’t going toward the therapy rooms she’s guiding me to.
“We like to try to keep each group to about ten or twelve people. Your afternoon group won’t be the same as your morning group. It’s important to surround yourself with different people. It’s a good life lesson.”
Life lesson. They’re all about those here, aren’t they? “So, I have two group therapy lessons every day and one session with just me and a shrink twice a week? Talk about overkill.”
“This way.” She points to the left. “And no, it’s not. The point is to get healthy. You can’t do that without putting the work in.”
“And talking is supposed to help?” That’s what I don’t get, how they think spilling my guts twice a day or listening to other people do it is going to change anything. Holly still would have gotten hurt. My dad will still have been an asshole. I’ll still be pissed. Hashing it out isn’t going to alter any part of our situation. So why do it?
“You’d be surprised.” She gives me her smile that I already hate. There isn’t time to respond because we’re there, and she’s pointing into a room with chairs in a circle filled with people my age.
Inwardly I groan when I see a couple faces I recognize: Casey and Rosie. Yes, I can see it now. Talking to them is totally going to heal me. Why wouldn’t speaking with the guy who freaked about his clarinet and the girl who defends Blue Hair change everything? It makes perfect sense.
“Hi, you must be Hunter.” A woman approaches us. She’s wearing sparkly green makeup on her eyes and a green and neon pink skirt so bright it kind of hurts my eyes to look at her. “I’m Amelia, one of the licensed counselors at Better Days. It’s great to have you here.”
It’s great to have me here? That makes one of us. It’s like saying she’
s glad I went Hulk at my school and punched a teacher. “Um… hey.”
Amelia waves Mrs. Spencer away and signals for me to follow her to the group. She points to an empty chair before taking the one next to me, which happens to be right across from Casey and Rosie.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Hunter. I’m going to have you all go around the circle and share your name and something you like about yourself. We’ll start with you, Megan.” She points to the girl on the other side of her, and I have two thoughts at once: First, this has got to be the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. Say something we like about ourselves? I feel like I’m sitting on the carpet in a kindergarten classroom. And second, I’m glad she started the other direction, because there’s no way I’m going first.
Megan doesn’t seem to have the same problem and says something about liking her hair—it’s long and blonde. A guy after her named Brock, who looks like he might be biracial, likes how strong he is. From there I space off because, again, I just don’t get it. My eyes glaze over like they’d do in class sometimes when I didn’t feel like paying attention, until I hear, “Casey… my name is Casey, and I like how I play the clarinet.”
Immediately, I feel this sort of twist in my gut, because the instrument is obviously important to him. It’s not like I planned to keep the kid from ever doing it, though. Couldn’t I get a reprieve to figure crap out on my first night?
“Good. That’s good, Casey. And what about you, Rosie?” Amelia says.
Rosie cocks a brow at me. “Hunter knows my name already. We met this morning, and I like everything about myself. What’s the point in disliking ourselves? We are who we are.”
“Oh, I want to get back to that, Rosie. Remind me when we’re done.” Amelia tells the next person to go, but I don’t pay attention to their answers. I’m wondering if Rosie is serious about what she said. She comes off that confident. She’s beautiful, that’s obvious, but liking everything about yourself? I don’t think that’s really possible. Even before I found out what kind of person the man I considered my hero is, I don’t think there was a time where I liked everything about myself. I know I can be a jerk sometimes. Who isn’t?
“And you, Hunter?”
The room suddenly goes deathly quiet, everyone staring at me, like Rosie this morning, probably wanting to know what I’m here for. Who I am. It’s none of their business. It’s not my story to tell. What right do I have to talk about Holly? Those are the things that are going to be brought up if I talk too much about myself. So, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m Hunter and I like that I enjoy listening to the clarinet.” Totally not true.
The second the words are out, guilt slams into me. Pummels me, trying to steal my air. Rosie shakes her head. Casey drops his gaze. Brock chuckles, because even the people who don’t know what went down can tell that I said it because of Casey. Whose favorite thing about themselves is the fact that they like listening to the clarinet? So, I have to be making fun of him. And maybe I knew that when I said it, but I don’t think so.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I’m not sure if that’s what you were trying to do or not, but we don’t make fun of people here, Hunter. This is a safe place, a place where everyone deserves to feel comfortable to be who they are. Teasing in any way, shape, or form isn’t allowed at Better Days.” I feel Amelia’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at her. I can’t. Instead, I nod and wait for her to move on. It doesn’t take long before she does, and they go back to what Rosie was saying about liking everything about herself.
I don’t pay attention, though. Don’t even tilt my head back up from where it’s pointed to my lap.
It’s not like I have much to say anyway. I’m not sure if I like anything about myself anymore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“MOM? I want to come home. I’ll get it together. I promise. I won’t make things harder on you anymore.” My head spins as I frantically look around the room. A nurse gives me a sad smile from where she sits behind a desk. My tongue twitches to tell her to mind her own business. What right does she have to listen to people’s private conversations? It’s ridiculous I can’t even get a private phone call. Dad is the one who hurt Holly, yet I’m being treated like a criminal the same way he is….
Maybe that’s your punishment. What kind of brother lets his sister get hurt?
“This isn’t about me, mijo. It’s not that I think you’re making things hard on me. I love you. I—” Her voice breaks off, but then I hear it, the tears she’s trying to hide.
Guilt rides through all my veins, mixing through my blood. Guilt, anger, and shame. That’s all I am. It’s what makes me Hunter now—this ball of guilt, anger and shame.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here. God, I don’t want to make it worse for you.”
It’s then I know I’m chipping away at her, breaking her down. She’s questioning herself; but that just makes the guilt thicker. It becomes more than just my blood. It’s the air I breathe, and I’m choking on it.
I could get her to come get me. If I push a little harder, I see that I could, but I don’t want to break her. How can I hurt her after everything else? Selfish as it is, I’m not ready to completely give in yet either. If I tell her I’m okay, I’ll lose this chance.
“There’s a girl here. Her name is Rosie. I guess she’s pretty cool.” Actually, she’s not. Or if she is, she doesn’t think I am, so it’s a moot point. It was just the first thing that came to my mind.
“See? You’ve always made friends so quickly. I knew you’d meet someone. That’s my boy. I’ve always been so proud of you, Hunter. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” And I do. She’s always loved the fact that I had friends coming and going at home. Mom was an outsider when she was my age. That’s not something she ever wanted for me or Holly.
She’s the kind of mom who made it to all my games and Holly’s gymnastics. She liked having dinner as a family, and smiled when I told her I was going to the movies with friends, or to a dance with a boy. It made her happy that I was involved.
Maybe if I’d have been a little less involved, I would have known what was going on in my own house.
“Give it a couple days. Try to tough it out for me. I know you, Hunter. You can handle this. And I also know you won’t pretend otherwise if you can’t. Call me in a few days, and if you need me, really need me to come and get you, I’ll figure something out. It’s not the best thing, though. You have to know I believe that.”
“Yeah, fine. Okay.” It’s a step closer than I was before. Her saying to try and tough it out for a few days means I can likely get out of here. Still, I’m not sure I can stay in this place another night.
“DO YOU hear voices?” the shrink asks me when I go to my one-on-one with her. Voices? What the hell? I’m not a whack job.
“No. That’s dumb. Why would I hear voices?”
Her long, red nails tap the screen on her tablet.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been evaluated by a psychiatrist since everything went down. I’ve seen more than just the shrink who evaluated me for this place—depression presentation with irritable behavior, which just means I get mad a lot. I don’t feel depressed, and I would think they’d understand my anger. Still, I’ll never get used to the fact that she’s writing things about me that I can’t read.
“That’s rude. Patients should be able to see what you say about us. How do I know you’re not lying?”
Dr. Harrison turns from the tablet to me. “Is it hard for you to trust people?”
Yes. “That’s not what I said.”
“I never said it was. I’m curious, though. Do you find it hard to trust people? And what reason would I have to lie about you?”
I wish I could squeeze my eyes shut to block her out and keep her from trying to poke around in my head. She sees me as a puzzle, like if she says the right thing and clicks the right pieces into place, she’ll see something in me she has no business seeing. Like she can
figure out where all my pieces go, and fix me.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I tell her.
“Hunter… I can’t do this without you. I know you don’t want to be here, and you don’t want to believe you need help. No one does. But there’s no shame in it. This has to be a partnership. It’s the only way things will change. No one blames you, you know? Not your mom or your sister. You’ve been through a major life ordeal, and sometimes our minds just don’t know exactly how to deal with it. That’s what we want to help you with—help you find a way to deal.”
I shove out of the seat, the fake leather squeaking when I do. The throb, my rage, is there again, the boom, boom, boom in my temples that echoes inside my ears. “Ordeal? What happened to Holly isn’t an ordeal. I’m done with this.”
The throb in my ears changes to cries. Holly crying. Her eyes wide in fear… in shame. He was supposed to protect her. We were all supposed to protect her, and we let her down.
My fists knot in my hair, pulling. I want it gone. Want to stop hearing it, seeing it, over and over. What he did to her. What she lived through while I was playing ball, and fixing cars with him. When she would ask me why I wanted to be like Dad so much, and tell me he wasn’t always nice. I’d tell her she was being a brat. That we were lucky to have a cool dad around. A lot of my friends didn’t. That whole time, she was trying to tell me something, and I wouldn’t listen.
“Hunter?”
My name comes out of the fog, but I can’t tell who it is.
“Why do you always have an attitude about him? You’re so spoiled, Holly.” I told her that without trying to find out if there was a reason why.
It’s almost like I’m not inside my body. I stepped out of it. See myself move. See my arm raise, my fist fly through the air, into the wall. Pain shoots up my hand, and I’m suddenly back in my body again, having no control over what just happened.