by Nyrae Dawn
My body tenses up. She’s wrong. I feel my insides hardening, feel them getting stronger, building up resistance. Amelia said we have the power to be who we want to be, and I want to be indestructible. Unbreakable. The rock I always should have been. “I won’t be weak anymore.”
“That’s not what I meant. I didn’t say you were weak. Do you feel like you’re weak?”
I shake my head, refusing to let her in. She wants to play mind games with me, but there’s no way I’m letting her. “How am I supposed to plant flowers with my hand wrapped? The bandage will get messed up.”
Her lips don’t turn up this time. Her eyes dim, and I think maybe she finally gets it. She sees that I’m not going to mold into who and what she wants.
“You don’t have to dig this time. Megan’s working in the gardens. She can show you around. You can help her water, or gather supplies. It doesn’t sound like it, but gardening ends up being a lot of the kids’ favorite thing to do. Seeing a plant or a flower grown from a tiny seed, and knowing you had a hand in it? It’s a good feeling.”
“My mom gardens.” Squinting, I look over her right shoulder to the square piece of ground, filled with flowerpots and plants sprouting from the ground. It’s roped off, with a small building next to it where I’m assuming the supplies are. The door is open, and there’s a window on the side closest to the garden.
“Did you ever help her?” Mrs. Spencer asks.
“No.” I was too busy for that. Before she responds someone walks through the door with a pot in her hand. It’s the girl with the long, blonde hair and pointy nose that sits with Brock in morning therapy. Great. This is exactly who I want to hang out with.
“Come on.” Mrs. Spencer heads toward Megan. “Hello, I’d like Hunter to help you today. This is his first time. Maybe you can show him the ropes. He can’t do much because of his hand, but if you can give him a little rundown, that would be nice.” The truth is, I probably could help. My hand doesn’t hurt a ton anymore.
“Yeah, sure. Of course.” Megan smiles. Mrs. Spencer pats my shoulder and then walks away. “You have to sign in over here.” She shows me where to list my name and the time. They want us to do that for every activity we participate in, so they can keep track of us, I guess. The pad is on the door to the shed, which she tells me is kept locked, until someone signs out a key. Apparently that was her today.
About fifty feet away from us, one of the Better Days staff walks around. They do that, checking the grounds and halls all the time, since we’re the crazy kids who can’t handle life.
“Come here.” Megan tugs on my sleeve until I follow her to a bench. She sets the pot down. There’s another one already there, along with a bag of dirt.
“We decorate the pots ourselves. It sounds lame, but it’s not so bad. This one’s mine.” She points to the one that was already on the bench. It has a sun, blue sky, and clouds painted on it.
“Cool. It looks good.” I cross my arms, then uncross them. This is… awkward. She seems different from the girl I’ve seen around with Brock. He’s an asshole. Abraham’s one too. She was laughing right along with Brock when she thought I was giving Casey crap in the first therapy lesson, but she seems halfway decent right now. Still, I’m not looking to make friends with her. It feels like a strange sort of betrayal to Casey.
“You can water all the plants in pots, if you want. Then just hang out and watch.”
I shrug. It’s not like I have anything else to do. She points me in the direction to fill up the watering can, which I do before heading over to the plants.
“So… Rosie’s kind of a slut. I thought you might want to know that.”
“Huh?” I turn toward her, not really sure how to respond to that.
“Rosie. I saw you with her this morning walking to therapy. They’ve been eating with you. She’s a slut. She tries to hit on every new guy that comes in. I figured you should hear the truth before she gets her claws into you.” Megan doesn’t look at me as she fills her pot with dirt, as though she just told me the sky is blue, or something simple like that.
I pull my left hand back and stop watering. There’s a twitch, twitch, twitch in the side of my forehead that wasn’t there before. “So? That just means she knows what she wants. It doesn’t make her a slut.”
At that Megan looks up at me. I see the switch. She drops the friendly act, switching smoothly like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. “Fine. If you like whores, feel free to like whores. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I don’t tell her there’s zero chance I’d be into Rosie that way. Who I like or don’t like has nothing to do with her. “Whoever Rosie is or whatever she does, at least she’s real about it. Takes a lot of nerve to talk about someone behind their back, kind of like Brock and Abraham had the balls to pick on Casey, two on one, right?”
Megan’s face goes red. Her mouth stretches tight, and briefly I wonder if that’s how I look when I get mad. “You don’t know Brock, so don’t talk about him. I know Rosie.”
Brock and Rosie aren’t even in the same universe so I don’t bother to reply.
“Did you know his dad’s in a gang? He used to live with him. Even though his dad was the leader, he still made Brock get jumped in at thirteen years old. He saw his dad beat people for as long as he can remember. It’s what he knows. It’s what he’s used to. He’s probably seen and done more than anyone here.”
“Are you trying to scare me?” I turn away from her.
“No, I’m just saying you don’t understand him. It wasn’t until his mom found them that he got out. She’s the one who put him here. Don’t pretend to know him.”
Her words make me second-guess myself, when I don’t want to. Not that what he did was okay, but that’s a crazy life to live.
“Whatever,” she says when I don’t reply. “We thought you were cool when you first showed up. Looks like you’re just a loser like the rest of them.” She gives her attention back to her pot again, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to try to calm the rapid beat of my heart.
Tossing the watering can to the dirt, I turn and get out of there before I say something that will get me into trouble.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AFTER I walk around the building, my breathing starts to even out a little bit. The heat in my body slips away, a heaviness taking its place. It’s like someone injected concrete into my veins, making me feel heavy. That’s not where it stops, because what’s the purpose of doing something if you don’t go all the way? So, along with the concrete, my shoulders sag as though I’m carrying weights across them. I feel it, the itchiness under my skin, moving, growing, transforming into fat, dark clouds. An eclipse inside me.
Sometimes I feel one way, and then with the snap of a finger, I take a one-eighty. Then the anger creeps in again, because I don’t want to feel like that. I don’t want to give over control of my own body.
I don’t want the doctors and my mom to have been right.
I don’t want to belong here.
But in this moment, I think I do—not because it’s my punishment, but because something is wrong with me. Maybe something’s always been wrong with me, and I just didn’t know it.
Without planning where I’m going, I end up at the stables. They have six horses here. I’m not sure what kind they are. If I asked Holly, she would know. She used to beg our parents to get her a pony. She didn’t understand why we couldn’t just keep it in the backyard.
One day she wrote them a letter pleading her case, filled with all sorts of information that she knew about horses—their breeds, the different kinds of riding, how to take care of them.
It turned out to be a good idea. Not that we could get her a horse; that wouldn’t work. But Dad talked Mom into letting her take lessons. Mom wasn’t sure about it at first. Holly had gymnastics. Her activities were different from all the sports I played. Her activities weren’t seasonal.
Dad stuck up for her, though. Dad had Holly’s side. See? How was I supposed to know? How
could I see how evil he was when he did cool things like that for her?
Cool things she didn’t seem to appreciate….
She took lessons for a month before deciding she didn’t like riding.
Because of him. Because he fought for her to get horseback riding lessons. Because maybe his nice gestures were just a way of bribing her.
“Ugh!” I watch it happen. Watch my leg fly forward. Watch my foot connect with a bucket. Watch and hear it roll away.
In the background a horse neighs, and then I hear, “Shh. You’ll scare her.”
The voice is familiar. Without seeing blue hair, I know it belongs to Stray.
He sticks his head out, his eyes widening in surprise. “Oh hey. I didn’t know it was you. You’ll spook her if you do stuff like that.” He ducks back into one of the stalls, and then my legs just sort of move forward. One step, then another, and another, until I’m in front of the stall he’s in, and see him brushing a big white and brown horse. He’s wearing baggy black shorts that go past his knees and a green T-shirt.
“You like horses?” Stray asks.
“No,” I bite out, tasting the acid in the word.
Stray’s eyes snap up toward me. “Oh… do you like anything?” A small smile curls his lips. I’m so not in the mood.
“Funny. I’m outta here.”
“Hey. Wait, I’m sorry. Don’t go.”
But I hadn’t moved. I didn’t even take a step.
Stray keeps brushing. It’s quiet in here; no one else seems to be in the stables except for him.
“Why’d you help him? I’ve been wondering about that. Why’d you help Casey?”
The first thing that pops into my mind is none of your business, followed by I don’t know. But I do know, and I don’t care if he does, so I block out those replies and answer truthfully. “I hate bullies. I hate people who pick on others who are weaker than them. People hurting someone innocent make me sick.” Why are my hands shaking?
He pauses and watches me. Maybe he can see it. Maybe he can see my hands going crazy. The thought should be embarrassing, but that emotion seems to be lost inside me right now, hiding behind too many other feelings to count.
“Come here,” he finally says.
“Why?”
“Just come here.”
And I do. I walk over to Stray, who slips the brush over my left hand and nods for me to stand next to the horse. Again, I’m moving, and then my hand raises and I let it slide down the horse’s body.
“There’s something calming about them. I come out here sometimes when I want to be alone. They always tell me to try to find the things that make me happy. Horses might be one of them. I haven’t decided yet.”
The horse makes a sound, and I pull my hand back, scared I had hurt it. When it doesn’t move, I brush it again, and again, and think maybe the horse likes it.
“I hate bullies too,” Stray tells me. “I’m little, so people think they can give me shit. I’ve gotten a lot of it in my life. I used to just let it go, but then this one time these guys were giving me crap at a new school I got sent to when I went to live with a new family.”
“Why were they giving you shit?” I ask.
Stray digs in the dirt with the tip of his shoe. “Because they could. Because I used to let people walk all over me, and I was like a magnet for douchebags. It was typical, dumb bully stuff—asking what I did to drive my real parents away. Saying they wouldn’t want me, either, that kind of thing. I don’t know what was different that day, but… I just lost it and lunged at them. Got my ass kicked, but I learned I’m scrappy.” He smiles. “They didn’t expect to get it almost as bad as they gave. They left with black eyes and busted lips.”
He doesn’t really look proud of that or sound like he’s bragging. He’s just stating a fact.
“I’d taken a lot of beatings before that.”
The way he says it makes me wonder if he only means from people our age. “Adults too?”
“Some of them. Most of the people I lived with were okay, though. There were only a few who liked to hurt us.”
My hand stills on the horse. He’s been hurt, like Holly. In a different way than her, but there are adults in his life who were supposed to take care of him who didn’t.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out harsh, but I don’t think he notices. I am sorry for him, but I hate them. I hate people who hurt others.
Stray shakes his head as though it doesn’t matter. “It happens. Anyway, people knew not to mess with me after that because I wouldn’t take it. And if people can’t stick up for themselves, I do it for them.”
The way he did when he came into my room the first day and told me to let Casey play his clarinet. Stray and I have that in common.
“You should hang out with us after dinner tonight. We’re going to play some games in the game room.” His finger moves up and down his arm as though he’s writing on it.
“Why? Because I helped Casey?” That’s why they started hanging out with me in the first place. I don’t want to be around people who are being nice because they think they owe me.
“No, because I’m still trying to figure you out. But maybe partially because I liked your answer for why you helped him. Could also have to do with the fact that I like looking at you too.”
My hand falls away from the horse, and my heart knocks loudly on the wall of my chest. I never would have said that to someone else, even if it were true. Not so bluntly like that.
Stray chuckles. “Just keepin’ it real.”
Even though I’m brushing the horse again, my eyes are on Stray. On his eyes that are bright blue like his hair and the few light-colored freckles on his nose and cheeks. The little dimple below his mouth. If we weren’t here—in a residential treatment facility, or whatever they call it—a place they sent us because we’re screwed up, I think I might like looking at him too. “Nah, I’ll probably go to bed after dinner. I’m tired.”
“We’re always tired, Hunter, or at least I am. My mind never stops going long enough for me to be anything else.”
His words are somehow my truth. It’s why my eyes struggle to close, or when they do, why sleep runs away from me. Why I play chase with it. Even when I don’t think there are thoughts in my head, it’s still going.
“It’s almost time for lunch. See you at afternoon therapy. You should go. Tonight, I mean.” And then he shoves his hands into his pockets and walks away. I step out of the stall, squint to watch him go. His shoulders look slumped over the way mine feel, and I wonder if maybe he has concrete in his veins, and a weight around him like I do.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LUNCH AND afternoon therapy go by in a blur—fuzzy scenes that I’m a part of but not completely there for either.
Stray and Bethany sit with me in therapy, but we don’t really talk to each other. John, our afternoon therapist, tries to get all of us to talk about the importance of owning our feelings, blah, blah. He must hear me scoff, because he asks why I don’t agree.
“I never said I don’t agree. I just don’t see what it changes.”
“It can change a lot, Hunter. We all have bad things happen to us. It would be a lie to say those bad situations don’t have an effect on who we are, but we don’t have to only be made up of the negative. It hurts, but you can use it as a tool to better your life and your outlook. Owning your feelings, not only being honest about them but working toward understanding them, is one of the best ways to grow.”
I nod at John as though I agree with him, but the way his eyebrows pinch together makes it pretty obvious he doesn’t believe me.
The rest of the session, I keep quiet. When it ends John comes up to me and says, “You’re wasting your time if you only go through the motions. You’re using your energy fighting the wrong battles. Waging war on us is really just waging it on yourself. Something to think about.”
But I don’t want to think about it. Still, as I head to my room his words follow me. They’re in my head, a brok
en record only playing the same thing, over and over.
I’m not waging a war on myself. That’s stupid.
But then it kind of starts blending in with what Stray said. About always being tired. He’s always tired, but he doesn’t lie around in his room all day. He laughs with his friends, plays games, and thinks about stuff like looking at me. That almost feels like fighting to make things better.
But then… he didn’t do what I did either. He didn’t let his sister down. It’s a struggle, finding that line and deciding if I should cross it or not. If I have the right to try to enjoy myself. It’s easier just to ignore it all.
“Hunter? Are you going to d-dinner?” I roll over at the sound of Casey’s voice as he sticks his head through the doorway. It’s dinnertime, but my body tells me I just came to my room and lay down five minutes ago.
Really, I’m not hungry. If I don’t go, Mrs. Spencer will likely track me down and escort me there herself. After this morning, I don’t really want to deal with her again. Megan probably told her I bailed on helping with the plants.
“Yeah. I gotta take a leak. I’ll be right there.” He leaves while I roll out of bed. The bandage on my hand is driving me nuts, so I unwrap it and toss it to the floor. It’s tender and bruised, but wearing this thing isn’t going to do anything to help me. In the bathroom I wash my hands and then throw some water on my face.
My eyes zero in on my reflection in the mirror. I’m skinnier than I’ve been since I was fourteen. The skin beneath the eyes that I hate is light blue, like fading bruises. That’s not what makes me keep staring at them, though… it’s the fact that they look dead. Alone. Weak.
I can’t see why Stray would want to check me out. Whatever he sees can’t be the person looking back at me in the mirror right now.
This isn’t the guy who will be able to protect Holly. The guy who will make sure no one hurts my family again.
There are two people inside me, I think. One, who wants to curl up in bed and not get out, and the other, who wants to do whatever I have to do to get out of this place. That doesn’t mean pouring my heart out to strangers, but I can fake it. Smile, laugh, play the part. Maybe even feel some of it, the way Stray and Rosie seem to.