by Nyrae Dawn
Stray cocks his head to the side, his brows pinched together as though he’s confused.
“Because you like looking at me, like you said earlier?” I ask when Stray doesn’t answer.
“No,” he says, and then, “I told you, I can’t figure you out.”
Yeah. I forgot about that. “Okay.” I turn to go to my room, but Stray reaches out and wraps a hand around my wrist.
“Because you’re the kind of guy who helped Casey when you didn’t have to, and I like your reason for why. That tells me you’re a good person. You want to help people.”
But I’m not a good person. I’m selfish.
“Because I think you hide, even from yourself. There are times I feel so bad I think the only way for things to get better is to hurt myself. One day it might be because I deserve it, and the next it might just be to let some of the pressure out. I wear my scars for everyone to see, though. I gave myself the name Stray so people know who I am. It was right after that story I told you about, with those kids at the new school. I wanted everyone to know they can’t hurt me by telling me who I am. Rosie is who she is, and she doesn’t care. Casey is shy and has anxiety, but it’s there, shining for the world. Not you, though. It’s locked up tight… but I see it. You feel as alone as I do. Maybe not in the same way, but you’re a stray too.”
His words ride the waves inside me—a bottle lost in my ocean. Words carved into the walls of my body. I’m alone. Even if a part of me knows I’m really not. I have Mom and Uncle Ricardo and Holly… but I feel alone. I’m lost. That’s not something I’ve ever been in my whole life.
But Stray sees it. Stray feels it.
“Maybe I like the idea of someone to hide in the dark with. Maybe that’ll make it easier to find the light. You had light before, huh?”
He’s right. I did. “Yeah. It wasn’t always like this for me.”
“Maybe you can show me.”
He’s the second person since I’ve been here to ask me to show him something. I don’t get what they see in me, but I do get that Stray’s telling me he never had it. He’s never had anyone. “What happened to your parents?” I ask.
He flinches, but I’m not sure he realizes it. “Never knew my dad. My mom was an addict. She OD’d when I was three. I was kinda messed up. Didn’t talk at all at first. That’s why no one wanted me. They figured I’d have too many issues, or whatever. They were probably right.”
My chest cracks open. My heart bleeds for him. I want to tell everyone who hurt him how wrong they were. I want to take his pain away, but I can’t. I can’t even do what he asked me.
His hair is in his eyes, but Stray doesn’t push it away. I think I might want to. So I do. I use my left hand to push his hair back. That’s the one thing I know I can do. “I don’t know if I can show you. Not anymore. I would if I could.” Not even just to help him. Finding it for myself might be impossible. My eyes pinch shut, I squeeze them as tight as I can. I want what Stray said.
“Boys. You’re late. Get to your rooms,” a nurse calls from down the hall. Stray drops my wrist, but I don’t move. Not yet.
He shrugs and says, “Plus, you’re hot.”
He smiles, and then I can’t help but do the same, and watch as Stray goes into his room. I’m still grinning when I go into mine.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“HEY.” STRAY doesn’t look me in the eyes the next morning.
“Hey,” I say back, glancing at him to see if he returns my look. He still doesn’t. It makes my palms a little sweaty. Did I do something wrong? Is he okay?
“Does anyone miss sleeping in? I really miss not waking up until noon.” Rosie’s plate clanks to the table before she sits down.
“For sure,” I reply and then let my eyes dart to Stray again. He doesn’t respond or look at me. I don’t get what’s going on.
No one talks much this morning. If I’m being honest, I don’t feel like saying a ton either. My second appointment with the psychiatrist is today. Considering our last meeting ended with my hand slamming into the door, I’m not thinking either of us is real stoked to do it again.
Despite our table being quiet, the cafeteria seems especially loud today. Like everyone is talking and eating lunch in my head, instead of in the same room as me. That’s the only reason I’m slightly thankful when breakfast is over. I want this day to both speed up and slow down. The faster the days go, the faster my six weeks will be up. But then, that means the faster I keep having to deal with all the crap, like therapy, and shrinks.
Three months. It’s hard to believe the rest of my friends are here for three months, or at Better Days for the second time.
I stand up and grab my plate as the nurse comes over to check Bethany’s. Stray moves slow, like he’s that boat, lost and alone in the ocean again. “You okay?” I ask. When I do he gives me a smile so big, I think it must hurt his cheeks. It’s too big. It’s not right. It’s not real.
Rosie wraps her arms around him from behind, bends over and hugs him. She whispers something in his ear that I can’t hear, and Stray nods. I was talking to him, I have the urge to tell her. To pull him away and whisper something to him myself, but then remember I don’t have that right. They’ve been friends a whole lot longer than we have. Even if I could whisper something to Stray, I wouldn’t know what to say.
“Is he okay?” I ask Rosie after we walk away.
“It’s just a bad day. He has them.”
“No shit.” There seem to be more bad ones than good ones now. When we walk through the room, a guy I don’t know passes me with a black eye. “I wonder what happened to him.”
“Must have pissed someone off.” Rosie shrugs. “Or just decided to fight someone. It happens. It’s how most people deal with things, but they all kind of have a no-staff rule. No one wants to be a nark, so if there’s a fight, you don’t tell.”
I stumble a little at that, but then catch myself. If that’s normal to everyone else here, I’m going to pretend it’s normal to me as well.
I manage to BS my way through therapy. From there I have an activity, lunch, and then to Dr. Harrison’s office. On the way I have a brief idea to try skipping out on it. What would they do to me, anyway? But then I think about the phone call to Mom, and the thought of letting her down again punches big, gaping holes in my heart.
“It’s good to see you, Hunter,” she says when I walk into her office. She’s sitting behind her desk, a big ball (or bun, I think they’re called?) of black hair on top of her head.
Maybe it’s a douchebag move of me, but I totally can’t tell her it’s good to see her back. “Hi.”
“How’s your hand doing?”
Absently, I rub it. Kind of feel like shoving it into her wall again. Does she really have to start with that reminder? “Awesome,” I tell her, and she smiles.
“I have an idea. I know you don’t like it when I write while you’re in here with me, so how would you feel about me recording our sessions? I’m not going to lie—it’ll have to be transcribed into your chart later, but that might help you be sure that I’m not lying in what I say about you.”
“That still doesn’t mean I know what goes into the chart. Plus, I’m sure you have to talk about how you see me, what you think is going on inside my head. I still won’t know that.” Hunter, one, Dr. Harrison, zero; if she thinks I’m going to fall for her attempt at trying to make things easier on me, she’s wrong. There isn’t a part of me who believes she would do anything just to make me feel more comfortable. Somehow, this helps her, even if it is just by trying to get me to trust her.
“Okay,” she says simply before pulling out a new yellow pad of paper and a pen from her drawer. She pulls her tablet over to her as well. “How are you sleeping?”
Every instinct inside of me is yelling to tell her to take her questions and shove them. Don’t blow it, don’t blow it, don’t blow it. I might have had fun with Stray and his friends last night, but my goal is still to get out of the place as quickly as I can,
especially if Stray’s going to stop talking to me. He made me feel normal last night. There’s no way I can handle this place if I lose that.
“Okay, I guess.”
“You’ve suffered with insomnia. That’s common with depression—to feel tired but to not always be able to sleep. Sleep is important. We need to make sure you’re getting enough of it. If it becomes a problem, you need to tell us so we can help.”
By giving me another pill, I’m sure. I’m not anti-pill. I’m not. Mom’s not old, but she has to take a pill for her blood pressure every day. She needs it. I don’t need them. “Okay. I will.” This shouldn’t be so hard. All I have to do is tell them all what they want to hear. As long as it doesn’t involve Holly too much, I’m golden.
“I hear you’ve found yourself a group of friends. Casey, Rosie, Bethany, and Jeremiah are good friends to have. It’s amazing what having a strong network of people at your disposal can do for you.”
“Stray.” Why is it so hard for everyone to call him what he wants to be called?
Her nose wrinkles. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable calling him that.”
“It’s what he wants to be called. It shouldn’t matter if it makes you comfortable or not.” It’s like what Rosie said, how they would have to turn the world upside down to understand us. People spend so much time trying to shove how they think and feel into other people. Deciding how someone should cope or not, how they should act or feel. What they should believe. If I want to be pissed, I have the right to be pissed. If Stray wants to be called Stray, he has that right, even if they don’t understand it or feel comfortable with it.
“Let’s talk about you.”
She asks question after question. I answer what I can, the way she would want me to. Details are slim, but hey, I’m playing nice. They have to be happy about that part. And she seems like she is. Dr. Harrison doesn’t frown, doesn’t write in her notebook like the world will end if she doesn’t scribble everything I say into it.
It becomes easier and easier, and I think maybe I can do this. Maybe I can handle these six weeks if I can have more days like last night, and I keep my real thoughts to myself while telling the staff what they need to hear.
“We have a family day coming up in a couple weeks. Did you know that?” she asks, making ice form on all my vital organs.
“No.” I don’t want Mom to come here unless it’s to take me home. Don’t want her to have to see me living in this place.
Dr. Harrison’s voice is soft, even, when she says, “Family plays an important part of treatment at Better Days. They can be a very strong form of support. We’re hoping both your mom and Holly will be able to come.”
My teeth bite down on my tongue, fighting to keep my mouth closed. More ice spreads into my veins, and my skin now. How can they think that’s a good idea? Her coming here, Holly supporting me?
So, I don’t answer. If I do, I know it’s going to be the wrong words that come out of my mouth—how I feel, instead of how they want me to feel.
My right leg shakes.
She’s waiting for me to answer. It’s a game to Dr. Harrison. I see it in her eyes. She’s testing me. It’ll make her happy if I fail.
“Hunter, eventually you’re going to have to talk about what happened. I know it hurts. I know you don’t want to. I know it’s scary, but it’s the only way.”
Ice cream. Blue eyes. Billiards. I do what Casey did with music notes when Brock went after him, only my words are in my head, fighting with me, trying to distract me so I don’t blow up.
My jaw loosens. My mouth opens. I have no control over any of it. “I don’t want her here. I can’t… I can’t have her here.”
The words just make it past my lips when Dr. Harrison nods. I didn’t expect a nod. “Thank you. That’s one of the first real things you’ve said to me today.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
STRAY IS quiet the rest of the day. I can’t fault him for that because I don’t have much to say either. Dr. Harrison’s words won’t leave my head. She knew I was playing her. She knew the whole time, but she didn’t say anything.
And she wants Holly to come here. Every time I think about that, my chest hurts. Coming to a place like this is the last thing she needs. Holly shouldn’t have to worry about anything this summer except gymnastics and playing with her friends. Not how screwed up her brother is.
“You okay?” Rosie asks as I head back to my room after dinner.
“You should be asking Stray that.” Stray needs these guys. The whole group needs each other; that’s pretty obvious.
“But I’m asking you.” She slides her arm around my waist. For a second I consider pulling it back, but then warmth against me slows the rapid beat of my heart. Heat from someone who feels more alive than I do. I just want to soak it up. Playing games the other night, I felt alive again for the first time since we found out.
Rosie is always alive.
Maybe I need them the way they need each other.
“I’m good,” I tell her.
“You can trust me, Hunter.”
There’s a little corner in my brain where I hide all my truths. The fact that I know I can trust her is there. Even if I don’t want to, I know I can trust Rosie. Knowing it doesn’t make my mouth work any better. It doesn’t change the rest of my brain that tells me to hold on to every bit of me that I can, so I don’t change how they look at me. “I know.”
“I want you guys all to be okay.” She squeezes my arm tighter. “There are so many things about this place that I hate. I don’t belong here. You know that. They sent me here because they don’t know what to do with me. Because I like to seize the day. The only thing I care about here is you guys. Out there, most people aren’t real. They don’t have to be. They don’t know what it’s like to really care about people, and to love them. Stray, Bethany, and Casey… they don’t always know either. None of us do. But they hold on instead of letting go. Don’t let go, Funny Boy. Hold on.”
When I look at Rosie, I think maybe an old person lives inside her. She’s not sixteen. She’s seen the world, lived more of it than me or anyone else. Rosie is hundreds, maybe thousands of years old—she walked with the dinosaurs, and was the first person to dance on the moon. She fought in the civil war, and marched in the sixties, and now she’s here with us.
“It’s just a bad day. We all have them.” Back in that place where truth lives in my head, I know she won’t take offense to me using her words from this morning on her.
Rosie smiles a big, happy, fun Rosie-smile. “Well played, Funny Boy. Well played.” She pulls her arm from around me, grabs my head, and pulls me forward so she can kiss my forehead. “Don’t have another one tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. “For being cool.”
Rosie winks and then skips down the hall the direction we came. Once she’s out of sight, I go to my room and kind of wish I had gone to hang out with her.
“HEY.” STRAY steps up beside me after I take my pill the next morning. He grins, a little shyly, but happy.
“Hey.” Air deflates from my overfilled lungs. He’s back. None of that heavy melancholy lingers around him like it did yesterday.
We walk into the cafeteria to get our food.
“We’re going to color my hair later. Do you want to help?” Stray grabs his plate. There are circles drawn all over his left arm. Big circles, small circles, circles inside each other, linked to each other, around his scars, between them. When he catches me looking he sheepishly says, “My shrink says to do that.”
I manage to pull my gaze away from his arm. “Color your hair?” My shrink doesn’t tell me to do stuff like that.
“No.” He shakes his head like I asked a ridiculous question. After we both get our plates, we start walking toward our table. “When I want to cut myself, she says to draw something there instead. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes I don’t want to make something pretty there. Sometimes I need the pain, but it worked last night.”
M
y feet tangle with each other, and I almost trip. Stray reaches out with his left arm, covered in circles. He wanted to cut himself yesterday. He wanted to hurt himself. There’s never been a time when I considered doing that. I don’t want him to hurt. I don’t want anyone to.
“It helped last night?” I ask, even though he just said it.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Stray smiles again. “So, anyway, do you want to color my hair? We have to find as many blue markers as we can. I like blue. Rosie says it goes well with my eyes.”
Heat runs up and down my arms, a different kind of heat than I got from Rosie yesterday. It’s almost like he’s the first guy I’ve ever been into, like I’m shy and don’t know what to do. “Umm, yeah. You use markers on your hair?”
“I knew the foster family was taking me here, so I dyed it the day before. It was pretty dark, but it’s fading. I color it to help.”
The foster family, not my. “Cool.” He’s about two inches shorter than I am. Skinny, but not like he doesn’t eat, just like he’s built that way. “Do you run? As like, a sport, I mean.”
His blond eyebrows pull together. “No?”
“Your body. You have a runner’s body. Like you might run.” Seriously. What the hell did I just say? I might as well have just told him I’m checking him out. But then, he’s made no secret of the fact that he’s done the same to me and liked what he saw.
Stray opens his mouth to reply, but then stumbles forward. I look up to see Brock and a few of his friends walking by.
“Sorry, didn’t see you there.” There’s laughter in Brock’s eyes. Automatically, I step forward. Fuck him.