Counting Backwards

by Laura Lascarso

  Margo

  I caress the paper like it’s made of silk and read it again and again. Do what it takes to get out the hard way. It seems she and Brandi are telling me the same thing. What if I put on a happy face and answer their questions? Every one of them. Is that all it will take to convince them that I’m rehabilitated? Could it really be that simple?

  I’m still pondering it the next day when my father comes to visit for Christmas. Not my mom, though. She’s never been one for the holidays. That was always me and my dad. She calls me in the morning, but I don’t have much to say to her. It’s not a very merry Christmas.

  My dad and I eat lunch together in the dining room, which has been laid out with tablecloths and real silverware and plates. The safeties stand by like distant relatives. The only thing they’re missing is the bad holiday sweaters. My father tries to engage me, but I’m less interested in small talk than ever before. By the time dessert comes I’ve zoned out completely, watching the whipped cream melt down the sides of my pumpkin pie.

  “Taylor,” my father says, “this isn’t the solution.”

  I glance up and see the concern in his eyes. I know that my distance is scaring him. It’s scaring me, too, but I don’t know what to do about it.

  “You’re still running away,” he says. He places one finger to my temple. “Up here. You’re giving up. You’re surrendering.”

  When we could not fight, we ran. When we could not run, we hid. But we never surrendered. . . .

  He doesn’t say the next words, but I know what they are. Just like your mother. I stare at my plate and think he’s right. I am just like her—giving up at every turn, feeling sorry for myself, playing the victim. I hate myself for it, but I don’t know how else to be.

  “Try,” he says, and reaches for my hand. And I know I have no other options. I have to let them think they’re winning. That’s the only way I’m going to get out of here. The math is simple enough. Six months or eighteen months? Until I’m seventeen or until I’m eighteen? I inch my hand toward his, and he curls his fingers around mine.

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER 15

  When winter break is over, they move me again. To the second floor this time. Tabitha is my new intern. She smiles nervously when she first sees me and the fake me smiles back. Rhonda, their floor safety, doesn’t seem the least bit pleased about my arrival. “You cause us any trouble and it’s back to the first floor.”

  I unpack my stuff for the first time. On the third floor, I’d kept everything in my duffel bags, but here I decide it will look better if my clothes are in drawers. It’s not a surrender; it’s a strategic maneuver.

  On our first day back to school I stand outside the building and give myself a pep talk. I’m going to raise my hand in class and do my assignments. Like Kayla once said, Participation is the first step to rehabilitation. I’m going to smile at my teachers and my classmates, because I’m normal and happy. I’m going to do these things because I want out.

  In first period Mr. Chris passes out worksheets but skips my desk, since I haven’t touched anything paperish in a couple of months. I raise my hand, and it takes him a moment to realize I’m waiting for him to call on me. Finally he does.

  “Yes, Taylor?”

  “I’d like a worksheet, please.”

  His brow crinkles and he glances at the safety, who only shrugs. If we’re not misbehaving, the safeties couldn’t care less.

  “I’d rather not waste the paper,” he says. “If you don’t intend to do it.”

  “I do.”

  Mr. Chris hands me a worksheet and then watches me as I uncap my pen and answer the questions. When I’m finished, I turn it in, but instead of adding it in with the others, he studies it for a moment.

  “Speak with me after class.”

  The bell rings, and everyone else files out. I stand by my desk and try to quell the nervousness in my gut, hoping he doesn’t see right through me.

  “Do you hope to pass this class?” he asks.

  The real me doesn’t care, since I’m headed for a GED anyway, but no teacher wants to hear that.

  “Yes, Mr. Chris, I do.”

  He crosses his arms, and I can tell by his face that it’s going to take more convincing. “I don’t think you’ve completed an assignment since you’ve been here.”

  I think back and realize he’s right, but I knew what they were. I mean, I listened to everything he said. I read over the questions even if I didn’t answer them. Then I understand what he’s getting at—all that missed work.

  “I could make up the assignments.”

  He sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t say no. I have to try harder, to show him I’ll follow through. “I have independent study after lunch. I could start today, working backwards maybe.”

  I think about how that would work, to do the assignments backwards, figuring out how it all came to be.

  “I just don’t know, Taylor.”

  He’s still holding out on me. Why? I rack my brain, trying to figure out what he wants. An apology, maybe. I hate apologizing, but it’s just two words, and that’s a small price to pay for my freedom.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but not very loud.

  “Excuse me?” he says, even though I’m pretty sure he heard me.

  “I said, I’m sorry for . . . having a bad attitude.” That’s pretty standard. I’ve been hearing that most of my life. And it’s something I should be sorry for. Mr. Chris just wants to teach me history and he’s given me a hard time, but it wasn’t personal. It’s not like he betrayed me. Not like some people.

  Mr. Chris sighs. “You have been difficult.”

  I nod my head in agreement. “Yes, I have.”

  “This is going to be a lot of extra work for me. Having to go back and make an individualized learning plan.”

  “Maybe I could . . .” I glance around the classroom, trying to see if there’s something I could do to help him out. Sharpen pencils? Grade papers? I doubt he’d trust me with either of those tasks. Then I see the huge stacks of books he has in the back of the room. Maintenance has a ton of scrap wood. And I know how to hammer in a nail. Maybe with supervision I could build him a bookshelf. It might not be that pretty, but it’s better than having his books get trampled on.

  “I could build you a bookshelf,” I say. “And organize your books. Alphabetically or . . . whatever.”

  He purses his lips and glances at his small collection. Finally he nods. “We’ll give it a try. I’ll have your first set of assignments ready for you tomorrow. A bookshelf sounds nice too. Ms. Suzanne in wood shop could help you with that.”

  “Great,” I say, and smile. It’s progress.

  In my next couple of classes, I follow the same strategy. I participate. And after class, I ask my teachers if I can make up my work. My English teacher is pretty forgiving and just asks that I read the books and answer the study questions, which won’t take me too long, but my chemistry teacher wants me to retake all the tests, and my Algebra II teacher wants me to start on Unit 1 in the textbook and work my way through it, doing all the homework. I don’t know if there’s enough time in the day to do all these problems, but I have to try. I want my team to talk about what a turnaround I’ve made. I’m on the road to rehabilitation.

  In the pen that day, I bring my math book outside with me. Instead of staring at the asphalt or counting the diamonds in the fence, I start plugging away at math problems. After a few minutes Sulli and Brandi stop by, throwing their twin shadows across my page. They’re officially a couple. I suspect they always were, but now there’s a lot less fighting and a lot more making up and making out.

  “Whatcha up to, T-scream?” Sulli asks me. T-scream is the name he gave me on the Chain Gang, on account of my spontaneous outbursts. If anyone else called me that, I’d mind it, but Sulli gets away with it. Because he’s funny and you can’t laugh at everyone else without getting a name of your own.

  “Math.”

&nb
sp; “Why?”

  “So I can pass the eleventh grade.”

  “Is that what we’re supposed to be doing here?” he says, always the clown.

  “She’s playing the game,” Brandi says. “Right, Taylor?”

  “Something like that.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt for you to be seen with friends sometimes,” she says. “Laughing and joking around. It would make you look less like a murderer-in-the-making.”

  I give her my cheesiest, fakest laugh.

  “Gosh, you seem almost nice now,” she says with a smirk. Out of the corner of my eye I catch A.J. watching us, and I drop the act. I don’t want him to think I might be looking for a friend.

  For the rest of the day I continue with my new school project, which is getting out the hard way. But the real test comes that afternoon, when I walk into the mind factory. Everything I’ve done up until this point has been a warm-up. Because if there’s anyone I have to convince of my new attitude, it’s Dr. Deb.

  “Good afternoon, Taylor,” she says.

  “Afternoon,” I say brightly. She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. The game has changed again, and she’s thinking of her next move.

  “You look . . . well rested.”

  “I am.”

  “How was your vacation?”

  The real me would say that a vacation is two weeks at the beach, not shut up in Sunny Meadows painting garbage cans and chipping paint. But the fake me smiles pleasantly enough and says, “Just fine.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear. Did you see your father over the break?”

  “Yes, we had lunch together on Christmas.”

  “And how was that?”

  It was . . . tolerable? No, something better than that.

  “It was splendid.”

  “Splendid? Well, that is good news. And what about your mother? Did you see her?”

  “No,” I say. I spoke with her again the day after New Year’s, because that’s how long it takes her to recover from a bringing-in-the-new-year hangover. I wonder if she made any resolutions. Probably not.

  “She said she’s going to come visit as soon as she can get some time off,” I tell Dr. Deb, which is what my mom told me, though I know better than to hold her to it.

  “Good,” Dr. Deb says.

  I nod enthusiastically. I could do this all day. Happy, happy Taylor Truwell, the big small-talker.

  “And how’s school going?”

  “Great,” I say. At least I don’t have to lie about this one. “I’m catching up in my classes.”

  “That’s a step in the right direction.”

  “It sure is.” I don’t care what direction I’m headed, as long as it’s out of here.

  “And how’s your breathing been?”

  My . . . breathing?

  “Fine?”

  “Because I’ve noticed that sometimes you have difficulty with that. Breathing.”

  She’s talking about the feeling. Sneaky, Dr. Deb. She must think I’m new at this game.

  “It’s just my asthma,” I say, knowing full well that it isn’t. I shouldn’t even be lying about it, but I can’t help it. Even though I hate it, the feeling is still mine.

  “I didn’t see asthma listed on your medical record.”

  “Acute asthma,” I say. I have no idea what that means, but I think I’ve heard of it before, and maybe I have it.

  “Interesting,” she says, which is what people say when they don’t believe or agree with you. “Well, for now, let’s not try and define it. Let’s just focus on your breath, shall we?”

  My good mood is fading fast, but I can’t give up so easily. I’m going to play her game, and I’m going to win.

  “Great. Let’s do it.”

  “All right then. We’ll begin by closing our eyes.”

  I close one eye. Never take your eyes off your assailant.

  “Take a long, deep breath in,” she says. “Visualize the air entering in through your nose, expanding your diaphragm and rib cage, filling up your lungs from top to bottom.”

  She models the breathing, and I follow along. One long, deep breath in and out.

  “Now imagine the oxygen flowing through your arteries and capillaries, reaching the very tips of your fingers and toes. Wiggle them a little to see how the oxygen gives you energy and strength. . . . Good, now let it go. Breathe in deeply again and hold on to your breath for as long as it’s comfortable. But when you release it, do it slowly, counting in your head as you exhale.”

  I exhale slowly, ten, nine, eight . . . counting backwards without meaning to, but it feels better than counting up, because at one it will be over, right?

  “Excellent,” she says. “Let’s do it again.”

  We go through the whole sequence four or five times, then she starts coaching me as I breathe, saying, “I am powerful. I am strong. I am in control.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “Say it with me,” she says. “Between breaths. One statement at a time.”

  The real me doesn’t believe in this corny feel-good crap, but the fake me says the words aloud. “I am powerful.” I breathe. “I am strong.” Breathe. “I am in control.”

  “How do you feel now?” she says.

  “Decent,” I say. “I mean . . . great.”

  “I’m giving you a homework assignment. Tonight before you go to bed, I want you to sit in a quiet place and do this exercise by yourself, repeating the mantra in your head: ‘I am powerful. I am strong. I am in control.’ Will you do that for me?”

  “Sure,” I say, knowing full well I won’t.

  But later that night I remember Dr. Deb’s homework assignment and decide to give it a try. I sit on the edge of my bed and breathe in and out, but I don’t think I’m doing it right, and when I say the words, they just sound silly and stupid.

  I can fake it to Dr. Deb, but I don’t have to fake it to myself.

  “I’d like to know more about my program.”

  It’s the following week in therapy. I’m on a reconnaissance mission to figure out the rehabilitative team’s rules of engagement. Only I can’t let Dr. Deb know it.

  “What would you like to know?” she asks.

  When does it end? I think. I want to mark my release date on a calendar and count down the days with big red Xs. But I can’t say that to her. I have to be smart.

  “Well, my probation is six months, so . . .” I trail off, but she doesn’t fill in the blanks. I continue, “And I’ve been here nearly three months already, which means I must be about halfway through. I just want to make sure we have enough time to complete it—my program, that is.”

  She tilts her head and studies me. “We don’t put time limits on our residents’ therapeutic programs. Six months is just a guideline, as I told your father already. We’ll have plenty of time to complete your program.”

  This is crap, I think, and catch myself before I say it aloud. “That’s great,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to rush it.”

  “Neither would I,” she says with a smile. “Now, if you’re ready, I’d like to play a game with you. It’s called Yes or No.”

  Before I can respond, she gets up and moves to stand across the room.

  “Is this comfortable?” she says.

  “Yes?”

  She takes a step closer. “Is this comfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  She continues asking me and I continue to say yes, until she’s standing just in front of me, so close I can see the pattern of the threads in her linen pants.

  “Is this comfortable?” she says.

  “No.”

  She backs away, and the game begins again. I respond, Yes. Yes. Yes. No.

  We play the game in a variety of ways, with me standing, sitting, and lying down. With her behind me and to my side, in front of me and above me. At the end of the session she tells me she’d like to play the same game next week with someone else.

  “Who?” I ask her.

  “Who would y
ou feel most comfortable with?”

  I think of Margo and how much fun we could have with this one, re-enacting it later on. I miss her so much sometimes—her little quirks and her sense of humor, her enthusiasm.

  “Charlotte,” I say to Dr. Deb, and I’m not sure why. I haven’t said much to her lately, but I remember how we first met. Charlotte is someone who respects boundaries.

  The following week Charlotte and I play the game together, taking turns at being the one to say yes or no. When I’m able to move, I actually have less power. I’m also nervous about invading her space, but Charlotte never raises her voice against me, not like before. She seems calmer now. Maybe she’s actually getting better in this place, or maybe it’s me who’s gotten worse.

  That same week in school, Charlotte stops me in the hallway.

  “Here,” she says nervously, and pushes something at me. “This is for you.”

  I glance down at what she’s given me—a coloring book, My Little Pony.

  “These too,” she says, and hands me a pack of twistable crayons, like the kind Margo gave her my first day here. “These are the good kind.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks, Charlotte.”

  “Sure,” she says, then gives me a tiny smile and hurries away.

  That afternoon, after I’ve done so many math problems I think my head might explode, I get stuck on Unit 3: Word Problems. I can’t figure them out—any of them—and the more time I spend on them, the more I come to realize that I will never be able to catch up on all this schoolwork. And even if I completed every math problem, aced every chemistry test, and answered all of Dr. Deb’s questions, there’s no guarantee that even that would be enough. What if it’s all for nothing? My release date isn’t three months from now or even six months from now; it’s seventeen months from now, the day I turn eighteen. I’ll be in here as long as Margo. Even A.J. will be released before me.

  I scold myself for even thinking about him. I set my algebra book aside and dig around in my backpack for more scratch paper. My fingers grab hold of the coloring book Charlotte gave me, and I pull it out. When I open it to the first page, I find she’s already colored it in—a purple Pegasus. But even better than that is her message to me in the corner: