Counting Backwards

by Laura Lascarso

  I stand and circle a small patch of lawn like a wounded bird, round and round without stopping, until I’m so dizzy I think I might fall over. I kneel on the ground and watch my shallow breath cloud in the air above me.

  “Deep breath in,” Dr. Deb says. I take a deep breath and hold it. “Now exhale slowly, counting as you do. I am powerful. I am strong. I am in control.”

  I count backwards in my head—ten, nine, eight . . . I tell myself this feeling will pass . . . three, two, one. I take another deep breath, and this one breaks through and rushes into my chest, expanding it, loosening it up. I breathe in, exhale out, and count. I say the words in my head. After a few more cycles, the feeling passes.

  “Practice your breathing every night,” she says.

  “I do,” I say irritably.

  She looks at me doggedly. “Then practice it twice.”

  I sit up in the grass, ready to go.

  “Are we done here?”

  “Not yet,” she says. “Your team met yesterday. We’d like to offer you the opportunity to be a peer mentor to a new resident.”

  “Me?” I ask, and point at myself dumbly. First the garden and now this. They keep adding things to the list.

  “We think it’ll be a good exercise for you. If you do a good job, you’ll be that much closer to accomplishing your rehabilitative goals.”

  Rehabilitative goals . . . the carrot they dangle in front of my nose to keep me doing the things I don’t want to do.

  “What if I don’t want to?” I ask her.

  “You can always say no,” she says without finishing. She doesn’t need to. If my team says to do it, I do it. Otherwise, I can sit in here and rot.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

  I am strong. I am powerful. I am in control.

  Yeah, right.

  CHAPTER 17

  I leave our therapy session and promptly forget about the peer mentorship thing, that is, until that weekend in the dorms when I hear the screaming.

  In the hallway I catch sight of a new girl, who can only be my new mentee, since Dr. Deb said she’d be arriving this weekend and staying on the second floor. Her hair’s been dyed pink, but her brown roots are showing. She’s skinny—all knees and elbows—and looks like a giraffe as she jumps awkwardly, screaming at Rhonda to “Give it back!” Rhonda holds what I can only guess is her cell phone above their heads and it’s ringing, which seems to be driving the girl absolutely insane.

  “No cell phones,” Rhonda says sternly, and I know she has no intention of giving it back.

  “This is worse than a dictatorship!” the girl shouts. “You people are all commie bastards.” She whirls around and stomps down the hall, then attempts to slam her door shut, but it’s impossible because the doors are all hinged with air locks. Rhonda is one step behind her, opening the door wide and reminding her that “Privacy is a privilege.”

  “Suck my dick!” the girl shouts loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear. I watch Rhonda’s profile to see if she’ll react, but she decides to let this one go. By this time, the other girls have scattered to their own rooms like roaches in the light. On the second floor, they avoid trouble at all costs.

  I need Margo. She would know how to handle this girl. But Margo’s not here, and I have to figure this one out on my own.

  This isn’t the ideal time to meet her, but if I wait for the perfect moment, it might never come. I’m supposed to introduce myself. That’s the first step. The sooner I get this mentorship started, the sooner I reach my “rehabilitative goals.”

  I give her a few minutes to cool off and then head to her room. I step loudly so she knows I’m coming and stop in her doorway. I don’t know where she comes from or what she’s been through, but I can probably guess at how she’s feeling right now—trapped, alone, frustrated, scared.

  “What do you want?” she asks with a sour glare, but I see the fear beneath it.

  “My name’s Taylor,” I say. “I’m your . . .” I clear my throat. It sounds so stupid out loud. “Peer mentor.”

  Her upper lip curls in disgust. “Really?” she asks, testing me to see if I’ll back down. If I’m going to be her mentor, I need her to like me. Or at least, not hate me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Really.”

  Her eyes narrow to slits. “Then do us both a favor and fuck off.”

  “Maybe we could—”

  “I said FUCK OFF!”

  On my way back to my room, I realize my team has given me a nearly impossible task, much like garden therapy. But I’m not going to give them a reason to keep me here. This new girl is going to get some mentoring, whether she wants it or not.

  The next day in the pen I’m sitting in my usual corner with my chemistry textbook, trying to balance some chemical equations while Charlotte colors blissfully at my side, when I see the new girl again. McKenzie is her name, and she’s the new buzz among residents. Today, like yesterday, she’s screaming at the safety. “Give them back!” she screeches, along with more colorful four-letter words. This time, it’s her cigarettes. Even without Victor, the Sunny Meadows black market thrives.

  I know what’s going to happen next. McKenzie is going to do something stupid and get herself thrown into a time-out room, which is only going to make her feel more angry and alone. I am her peer mentor, so I get up and pull an A.J., stepping right between her and the safety. The safety takes a step back, which is monumental in itself. And I’ve startled McKenzie long enough to interrupt her steady stream of profanities.

  “Hey, new girl,” I say to her. Her eyes focus on mine, and I see an unbridled anger in them that is so familiar. “Why don’t you try being a little less obvious next time? There are a lot of other places you can smoke your cigarettes.” I jerk my thumb to the safety at my back. “And screaming doesn’t have any effect on these guys. They’re not even human. They’re robot clones sent here to terrorize us and make our lives a living hell. So save your screaming for therapy, because that’s when you’re really going to need it.”

  She lowers her arms, and instead of glaring at the safety, she glares at me. “I told you to fuck off,” she says, and storms off toward the door. Another safety blocks her exit, and she actually kicks the guy in the shin. I’ve got to give her points for that. Of course they immediately take hold of her and drag her kicking and screaming out of the pen, no doubt on her way to a little R & R on the first floor.

  Some people just have to learn the hard way.

  I walk back over to Charlotte, thinking that at least I tried to keep her out of trouble. “McKenzie needs a coloring book,” Charlotte says with a happy little smile on her face.

  “That girl needs two.”

  But Charlotte’s observation gives me an idea, so that afternoon before I head down to the garden, I pick up my newest coloring book, one that Dr. Deb ordered for me online. It’s superheroes—all female. I haven’t even gotten the chance to color one myself, but I do now. The very first page is Wonder Woman, who was always my favorite as a kid, because even though she’s not Indian, her hair is black like mine and she can talk to animals and she’s got that sweet golden tiara that doubles as a razor-sharp boomerang, which is the best use of a tiara, ever. I color that page, and on the bottom I write her a dedication. To: McKenzie, From: Taylor.

  I leave it on her bed with my pack of crayons, thinking I’ll have to borrow some from Charlotte or get another pack of my own. Then I head for the garden. It’s my first time down since I saw A.J. messing around in there without me. I inspect his piles, which look to be a mixture of grass clippings, wood chips, and food scraps. There’s an oily banana skin in one, and I remember when I was a little girl at my grandmother’s house, putting my banana peels in a glass jar that she said was for compost.

  “Don’t look too long,” he says, surprising me. I glance at him with annoyance and then back at his piles, where I recognize bits of eggshell and used coffee filters.

  “Are you sure all that stuff’s supposed to be in the
re?”

  “Darlin’,” he says with a syrupy drawl, “this ain’t my first rodeo.”

  I roll my eyes. He never misses an opportunity to remind me how knowledgeable and experienced he is.

  “If we let it sit long enough, it’ll be good for planting,” he says. “Better than the dirt we have here.”

  “What’s wrong with this dirt?”

  He reaches into one of the beds and pulls out a fistful of red clay. “Not enough drainage or nutrients.”

  “Where’d you get all this stuff?”

  “Scraps from the kitchen. Clippings from maintenance. Wood from a ground-up tree stump.”

  I eye the piles again. He sure is resourceful.

  “We can share it,” he says.

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll make my own.”

  He snorts and shakes his head. “Of course you will. So, I guess this is going to be your side then.” He motions to my three bedraggled rows with an air of superiority. But at least they’re mine, carved out of the earth by my own blistered hands.

  “Yeah, this is my side.”

  “Tell me, when’s the last time you put in a garden?”

  “I’ll figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be?”

  He gives me a sideways glance.

  “Well, you’ve got your rows and I’ve got mine,” I say. “Why don’t we just see whose garden grows better?”

  “Fine, but you’re at a disadvantage.”

  “Oh, really?” He thinks I can’t do it without him. “You willing to bet on that?”

  He scratches his chin. “That depends. What’re the stakes?”

  I think of the evaluations we’ll have to fill out in a few weeks. I need A.J. to give Dr. Deb a glowing report. And I’m more likely to beat him in a bet than convince him on my own that I deserve it.

  “If I win,” I say, “you have to tell Dr. Deb that I’m the most well-adjusted, friendly, and cooperative person you’ve ever worked with. You tell her that garden therapy is a huge success, largely thanks to me.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty tall order. And if I win?”

  “Then I’ll do the same.”

  He scratches his chin, seeming to consider it. “Well, the thing is, I’m going to be in here until I’m eighteen, no matter what you tell Dr. Deb.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “How about we try being friends?”

  “I’m not that good of an actress,” I say, then see from the wounded look in his eyes I’ve gone too far. I feel bad, but I don’t apologize. You can’t force someone to be your friend.

  He shakes his head and points at the dorms. “You know, a few minutes ago I was up there looking down here at you, thinking back to when I thought I liked you. But now, I can’t seem to remember why.”

  I stare at the ground so that I don’t have to look at him. He walks away, and I pick up my hoe and hack up the dirt. My blisters still haven’t healed all the way, but I attack the ground with everything I have. With A.J., there’s no way to win.

  I spend my next few therapy sessions practicing the breathing with Dr. Deb. I don’t understand why she’s so focused on this exercise, but at least I don’t have to talk. She makes me say the mantra aloud, too. Not just a whisper, but loud and clear.

  “I am powerful,” I practically shout at her. “I am strong. I am in control.”

  It’s pretty ridiculous.

  On garden days I collect scraps for my compost. A.J. and I have split up the week to make it fair. He collects from the kitchen on Monday through Wednesday and I collect Thursday through Saturday. Sundays we divide it between us. I’ve also started raking up oak leaves to add to the mix. We’re both so busy that we hardly talk or look at each other, and it suits me just fine. After a week of tilling up my rows with a rake and a hoe, I’m ready to plant my first seeds. So, at my next therapy session, I tell Dr. Deb.

  “You’re ready to plant already?” she asks me. “It’s not even March yet.”

  “Spring is right around the corner.” The sooner I’ve got a garden, the sooner we can call garden therapy a success.

  She tilts her head. “What does A.J. say about it?”

  Who cares what A.J. says?

  “He’s behind me all the way.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can get from the nursery in town.”

  A couple of days later she gives me the packets of seeds, and I take them down to the garden straightaway. A.J.’s there already, using a pitchfork to turn over his compost. He’s also got a short plastic barrel, filled with what, I have no idea.

  “What’s in there?” I ask.

  “Take a look,” he says, and lifts the lid off the container. He reaches in, pushing aside food scraps and black muck, digging deep. He pulls out his filthy arm and opens his fist to show me a handful of wriggling red worms.

  “Oh, gross,” I say, and back up quick.

  “These beauties are going to turn my soil into black gold.”

  “I thought black gold was oil.”

  “Well, you know. What’s that you got there?”

  I open my paper bag to show him my packs of seeds—carrots, tomatoes, peas, and cucumbers.

  “Little early to be planting. I’d wait till after the freeze if I were you.”

  “There’s no harm in trying,” I say, because I’m tired of him telling me what to do.

  I use a stick to make little pits for the seeds, then drop a couple in and cover them back up. While I do it, I hear my grandmother’s voice in my head.

  Now tuck them in, Taylor, and tell them good night.

  After I’ve planted all three rows and made little wooden labels for them, I stand back and survey my work. A.J. glances over. “You going to water them in or wait for the rain?”

  I never thought about that, and I don’t know how much or how often to water them.

  “Wait for the rain,” I say.

  He nods. “Good idea.”

  I don’t know if I’ve given him the right answer, but he seems to trust me enough to decide for myself.

  I glance up to see him smiling at me. Without thinking, I smile back.

  I’m in independent study the next day when a safety brings McKenzie in, somewhat forcefully. She must have gotten kicked out of her therapy elective, since everyone in here seems to be a therapy dropout.

  She plops down in the chair across from mine. I glance up to find her staring at me.

  “What is it?” I ask her. I’m exhausted. There aren’t enough hours in the day for all this schoolwork, much less McKenzie’s drama. Besides, my words of wisdom in the pen don’t seem to have done her any good.

  “I hear you’re the girl who tried to escape.”

  “Yeah,” I say without enthusiasm. I’ll live on in infamy in the halls of Sunny Meadows as the girl who tried to run away, got caught, lost her mind, and lived to tell the tale.

  Her eyes light up. “I heard your boyfriend made you the key to one of the shop cars.”

  Why do people insist on linking the two of us together? Still?

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Does he still make keys?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not something we talk about.”

  “Maybe I should ask him.”

  I shrug as if I don’t care. If she’s anything like me, trying to talk her out of it will only make her go harder. But there is something that might make her pause.

  “I guess you never heard the second part of the story.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s also the one who ratted me out.”

  “Burn,” she says, and sits back, considering it for a moment. Then she gets up and pokes around the room, looking over the other kids’ shoulders and being a general nuisance until Ms. Sylvia tells her to go sit back down.

  “Anyway, here,” she says, and tosses me a folded-up piece of paper. I open it up and see that she’s been coloring from my book. This one is Poison Ivy with fla
mes for hair. McKenzie’s also drawn in her own weaponry, a green mace-looking thing with rainbow-hued lasers coming out on all sides.

  And at the bottom she’s written, To: Taylor, From: McKenzie.

  “They have art therapy, you know.”

  She shrugs. “I’m still exploring other options.”

  I bet she is. “Let me know how that works out. After all, I am your peer mentor.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

  After school that day I go down to the garden. Halfway down the hill I notice A.J. planted like a scarecrow in the middle of the rows, watching my descent. As I get closer, I see that he’s an angry scarecrow with a face that would scare even the butterflies away. He doesn’t wait for me to ask him what’s wrong.

  “Why’d you tell McKenzie about the key?” he says.

  “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t make keys anymore. I learned my lesson with you. As if the time I spent on the first floor wasn’t enough.”

  “They put you in a time-out?” That doesn’t seem fair. It’s not like he tried to escape.

  “Of course they did. You didn’t think they’d let me get away with it, did you?”

  I take a step back, because there is real anger behind his words. I watch him walk away, heading for the shed. I never wished for him to be punished like that. I feel pretty rotten about it—the whole thing. When he comes back out, I try again.

  “Listen, A.J., for what it’s worth, I told McKenzie it was a bad idea. But with her, it’s like talking to a wall. She’s going to do what she’s going to do.”

  He chuckles without any humor and says, “They found you a good one. She sounds just like you.”

  “I’m not . . .” I trail off, because I can’t find the words to finish.

  He gestures at the space between us. “You know, I just wish . . .” He shakes his head and won’t look at me. “I wish it didn’t have to be so damn hard.”

  He walks away before I can say anything else. I watch him climb the hill. He doesn’t look back.