Impulse

by Ellen Hopkins

  the main person you want

  to strangle is the annoying

  dude who keeps poking his

  head through your door.

  How ya doing? Okay?

  So by the time you finally

  get to see your shrink,

  you’re irritated to begin

  with. And she asks you

  to tell her how you feel

  and all you can think

  to answer is “pissed.”

  Then she wants to know

  just whom you’re angry with

  and you decide maybe you

  shouldn’t tell her the friggin’

  nurse’s aide, in case they worry

  you might try to strangle

  him. So you try to think

  of someone else you’re

  mad at, and the unavoidable

  answer pops into your

  warped little brain: everyone.

  They Kept Me

  Locked up in isolation

  for almost two weeks.

  See, you have to make

  Level One to go to school

  and eat with everyone else.

  You arrive here at Level Zero.

  Nothing. That’s exactly what

  you are until you can

  prove to them that you

  won’t save up your meds

  and OD or lynch yourself

  with strips of your sheets.

  So you hang out in your room,

  maybe reading a book

  (approved literature) or

  journaling with a felt pen.

  No pencils (no leads).

  No pens (no points).

  Maybe I could think up a way

  to kill yourself with a felt pen.

  Maybe I could sell the idea

  to the dozen or so freaks

  in here determined to do

  themselves in. Maybe I’ll use

  it myself. Am I saying that

  I’m a freak? Effing A!

  I quit worrying about it

  a long time ago. Better

  a freak than a total loser.

  Better a freak than a liar.

  So far, everyone I’ve

  ever met has been a liar.

  Everyone but Phillip,

  my only true friend, my

  savior. Never hurt me, never

  coerced me. Never lied to me.

  The Worst Liars

  Are the ones everyone thinks

  would never, ever tell a lie.

  The teachers who act like

  they care about you, then

  turn you in for smoking a cig

  or kissing someone in the hall.

  Or the plain Jane, churchgoing

  soccer moms who plaster on

  some anonymous face, then

  sneak out once a week or so,

  pretending they’re off with

  girlfriends when they’re really

  looking for ways to get laid.

  No, my ma wasn’t one of

  those. She made no bones

  about getting laid, something

  she did plenty of. Laid by no-

  good, nasty losers, single,

  married, it didn’t matter,

  long as they had a few bucks

  and the necessary attachments,

  in good working order. Beat

  up. Knocked up. Messed up.

  She got all of those things,

  didn’t care. Worse, she

  didn’t give two cents

  about what her “lifestyle”

  did to me. Her son.

  Her only son, because

  after one particularly

  ugly abortion, her body

  decided it had had enough

  of Ma’s mistreatment and

  formed scar tissue around

  her ovaries. The odds of my

  having a sibling shrank

  to nil.

  Vanessa

  I Heard My Brother’s Scream

  Through the cloud

  that had veiled my brain,

  coloring everything crimson.

  It seemed to last forever,

  that scream. Poor Bryan.

  He’s only eight,

  too little to understand

  that dying isn’t something

  to fear. It’s a comfort.

  I felt comfortable, dying

  that afternoon, and would

  have, except Grandma

  happens to be a nurse—

  a good nurse, hard,

  wise, through and through.

  And she happened to be home.

  She calmly dialed 911,

  wrapped my arm

  in a soft yellow towel

  which looked ochre through

  the scarlet mist.

  Stay with me, Vanessa,

  she repeated over and over.

  I remember that,

  and I remember one EMT,

  with blondish hair and a killer mouth

  that refused to say a word,

  except to his partner.

  I remember his eyes the most—

  brilliant blue, and filled

  with disgust.

  Grandma rode in the ambulance

  with me, and the last thing

  I remember is telling her I was sorry

  for staining her new bathtub.

  Screw the tub, Vanessa,

  there’s help for that.

  And there’s help for you.

  Which Is How I Wound Up Here

  Left hand stitched neatly

  back in place.

  They tell me it will

  be good as new, but my fingers

  feel like they belong

  to someone else and don’t

  want to be attached to me.

  Nothing does.

  I’ve been here about a week,

  I think, watching it snow

  and listening through the walls

  to other girls, sicker than I am.

  They talk about themselves,

  about the things they’ve done,

  the things they’d like to do.

  Parents. Teachers. Counselors.

  So-called friends.

  They’d all better run when

  those sociopaths find their way

  back outside.

  There are boys here too,

  somewhere. I know because

  sometimes I hear the girls

  call to them down the hall.

  The things they say!

  A truck driver would blush.

  I would never talk that way

  to Trevor. He walks on water.

  I want him to think I do too.

  For a while, he did, or at least

  he pretended to.

  I did things with Trevor

  I wouldn’t dare confess

  to anyone—things I didn’t

  know anyone did.

  But he wanted me to,

  so I did. That’s what you do

  when you love someone,

  right?

  The Door Opens

  Death watch crew, come

  to check up on me.

  They’ve been after me

  all week, first every

  fifteen or twenty minutes,

  then every hour or two,

  making sure I don’t rip

  stitches and let my hand

  drop off after all.

  Hello, Vanessa, says Paul,

  who is fabulously tall

  and almost as wide

  as the door. He hands me

  my morning pill, unwraps

  my bandage, peeks underneath.

  Dr. Boston says if you join us

  for group this afternoon, she’ll

  award you Level One. You

  could start school tomorrow.

  So far I’ve avoided group,

  preferring to semi-vent

  my pent-up insanity in priva
te

  therapy sessions—Vanessa

  Angela O’Reilly, closed book.

  But I have to admit I’m

  tired of this room, weary

  of these auburn walls.

  Maybe, if I stash my meds,

  I can keep my mouth

  shut and just listen to the sob

  stories, passed around

  the big circle like joints.

  Maybe I’ll find them entertaining.

  So I tuck the Prozac

  under my tongue, nod.

  “Okay.”

  Conner

  Suitcase Emptied

  I walk to the sealed window,

  stare at the glistening world

  outside. Buried in snow.

  Glare threatens my eyes

  but I don’t turn away. I like it.

  Up the hall come deliberate

  footsteps. Suddenly they

  stall and the door creaks open.

  It’s Paul, the rather large

  guy who escorted me here.

  Everything good? It’s almost

  a sigh. All settled in?

  “Uh-huh.” I offer a (not)

  genuine smile. “Unpacked

  and ready to party. When

  does the shindig begin?”

  Paul, who is not amused,

  tosses a pair of gray sweats

  on the bed. Put these on.

  He crosses the room, opens

  drawers, assesses sundries

  and wrinkled clothes as I slip

  into the sweats. You’ll wear

  those except for Sunday services

  or when your parents visit.

  Now Dr. Starr would like

  to chat. Please come with me.

  He draws to the far side

  of the door, allows me by,

  takes his place at my elbow,

  reminding me I no longer

  own the space around me.

  Dr. Starr Isn’t Like Dr. Boston

  No tight navy suit, no

  miniscule skirt. Nothing

  about her hints nymph

  or flirt. She’s a bulldog.

  She motions for me to

  take a chair, studies me

  as I move, as if the very

  way I plant myself there

  can tell her something

  of import. She stays silent

  for several long seconds.

  Finally, as if holding court,

  she lifts her chin, sights

  down her nose, and asks,

  Why are you here, Conner?

  An unsettling energy flows

  through the room, and it

  emanates from the canine

  Dr. Starr. Her patronizing

  tone activates my inner

  mute button. I answer with

  a small shrug, and she gives

  me a grin worthy of Hannibal

  Lecter—evil, overtly smug.

  You don’t know? Don’t you

  think it’s time to find out?

  The “f” elicits a saliva spray.

  The bulldog doesn’t even blink.

  I realize you don’t want to

  be here. But until you give

  me a hint about just what

  you fear, you can’t get better.

  Her voice is almost gentle,

  and part of me wants to

  give her what she wants.

  The smart part says no way.

  Play the Game

  I instruct myself, give her

  a little taste of what

  she wants to hear. After

  all, we don’t want to waste

  a perfectly good shrink

  session. So I settle deep

  into my chair, search for

  some vapid confession.

  Finding none I wish

  to give voice to, I decide Dr.

  Bulldog has given me

  no other choice but to lie.

  “It was really all a huge

  mistake. I was goofing

  around and the gun just

  went off, for God’s sake.

  I mean, you’d think my

  dad would have left

  the safety on.” I almost

  feel bad for blaming him.

  But her eyes tell me she’s

  heard the line before. With

  quiet ferocity, she says,

  Not another word, Conner.

  You believe this is a game,

  and you may be right.

  But if you think you can

  play it better than me, think

  again.

  Tony

  I’m Glad I’m an Only Child

  Ma didn’t deserve kids.

  I mean, if it had been up

  to her—impossible, all

  things considered—I’d be

  back on the streets right now.

  Or maybe I’d have already

  finished myself off. No, it

  wasn’t dear old Ma who

  paid my way to Aspen

  Springs. According to Dr. B,

  it was, in fact, dear old dad.

  Dad, who dumped Ma and me

  when I was still shitting

  green. ’Course, looking

  back, I guess he had every

  reason to leave Ma in

  his dust. But did he ever

  once think about me?

  Anthony Ceccarelli III.

  Medium height. Medium

  build. Medium brown

  hair. A medium chip off

  the ol’ block. Where was

  medium Dad all that time?

  Dr. B says he lives at Tahoe,

  has his own insurance office,

  makes decent dough. Ma

  never left Reno, except

  when she was working out

  at “the ranch” near Dayton.

  Ranching hookers. They

  do that in parts of Nevada.

  Funny, if it wasn’t so sick.

  Did Dad know? And what

  made him decide he gives

  a damn about me now?

  The Clock Reminds Me

  It’s time for group. I open

  my door, nudge my hand into

  the hall. A faceless voice

  shouts, What’s up, Ceccarelli?

  “May I go to group, sir?”

  Stay polite. Earn ten points.

  You may. Don’t get lost

  along the way, though.

  Old joke, not funny.

  Still, I chortle and say,

  “I’ll do my best, sir.

  You know how confusing

  these halls can be, though.”

  Yeah. Follow the yellow

  line to the classrooms,

  white to the dining hall.

  The blue one leads to

  the conference rooms.

  Mommy Long Legs waits,

  black widow-style, in

  room C-3. Most guys

  would call her a fox,

  I guess. But to me she’s

  all spider, poison stashed

  in hidden fangs. Yes, Dr.

  Boston’s questions sink

  clear through flesh, into

  bone. She’s after marrow,

  but she hasn’t managed

  to get much of mine yet.

  Funny thing. No one but

  me seems to recognize

  how her Barbie-doll act

  covers up a real lack

  of charm. She’s a user.

  Same as everyone here.

  We Gather

  In room C (for Conference)-3,

  six crazies, looking to

  unload. Or thinking of ways

  to avoid it. There’s Schizo

  Stanley, three hundred pounds

  of loaded gun, who tried to off

  his little brother. Yeah,

  he denies it, but hmm …

  wonder how Daddy’s Xanax

>   got mixed into Junior’s milk.

  On the far side of the table

  sits Lowball Lori, princess

  of depression. I bet at

  home she wore nothing

  but black—clothes,

  makeup, mood. Next to her

  is Do-Me Dahlia, who

  uses sex like most people

  use money. I heard she

  tried to put the moves

  on Dr. Starr, even. Yech!

  What an ugly picture!

  Jesus-save-me Justin

  lurks in one corner,

  greasy hair hanging in

  his eyes, while Toot-it-

  all Todd rocks back

  and forth, as if his past

  pursuits haven’t quite

  deserted his system.

  Just as Dr. Boston says

  it’s time to start, the door

  opens. Someone new steps

  inside. She’s pretty (did I think

  that?), with copper hair and

  startling eyes, and her name’s

  Vanessa.

  Vanessa

  Seven Pairs of Eyes

  Pierce me as I walk into the room.

  I already know I can’t

  measure up to Dr. Boston’s

  expectations—she’ll want

  me to open my head and let

  this crowd of eyes peer

  into my psyche.

  I want to turn and run.

  Please sit down, Vanessa,

  urges Dr. Boston.

  We’re ready to start.

  If I can’t run, I want to

  scream. I want to scream,

  but I can’t find my voice,

  hidden somewhere

  in the indigo sea that has

  swamped my brain.

  Blue. Blue. Deep, dark blue.

  The blue that fills me with desire,

  the desire to find a small,

  sharp blade and watch

  blood run, red.