by Cyndy Etler
But wait. Just ’cause they wrote “I love you” doesn’t mean they actually do. They’re never this nice, not to me. They’re just extra nice tonight, for some reason. Everyone keeps using my name, like, “Cyndy, would you like more mashed potatoes?” and “You look really skinny, Cyndy. I’m so jealous!” It’s making me feel funny, which doesn’t make sense. I’m getting what I always wanted. These people from my father’s first family like me back. But why now? What’s there to like about me all of a sudden?
It’s hard to tell what’s actually going on, because Shirley’s really good at talking about nothing. Ever since we got here, it’s been nonstop happy talk. Good Morning America, Julie’s new college, Shirley’s sewing projects… At my mother’s house, everything depends on where Jacque is and what mood he’s in. But here, it’s like Jacque and Bill, Shirley’s husband, don’t even exist. They’re not talked about, and they’re not talked to. How does Shirley do that?
However she does it, she’s also avoiding the one thing I need to talk about: my new boarding school. It’s supposedly really close by, but this isn’t the kind of town that has grassy hills and houses with window seats, like I imagined. So what is this school gonna be like?
I want dirt, but they’re only giving me one nugget, which you’re not going to believe. Shirley heard about my new school on the news, because Princess friggin’ Diana visited it last week. And Nancy Reagan too. Like, the president’s wife! So I mean, even if it’s not huge trees and brick and ivy, this school must be pretty nice, right?
“Caaay—ake! Who’s ready for some cake?” Shirley sings, as Julie pushes her chair back and starts picking up dishes.
“So what’s the name of this joint?” I ask Shirley, whose head is in the fridge. For a minute, it’s like she doesn’t even hear me. Julie turns the sink on full blast.
“Shirley, what’s the name of my new sch—”
Her head’s still in the dark of the fridge. But I swear I hear her right when she goes, “Straight.”
Straight? Like…as an arrow? Like a long, thin, flying knife?
Shirley lifts the cake out and closes the fridge. She moves to the butcher block and pulls out a long, thin, sharp-looking knife. I don’t ask any more questions.
• • •
The drive from Shirley’s to my new boarding school is short, like ten minutes. We cross over this psycho highway, cars whipping past like they’ve been flung from slingshots. Then we turn and stop in front of a yellowish brick building. It’s all right angles, no windows. I flash back to the feeling I got listening to The Wall with Steve the other night, and something tells me to run. But to where? To who? Instead, I follow my mother and Jacque through the smoked-glass front doors.
Once we’re inside I do the fuck-you pose: arms across boobs, bangs over eyes. I’m scanning the place, not missing a beat, when this dork of a guy walks up. He’s got a tucked-in collared shirt and dark blue slacks on. Did he comb and part his hair with water? He’s wearing a badge:
STRAIGHT
Runner
What the fuck is a runner?
Okay. I’ve got a few puzzle pieces here, but the edges don’t match up.
Piece #1: I’m going to this boarding school for cool, tough kids like me.
Piece #2: No way is this place a boarding school for hoods. I don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t look good.
• • •
Something is up. Like, why was Shirley so nervous this morning? Why is my mother so happy? And why is this kid, who’s creepily standing next to me now, wearing a badge, not a tie-dyed shirt?
Behind the counter are two more teen robots. Muzak is playing in the background. The girl robot says, “Can I help you?”
My mother steps up. “Yes, you can. We have an appointment.” She gives the girl my name.
I look back toward the doors, but two more slacks-wearers are blocking them. Arms folded, legs spread. Man, what the fuck?
Meanwhile, the teenbots behind the counter have sprung into action. It’s a well-oiled machine. Counter Girl looks at Runner.
“Cyndy Etler. 8:00 a.m.”
Runner turns and marches through a door that, in a flash, is opened from the other side by a paisley-bloused black woman. She so doesn’t belong at my boarding school. This is no dungareed hippie man; this is a panty-hosed lipstick lady. And her attitude is sharp, totally without that Welcome, child! feeling I’ve gotten from other black ladies.
“Good morning,” she says. She doesn’t smile. “Mom, Dad, welcome to Straight. One of my colleagues will be with you in a moment. Cyndy. This way, please?” It’s a question, but there’s no question in her voice.
The sign on her door says “Mrs. Harper—Executive Staff.” They must have something against windows at this school, because there isn’t even one in Mrs. Harper’s office. She points me to a chair that’s backed into a corner between her desk and the concrete walls. I’m cornered by the lipstick lady. Yeah, things are really looking up for me at my fun new school.
Mrs. Harper takes her time. She’s not good at small talk like Shirley. The only sound is the fwisk of shuffling pages. Finally, Mrs. Harper cracks the ice.
“What drugs have you done?” she asks in a voice made of bullets.
“Wh-what? None!”
I’m trying to talk the way I would to my mother, like, I don’t fucking care. But I can hear myself. It’s not working.
“Are you sure about that?”
She’s looking at me, hard.
“What? Yeah, I’m sure! I think I’d know if I’d—”
She turns to her desk and opens a drawer. Then she swivels back and opens her fist in front of me. “What’s this, Cyndy?”
Her palm looks like puffy pink trampolines. Brown lines, same color as her face, separate one puff from the next. In the middle of her palm there’s a little drawstring bag. It’s dark blue velvet.
I thought I knew how to say fuck you, but Shirley and Julie? They know the real way to do it. I gave Julie that bag last night. I asked her to hold it for me, because The Wall was telling me to watch out. Julie promised she wouldn’t tell anybody, and I thought trusting her would make us close. But Julie gave it to Shirley. And Shirley gave it to this place.
“That’s not mine!” I say. “I don’t smoke pot. That’s my best friend’s.”
Mrs. Harper smiles, calm as a crocodile.
“How do you know what’s in this bag, Cyndy, if it’s not yours? And if you don’t do drugs, how do you know what this device is used for?”
I fall back in the chair, thunk. It knocks the wind out of me. Mrs. Harper puts my velvet bag back in her drawer, picks up a clipboard, and writes. You can’t see the handcuffs, but they’re on me.
“Have you done alcohol?”
Have I done alcohol? “No! I haven’t. Really!”
“Okay. That’s good.”
She writes.
“Cyndy, do you attend a church?” She’s got a nice smile on her face now. She likes church. Church is my escape hatch.
“I do! I go to Christ Church in Norwalk, and I’m baptized and everything! And then, when we moved, I switched to Monroe Congregational. They’re really nice there. You should go!”
“Maybe I’ll do that, Cyndy. Do they offer communion with grape juice at Monroe Congregational?”
I’ve got to show her how into church I am. Okay, details.
“Oh yeah, they do. But I’m old enough to sip from the cup like the grown-ups now. The grape juice is for the little kids.”
“Oh, I see. I remember becoming old enough to sip wine from the Blood of Christ cup, and feeling very close to God at that time. Did you feel that way?”
“I did too! Getting to sip wine like the grown-ups made me feel, like, proud. I walked really tall back to my pew that day.”
“That day? Do you still go to church?”
she asks.
“Oh yeah! Like every Sunday.”
“And of course, you take communion every time you’re there.”
“Yeahhh…”
She looks at me for a second. Her eyes are the arrow; my face is a bull’s-eye. Her smile is gone.
“You told me you don’t do alcohol, Cyndy. But you do drink alcohol. Every weekend. You lied to me.”
When kids fall down well holes—deep, fast, helpless—this is how they feel. They feel fucked.
From the well-bottom, I yell, “What? But I—”
“What else have you lied about, Cyndy? You’ve done marijuana and you’ve done alcohol. What other drugs have you done?”
I’m out of words. I’m out of everything. There’s a long silence, then the sound of paper rustling. Mrs. Harper speaks again when she wants to. “How are things with your family, Cyndy? Do you have a good relationship with your father?”
A sound comes out of me, a voice choked with well-sludge. “My father’s dead.”
“Your father is not dead, Cyndy. He arrived here with you and your mother.”
That brings my fire back. Don’t you fucking dare.
“That is not my father. That is my mother’s husband. My father died when I was one.”
She snaps back with just as much heat. “Your father is the man who raises you. Therefore, Cyndy, the man who brought you here is indeed your father. Now, I will repeat my question. How is your relationship with your father?”
I’m not here, not in this body, not in this chair. I’m at Janus House, in my scratchy bed. I’m sleeping through this nightmare.
“If you don’t talk, you are forcing me to come to my own conclusions, Cyndy. You must not have a good relationship with your father, because you left your father’s house to live with your druggie friends. In fact, it seems that you are not sharing a positive relationship with anyone in your family. Am I correct?”
I’m not here. So not here.
“It is my understanding that you are involved in physical violence in your home. Violent behavior is one of the first indicators of drug abuse, Cyndy. Do you realize that?”
I’m not spinning. I’m not trapped.
“I’d like to tell you what I see when I look at you, Cyndy. I see a violent, manipulative young girl, a girl who will do anything to get what she wants, including sleeping anywhere, and undoubtedly with anyone, to obtain drugs. You are lucky to have a mother and father who care enough to get you the help you need. If you are luckier still, perhaps they will allow you to re-enter their home, once you have reformed yourself.”
I’m dead, drowned, silent. She picks up her phone and speaks into it.
“Intake three. Send the parents to my office.”
Mrs. Harper stands and pushes her chair back, and a flicker of life springs through me. There’s a clear path from my seat to the door!
The door opens, and Jacque is standing there.
The flicker goes flat.
“Come in,” says Mrs. Harper.
Her face is different now. It’s soft and creased with caring. She reaches her palm out for Jacque’s hand, then my mother’s. She holds their hands for longer than a moment.
My mother’s and Jacque’s seats are across from her desk. Mrs. Harper turns her chair to them, her back to me. I’m not a part of this conversation.
“Dad, Mom, I’ve had an informative conversation with Cyndy. As you know, she had been in possession of drug paraphernalia. She also admitted to drinking alcohol, though at first she tried to lie about it. We discussed Cyndy’s violent tendencies, and how these are a clear indication of drug abuse. Clearly, she is struggling with addiction.”
“What?!” I semi-yell. “But I haven’t done anything! She’s—”
Mrs. Harper’s voice slams me back in my seat.
“That, Cyndy, is how you will no longer be speaking to your parents. Those days are over. Am I clear?”
I look to my mother, begging her with my eyes. Just like that night in the bathroom. What I see on her face gives me chills. She’s glowing like a kid meeting Santa.
My heart just got hit by a truck.
Mrs. Harper keeps going.
“What you’re seeing from your daughter, this violent outburst, is called denial. A non-addicted young person would not defend herself with such intensity, and she certainly would not speak to her parents that way. Have you seen this behavior at home, as well?”
Santa just gave my mother her dream toy.
“Yes! I haven’t known what to do!” My mother starts crying. “It’s been just awful! Cyndy dominates the house with her anger! Anything might set her off, and she’ll start screaming, stomping, slamming doors! We’re all terrified of her! And I—I haven’t known what to do about it, how to help her. I’ve tried! But everything I try with Cyndy backfires. She turns angry and—and abusive, toward me, toward the family. I hope you can help my daughter! Can you help my daughter?”
The sobs are gushing out of her. They ricochet off the walls and find me, hunched as small as I can get, in my corner chair. They needle into my skin. Mrs. Harper holds out some tissues to my mother, who stops crying long enough to study the box. Kleenex Brand, it says. She takes tissue after tissue after tissue.
Finally, Mrs. Harper turns to me. “Cyndy, what do you have to say for yourself?”
She expects me to cry, to give apologies and promises. But I can’t, because the dead don’t speak. Mrs. Harper gives me a hate-look. Then she leans forward and picks up my mother’s hand.
“She’s in more trouble than we knew, Mom. She’s lost touch with her emotions. But you’ve found the right place.”
11
NO WEARING JEWELRY OR MAKEUP
The two girls who arrive at Mrs. Harper’s door are even dweebier than the one at the front desk. The girl who does the talking has this inch-long hair that lies flat in shingles all over her head. There’s an orange barrette clipped right above her forehead. It looks like a third eyebrow. I’m like, what?
The girls walk me down a hallway: me in front, talking girl behind me on the right, the other girl behind me on the left. We get to a door and the talking girl, and the one with the barrette, puts her arm out.
“Stop,” she says.
“What?” She thinks she can command me?
“Stop here. Open the door.”
“What are you talk—”
“Open the door, Cyndy.”
It’s like she didn’t hear me, like she’s a zombie or something. Fine. I’ll open the stupid door. Whatever.
Behind the door is an empty room with beige-beige walls and puke-green cafeteria tiles. The only things in the room are three blue plastic chairs. And now me because the zombies are crowding me in from behind.
“Sit in that chair,” the talking girl says.
It’s obvious which chair I’m supposed to take: the one that’s the front point of the triangle. The other chairs are—one guess? Right in front of the door.
Looking at these chicks, all I can say is, man. I am so glad I’m not one of them. They’re wearing old-lady, flowered button downs and brand new, no-name jeans with huge, rolled-up cuffs. And here’s the worst: no makeup! Their faces look like pancakes before they’re cooked. Being nice, I tell them I can help them.
“You’d look really good if you wore makeup,” I say. “I could show you h—”
“We’re here to talk about you, Cyndy. Not us.”
“God, fine. I’m just saying.” That’s what I get, trying to make friends with the hall monitor. I’ll find cool kids in English class, though. No doubt.
“We have a list of questions to help us get to know you better. You need to be totally honest. Okay?”
“Yeah, whatev.”
“Okay. Cyndy, do you like music?”
Now this is more like it. Maybe these chicks d
o have some hidden cool.
“Hell, yeah, I like music! Don’t you?”
“What music do you listen to?”
Fuck yeah. I’ll talk about music all day. “Oh, I love the Stones. And Zeppelin and Floyd. Those are my favorite groups. Pretty much anything they play on PLR and i95, you know? I used to be into like Mötley Crüe and Def Leppard, but not so much anymore.”
“Okay. That’s enough. Where do you hang out?”
See? This is fine, man. These loser chicks want to hear about my cool life, so they can learn to be cool too. That Mrs. Harper lady, she’s just some old bitty. The kids here, they’re all right. This school is gonna be okay. So I tell ’em about Bridgeport and why it’s the place to be. And when they ask who I hang out with, I tell them all about Jo and Steve and the Zarzozas. They’re just burning with jealousy that I have a twenty-eight-year-old friend named Shithead!
For the next question, it’s like this girl’s got bionic vision.
“Do you smoke pot when you go to Bridgeport?”
“No, man! No! We just—hang out. Walk around, listen to music and stuff.”
The silent girl finally says something. It sounds like hmpf. The talking girl looks at her, then back at me.
“So you go to this dangerous city to hang out in basements with men twice your age. And you sit around and talk to them? What does a fourteen-year-old girl talk about with grown men?”
“Man, I don’t know! We just talk! We hang out! What the fuck?”
“So you’re telling me you’ve never smoked pot in Bridgeport.”
“No.”
“But you know what pot is.”
“Of course! Everybody knows what pot is!”
“You’ve seen it.”
“Well, yeah.”
“But you don’t smoke it?”
“No, I don’t smoke it! I mean, I know what it is, I’ve been around when other people smoke it, but I don’t. I don’t like that shit.”