The Dead Inside

by Cyndy Etler

  “Go down the row,” she says. “Sit in that first open seat.”

  Feeling like the balloon some little kid let go of, I look down the row, and oh my God! It’s not the front row! I’m out of the bull’s-eye!

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I get a mean Shhh! for a reply, but it’s drowned out by this earsplitting screech. Since I’m standing, I can see what’s going on. But, God. I wish I couldn’t.

  It’s Amanda. She’s surrounded by demons, and she’s fighting them all at once. Crouched at her back is the biggest guy you’ve ever seen. He loops his arms around her from behind, linking his hands in a hate hug. But even worse is what they’re doing to her arms. Two guys are gripping her wrists, Jacque style. Matt King style. They’re spreading them like airplane wings, out and down and fast. Tomorrow she’ll have handcuff bruises. She’s telling them she hates them with animal sounds, not words. I don’t know if I’m more scared for her or for them.

  A fist hits my spine, so I move down the row. I’m trying not to hear it all: the screams, the thwap of flesh on flesh, the shriek of metal as a kicked chair scrapes across the floor. When I get down to my seat, I can’t help it. I look back at Amanda right as the big guy snaps his hand over her mouth. He’s—he’s gagging her. Her face is red, and it’s getting redder. Her eyes bulge out, and she slams her head forward, then back.

  There’s a crack as her skull hits his, and a SHREE! as Amanda throws opens her throat. She head-cracked the gagger. She got his hand off her mouth.

  “Gimme my fucking Doc!” she screams.

  She rips her bare foot away from the guy who was pinning it; he lunges and tackles her shin. Other guys are running at her. That’s when I sit down. I sit and pray for somewhere to put my tray, so I can plug my ears. Amanda’s noises are shredding me. It’s like she knows what she’s doing, fighting off all these guys. This is why she needs armor clothes. I don’t want to see or hear or know that it’s happening again.

  “Intake room! Sit on ’er!”

  It’s our hero, Matt King. He’s striding across the room. He’s calm, he’s casual. He’s happy.

  There’s more fleshy struggle sounds, more running feet.

  “Group. Look,” Matt says, in a voice you don’t ignore. “This could be you, if you try to run.”

  We spin around to watch Amanda, who’s being carried across the room by six guys. She’s a human casket. She’s got one boot on, and her body’s rippling, trying to shake the boys off her. And she’s howling.

  “Gimme my Doc Marten, you cock-fucking bastards! I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

  Another guy runs over and jams a hand over her mouth. His teeth glint through his smile.

  In English class, one of Mrs. Skinner’s vocab words was “maxim,” which is a wise little phrase about life. She gave us this example they use in Japan, to make sure everybody acts the same as everybody else: “The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.” Amanda is the sticking-up nail. But she’s not smooth and straight, like a regular nail. She’s all knotted up. They can’t hammer her flat, so they’re killing her instead.

  The funeral procession ends as the boys carry Amanda through a door to the left of the kitchen. It’s a beige door, painted to match the walls, like they don’t want anyone to know it’s there. The door slams; the group room’s silent. It sounds like the end of the world.

  19

  OPEN MEETING INTRODUCTION: NAME, AGE, DRUGS, HOW LONG ON DRUGS, HOW LONG HERE

  Twenty minutes after the Amanda horror, people are eating their bologna and bread like nothing happened. But a ton of people are eating with their left hands and making Cs with their right. And for the first time since I’ve been here, nobody is talking. Nobody’s singing. It’s a silence you could choke on.

  So these C-hands, hovering over people’s laps? They’re even creepier than the other crazy shit in here. Because why is everyone staring straight ahead? Why are they pretending not to notice the creepy C-hands? Not everybody is doing a C, but most are. Like, should I be? What does C mean?

  There’s a side stander moving from C to C like a bumblebee looping from flower to flower. The side standers are human blockades, like the door guards. Only they stand right next to the chairs at the edge of the group, instead of in front of the double doors. I guess they’re there to beat you up, if you try to run.

  The chick next to me has her hand up in a C, so a side stander comes over and squishes herself between us. I don’t know why she’s almost on my lap, but it feels nice. Safe. Like she likes me. But she’s not here to talk to me. She’s leaning in, so the girl with the C-hand can whisper in her ear. The side stander’s pen scratches on her pad, which is tilted, so nobody else can see the words. Then she flips the page, stands, and is gone, bouncing on to the next C, leaving a cooling stripe along my thigh.

  Another side stander is going down the rows too, but this one is stopping behind every chair. Like a piston, she plunges her fist down the back of each kid.

  “Back straight! Feet flat!”

  Plunge.

  “Back straight! Feet flat!”

  Have you ever been in your backyard right before a storm, when nature clicks off, dark and silent? You’re kind of freaked—where’d the birds and sun go?—but you want to stay out because it smells so good, and the breeze is on your face, and it’s better than TV. Who cares if you get wet? But then the thunder pounds in like an army, and crack! The lightning’s right there, like it came for you. You race into your house and slam the door, then realize you’re trying to lock out lightning. So you laugh at yourself. You laugh, but your heart is still pounding, and your gut is still frozen. Because really. If lightning wants you, it’s gonna get you.

  I’ve got that same helpless dread, trapped here in group, with the back-plunger approaching and the C-hands hovering. But here, there’s no door I can lock. And whatever is after me, it’s way worse than lightning.

  And just like the storm, there’s a crack! like the world splitting open. Snapping my head up, I see two guys, splitting the room in half. They’re dragging this massive accordion door across the room, turning it into a wall, separating us from the warehouse of folding chairs. The guys are straining like pioneer oxen under this 20-foot-tall door. If that thing fell off its tracks, it would crush every one of us.

  As the boys get the door to the far wall and latch it, the rest of the storm kicks up. Trash barrels get rumbled over; dinner trays get passed down the rows. The sudden action after breath-held silence is terrifying.

  Then the side door pushes open and staff comes filing in. But it’s new staff, dressed staff. I’m talking men in suits and ties, and women with those floppy silk bows around their necks. These staff are grown-ups; I’ve never seen them before—except for the one black lady. Mrs. Harper! That fucking lady! She’s shoulder to shoulder with these other sharp dressers, looking like she sleeps just fine at night. They all look that way. Like they’ve never taken a wicked crap in their life.

  I will never be one of those people. I don’t care how old I get. I will never look like—no, I’ll never look at kids this way. When I’m a grown-up, I’ll still be wearing Levi’s and cranking Sticky Fingers. I’ll blare it from my Jeep, revving dirt on these poindexters and jamming my middle finger in the air.

  There are five of them, this fancy new staff. They’re staring out over our heads like they’re deep in prayer. But not me. I’m studying them good. Other than the evil Mrs. Harper, the only one that’s interesting is this tall, tan guy. He could be twins with Erik Estrada, he’s so chisel-faced. His black hair stands up straight on his head, and he’s got cowboy boots on. Orange ones. What’s his deal?

  When grown-up staff comes striding in, the group gets infected by their pompousness. Even without fists in their backs, people stiffen and sit up. They turn their chins forward and put their hands on their knees, perfect and squared-off as a row of dominoes.


  When fancy staff are done staring at the wall behind us, Orange Boots lifts a clipboard and speaks. He sounds like a robot. “Terri A.: talk.”

  And the group hammers back at him:

  Clap-clap-clap!

  The claps are military-tight, like they’re made by a machine.

  “Gina A.: talk.”

  Clap-clap-clap!

  “John B.: talk and responsibilities.”

  Clap-clap-clap!

  It keeps going, just like that. The grown-ups give some code, and the group understands and replies clap-clap-clap!

  Then Orange Boots says, “Tara D.: going home.”

  The girl next to me gasps. Seriously, she’s sitting in group, and she makes a noise. I whip my head left as she clamps her hand over her mouth. The rest of her face is a mess: hot red, with her eyes all squinched into knots.

  The group goes clap-clap-clap and the demon behind us whispers, “Eyes forward!”

  Tara D. and me jerk back into position.

  “Mike F.: third phase.”

  Clap-clap-clap!

  Tara D. and Mike F. They skipped right over E, for Etler. But that’s fine. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, anyway.

  The listing and clapping goes on and on, and then, as Orange Boots and crew turn to march out, my old friend Scott appears. He’s in a jacket and tie, and Jesus, he shined his friggin’ shoes.

  “How ’bout a song?” he says.

  Over the motivating, I hear other sounds: creaking and scraping and voices coming from behind the accordion wall. Scott calls on some girl who says, “The Rose,” and the noise is drowned out by the group, moaning about how love is a razor.

  There are other words to the song, but I can’t understand them. Nobody can. The group is doing a megaphone version of that pudding-mouth mumble you do when you’re only pretending you know the lyrics.

  We sing an easy one next, “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” Some dude suggests it, and Scott goes, “Okay. Five times,” before zooming off to the side of the room.

  Two door brutes start yanking back the accordion wall as the group is snapping its fingers, miming smiles and sunshine, Zip-a-dee-doo-dah-ing for the—

  the—

  the avalanche of grown-ups looking at us from the other side of the room. Listen to me. There’s a million of them. And they’re—they’re all singing “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah” too.

  In the days I’ve been here, I’ve never been this freaked. I’ve known that I’m alone in a mob of psychos, but I’ve never felt this alone. I’m a tiny speck in this universe. Half the people around me are out to get me, and all of them are acting like this shit is normal. Grown-ups doing sparkly motions with their fingers? I’ve never been so friendless, so unprotected in my life. I can’t even feel God right now.

  So I do the best I can to make myself invisible. I follow—perfectly—the rules I know. I make my spine a metal rod. I bolt my feet to the floor. In between Zip-a-dees, I cup my hands on my knees. I’m perfect. In my foam-green corduroys and burgundy button-down, I’m one of them. I hope.

  I can’t squeeze my eyes shut and pray to a God I don’t feel, so I try something else. I pray, I guess, to the group: please, don’t notice me. Just do your weird thing, and pretend I’m not here.

  My prayer and “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah” end at the same time. The ginormous room is silent. Nobody moves. Not the kids on my side, not the mass of grown-ups across from us. We just sit and stare at each other, like, Who’s gonna blink first?

  Then Scott appears, holding a microphone. He walks the long stretch of floor to the center of the room with the mic in his hand, stopping once to lasso-yank the cord free.

  “Welcome, parents and guests, to open meeting, November 22, 1985. Tonight Tanya R. will be sharing her story.”

  Then he loops back and hands the mic to the girl in the bull’s-eye seat. She takes it as she stands.

  “My—” SCREET!

  The whole grown-up side of the room dips their heads and shoots their hands to their ears. But the group side? We don’t even flinch. We’re frozen, hands on knees, like we didn’t even feel our ears split. Like we’re not even human. Tanya pulls the mic from her mouth and tries again.

  “My name is Tanya, I’m fifteen, and I do believe I’m a druggie.”

  I guess I’m allowed to look at her, since she’s talking. I risk a glance around, and yeah, everybody else is, even the guys’ side. So I turn toward her voice, and I’m staring at the homecoming queen. Even without makeup, even with her bangs slapped back, this girl is gorgeous. She looks like Skipper, Barbie’s little sister. She looks like the kind of kid who still plays with Barbies while her dad reads the Bible and her mom bakes brownies. Fuck her.

  “The drugs I’ve done are pot, alcohol, hashish, hash oil, Thai stick, Thai weed, cocaine, LSD, uppers, downers, and trash drugs…and heroin.”

  Say what? This is a joke, right? This is Candid Camera. Without even thinking about getting in trouble, I totally look at everybody else. But nobody’s laughing. The group is frozen, and the grown-ups are nodding with pressed lips, like, “I told you so.” But, oh my God, she’s lying! This girl has never smelled a cigarette! Man, what the fuck? I mean, Amanda? Amanda’s done some shit. Amanda’s copped a trash drug in her day, whatever that is. But this chick? No way.

  Tanya’s still talking. She’s mastered the mic; the lies are just rolling through her lips now.

  “I’ve done these drugs for two years, and I’ve been straight for two weeks. The incident I’d like to share tonight is from the night of my junior prom. I was supposed to be elected prom queen.”

  I told you! She was prom queen!

  “Everyone had said they were going to vote for me, but my druggie friend won, instead. I felt hurt, and confused, and angry. I felt that my whole druggie school lied to me, which made me feel…lonely, I guess, and I…”

  Scott appears on the sidelines again. Real loud, he says, “Wrap it up, Tanya,” while circling a finger over his head.

  Tanya’s face becomes a beet, and she gets all speedy.

  “So after the prom, I went to a hotel with my druggie friends and ended up meeting these older men who gave me alcohol and downers. I took so many pills that I should be dead right now. I took twenty-six pills, and then I went swimming in the hotel pool—”

  Scott’s circling pointer goes up again. It’s the only movement in the room. Now Tanya really cranks up the speed.

  “—and I had sex with all of the men, and I’d be dead now if my parents hadn’t put me in Straight.”

  She plunks back into her chair in a haze of shame and bullshit. And I have this total psychic moment where I’m reading this girl’s thoughts, her scrambled egg thoughts, through the back of her skull: she can’t believe she said all that to six hundred people. Seriously, I know this. She’s like, I did do those things, didn’t I? I’m a druggie, and druggies do gross stuff and black out. So I must’ve done those things that night. I must have.

  God’s back with me, I guess, giving me this psychic-ness. To apologize for abandoning me. Why I’d want this gift, I couldn’t say. But I’m sitting and hearing Tanya’s brain in my head, and I’m dying to ask her why she lied, when a lady and a man stand up across the divide. The lady’s holding another mic.

  “Damon?” she asks in a teetering voice, and a kid springs up from the guys’ side like he’s on fast-forward. “Damon, I—”

  The lady starts bawling, in front of all these people. The man pulls the mic from her hand and starts barking.

  “Damon, I swear on God’s name, you won’t set foot in my home until you finish this program. I am goddamn sickened by you. You had us fooled, didn’t you? Honor roll, baseball scholarship… You really pulled the wool over our eyes. When executive staff told us what you were up to, your mother cried for three days. Good thing I didn’t know where your host home was, because I wanted
to kill you. I went into your room, instead, and cracked all those druggie records you’re so proud of. They’re in bits all over your room for you to clean up, if you ever come home. If you don’t work this program, son, you’ll no longer be my son.”

  As Damon’s parents sit down, the grown-up side of the room starts clapping. The kind of clapping that makes your palms hurt. And poor Damon yells, “I love you, Mom. Love you, Dad,” but he’s crying. He’s standing there, in front of six hundred people, crying.

  Then another set of parents vaults up from their chairs and, on fire from the roasting of Damon, start yelling the same kind of stuff at their kid; the kid calls back that he loves them. Then it’s a girl’s turn. Then another guy. The parents are all reading the same script: we hate you, we hate you, we hate you. And the kid just says back, “I love you.”

  But every once in a while the script changes. Like when Prom Queen Skipper’s parents stand up.

  They go, “Tanya, we’re so proud of you.” And then—you ready for this? Her dad starts crying. Her dad. “We’re so grateful we have our little girl back,” he calls out. “Thank you, Straight, Inc.!”

  That makes all the parents clap and stomp and whistle and cheer. And the group does too. The clapping party goes on for like five minutes, until Scott yells, “Okay, parents. Let’s move on…unless you want to be dismissed at 2:00 a.m.?” Everybody laughs at that, and the grown-up side mic starts moving again.

  Some of the parents just go, like, “Love you Tom,” and pass the mic real quick, like a hot potato. The cord on that thing must be a million miles long.

  Then there’s big excitement when this one mom stands up. “Tara?” She says it as a question, like she’s not sure Tara is in the room.

  And the chick sitting next to me springs out of her seat and screams, “COMING HOME!” Then she friggin’ jets across the divide between the group and the grown-ups.

  You can’t even imagine it, this blaze of a girl plowing through the throng of parents. She gets to her mother and the two of them stand there, clutching each other and sobbing. It’s kind of touching. I mean, that’s obviously a good mom, so Tara’s lucky she gets to go home to her. And God, is she lucky to be getting out of here!