by Cyndy Etler
Here’s what she gave me:
• A size sixteen pair of pants made from cloth that looks like denim, but isn’t. They have an elastic waistband and no pockets. She’s getting me back for just everything, with these pants.
• Another pair of pants, but made of friggin’ velour, the color of cinnamon. Also with an elastic waist. Also size sixteen. I mean, does she think I’m pregnant?
• And another pair that are like, make-you-cry ugly: turquoise-blue polyester, with a stitched line going down the front of each leg. Bell-bottoms. Size…you know.
• Three slippery button-downs with triangles and lines all over them. They’re brown and yellow and marmalade, like I want to look like Connecticut in November. Guys named Chico get these shirts for a quarter somewhere.
• Twelve pairs of plain white tube socks, and these—I don’t even think you can call them sneakers. They’re shoe-shaped Tupperware. They’re white, they’re plastic, and they close with a big Velcro strap. Velcro.
“Your humble clothes are an important part of becoming a Straightling,” Sandy told me. “You need to humble yourself by wearing clothes that are the opposite of your druggie image. Before long, you’ll come to hate your old druggie image. You’ll see.”
You can’t not hate yourself if you’re wearing Velcro sneakers.
“Oh! One more thing,” Sandy said, looking into the bag and sounding truly happy. “How nice Mom Etler is! She sent you an allowable treat.”
My mother used to put surprises in my Easter basket and stuff, when I was little. That “allowable treat” was the first nice thing my mother’s given me in like ten years. I wanted so bad to slap Sandy for being the one to find it.
She pulled out a roll of Life Savers.
There are, like, three things I know about my father. One, they chose his music for the opening concert at fucking Lincoln Center. Very big deal. Two, he brought my mother yellow roses all the time. And three, he loved Butter Rum Life Savers and hated the mint ones, like I do. The roll in Sandy’s hand was white with glistening green letters. Wint O Green.
That’s when it hit me like a hard left hook to the brain: my father. That’s how my mother’s going to pay for this place. She’s using the money my father left me for college and the social security checks I get because he’s dead.
I wrote my Moral Inventory last night about hating mint Life Savers.
“Your M.I.s will get better as you learn your program,” Sandy said. “But you need to start thinking about your real issues, and use your M.I.s to work on those. Okay?”
I made a throat noise and kept my nose on the window. But Sandy didn’t push it. Guess she’s only a badass in group.
“So, did you get what happened today?” she said, handing our dangerous pencils back to her mom in the front seat. “This was a typical Friday. Fridays are always late nights, because we have open meeting and review. Mondays we have review too, but the parents and siblings have their own raps separate from us. I’m sure you’ve figured out that raps are intensive discussion groups, where we face our deepest issues and hold each other accountable, right?”
She went yipping on and on, one of those little dogs that barks the whole day and you’re like, where do you get the energy? Here’s what I learned:
1. Those people standing around the sides of group? The side standers? They’re called fifth-phasers. They’ve been at Straight the longest—we’re talking a year, at least—and they’ve “earned trust.” Sandy’s words, man. The fifth-phasers hardly have to be in the building, ’cause they go to school or work, plus they get four days off from group a week. But when they’re in group, they’re the demons, the cops. That’s why they punch you in the spine to make you sit up and why they were motivating me. They’re also the only ones allowed to talk during raps, which is how they could take the “concerns.”
2. Concerns. That’s some scary, tattletale shit. When everybody had their hands cupped in that creepy C shape? They were trying to “report a concern.” That’s what you do when you think somebody’s breaking a rule and you want to narc on them. The concerns get brought to staff on little papers. The concerns are turned into bullets and shot back at you in Review.
3. Review is the spin-word for last night’s firing line, when I was stood up in the back corner and spit on for, according to Sandy, “abusing her parents with druggie words.”
Now you might want to sit down, before I tell you this next thing. When people were screaming at me last night, a millimeter from my face? When Sandy hocked a loogie on me? That was on purpose. That’s—are you sitting yet?
4. Spit therapy. Sandy didn’t explain spit therapy. I guess it’s obvious how that’s supposed to work.
I really, really listened when Sandy explained all of this. I need to understand how shit works in this joint. No moment with Jacque was scarier than standing there, trapped by an army of hate soldiers. It was…it was…listen, I’ll do whatever they want, anything, to not have to stand up in review again. I’ve just got to figure out what these Straightlings want from me, so I can make myself invisible.
When Sandy finished her orientation lecture, I could tell I was supposed to say something. But what? Hey, thanks for spitting on me in review? Jesus. It was right then that this car pulled up next to us at a red light. The driver turned on his dome light to look for his smokes or something, and there, dangling from the rearview mirror, was an air freshener that—God, it was just what I needed. A little piece of me, back.
“Look! That air freshener! It’s a Stones tongue!”
“Hey!” Her voice snapped my rush in half. “Druggie symbol! You know not to—”
“But it’s an air freshener!” I said, jamming my finger against the window and drinking in its smooth red curves. Home, that’s what that Stones tongue looked like. Home. My chest started heaving and I totally started crying. It came on so fast, I couldn’t stop it.
“Don’t look! Get down! Get down on the floor!” Sandy was furious, but she was scared too. I could hear it in her voice. So I squeezed down onto the minivan floor. The hubbub behind us told me her brother was pushing his newcomers down too. Like, what the fuck?
I inched my face up from the floor mat and said, “But it’s not, like, the Stones’ music, it’s just—”
“Stop it! No druggie groups!” Her hair was flying loose from her barrette, she was so freaked.
Okay. Got it. No druggie symbols, no druggie music, no air fresheners. In that one car ride, I learned all kinds of important stuff.
So now it’s my third day. I’m back in group, and so is Amanda. She’s back on “front row.” That’s what Matt King called it when he saw Amanda this morning: “Put her first seat, front row.” Front row. Close cousin of the famous “death row.”
Amanda came into group today looking like an old man at death’s door. Everything about her was slow and slumped, and there was only one female oldcomer’s hand in her pants. It’s like they drained out all of her fight. I would think they’d drugged her, if we weren’t in a drug rehab.
But here’s what’s awesome: even if she can’t see it, Amanda is the one who’s winning. She’s still got on her Levi’s, ’cause where are they gonna find some polyester humble pants that fit her? And they can’t slap back her quail tuft with a barrette, ’cause there’s nothing to clip it to. The rest of her head’s bald. So here’s Amanda, all druggied out with her punk-rock hairdo and her ripped-up jeans. First seat, front row. A three-hundred-pound middle finger.
The second Amanda is put in her chair, some side stander—I mean, some fifth-phaser—starts motivating. We’re not in a rap; I don’t even think it’s nine yet. Oldcomers are still carrying newcomers through the side door, and no one’s on the barstools. But this fifth-phaser’s motivating hard. Like, snapping fingers and jumping feet. Damn.
You know Matt King sees her, but he’s talking with the Erik Estrada guy, b
ack behind group. He’s not gonna be bothered. Still, the fifth-phaser keeps going, motivating her ass off at the empty stools.
Amanda’s settled in her chair now, beef-arms crossed over her druggie flannel shirt. The fifth-phaser is snapping away, while everyone else is just quiet. Maybe they’re thinking about how Amanda looks like Rambo visiting a preschool. She’s color way outside the lines.
Oh, and here comes my best friend, Lucy. Her pointy silver flats snap-snap-snap across the tiles. She sure is happy to be Straight staff today.
“Sam Lancer! Sam, do you have something to share?” Lucy calls out as she walks.
Now that I’m allowed to, I turn and look at the motivator, at Sam Lancer. What I see is shocking. She’s brown, man. I didn’t think any of the kids in here were brown. And she’s gorgeous, even in stupid clothes with her hair slapped back. But this chick, she’s an animal.
“You!” Sam blares out. “You with the druggie hair!”
We all know who she’s talking to, and that person better stand her ass up. I try to use last night’s psychic trick to communicate with her, like, Amanda, come on! You know what happened in review last night—
Except, Amanda doesn’t know what happened in review last night. She got carried through that door next to the kitchen, and she didn’t come back out. So she doesn’t know about spit therapy. She doesn’t even know what druggie hair is. And—she doesn’t know what’s about to happen to her. Oh my God, Amanda.
“Stand up!” Lucy shouts.
And I duck, no lie. It’s like Lucy’s yelling at me. It’s like it’s still review. And I guess it kind of is, only now it’s review for Amanda.
Lucy’s reached the front of group. She’s standing in front of Amanda with her stonewashed ankle-zip Guess jeans. Feet spread, fists on hips. If you put each of them on a scale, one Amanda would equal three Lucys. But Lucy is way the fuck scarier than Amanda. Way.
“What’s your name?” Lucy barks.
Amanda’s not looking up at Lucy, no way. Her powder-blues stay locked on the ground.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Lucy says.
She flicks Amanda’s ear, hard, like it’s a taped-up paper football.
My stomach churns; my butthole clamps back a disaster. Amanda is so fucking dead. She’s gonna roar out of that seat and tank Lucy, and then they’ll kill her. These people will fucking kill her.
But Amanda doesn’t roar, or tackle, or even move. God, what did they do to her in that room?
“Make this newcomer stand,” Lucy snaps, and instantly, two fifth-phasers yank Amanda to her feet. To her black-socked feet. So they got her boots last night. Fuckin’ A. They won.
Amanda doesn’t fight them. She lets herself be hoisted, and when Sam Lancer starts motivating again, Amanda lifts her head. Her eyes are still blue, but they’re not soft anymore. It took Straight one night to kill the softness.
“I already called on you, Sam,” Lucy smiles. “Go ahead! Share with us!”
And the beauty starts screaming at the beast. “I don’t know where you come from. I don’t know what you are. But I do know how your druggie hair makes me feel.”
This Sam girl is yelling and pacing along the side of group, and she’s crying. Her voice is all chokey. She swipes her top lip with her fist, gathering the snot that’s pooled there.
“I used to be like you! I used to have druggie hair like that, pretending I was tough! But I—”
She stops a minute to sob, and another fifth-phaser puts her hand on Sam’s back. When Sam looks up, she’s not brown anymore. She’s dark, blood-red.
“When I had druggie hair like that, I was a fucking slut! I let men do whatever they wanted to me, and I hated myself! And I am angry, I am so, so angry that you brought my druggie hair into this group!”
Sam can’t talk anymore. Her fingers are covering her eyes; the bottom parts of her palms are crammed in her mouth. I can see her teeth bite into them. She’ll have scars to show.
“Love ya, Sam! Love ya, Amanda!” the group screams.
Sam’s love ya is melted honey. Amanda’s love ya is snake venom. I never knew the exact same words could say the exact opposite thing.
Everyone’s hands are up now, and Matt King is standing at the barstools with Lucy. Lucy looks at him with her eyebrows raised and shrugs, which makes the group go harder. Including me. I go harder too. The fifth-phasers are pushing Amanda back into her seat, but the group is still motivating. They want her. They all—we all—want to get her.
Matt sneers and looks right at me. “Nah,” he goes. “No time. We’ll get ’er later.”
• • •
It’s just before lunch when Matt finds the time. “Fifth-phasers!” he shouts. “Take a look at your group!”
He pauses, letting the paranoia sink in.
“You need to scrutinize every member of this group, and make me a haircut list. Who’s building their ego off their hair? Who’s going back to their druggie style? I don’t care what phase they’re on. A fifth-phaser can slip as quick as a first-phaser. We all know it!”
He claps three times, so hard I see sparks.
“I want those lists up the chain of command and in my hand by noon. Got it?”
A half hour later a lady comes in, spreads a bedsheet behind group, and puts one blue chair in the center of it. Then it’s time for lunch rap. We all line up by the kitchen and wait there as Matt flips through his little papers. Finally, he calls out a name.
That kid gets walked from the lunch line to the chair. The lady raises her scissors and she snips. And snips. And snips. The kid in the chair gets more and more naked as we watch; the lady keeps cutting ’til Matt tells her to stop.
“Okay thanks, Mom Z.! Annnnd…who’s next? Oh, I know: Amanda! Amanda T., come on dowwwwn!”
And we all stand and watch as a single sharp snip takes Amanda’s tuft away.
Just like Matt promised, “We’ll get ’er later.”
22
NO LEAVING GROUP WITHOUT STAFF PERMISSION
After leaving the building at 1:49 a.m. on Friday, we hit Sandy’s at 3:55. We were in the phaser room on the mattresses from, like, 4:00 to 7:00. I had three hours of “sleep opportunity,” and Straight says that’s enough. If your body was horizontal for three hours, you got enough sleep to stay in group for twelve hours. To keep us awake, they do a late-afternoon phaser rap, which is pretty much the blueprint of hell.
John, a barrel-shaped staff with a donut of blond hair, yells out, “First phase!” He’s a seal trainer swinging an anchovy.
Arq! Arq! we squeal with spinning hands, reaching for that prize: a chance to stand up and share when you’re not in trouble. That’s the trick. If you motivate without a ton of energy, you’re “hiding in group.” And if you’re hiding in group, you’ve got something to hide. And if they think you’re hiding something, you’ll get concerns. So you’ve got to always motivate like a lunatic, like you’re always on fire to share. But if you can share a Straight rule, rather than talking about yourself, you’re totally safe. Or at least, mostly safe.
“First phase rules!” says John.
“All newcomers carried firmly by the belt loop!” a boys’ side seal yips out.
“First-phasers speak only to staff, oldcomer, or host-parent!” cries a girl.
“First-phasers live at host home!” says a boy.
“No phone, TV, music, or reading, except for M.I. and program rules!” says a girl.
“Second phase?” John yells.
“In building, all day, every day!” says a very happy boy phaser.
“Live at home, must take newcomers!” says another.
“No lying down while writing M.I.!” says a third.
“Only on second phase, Jack?” John says, in a not-so-happy voice. “So you’re looking forward to third, fourth, and fifth phases, when you can lie do
wn while you write your M.I.s?”
“No. I didn’t mean—” Jack gets out, before John cuts him off.
“Third phase!”
Jack looks confused, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit or not. But when another guy stands up, he sits down in a flash.
“Out of building only to report to school or work!” the guy says.
I guess Jack is okay, because John keeps calling on other people. But how do you know when you’re in trouble for being wrong? And how do you know when you’re safe?
“No talking to non-Straightlings at school or work!”
“May watch G-rated movies! May read program-approved materials!”
“Fourth phase?” John says.
“School or work, plus one evening and one weekend day away from the building, to prepare for being Out There.”
Out There? That girl totally pronounced it using capitals. If you ask me, being in here is what’s Out There.
“Permissions must be okayed: first by parents, then by staff, and requested 72 hours in advance.”
“Phasers must be chaperoned on outings by parent or host-parent.”
“And fifth phase!” John shouts.
“School or work, and four days out of the building—adapting to Out There.”
God! What is Out There—another planet?
“May request unchaperoned permissions for church.”
Once we have all that clear, we switch to a new game: whack-a-mole.
“Okay, guys,” John yells. “We’re gonna mix it up. When I call your name and a number, stand up and shout how long you were on that phase. And no ‘love ya’s. Let’s make this snappy. Okay…second phase! Olivia R.!”
“Four months!”
“Third phase! Jack M.!”
“Six months!”