The Dead Inside

by Cyndy Etler

“Mmm…fifth phase! Billy B.!”

  “Which time around? First or second?”

  The whole group laughs at that. Bent over, knee-slapping. Everyone but us on front row. We don’t get the joke.

  “Both times!”

  “Fifth phase three months, setback nine months; fifth phase, round two, six months, so far!”

  They all laugh again. That kid’s been here…holy fuck, eighteen months—and that’s only since he got on the last phase? And they all think this is funny?

  “First phase! Sandy G.!”

  “Twelve months!”

  Her words are echoing in my brain, and still, the group’s fucking laughing. My oldcomer was on first phase, with a hand gripping her pants, carrying her everywhere she went, for twelve months?

  “That’s almost hall of fame, Sandy!” John tells her with a giant grin. “I thought I had it bad, with eleven months. Who’s got Sandy beat?”

  Twenty hands fly up, at least. Oh my God, I can’t even hear this.

  “John V.?”

  “Five days plus thirteen months!”

  “Max W.?”

  “Sixteen months.”

  Max W. isn’t laughing. If you ask me, Max W. kind of looks like he could cry. If he does, I will, too.

  “Tanya R.?”

  “Ten months!”

  “Who beat Sandy’s twelve, Tanya? Who had a longer first phase?”

  “Oh. Oops!”

  The laughter rolls again. There’re a few claps and a “Love ya, Tanya!”

  This is what having a good time looks like at Straight.

  • • •

  Matt had last night off, but he’s been making up for it with a vengeance today. We’re doing “Row Row Row Your Boat,” but he struts to the barstools as if they’re playing that Stones song—I mean, just, um, that song, “Hot Stuff.”

  “Generic rap!” he goes, before people can motivate at him. “Talk about anything. What’s on your mind? Cyndy E.?”

  This can’t be happening again. Can it?

  I force my legs to lift my body, ‘cause it’ll be way worse if I don’t stand right up. I—I’ll try. Just please, God, don’t let them hurt me.

  “How ya doin’, Cyndy?”

  “Fine?” I whisper back.

  “She’s fine, group! Who’s glad Cyndy’s fine?”

  Hands rise.

  “So glad you’re settling in. Whatcha gonna share with us this evening?”

  “Um…I…”

  “Come on now, Cyndy. You’ve been here, what, three days now? Surely you’ve got some thoughts and feelings to relate.”

  “I…I…”

  That’s all I can think to say, with all those eyes on me. A minute drags past. I can feel the weight of their stare.

  “Tick-tock! Nothing to share with your group? Everyone here is trying to help you face your druggie past and get sober, and all you can do is stand there and stutter? Hell, if I were still in group, I’d have a lot to say about that!”

  Hands are back up, starting slow, moving faster. I can see the swinging arms from the corner of my eye: a swarm of them, girls’ side and boys’. Everybody’s out to get me, except Amanda and Max W. Amanda and Max W. Amanda’n’MaxW. Amanda’n’MaxW.

  “Sam L.?”

  Amand’n’MaxW. Amanda’n’MaxW.

  “…think you’re lily-white?”

  Amanda’n’MaxW.

  “…a little baby-druggie. Well guess what, little one? Your mommy’s not here now. But we are.”

  Amanda’n’MaxW.

  “…gonna make your life a living hell!”

  “Well said, Sam. Cyndy? Have a seat.”

  “Love ya, Sam! Love ya, Cyndy!”

  You wouldn’t believe how many things you can say with a “love ya.”

  “Who’s nex—hey! Amanda! Love the haircut…stand on up and show us!”

  • • •

  Maybe to keep our minds from snapping, on some Saturday nights, staff gives the group something fun. Only some Saturdays, though; Sandy can’t stress that enough. And they almost never do movies. She didn’t get one single movie for her whole twelve months on first phase. And my first Saturday night I not only get a movie, but I get The Outsiders?! Sandy was so pissed, she was shaking.

  Watching The Outsiders was unbelievable. I forgot my iron spine and pinched knees for almost two hours. I was gone. I was in Bridgeport. That movie is totally me and my friends. My badass, loyal friends.

  While watching The Outsiders, I knew. I knew, in that psychic way, that Jo and Steve were coming to bust me outta here. That’s what hood friends do, right? When one is fucked, the others will do anything to help, because we know that nobody else will. I just gotta be ready to run, when my outsiders come crashing in.

  • • •

  On Sunday mornings we get to actually sleep, because we don’t go in to the building until noon. I was pretty psyched when Sandy woke me up at nine instead of six, so when Mom G. gave us breakfast—eggs and grits—I tried playing their game.

  “Will you ask him to pass me the salt?” I said. I was totally facing Sandy, not her brother or the salt shaker in front of him. She loved it.

  “Of course! Nice job! Here you go!”

  So I’m figuring out how to get through this. It’s like doing math equations.

  1. Following their rules + Talking about yourself in group = Surviving

  2. Surviving + Being ready for Jo and Steve = Getting the fuck outta here

  I can do it. I just have to wait for those guys to come get me, while fooling everyone here into thinking I’m one of them. I have to act like a zombie Straightling. Until I’m sprung, the group needs to love me. They’ll shout, “Love ya, Cyndy!” without dragging the o out like yeah, right.

  And thank you, God, it’s working! In rules rap today, I motivated and got called on and yelled out Scott’s rule. “All phasers must motivate in group!”

  The group said back, “Love ya, Cyndy!” like they meant it, and it felt good. It felt…safe.

  When I sat back down I motivated extra hard, the way people did in review. I didn’t get called on again, but that’s okay. They can tell I’ve changed.

  And listen, I learned an easy way to talk about yourself in group: you “relate.” When someone else is talking about a time they slapped their mother, took money for sex, or blew pot smoke in their parakeet’s face, you stand up too and say, “I can relate, because this one time I did x, y, z.” You only need one or two sentences because the first kid’s already shared his guts out.

  Good thing I figured this out, because otherwise, all I’d be able to share would be, “Uh, this one time I tried to smoke pot, but I didn’t know how, so I burned my lips really bad. After that I kept a pipe in my pocket, to pretend I was a pot-smoker.”

  I also wrote my first okay M.I. tonight. Sandy liked it, but she said starting tomorrow, I have to fill up two whole pages.

  Cyndy E.

  M.I. for 11/24/85

  Problem:

  I love druggie bands, and I keep thinking about them.

  How I Will Apply My Steps to This Problem:

  I will apply the first step to this problem. I will admit that I am powerless over druggie music.

  Solution:

  I will ask a power greater than myself to take druggie music out of my head, and I will listen harder in group.

  Five Goals:

  1. Earn Talk.

  2. Earn Second Phase.

  3. Stop thinking about druggie music.

  4. Relate in Group tomorrow (4 goals!)

  Three Good Points:

  1. I gave a rule in Rules Rap!

  2. I asked my oldcomer to ask for the salt for me.

  3. I admitted I am powerless over druggie music.

  Sandy wasn�
��t that impressed by my four goals—all she said was, “Nice goals, but you need to have five tomorrow”—but that’s fine. I don’t even need her to be proud of me. I’m proud of myself.

  23

  NO BREAKING ANYONE’S ANONYMITY OR TALKING BEHIND ANYONE’S BACK

  There’s this cool thing we do in group, to talk to other phasers without actually talking. Here, you try it: take your right hand, turn it sideways, and press all your fingertips together, so it looks like you’re about to do shadow animals on the wall. Got it? Now flare all your fingers apart, hard, so it looks like your hand is exploding. Boom!

  That’s how we tell somebody in group, Wake up! You have to be aware of whoever’s sitting around you. If they’re in their head, or rocking out, you need to call them on it. It’s especially awesome when the zoner is sitting right next to you, because you get to put your fist right in their face. But then, as soon as you fling your fingers open, you have to look right back at whoever’s sharing, because no eye games in group.

  Correcting someone with hand signals makes it obvious that you’re doing everything right. And if you’re doing everything right, they can’t stand you up in review.

  Another helpful hand signal is this: tap both pointer fingers by the sides of your eyes, then shoot them toward the person sharing. That’s for when somebody’s looking at anything other than the person talking. But if someone’s looking at one of the doors, that means he or she is thinking about copping out. Then you get to put your hand up in a concern and report them to a fifth-phaser.

  It’s amazing how much you can say without talking. Since I started paying attention, I’ve learned so much. When someone’s not sharing loud enough, you push one palm upward, to tell them to speak up. And if they say, “You can’t hear me?” from over on the boys’ side, you shake your head no and point at your ear. If someone mentions a person who’s not there, you put your hand over your shoulder and pinch your fingers and thumb together like Pac-Man, to show “talking behind backs.” When someone’s going on too long in group, you spin one finger over your head, like, Wrap it up! And of course, if somebody’s refusing to stand when they get called on, you put both hands over your head and push upward, like Get up, ya fucking jerk!

  If the person who won’t stand is sitting next to you, you get to actually push them up until a fifth-phaser gets there to take over. I know because this fourth phase girl—wait, I can’t talk about a specific person. That would be talking behind backs.

  Okay, um…a setback happened yesterday, from fourth phase to front row, and there was a refusal to stand. So I got to do what was done to me last week, when hands on my back and armpits forced me to stand up. When I was pushing to make standing happen, I felt—I’m not sure if this is okay, but I felt great. Like I had a little bit of my Hulk back. And Lucy saw—I mean, I was seen forcing standing, so I know that it’s known, that I’ve changed.

  And now the whole group knows how different I am, ’cause I related today. For the very first time, I stood up and shared about my past. An incident was being talked about, about learning how to smoke cigarettes. And I put my hands up into the stone-still air and I motivated. Just me. It was major.

  “Cyndy E.?”

  I stood.

  “I can relate to you?” I said, facing the—facing—turning in the direction that sharing had been done from. “I can relate because me and my friends—”

  “Your druggie friends?” I was asked from the barstools.

  “Oh, yeah. My druggie friends. We totally hung out in the smoking pit, and like—”

  “Watch the druggie slang, but keep going,” was said.

  “Huh? Oh. Um, we—we wouldn’t be caught dead in the cafeteria. We didn’t eat, we just smoked.”

  It felt like there was something else I was supposed to say, but I didn’t know what, so I sat down. “Love ya, Cyndy!” was said by the group, so I guess I did okay. And I think I can say “group,” since it’s not a specific person. So, see? I’m learning the rules, and I’m fooling the group. So I’ll be okay ’til I’m rescued.

  • • •

  Okay, this is a new one: “girls’ rap” and “guys’ rap.” It can’t be review. It better not be! It’s only Monday afternoon! But they’re separating us—I mean, we’re being sep—I mean, separation is being done. Ah, fuck it. I would never talk behind backs out loud, ’cause that’d get me executed. But when the group can’t hear me? Fuck it. I’m talking like a normal human.

  So us girls are brought back to that carpeted room where they stored us, Friday afternoon, to set up all those chairs for open meeting. We’re put in a circle on the floor. We’re all sitting cross-legged, but Lucy is perched on her barstool. And I get sat right next to her.

  Lucy’s hair is a yellow triangle, same as always, but today she’s got this silvery-pink lipstick on, plus so much mascara her lashes are tarantula legs. I’ve never noticed all this makeup, but I’ve never been this close to her, either. I’m so close I can see the question mark on her Guess jeans’ pocket when she stool-spins her back to me. I fucking hate her.

  There are no guys guarding the doors, which is super weird, but to make up for it, the fifth- and fourth-phasers are standing around us. I don’t recognize a lot of the fourth-phasers, because they’re not in group much. Even when they are, they’re sitting in those chairs across from front row, so I don’t mix with them.

  But this one girl who’s standing right over me? You’d think I’d have noticed her, since you can hardly tell she’s a girl. Her hair is plain brown, and it’s cut like the Little Dutch Boy. She’s covered with freckles, as if she’s a starry night. And there’s something about her, her body or clothes or something, that makes her seem guyish. So I’m sitting Indian style, motivating and looking at this fourth-phaser, trying to figure out why she looks like a boy, when the sleeve of her shirt slips down and I get a good look at her arm.

  Okay, listen to me. You have to do this. Lay your arm out so your hand is on your knee, with your palm facing upward. You see that big stretch of skin there? Feel how soft that skin is, like a helpless baby? That part of this chick’s arm is covered with thick red slashes that spell F T W. The big line of the F is dug into her elbow crease, and the end-slash of the W crosses her wrist vein. This chick must have been on-another-planet high to knife herself that deep and not die. And what happened to her, to make her feel “Fuck The World” that much? Jesus! I’ve heard of bowl burns, but this is something else. Who the fuck am I in here with? I am so out of my league.

  I don’t want to look at Lucy, and I can’t look at this fourth-phaser anymore, so I’m staring at a nice patch of carpet when I hear Lucy call out a name. A girl stands up. And, man! Am I as ugly as these chicks? This one who just stood up has a Frankenstein head. It’s square, and her hair’s the length of a postage stamp. Her lips are bright pink and their edges look scratchy, like she spends all her time gnawing on them. And this is how bad she looks before I check out her humble clothes.

  “Girls’ rap!” Lucy says. She’s hyper again today. “It’s just us girls, so lay it on the line! We’re talking, sex. What’d you get good feelings off of in your druggie past?”

  “Well…” Scratchy Lip says.

  She’s in no hurry to share with us. Is she going to talk about sex? For real?

  “C’mon. We all did it. Gotta get off on something. What was it for you? Did you use a banana? Did ya…jerk your brother? Spill it!”

  “Well, I don’t really…”

  There it is. The girl’s upper teeth start grinding into her lower lip. Does that feel good, like scratching an itch? Good enough to be worth the dry red crustiness the rest of the time? Like, have you ever heard of ChapStick?

  “What do you mean, ‘you don’t really’? There’re no virgins here. What’s the matter? Don’t you trust your group?”

  The girl is still gnawing. “But I mean, I really didn’t…”<
br />
  When I was in the fourth grade, this kid brought his Transformers to school. He let me hold one, and it was the coolest thing ever: its whole face twisted around. When the Transformer was human, it had a regular mouth with an almost-smile. Then you spun its head, and it turned into the evilest robot-guy ever. It could gnash you into splinters with its fangs.

  Lucy is that Transformer. She does the exact same trick. Her face totally flips from friendly counselor to psycho killer. Oh my God, she’s jumping down from her stool. She’s so close to this girl, she could gnaw her lip for her. Her knife nail jabs against Scratchy Lip’s shirt.

  “You better get honest, phaser,” Lucy growls. It’s a voice you do not fuck with.

  “Oh—okay,” Scratchy says. She does my trick, the stumble-step. “You’re—you’re right, I’ve been full of shit. I need to get honest.”

  Seagull arms rise and flap meanly, like they’re gonna tear into Scratchy for daring to keep her secrets. But Lucy shakes her head no at them. “Good,” she tells Scratchy, and goes back to her stool.

  The poor girl chews for a sec, like she’s thinking.

  “I—I did sex with my dog,” she says. She’s burning the carpet with her stare. “I was—um—I was desperate for drugs, but I didn’t have any. I had to get good feelings off something. There was nothing to eat in the house, and no alcohol, so I put peanut butter on myself, and…”

  I am totally not lying to you. The chick is fucking saying this! And Lucy’s face Transformers back into friendly counselor. She’s smiling at Scratchy again, nodding. The angry hands are down at people’s sides, and everyone—everyone but me—is looking at Scratchy with “Good girl!” in their eyes.

  Where. The fuck. Am I? Steve, you guys need to hurry the fuck up.

  • • •

  “John B.: talk and responsibilities.”

  Clap-clap-clap!

  “Misty R.: talk.”

  Clap-clap-clap!

  It’s a short list tonight, and I’m not on it. I really thought I’d get talk, ’cause I’ve been doing so good. Sandy knows that, better than anybody. But when she was writing a progress report on me last night, I asked if she thought I’d get talk.