by Trish Cook
“You know what I mean. I was just—I needed some attention, that’s all.”
Max looked up from the screen. “Why?”
I knew why, of course. But I wasn’t feeling that way right now. And I was afraid if I started talking about it, that would make it all real again. And then I didn’t know what was going to happen. So I just answered, “I don’t know.”
Max smiled at me. “Well, when you’re ready to be honest about that, we’ll know you’re making some progress.” God, I hated this guy. I really would like to sneak up on him in the middle of the night and shave his stupid Moses beard off.
After fifty minutes, Tiny walked me and several other guys to SR group. SR group was all guys, what the hell, and seemed to be an excuse for everybody in the group to brag about all the action they’d gotten and how it left them feeling sad and empty inside. I didn’t say anything, because apart from the blow job that wasn’t, there was only the hand job last year and a couple of boob gropes. Oh, and one totally awkward and, okay, not very skilled journey into Kat Masterson’s panties, which may or may not have had anything to do with her dumping me the next day.
That was it for me. Whereas everybody else in this group, it seemed, had been busy putting their dicks pretty much anywhere they could. After the group ended, I went up to the gray-haired, awesome-mustached guy named Jack who ran the group. “Uh, Mr. Inghoff?” I began. I had no idea what his real last name was, but my stupid masturbation joke seemed pretty appropriate in this group. “Jack? I think I’m in the wrong group here.”
He looked at me through his John Lennon glasses, and I was so distracted by a tiny blob of spit trapped in his mustache that I almost didn’t hear him say, “Yeah, Justin, everybody says that at first. Everybody else has issues. I don’t belong here. These people are crazy.” Old Jack had a kind of crazy glint in his eye as he said this, which made me think he was a little crazy himself. “And you just made a sophomoric sex joke about my name, which doesn’t really help your case.”
Damn. Didn’t think of that. “No, Jack. You don’t understand. These guys get their rocks off more times before breakfast than I have in my entire life.”
Jack looked for a second like he might crack a smile, but then his face got kind of stern. “Justin. We’re not here to judge other people’s issues.”
“Well, why the hell would you put us in groups then? Jesus Christ, this is fucking retarded!”
Jack pulled out his iPad and gave the screen a few taps. “Okay, Justin. That’s five demerit points. Since you’re at level one, you can’t go down any levels—”
“You said, ‘go down,’ ” I said, since I was in the shit already. “Don’t they tell you not to say stuff like that around the pervs?”
He kept talking like I hadn’t said anything. “But if you want to be able to move up a level, to have any privileges at all, you need to work on getting ahold of yourself. I’m making a note of this incident.”
I came back with a British accent, doing my best Minerva McGonagall, which, admittedly, was not very good. “Ten points from Gryffindor! You guys are the lamest people on the face of the earth. I honestly don’t know what keeps you assholes from killing yourselves every night, because if I looked like you and had to say shit like that every day, I would have popped something a lot stronger than Tylenol.”
Jack tapped on his iPad again, maybe a little more vigorously than last time. “You’d better run along,” he said. “Don’t want to be late for …” He checked his screen. “… looks like Anger Management.” He flashed me a smile, a smile that said, “You little snot, I hear worse than that every day, and if you think you’ve gotten under my skin, you’re dreaming.” At least that’s what I thought it said.
Another big dude who was not Tiny (or, tiny, for that matter) escorted me from SR to AM because apparently I might try to kill myself if they let me walk down the hall by myself. But it wasn’t me I felt like killing.
The AM group was at least coed. Emmy, the anorexic Asian girl I’d met at dinner who seemed kind of normal—at least compared to my grumpy roommate and the pervs in SR—was there. There was a seat next to her, but I didn’t take it. I was afraid if they saw me sitting by her, they’d make that a privilege they could take away from me. So I took it away from myself.
My roomie was there, too, as was Emmy’s silent roomie Jenny. Then there was a little white girl who looked really young and another white boy who reminded me of the mullet-sporting guy who ran The Beast at King’s Island when I was there on Memorial Day weekend.
We all sat silently and the therapist, the plain young woman from my intake meeting, came in and said, “Well, it’s the beginning of a new term and we’ve got a couple of new members here today. Let’s make them feel comfortable by introducing ourselves.”
My roommate, Mohammed, actually revealed that he got sent here as an alternative sentence after his second assault with a dangerous weapon, which I’ll admit was going to make me a little more cautious about trying to bait him into speech back in the room.
Tina, the facilitator, looked at him for a long time after he said that. “Anything else you’d like to add?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said.
The mullet kid was named Chip. He was from Ohio, which raised the odds that he actually was the kid who ran The Beast.
Emmy’s silent roomie didn’t talk, of course, and the little girl, the one who looked really young, refused to introduce herself. “This,” the therapist said, “is Jenny, who has a form of selective mutism and is working on speaking to others within social situations such as this one, but is not quite ready to do so yet. And next to her is Diana.”
“She lets her fists do the talking,” Chip said, laughing, and Diana looked up for the first time and gave Chip a look that drained all the laughter out of him.
Tina ignored the brewing fight. “Now, I’ll have our new members introduce themselves and, if you two feel comfortable sharing this, talk a little bit about why you think you’re here?”
There was an awkward silence, and I looked over at Emmy, who stared back at me. You first, she mouthed. Okay.
“I’m Justin. I was just thinking about how one little space is all that separates therapist from ‘the rapist.’ ” I paused for the laugh. Nobody laughed except Emmy. Tough crowd. I smiled at the one appreciative audience member. “Seems like this is the group I actually belong in, not that Sexual Reactivity group, which they put me in because my dad walked in on me getting blown. I’ll be the first to admit that that little scene is going to need some working out in a therapeutic setting, but I hardly think it means I should be in the man-whore group.”
Only my roommate cracked a smile at my use of “man whore.”
“Justin, I appreciate you’ve acknowledged that you should be here, even if you broke about three other rules in that speech.”
“Are you gonna tap on your little screen like Jack and give me the ten points from Gryffindor treatment?”
The rapist smiled. “Do you think Gryffindor is where you belong? I mean, it’s the one most people choose because all the main characters are there, but really, is that where you’d sort yourself if this were Hogwarts?”
“If this were Hogwarts, I’d sort myself right next to Emma Watson,” I said, which maybe wasn’t going to help my case that I didn’t belong in the SR group, so I followed with, “Gryffindor is the courageous one, right? I mean, I’m here because I have the balls to tell adults when they’re being douche bags, so yeah, Gryffindor.”
AFTER MY FAILED POST-DINNER PURGING ATTEMPT, THERE WAS the failed attempt after study hall, the one during reflective time, and the one right before bed. If it wasn’t Alisha following me around and getting in the way of my plans, it was one of the green-sweatshirted Staffies. Anger Management group was actually going to be the perfect place for me if I didn’t figure out a way around the annoying over-supervision of my bodily functions soon.
And that wasn’t my only frustration. There was also not being
able to fall asleep at the strictly enforced ten thirty lights-out time, especially in our pitch-black, silent room. I’d nervously tossed and turned most of the night, the contents in my belly sloshing around loudly as I hoped and wished for a miracle. As in, I hoped my restlessness was at least burning off a fraction of what I’d consumed at dinner, and I wished the damn window would open so I could hurl out of it, then hurl myself out of it and escape.
Toss, turn. Turn, toss.
I kept waiting for the ghost baby and baby mama wails to start up, but all I heard were the night staff’s footsteps as they patrolled the hall and, occasionally, our door opening. That always happened right as I was starting to relax. The noise and intrusion made my heart jump and then race, and the flashlight shining around the room got me wired in the worst possible way. I wondered if I’d ever be able to sleep again, or at least as long I was here at Heartland. Chances seemed pretty slim.
I guess I must have eventually passed out, though, because the next thing I knew, the PA system was blaring the morning announcements. I forced my eyes open and saw Farm Girl holding a sign in front of my face.
Rise and shine. It’s time for yoga.
“I hate yoga,” I mumbled, pulling a pillow over my head.
She grabbed it and threw it across the room.
“Fine,” I said, rolling out of bed and grabbing some yoga pants and a T-shirt from my drawer. I tucked myself between the wall and dresser to put them on, as far out of my roomie’s view as possible.
Yoga turned out to be meditation and some verrrry light stretching with shavasana—the part where you just lie there like roadkill—thrown in at the end. The instructor chanted a bunch of hoo-ha about loving our bodies and being grateful for their strength, but all I could think was You got me up for this? Dead people could work out harder.
Breakfast was another anxiety-inducing feast—scrambled eggs, toast, tomatoes, and slimy canned peaches—that I once again couldn’t dispose of, either before I choked it down or afterward, due to the nosy, ever-present staff. By that point—and it was only eight thirty in the morning—I was so crabby and groggy from too little sleep and too much food I would have loved to spend the rest of the day hiding out under the covers, but instead I had to go to my academic courses. Making a kid go to school in July is just plain criminal. There should seriously be a law against it.
Still, I dragged my ass from class to class, pinching myself throughout the periods just to stay awake. Jury was still out on the subject matter. First days were always the boring-awkward combo platter of talking about what we were going to talk about all semester plus the embarrassing get-to-know-each-other games, so I was reserving judgment.
On to lunch. The plateful of greasy tacos, broccoli, beans, and banana was a total gastric nightmare. My stomach felt like a bloated beach ball and there seemed to be a permanent lump in my throat, which was where I figured all the food I’d been forced to shove down my gullet in the past twenty-four hours stopped.
Afternoon at School for Screwups was dedicated to head-shrinking, so then I got herded off to Adoption Issues group. I would have given my left ovary for a Red Bull Total Zero. Instead, I got a lukewarm bottle of water and learned that I Wasn’t Alone and My Feelings Were Very Normal.
Finally, it was time for Anger Management. In a weird way, I was almost kind of looking forward to it. First, because it meant I’d survived my first full day of classes and therapy bullshit without going totally insane and second, because I’d get to see Justin, the cute guy I’d met in the caf last night. I figured I’d have to dazzle him with my sparkling personality and half-decent bod now, before I pudged out again and he was too disgusted to look at me like that.
I was already camped out on the sagging tan velour sofa when he walked in. I gave him a big smile, hoping for a glittery green-eyed one back. Instead, he blew me off and went and sat on the love seat next to a dude with a mullet. Bummer. More awkward introductions, then a Hogwarts sorting game no one wanted to participate in.
“Come on now, people. Justin said he’d be sorted in Gryffindor because he has courage. How about the rest of you?” Tina, the therapist running the Anger Management group, asked.
Not sure what she was trying to accomplish, because the odds were Chip the Mullethead was illiterate; Jenny my mute roommate was never going to answer; and Diana (and probably Mohammed, based on his explanation why he ended up in this group) would prefer to beat the shit out of J. K. Rowling than read her books. But I decided to play along anyhow because for one thing, I love Harry Potter and another, I wanted to see how Justin might react when he heard my affiliation.
“Ravenclaw,” I announced, sneaking a look at him to see if he’d give me a thumbs-up or furrow his brow or what. “And not just because that’s where the Asian girl is. But because they’re the brainiacs, the quirky smart kids who are valued for their individuality instead of made fun of for it.”
Justin gave me a little upward tilt of the chin when I was done with my confession, so I figured we were cool despite our different HP houses. Everyone else acted like they hadn’t even heard me.
Seeing as she was getting absolutely nowhere with her attempts to get us to bond in Pottermore, Tina moved on to another tactic. “Fine then. Let’s go at this from a different angle. I want everyone to tell the group what your favorite breakfast is and why.”
We all stared at her. No one said a word.
“I’ll start,” Tina said breezily, like it didn’t bother her we wanted no part of her games. “I love bran flakes cereal because it gets my morning off to a good start.”
“More like a good fart,” Chip hooted. Then he let out a huge guffaw, cupped his hand under his armpit, and let a few fake ones rip.
“Grow up,” I muttered. I couldn’t believe my parents would pay for this kind of an education—fart jokes were so second grade—and not the college-level one I could have been getting at Simon’s Rock.
“What? You pissed because your favorite thing for breakfast is your finger?” Chip said, squinting. I couldn’t tell if he was making an Asian, sexual, or eating disorder joke.
I tried my best to ignore whichever he had been going for. “Could you be any more of an uneducated, immature, misogynistic pig?”
Jenny whipped her head around, gave me a death stare, and started scribbling in her journal. Then she ripped out a piece of paper and stomped over to give it to me. Take it back! it read.
“Why?” I asked “Face it, that’s what he is. A total pig.”
Jenny shook her head furiously. I guess she liked her men dumb and insulting.
“I like breast meat in the morning,” Diana piped in with a demented cackle. “The whiter, the better.”
“Nutritionists stress the importance of protein at each meal, Diana. Chicken is a great source, even if it is a tad unconventional for breakfast,” Tina replied, unfazed by the disturbingly evil laugh coming from such a cute little person.
“Who said anything about chicken?” Diana asked, sticking her hands on her hips. “I meant, I like to eat human flesh. Not in a sexual way. But for sustenance. Like the Donner Party.”
“Oh please! That’s totally gross, not to mention untrue,” I said. I’d have to let my parents in on this little conversation when I got my first phone call with them next weekend. Then they’d definitely think twice about keeping me here for the actual school year. I planned to lay it on thick, like I see why you were concerned about me, you were right, I’m eating much more healthfully now. But the kids here are crazy, I mean, one even says she’s a cannibal, don’t you think your money would be better spent on Simon’s Rock?
“How would you know, bitch?” Diana yelled at me.
And she wasn’t the only one who had me on their shit list. Jenny was still fuming and writing away from the depths of her wilted beanbag chair.
“Everyone, take a few deep breaths and count back from ten in your head,” Tina said in a soothing monotone. After the intensity seemed to deflate a bit, she added, �
�You don’t have to put up your walls in this group, Diana. Everyone here has been extraordinarily traumatized. You use outrageous statements and anger to cover up your grief and believe me, you’re not the only one.”
Diana looked stricken at being called out by Tina. She stared blankly at the wall for a full minute, her eyes glassy and moist, before taking off her oversized hoodie and covering her face with it. She looked even smaller and younger sitting there in only a striped top and stretch pants.
“I’m not upset,” she sobbed into her sweatshirt. “I’m pissed. There’s a big difference.”
Tina knelt down, took Diana’s hands in hers, and pulled the shirt from Diana’s face. “Your tears tell me that’s not true.”
I had to literally bite the side of my cheek to stop from screaming What the hell happened to you, kid? There were probably ten red, raised scars starting on the underside of Diana’s left wrist going all the way up to her elbow. And I mean, I knew what happened—that Diana had done it to herself. What I couldn’t imagine was why. At least the ban on tweezers and scissors and razors made more sense now.
“Fine, whatever,” Diana said, sniffling a bit. “The Sorting Hat would tell me to go to Slytherin, but I’d be much better in Gryffindor.”
“Because you want to be like Harry?” Justin asked.
“I think it’s because although Diana might sometimes give off a tough vibe and attract negative attention to herself, she is an honorable, strong, and courageous person underneath it all,” Tina told him. “She often feels misunderstood, so she is working on presenting herself in a true light. Isn’t that right, Diana?”
Diana just shrugged.
“Great work, Diana,” Tina said, like she’d actually helped the poor kid. “Let’s get back to the breakfast question. Anyone care to share?”
“Contrary to what Chip may think,” I jumped in, hoping to move on without any more weird drama, “my favorite breakfast food is actually a bagel with cream cheese and bacon.” I hadn’t actually eaten a “bacon-bagel-burger,” as I liked to call my creation, in over six months, but I sometimes dreamed of them. I’d wake up crying, thinking I’d actually eaten one, then cry some more because I knew I could never really eat one again if I wanted to stay thin.