by SM Johnson
His very existence made me feel too big for my skin.
What the hell was this?
I'd had two girlfriends before my uncle, both more or less Goth girls – one that was bitchy and mean and had a voice that made me want to choke her, and the other who moved and started going to a different school. I'd kept seeing the second one for a couple of months, but it was a lot of work, and a lot more sitting on the phone watching TV than it was time being together, and the bus line sucked to where she lived now, so we more or less agreed to let each other go. I hadn't missed her all that much, which I wondered about, but you know, whatever. And once my uncle got me, I didn't bother with girlfriends, or even friends.
I caught this boy's name, and I would never forget it. Jamie. Jamie Summerfield.
He was blond and delicate, and so thin there was room for two of him on the metal folding chair.
I had an inside-my-head vision of him pressed beneath me, breathing hard, and I liked it so much I had to push it away or I was going to smile inappropriately, and maybe even blush, for god's sake.
I had no idea what to think about this.
I was…. at that point, average height, leaning toward tall, my hair was straight dirty blond, or dark blond, or really light brown – whatever. I hadn't quite got up the guts yet to dye it black. It was past my neck, not quite to my shoulders, bangs over-long, almost long enough to tuck behind my ears.
Jamie caught one of my glances, and his eyes were such a bright blue I could almost die. Sky blue.
I looked away first. I was doing a lot of that, here. But this was… this was because I didn't want to scare him.
He didn't cry when he said today was the first day of the rest of his life.
Some of the kids laughed.
I didn't. I felt like it was the first day of the rest of my life, too.
If I could get him to my room, I'd – well, I had no idea. Kiss him? Rape him? Tie him up and just look at him?
I'd had fantasies about tying girls up, tickling and poking them, torturing them with ice cubes until they whimpered or cried and begged me to stop.
I knew there was something wrong with me.
It took all the self-discipline I possessed to drag my attention away from Jamie to figure out discharges tended to be on your fourth Friday. Smart-ass seemed okay, so long as we stayed on topic.
I also discovered that I was well and truly fucked in this endeavor of attempting to appear normal and healthy, because so long as Jamie was anywhere in the room, my brain would be on tilt.
He didn't seem scared or shy or anything less than at ease, and I wondered about that. I was pretty sure he was younger than me, and at fifteen, I was scared and shy and totally ill at ease. But of course, I was like that everywhere, all the time.
I hated that he caught me staring at him. The third time he cocked an eyebrow at me as if asking, "Do I know you from somewhere?"
I thanked all the powers that be for my room restriction, because I was exhausted after that group. Trying to participate was hard enough, I sure didn't need the distraction of Jamie on top of it.
Chapter 18
I had two blessed hours with Corrie the next day.
Right after breakfast I found her office on my own, a supervisor trailing to make sure I didn't get lost or go AWOL or something.
I didn't wait for her to acknowledge me this time, just dropped dramatically behind her chair to look for music. She was on my side. It was okay to be comfortable here.
I'd hardly been able to sleep for having not-quite-asleep dreams about Jamie.
Jamie, Jamie, Jamie – his name looped in my head, never more than half a thought away.
I wished I'd been able to bring my own music, but was required to leave all personal belongings in my room. My favorite music was shit no one ever heard of and no one but me ever had.
I sighed, really loud, then chose Bowie again.
"Again?" Corrie asked, then in response to my evil eye, added, "Okay, okay, I can deal." She turned her chair once I'd boosted myself onto the top of the bookshelf.
I slouched there, and tried on an expression I hoped was pathetically deject.
"Problem?" Corrie asked, her lips curved into the tiniest of smiles, as though she knew there was a whole pile of drama ahead, just waiting to be tripped over.
I nodded. "Jamie."
"The new kid?" she asked.
"Yes." I paused for dramatic effect, because I felt it, and she seemed to expect it. "Jamie is going to be a problem."
"You know him from somewhere?"
I shook my head. "I can't function in a room with him. I can't even explain it. It's like the room is pitch black and he's the only flashlight. I can't like… take my eyes off him. It's mortifying. Help me."
She was trying not to laugh. I could tell.
"Are you gay?" she asked.
"Are you?" I countered.
"I asked first."
"No," I said. "I asked you yesterday."
"Oh, sorry," she said. "You were being so rude I didn't realize it was a real question."
"So, are you?" I asked again, needing her to answer first.
She sighed. "Yes."
"But you had a kid! You said so."
She frowned at me, then shrugged. "I also had a husband for a long time. I don't anymore. People make mistakes. Sometimes they fix them."
My brain was racing, and I was struggling to keep up. My counselor was a dyke. She – well, I didn't even want to picture what she did with other women. Ew. No wonder she lost her foster care license. She was a lesbo, a rug-muncher, a… god. A pervert.
"Say something," she said. "React."
Oh, I was reacting, but I must have had my blank face on.
"You're a pervert," I said out loud, too loud. I apologized in the next second, realizing how inappropriate that was. "They let you work with kids?"
Now she was the one with the blank face, her lips pressed into a tight line. She was almost as good at it as I was. "I'm a lesbian. And they let me work with kids, yes. Boys."
"Because you'd corrupt girls?"
Some expression crept into her face, and it looked like disappointment. "What do you think?"
I felt a little ashamed then. This was Corrie, after all, who'd managed to turn me versus Them into Us versus Them in just a couple of hours. She was okay.
She had to be, otherwise I was completely alone.
I shook my head. "Okay, now I really am sorry. For being a jerk."
The disappointment seemed to clear into something neutral. "Your turn."
"I didn't think I was – you know – like that. I mean, I've had two girlfriends, and I never thought about it. Well, not beyond wanting to meet Bowie or Sid…" Words went by the wayside as I looked at that idea from this new angle.
Shit.
Really?
I pushed myself hard off the bookshelf and landed prone on the floor. Corrie made a startled noise, a laugh, maybe, or just an exclamation of surprise. I rolled onto my stomach with my arms over my face, hands clutching at the hair at the top of my head.
Didn't want this. Didn't need this. Couldn't have this. Did my uncle see it in me, is that why?
Don't think about that don't think about that don't think about that.
But I was thinking about it. Was there some part of me that liked it? That asked for it?
I was crying, but didn't realize there was noise coming out of me until Corrie's hand was on my back, rubbing back and forth as she said, "Shh, shh, you're going to bring someone in here wondering what's going on."
And sure enough, I heard the door open, and a voice, maybe Tim? Asking if everything was all right.
Corrie's hand left, and her voice sounded somewhat further away, talking to someone.
"Yes, we're fine. Talking about that moment when there's all this blood, and you think you've really done it now, and there's so much you wanted to DO with your life, and if you could just have another chance… you know, that kind of stuff."
>
Suddenly I was done crying and about to laugh. She was brilliant. Fucking brilliant.
"I think he scared himself more than he even thought."
Lower voices, his and hers – thank goodness there were adults to watch out for kids like him, teach them better ways to cope, she was already getting through to the boy, yadda, yadda, yadda.
I sat up. "I'm okay now," I said. "Sorry."
Fuck, I was apologizing a lot lately.
Corrie closed the door. "So. A couple of girlfriends."
I didn't even want to look at her. "Yeah."
"Did you have sex with them?"
Well, that was blatant. And fuck it. What the hell. "Not all the way, no. Neither of them was sure they wanted to, and I was, you know, too nervous to try all that hard, if they didn't want to."
"Do you want to know what I think?"
I nodded, still unable to look at her.
"Maybe you're gay. But maybe you're not. Maybe you're somewhere in between. Some people seem to know all their lives, but for some of us it takes a little longer. Or, in my case, a lot longer. My advice is don't panic about it. Keep your mind and heart open, and just roll along."
"Yeah, but in the meantime, I have Jamie in group."
Her laugh was gentle. "Just do the best you can."
Another big sigh from me. "You're not being all that helpful, here."
"I can't fix everything, Jeremiah. Some things you have to figure out on your own."
"Most things," I muttered, crabby about that.
Side A of Bowie ended, and I got all the way up off the floor to flip it over and press play. I pulled myself up onto the low bookshelf again. "Can't you get a couch or something?"
She barked out a sharp laugh. "They don't trust me that much. Even with boys."
That made me laugh, too.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Now I'm going to tell you what happens to odd kids who try to kill themselves."
I groaned. "Do you have to? I swear I'll never do it again."
"Yes, I have to. I want to make sure you know this stuff. Then I'll know you'll never do it again. Deal?"
I shook my head no. "Yes."
That made her smile.
"The mental health system loves to diagnose odd kids with prolonged and serious mental illnesses that are difficult, if not impossible, to cure. They'll say you're bi-polar, borderline personality disorder, antisocial – if not sociopathic. They'll get you in the system and give you state healthcare, which is guaranteed payment. Then they'll dose you up with meds that don't work, get you locked into the adult system, and it goes on and on and on. And every time you display behavior or admit to thoughts that are outside the norm, they'll stick you in the hospital and try you on new meds. And if you don't want the meds? They'll do a civil commitment and get a court order and force you to take them. And this will become your whole life. So… cui bono? Who benefits?
"Believe me, you won't benefit. They'll ruin you. They'll institutionalize you and make you non-functional. And that benefits the doctors, and the hospital. Not you.
"And this is why I say please, please… don't try to kill yourself again. Take something from this place. Learn something. Because I have hope for all of Us, including you."
I listened, I did. Who but Corrie was going to make sure I understood The Way Things Really Work?
So. I served my time, went to groups, observed the behavior of the other kids, and learned a whole new level of let's pretend.
Chapter 19
Pretty figured out that Jeremiah's story about Corrie wasn't about Corrie at all. It was about a boy named Jamie.
She flinched when he said the idiots were going to force him to live with his uncle, god, the thought that they'd inadvertently move a child in with his abuser, just hand the lamb right over to the wolf... They didn't even know what they were doing. Systems were like that. It was one of the things about the world she would have liked to change.
She saw a fierceness in Jeremiah when he talked about Corrie, and wonder light his face when he said Jamie's name. It occurred to her the whole time she'd known Jeremiah, Jamie had been the missing piece.
The sad, lost look she saw once in a while - Jamie. The desperation to leave town, to go searching for something - Jamie.
His inability to settle, to be happy, to love her –all of it – Jamie.
The girlfriend who was a costume, a good friend who kept him safe from being rumored as gay, and kept him safe from breaking Pretty's heart.
"You were insecure," he said when she commented out loud about this, "but always so fair. You wouldn't let yourself fall in love with me because you wouldn't let yourself steal someone else's boyfriend. You were way too good for that."
Pretty thought it was sweet he thought so well of her. He was right, but then again, he wasn't. He'd never quite belonged to her, so the possessive streak she might have had never grew very strong. It was something she couldn't have even put into words back then, but the element of him that she now knew was missing Jamie was a gaping hole, soft-edged and not-new, a part of him defined by its absence, and it wasn't a Pretty-sized hole at all. Somehow she'd known she couldn't fill it, and that trying would hurt worse than she was already going to be hurt.
She loved him. She did. But it was the kind of love she knew would never be able to contain him. And perhaps what he mistook for "too good" was merely self-protection, an acceptance that he didn't belong to her and never would.
Chapter 20
Every group started the same way – with introductions, which week we were on, and, depending on the group leader, some kind of divulging of private information about oneself, like favorite musician, song, or film.
Nobody seemed to mind this – but I always lied. It was automatic. My favorite things said too much about me, and I didn't divulge them casually. I just didn't. And they couldn't make me. So there.
The time served part was helpful though, because I could observe how the normal kids acted during different stages of the program.
Week One people talked about what got them here, if they talked about anything at all.
Week Two kids talked about what they could have done differently.
Week Three was the remorse and the crying. A lot of crying. I wasn't sure I could pull that one off, but I'd have to try. Thank every fiber of my being that it was still a ways off.
Week Four was all about resolutions, vowing to stop fighting, stop stealing, stop using, stop being a perfect asshole.
Group format made it easy enough to figure out the program.
I wasn't put on the spot until Friday afternoon, and I guess I deserved it, because at lunchtime Jamie walked past me and held out his hand like… let's shake. I ignored my inability to breathe, and when I took his hand, he slipped me a black eyeliner pencil.
I wondered more about how the hell he knew than where the hell he got an eyeliner, but I was pleased to accept such a gift.
Before group I used the eyeliner to outline my eyes and fill in my lips and to draw a lightning bolt on the side of my neck opposite the gleaming white bandage.
I felt a lot less naked. I'd have much preferred my own clothes rather than these horrid scrubs that were like pajamas, but still, makeup was a plus. I vowed to find out what Jamie liked and get some of it for him.
The group leader, Nick, a grown up jock drowning in his non-jock failure of a life, addressed me. "Jeremiah. You're looking quite at home all of a sudden. Why don't you tell us why you're here?"
Yeah, because Week One is all about why we're here. Check.
I shrugged, tried to look sullen, but I'd been practicing the answer to this with Corrie, along with making appropriate eye contact in a group situation.
Flick your eyes to the group leader more than anyone else, as if you're seeking his or her approval, checking to see if they're engaged. If the group leader starts to fidget, then you're entering Dark territory, and need to tone it down or switch gears entirely. You can always say you l
ost your train of thought, and wait quietly for a prompt.
Look at group members, but only really fast, then look away, as if you're a little embarrassed. You can look at them longer when you're done talking, and definitely make eye contact with anyone offering their thoughts. And also… nod here and there if the other kids offer ideas or advice.
So now I said, "Umm, Well, let me think for a second," and paused. Usually when I'm put on the spot, my voice came out too loud for the setting. The pause was my voice test. So far so good.
"It's just been me and my dad for a long time, you know? We don't know where my mom went off to, but it's okay – me and my dad co-exist just fine. It ain't perfect, of course, I mean, he's got a lot to put up with." I gestured to my own face then, just sort of spontaneous, and it must have been good, because Karen, the female group leader, nodded like she sympathized with any parent of mine.
"But the thing is, my dad warned me against fucking up, said I'd never survive in the child welfare system, not the way I am – because everybody would try to make me change, and we sure knew how that never worked."
Of course, what my dad actually said was, Go ahead, call me in. But when I get back you'll be in for a REAL ass-kicking. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.
"So there I was at school, and I get called to the counselor's office, where two people are waiting for me. They didn't introduce themselves, and I didn't know they were child welfare people until later. The lady looked sad at least, but the guy just looked bored as fucking hell. And he says, 'Okay champ, you gotta come with us, so go get your shit, and be snappy about it. Chop-chop.'"
He really did say that.
"I just looked at him, confused, but also a little pissed off. I was supposed to leave school with a complete stranger?
"I said, 'Who the hell are you?' and plopped down in a molded plastic chair, like a sit-in. I was going nowhere with this asshole.
"'Jeremiah,' says the lady. 'We're going to take you to a safe place, get you cleaned up and into decent clothes. Get a good healthy meal into you. Then we'll figure out what comes next.'