Jeremiah Quick

by SM Johnson

  "So then I figured it out, at least partly.

  "'No fucking way,' I looked at the counselor. 'Did you call my dad? Does he know about this?' and the social worker guy says, 'Someone's talking to him now, Sport. So let's just get this over with. Go get your stuff. You must have a backpack or something.'

  "I said no, I wasn't going anywhere.

  "This next part is where the asshole fucked up. He grabbed me by the arm and the front of my sweatshirt and yanked me out of the chair. And he said, I kid you not, 'Don't fucking disrespect me. Do as you're told.'

  "So I punched him. Right in his stupid, rude mouth. And I said, 'How's that for disrespect?'"

  "Apparently where there are child welfare workers, there are also cops, because in less than a minute two boys in blue were wrestling me to the ground.

  "I landed here."

  Some of the kids were nodding. They'd been through similar stuff. "I was eight the first time child welfare pulled me from school," Li'l Bit said. "My mom was cracked out, and I went to foster care for nine months that first time. Five families. I still have nightmares. The next time it was seven families and a year and a half. And then my aunt won custody, but by then I was already a fucking mess. The child welfare system sucks."

  I made eye contact with her, and it was really real that time, I wasn't pretending, and she let me see the pain in her eyes for a second. Then she covered it with a grin and said, "Awesome makeup, dude."

  I cracked one of the smiles Corrie made me practice, and said, "Thanks."

  Another voice said, "I'm sure I met the same social worker."

  That was Jamie.

  I stared at him, his eyes that were the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. "I think he scarred me for life." His voice was soft, and he didn’t cover his pain with a smile or anything else, just let me see it, on purpose. We looked at each other for what felt like way too long. Then he gave a tiny shrug, almost a shiver, and said, "And I second the makeup."

  And THEN he smiled, a smile so sweet and gentle that it seemed to showcase his pain even more.

  My heart. My breath. Both seemed to leave me stuttering.

  And thank fate, the group leader moved on to someone else.

  Later she tried to get Jamie to talk, but he shook his head. He wasn't shy, more… quiet and self-contained. I tried not to look at him too much, but failed. Sometimes he caught me at it, but didn't seem offended or scared. And once he even gave me the tiniest grin, his eyes dancing with restrained mischief.

  Huh.

  I didn't know how to read that at all.

  The new girl talked, said her name was Brianna, Bree for short, and she'd been caught shoplifting for the third time. "Three strikes, I guess," she said, and sighed. "I can't seem to help it. I don’t think about it or plan it, and half the shit I don't need and won't use. I just like stealing." She slumped against the back of her chair.

  I memorized her name. We were going to be around here together for like… the whole time, so I figured it was the polite thing to do.

  I felt a little sorry for her, because she was going to be the only girl left. Her wing would be lonely.

  The girls were allowed in our commons area after group, and I gathered that this wasn't unusual on Fridays. It was time to say goodbye and all that. Closure.

  I was still on room restriction, so I headed there, a little bit sorry, but a little bit not, because that group had been exhausting, and the noise of the commons area would compound my tiredness. Not that I couldn't hear the whole shebang from my room, which was damn near in the middle of everything.

  The better to keep an eye on me.

  I'd flopped down on my bed and was detangling the cheap headphones when I looked up and saw Jamie standing in the doorway.

  "You should come out," he said.

  I pointed to my neck, the bandage. "I don't think I’m allowed."

  "Oh." He hesitated. "I'll ask a supervisor, if you want."

  No, he wasn't shy.

  My heart. My breath.

  All I could do was nod. What was this?

  Jamie talked to Tim, and they let me (coaxed me?) to join the party, but not until the cake (cake!) was cut and the knife tucked away.

  Because I wasn't to be trusted.

  I fingered my bandage for a second, lost in this little humiliation. I knew darn well what they were thinking. I'd rather stay in my room. And would have, except for Jamie. Jamie didn't want me to stay in my room, and that's all that mattered.

  The cake was good. I'd always had a sweet-tooth, but denied myself indulgence. Truth was, fat people disgusted me, so it was a point of pride and a demonstration of self-control. But it was a party, after all, and everybody else was doing it (eating cake).

  The frosting was that thick, rich chocolate that tasted like homemade – well, what I guessed tasted like homemade, and the sugar-sweet of it exploded on my tongue and sent a pleasure shiver all the way to the back of my throat.

  I closed my eyes in bliss, couldn't help it, and when I opened them, Jamie was staring at me, and he looked – he looked like he'd just seen something beautiful.

  And I didn't have any real makeup on, just the black eyeliner around my eyes and crayoned onto my lips.

  Later there was a movie and popcorn, and I sat in one of those stupid blue and orange one-armed chairs, Jamie on the chair next to me, separated only by the armrest.

  I was so aware of him I couldn't even follow the movie. Just kept stealing looks at his profile in the dimmed light. I turned over in my head how intensely attracted I was to this boy. Again I wanted him trapped beneath me on a bed, naked, my hands all over him, touching, pinching, doing things – the things my uncle had done to me, and I wanted him to struggle and to cry and to like it. That was the kicker.

  Was that even possible?

  Okay.

  I substituted struggle and cry and pinch for soft sighs, smiles, and sweet petting.

  It still worked.

  I was uncomfortably hard in this room with these people, and wished for my hoodie, so I could pull it off and arrange it on my lap, hiding the evidence of my perversion.

  Except, well. Corrie didn't make it sound perverted. She made it sound okay, and probably inevitable.

  She'd gotten divorced to be with a lesbian, right? So she'd tried to be normal. She'd wanted to be straight.

  Faggot. Queer. Homo.

  I tried them all on, those bad and scary words.

  With Jamie in the room, they fit like shiny new leather gloves, the awesome kind with spikes.

  With Jamie in the room, the words made me twitch. In a good way.

  Fine. I'd wear the words, but I wasn't a sissy, and never would be. I decided that, right there.

  I was Dark, not a prancing, dancing, shiny gay boy, and nobody, no matter what, would ever put me in that box. Fuck 'em. No boxes.

  Jamie was falling asleep, his head resting on the puffy upholstered chair arm that separated us.

  I could smell his sweet-cake-and-orange-Kool-Aid breath, and I wanted to put my lips to his and suck it right out of him.

  On the weekend they ran different groups. Afternoons and evenings were all about entertainment, but morning groups were Real Work.

  They separated us by week, which meant my group was just me, Jamie, and Bree. We'd be together from ten to noon both Saturday and Sunday. Unless on Sunday we preferred the Word of the Lord. None of us did.

  I had no idea, at the beginning, how much these little groups were going to tear me apart.

  That first Saturday I had fantasies about killing Corrie for not warning me. I could maintain and remember the tricks about voice and eye contact when I had time to think, to regroup, but in this, Small Group, they called it, there was none of that.

  How was I going to hide in a group of three?

  For two full hours?

  Seriously.

  I started getting ready immediately after breakfast. I did the usual shower stuff, then examined the little pile of makeup that I now had. Bre
e had emptied her pockets into my hands last night, giving me pale ivory face powder, burgundy lipstick, clear gloss, silver eye shadow, and a tiny bottle of black nail polish. I could draw a mask, maybe even one solid enough to hide behind.

  That Bree… what a doll.

  "Stolen property," she'd whispered to me as she filled my hands. "Don't tell."

  Li'l Bit saw the whole exchange, somehow, even while greeting her (aunt?) with a hug. She bounced over to me and said, "Tell Bree she's busted."

  My heart fell. Bree had stolen the stash from Li'l Bit.

  "I'm sorry, Li'l Bit. Here, you can have it back." I started pulling the makeup from my pockets.

  She faked a punch to the middle of my chest. "Li'l Bit? Is that what you call me inside your head?"

  I was mortified. I hadn't meant to say it out loud, but she made me nervous for Bree. I didn't want Bree in trouble for being nice to me.

  Li'l Bit grinned. "That's rad. I was going to give those things to you, anyway, before they disappeared into Bree's pocket. I won't rat her out, but tell her I caught her." Then she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. "You're gonna be okay, even if you are completely fucked up," she said, her lips vibrating against my neck.

  I… froze. People didn't hug me. People didn't look at me or talk to me.

  "Thanks," I said. "I think."

  "Now hug me back so I can go. My auntie's waiting."

  "I don't think I know how," I said… well, whispered, really, into her hair. "I've forgotten."

  "Put your arms around my back and squeeze."

  I obeyed.

  Oh. This.

  This was lovely.

  I had forgotten. Or put it out of my mind, at least. Because… well. Dad's brother, right? Full-body contact, ugh. To say the least.

  Back to getting ready for group.

  Black eyeliner, nice and thick. Silver eye shadow sparingly applied to my upper lids, but I used a wet paper towel to really silver up beneath my lower lids, making the shadow hug the eyeliner, then dabbed two perfect silver tears on my right cheek.

  I used the eyeliner to line my lips before filling them in with burgundy. A light dust of silver over that. Light dust of ivory powder over all.

  I looked into the shitty plastic mirror.

  My reflection said, "I would eat you. In a heartbeat."

  It was a new group leader. Her name was Starla and she had the kind of voice that dripped with concern and screamed 'therapist' through its soft and gentle tone.

  I tried to keep the eye-rolls to a minimum, but the careful grin I got from Jamie had 'fail' written all over it. Or maybe he liked the makeup.

  The first game we played was called Three Minutes.

  One person gets the hot seat, and the others have three minutes to pepper that one with questions. We were told to keep it friendly, don't get too personal, and, ask questions that are easy to answer. She wrapped up with, "Who wants the hot seat first?"

  I wanted to be in the hot seat NEVER. I said, "You go first," to Starla. She looked startled and uncomfortable.

  "I, ah, don't usually do that. I mean, none of the groups ever suggested it. This is about you guys, about building trust with your peers."

  I flicked a look at Jamie, then Bree – they were both suppressing grins, getting on board this four-wheeled train of thought.

  I shook my head. "If we do it, you do it. Why should we trust you otherwise? Earn it."

  She swallowed. Picked up a water bottle and took a drink, taking her time screwing the cap back on. "It's not my usual process," she protested, but it was weak, and she knew it.

  "Do I look like I fit in a box?" I asked.

  "No," Starla said without hesitation. "You look like you're hiding."

  Ow. That was a jab.

  I blinked.

  She sighed. "Okay, three minutes. Starting… now." She pressed a button on a magnetic kitchen timer.

  "How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

  "Five years."

  "These particular groups?" That was Bree.

  "A couple of years."

  Me: "What's your degree in?"

  "Social work, with a Master's in counseling."

  "Are you good at it?" That was Jamie, his voice soft, sincere, questioning.

  Starla looked right at him. "I like to think so, yes."

  "Why Small Group?" Bree.

  "Because you'll help each other more than you'll ever let me help you. You need each other."

  Three minutes is a long time. We asked what college she went to, her favorite food, movie, band. We asked about children, pets, siblings, questions flying like bullets at the end, sharp, staccato, quick. We were all laughing.

  The timer went off.

  Bree in the hot seat.

  Then Jamie.

  I squirmed, trying to think of one single safe question. I came up with, "What's your favorite bug?" and he laughed, but then his eyes did this roll-blink-blink thing. "A fly on the wall in your room," he said, with a twitch to his lips that hurt my stomach.

  Safe questions didn't exist. Damn him.

  After that, I had nothing, and for an agonizing two and a half minutes, he answered every question while staring at me, like daring me to think of another.

  I supposed he glanced at Bree and what's-her-name, the therapist, but it felt like he was answering every question just for me. He looked comfortable in his skin, self-possessed, relaxed. Every damn thing that I was not, and would never be.

  I memorized his answers. His favorite food was spaghetti, or maybe chocolate fondue, because he said they're both ridiculous to eat.

  I tried not to picture the spaghetti scene in that old dog cartoon. Or my chocolate covered dick pressed against his lips.

  Favorite color – white, because it's so clean and new, blank page, stretched canvas."That's not a color," I muttered, sort of understanding that he was calm, talking slow, and giving more (too much) information so there would be time for fewer questions.

  "Neither is black," he said, his eyes glittering with mischief. Damn him.

  "Favorite clothing label?" Bree, our resident klepto, asked.

  "The one that has the size. I like my clothes to fit. Can't stand baggy. Otherwise," he shrugged. "I like thrift store."

  I did, too. I never had money to shop anywhere else.

  "Favorite book?" the therapist prompted.

  "Lord of the Flies," he said. "Because… because, well, just because." He ducked his chin, maybe in response to my eye roll. "Lolita," I mouthed at him, and his eyes widened. Good. He knew that one.

  "Music?" Bree again.

  "I love music of all kinds." He spent what must have been a full minute listing off bands, including Bowie and Siouxsie.

  "Favorite movie?" Bree prompted.

  "Ahh," he clutched at his head, his hair. "Too many. I can't name one."

  "Try," I whispered, hardly aware that the word passed my lips, so intent I was on finding out.

  He scrunched up his nose, and it was so adorable I wanted to kiss him. Or bite him, maybe, just a nibble.

  "Tommy, the rock opera," he said, and didn't look at any of us. "The Dark Crystal, and what's it called, with Atreyu and the luckdragon."

  The whispered confession electrified me.

  No way. He was making it up. He was making it all up. He wasn't… Dark. He was the opposite of Dark.

  "Why are you here?" Bree asked, but just then the timer went off. He was unhooked.

  Chapter 21

  I was on deck. I thought I might throw up.

  To have to sit there and be transparent to these people – to Jamie – I didn't know if I'd survive it. I wished I had my hoodie, so I could hide just that much. Someone said we get our own clothes back the first Sunday night. I can't tell you how much I looked forward to that. And sunglasses. I was tired of walking around naked.

  I slouched in my chair, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared at the patch of faded blue carpet between my feet.

  Ms. Fee
lgood, Starla, said, "You look as closed to this exercise as any psych textbook could ever describe. Try letting your arms hang at your sides."

  My arms tightened, clutching at myself. Everything tightened. "I can't," I said through clenched teeth.

  I didn't look at her, but I could feel her looking at me. Like she was thinking or something.

  "All right. Bree, Jamie, be gentle, okay?" The suggestion came in a soft, sincere voice.

  Food. Pizza, fried chicken.

  Music. I cheated a little and said The Sex Pistols, although my list of favorites was long and dark. I wanted to do what Jamie did and stall, but I couldn't expand on why I loved what I loved because it would reveal too much. Favorite music made favorite movie easy, though– Sid and Nancy. No brainer. I also liked Jamie's favorites, and said so.

  "Favorite bug?" Jamie, being a smartass.

  "Whatever virus fixes overpopulation," I answered, equally smartass.

  "Favorite color that's not black?" Jamie, again.

  Red, I should have said, because that had always been the truth, but I looked into his eyes just then and what fell out of my mouth was, "Blue."

  Bree: "Are you done hurting yourself?"

  I cringed. Huddled deeper into my arms, the chair.

  Sensitive Starla cleared her throat. "Um. Bree. Maybe that's not appropriate at – "

  I cut her off with a wave of my hand, " – No, it's fine," I took a deep breath and let my hands fall to rest on my thighs. "I'm here to stay. Promise." I was looking at Bree, but the words were for Jamie. If we'd have been alone, I would have added, "forever."

  The tension lifted, and it got easier. Pets, city, or country? Beach or amusement park?

  The timer dinged, and it was over.

  I was sweating.

  But it was over.

  We got a break to go to the kitchen for a snack.

  It had only been half an hour.

  These groups were going to ruin me.

  "I have one more question," Jamie murmured as we both leaned into the fridge to grab chocolate milk.

  I looked at him, and waited.

  "Do you like me?"

  His voice was little boy soft, hesitant and nervous. Not at all self-assured.