of her mother, Grandma
said. She doesn’t often
share information of
such a sensitive nature.
None of us do, in fact.
Her father would have
a conniption fit.
I can understand wanting
to protect her privacy,
said Dr. Starr. And I can
understand your wanting
to protect your granddaughter.
However, we cannot make
real progress unless we put
everything out in the open,
so we know exactly what
we’re dealing with.
So now I will start a new
regimen of treatment.
Lithium, here I come,
weight gain, runs, and all.
But hey, I didn’t break
down and confess.
Grandma turned
traitor, not me.
God love her.
And Through It All
No one noticed how
I kept my arm bent tight.
Good thing, too.
A thin, red line stains
my pretty blue blouse,
right at the crease
in the elbow. Guess
I cut a little deeper
than I meant to.
Better be careful.
I’d hate for my arm
to drop off at dinner
or something. Ha.
A cold-water rinse
is called for, but I’d better
wait until later tonight,
when everyone’s back
in their rooms and the bathroom
offers more privacy.
Meanwhile, I change
back into my sweats,
Saturday red, same
as all the other Aspen
Springs residents. Identity
isn’t something they
encourage here.
My shirt is barely over
my head, pants still
on the bed, when the door
opens suddenly.
It’s Paul, with goodies.
His eyes immediately fall
to the V between my legs.
Sorry for barging in, but
Dr. Starr wants you to start
on the lithium nght away.
Take this, then finish getting
dressed.
Conner
Nothing’s Different
Level Three. Awesome,
movies, mall trips, maybe
a barbecue in the park—
small perks for facing up
to Mom. Holy crap. I’d
almost forgotten just what
a bitch that woman can
be, a rotten example
of humanity. Wonder
if she has any, stashed
inside. And Dad? He was
only civil to free himself
of the nagging thought
that he might somehow be
responsible for the things
I’ve done. Quite likely, Dad.
His parting remark as I
closed the door was so
Dad-like. Be sure to keep
an eye on your GPA.
Still carping about my
grades, hoping I’ll land
a scholarship so he won’t
have to worry about coping
with an Ivy League tuition.
A state university won’t
do for dear old Dad. No,
that’s a fate worse than death.
Wonder how he would have
felt if I’d done the deed
correctly. I wonder if he
or Mom would even have cried.
Another Level Three Perk
Is holidays at home, but
I don’t care about going
home for Easter or Fourth
of July. It was a rare
occasion for us to
celebrate holidays
together, and certainly
not without debate over
stupid things like turkey
or ham; fireworks in Reno,
Tahoe, or Virginia City.
Damn if I’ll miss any of that.
July. Will I still be in this
place then? Would I rather
be home, biding time in
a state of total disgrace?
Would they leave me alone
long enough to call Emily?
Would she take my call? Could
I be strong if she didn’t?
Would she even be home?
Or maybe she’s moved away
from her husband, her students,
the hound dog press. And me.
How much does everyone
at school know? Stupid question.
The best-rehearsed denials
can’t fool inquiring minds.
My first day back will be hell—
the debris of my many
failures. I wonder how
a GED affects GPA.
None of It
Has much affected my
appetite. Dinner, I hear,
is served, and I plan to eat
every carb and fat-laden bite.
Why worry about calories,
spare tires, lethargy? Living
medicated allows me
not to care. Anyway,
Level Three also affords
me the chance to exercise.
Lifting until I ache or
jogging myself into a trance
are the best ways I can
think of to forget about
the big picture. Straddling
the brink of exhaustion,
blood thumping in my ears.
Clawing air, the only thing
worth worrying about,
drawing another breath.
The very idea makes me high.
God, I sound like a bipolar
lunatic. Pack ’em on, pound
’em off. I could cry, because
either way, it doesn’t matter.
Dinner table, here I come,
salivating at the spaghetti
and meatball perfume.
Tony waves me over. Hell,
why not? We can trade tales.
Hope his are as juicy as
the ones I’ve got. Downright
messy.
Tony
Spaghetti and Meat Blobs
Not even sure about
the “meat” part,
although they kind
of taste like dog
food. Okay, like
dog food smells.
I won’t admit to
eating it, not out
loud. Surprising,
the crap you’ll eat
if you get hungry
enough. Worse crap
than this, even, and this
is pretty damn bad—
Meatball-like Crap
in a Can. Served
lukewarm over half-
cooked spaghetti.
Jeez, Conner is sure
loading up his plate.
I can’t believe anyone
would want a double
helping of this. “Hey
Conner, come here.”
He sits across from me,
grinning like Alice’s
goofball cat. What’s up?
I point to his plate. “Not
much. I just thought you
might want mine, too.”
Not sure I want this.
I was starving until I
got an up-close look.
We Decide
All the parents must
have finished their
visiting early and
gone home long before
the kitchen got busy
reinventing dog food.
I don’t know if my
parents would have
been more horri
fied
or satisfied. Conner
laughs. My mom would
probably have puked.
“We all may puke before
the evening is over. Damn,
can you see it? Marinara
and meat by-products,
splashed across stalls
and walls. Yeah, man!”
Conner wrinkles his nose.
Well, I’m gonna chance
it. My stomach is turning
cartwheels. Catharsis
makes for a healthy
appetite, I guess.
“Catharsis, eh? Sounds
like you had an interesting
day. Want to cough up
a few details?” Of
course, turnabout’s
fair play. I don’t mind.
Sure, he says, around
a big, smooshy bite.
Just give me a few
minutes to choke
down this delicious
Chef Boyar-Don’t meal.
I Knew He Had
A wicked sense
of sarcasm—Conner’s
brand of humor. Mine
too, tell the truth.
Maybe that’s why I
like the guy. No one
could be as straight-
arrow as the person
he lets the world see.
Totally plugged up.
That’s how most people
would describe him.
But there’s a kernel
there … something
worth trying to grow.
Don’t ask me what.
Might be worth trying
to figure it out.
He’s giving the rundown
on visiting day.
Dr. Starr gave me Level
Three, mostly I think
because I held my tongue
but still held my ground.
Dad, at least, tried to
pretend he gave half
a damn. Yeah, right.
Mom will always
be the total uptight
c-u-you know what.
Interesting, that he
doesn’t just say
the word. Some sort
of psychology there.
Sheesh, who’s the therapist
around here,
anyway?
Vanessa
It’s the First Time
I’ve faced this situation.
I feel violated. Raped
by Paul’s eyes. I hold out
my hand and he drops
my new salvation into my
outstretched palm, eyes
barely lifting as he says,
It will take a few weeks
to really feel the effects,
so don’t panic if your mood
swings intensify for a while.
We’ll keep you on the Prozac,
too, jsut in case.
Oh, great. Fixed and ruined
at the same time. Oh, well.
They’re the experts.
Like I really believe that.
Dinner is everyone’s favorite,
spaghetti à la Aspen Springs.
Hurry up. Wouldn’t want
to miss out, would you?
He backs away, eyes still
on a point somewhere around
three feet off the ground.
“Thanks, Paul,” I say,
turning my back to him.
Not that I’m not positive
he’s scoping out my butt
in exactly the same way.
The door closes and I rush
to slide on my pants before
he decides he’s forgotten
to tell me something.
Then I take aim
at the dining room.
I Guess You Could
Call this mess of red starch
spaghetti. Most of the girls
around me don’t seem to care,
gulping it down like chocolate.
Or maybe like something else.
Check out my face, says
Dahlia. What does it look
like I’ve been scarfing?
Her grin is ringed a messy,
wet scarlet.
You probably would,
too, answers Devon.
Personally, I’d wait
at least a week.
Gack! Disgusting. What
is it with these people?
Thank goodness they don’t
seem inclined to include
me in their sick banter.
Just to prove me wrong,
Dahlia asks loudly,
What about you, Vanessa?
You ever munch carpet?
I consider the best way
to answer such a loaded,
leading question. My usual
way of dealing with such
things is withdrawal. Tonight,
something wicked comes
over me. “Never have, dear.
Maybe because the first one
I ever saw looked so much
like yours. Scared me to death.”
The Table Busts Up
Dahlia’s face flares.
You sucking bitch.
This is kind of fan.
“No, sweetie, I just told
you I don’t lean your
direction. Of course, from
what I hear, you teeter
totter. Is that true?”
Her mouth drops and she
stares at my face, no doubt
trying to figure out just what
has come over me. Confusion
ping-pongs in her eyes.
Wh-who told you that?
This is really fun. Can
it be the lithium, despite
Paul’s prediction? I don’t
think so, so it must be
a bloom of mania. I’m a long,
long way above blue.
“Why, everyone. Don’t
you know about the room-
to-room gossip chain?
‘Trade you two mediocre
rumors for one really
good one about Dahlia.”’
She could go either way.
Perhaps thankfully, she chooses
the easy way. Ha! Who turned
you on, anyway, Vanessa?
You ’re pretty funny
once you get going.
Who knew you even
had a sense of
humor?
Conner
The Girls’ Side of the Room
Jacks up with laughter, and
it looks like lovely Vanessa
is involved. Dahlia resembles
a cobra, ready to strike,
given just a bit more
provocation. I wonder
what Vanessa said, and
what was her motivation
to poke a verbal stick
at such a reactive serpent.
Her willingness to parry
makes her even more attractive.
How fun, comments Tony.
I think we’re seeing a whole
other side of Vanessa. Who’d
have guessed she could cause a stink?
“All women have an evil
side. One minute they’ve got
their tongue down your throat,
the next they slice you wide open.”
I don’t have much experience
with the fair sex, but the ones
I have known have never given
me much trouble. I swear, they
are much better friends than men.
Of course, most men either
avoid me like the plague, or
swear their undying love.
I smile. “Don’t look at me.
Love is for children and
dimwads.” Most of me felt
that way long before Emily.
But I Am Curious
“So … have you ever slept
with a woman—tried a walk
on the ‘other side’? I mean,
have you always been gay?”
I expect him to tell me what
most gay guys say—that it’s
not a matter of choice,
that they were born that way.
But he doesn’t say anything,
not right away. His face goes
blank while he thinks about
the right way to answer.
I’ve never slept with a girl,
but I never really had
the chance. I’ve spent a lot
of time in lockup. I try
to believe that I was born
gay. But I’m not really
sure that’s true. When I was
eight, this piece-of-slime boyfriend
of my ma’s asked me to come
back into the bedroom to see
“something special.” You can
guess what he wanted to do.
The only thing I knew about
sex before that was it made my
ma scream. That day I screamed
too. Ma chose to ignore it.
Later she said it was all
my fault because I—no doubt
something genetic from my
dad’s side—was a little faggot.
Not long after, I was confined
with boys, looking to act like
men. And there were a few guards
who used us for their sex toys.
Way Too Much Information
But hey, I asked, didn’t I?
I don’t know what to say,
what to do. Instinct tells me
to reach out and touch him, but no
way. The other guys might get
the wrong impression. Tony