might get the wrong impression.
Suddenly I have a strong
urge to move to another
table. What I don’t understand
is how, despite the lurid tales
he recited, Tony seems so stable.
Hey, sorry, man. Didn’t
mean to unload. Not looking
for sympathy. Hope what I
just told you stays between
you and me. I haven’t
even owned up to all that
in therapy. Guess I’ve never
been quite stoned enough.
“No problem, bro. Who
would I tell, even if it was
important?” And it’s not.
What the hell? The best thing
about our conversation
is the realization that others
have problems as big as—or bigger
than—my own. Mine are huge. His
are insurmountable.
Tony
What Got into Me?
Like Conner needed—
or wanted—to know
any of that garbage.
Jeez, fire me up, it’s
hard to put me out.
At least he didn’t look
too put off by what
I said. Wonder what
he’d think if I confessed
the rest. I haven’t
told anyone since
I spilled to Phillip.
Conner almost gives
me no choice. So what
did you do, man?
I mean, why did they
lock you up? And how
long were you in for?
Should I go ahead
and tell him? It
might make him
freak out completely.
And I kind of like
having his company.
I’m sick of holding it
inside, sick of it escaping
my head every night when
I dream. Thank God for
Aspen Springs sleeping aids.
I don’t remember my dreams.
I decide to compromise.
“I was in for aggravated
assault on my ma’s jerk-off
boyfriend. I spent six
mother-humping years,
beating meat in juvie.”
Conner’s Sympathetic
Six years? For that?
he asks, eyes flashing
anger. The asshole
deserved it. Did you
happen to get your mom,
too? She deserved more.
“Why didn’t I think
of that?” It’s a joke.
I definitely thought
about it—I had lots
of spare time to create
great revenge fantasies.
Still, “But she got hers
anyway. It wasn’t the next
boyfriend, or the one
after, or the one after that.
But one of them nailed
her, first with his fists,
then with a hammer.
It wasn’t too long
after they let me out,
maybe a year. By
then, I’d emancipated
myself. No one missed me.”
Shit, man, you were
right. Your mom
may have been even
more screwed up
than mine. Hard to
believe that’s possible.
Maybe I will tell him
the rest after all. But
not tonight. I’ve tested
the water—calm water.
Telling the rest will be
like testing a tsunami.
Think I’ll Skip
“Recreating” tonight.
My head is too fall
of too many bad
memories. On my
way back to my
room, I find Paul,
letting spaghetti
junk clog in my
throat. I manufacture
a loogie, hawk
it into a napkin.
“Hey, dude,” I say,
“I think I’m coming
down with a cold.
Can you bring me
something for it?”
Sudafed and Halcyon
(my regular sleep helper
in this place) should
put me far beyond
the reach of nightmares.
Have to clear it first,
Paul says. Give me
a couple of minutes.
It doesn’t take long.
In fact, I doubt he
cleared it with anyone,
but who cares? He
pretended to do his
duty anyway.
I gag down a big
spoon of the sticky
red syrup, chase it
with a little white pill,
lay down on the bed,
and wait for my head
to drift.
Vanessa
TV Tonight
Was a rerun of Fear Factor.
Every juvenile space cadet
really should watch six
adult space cadets, jumping
off buildings and eating
mouse entrails. Mmmm.
Looked just like the spaghetti.
What was Carmella thinking?
She’s such a ditz, but at
least she bothers to relate,
unlike the other house
mothers—Linda, a hard
little woman of forty or so,
and Arlene, who must
be pushing seventy.
Linda is all business—yes,
no, shut the hell up—and
totally capable of a takedown.
Arlene lives in her own
oddball world, one she
dreamed up before my
parents were born.
Guess she can’t make
it on Social Security.
But working here?
She must be as crazy
as the rest of us.
I sit at the window,
staring into the darkness,
waiting for everything
to fall completely quiet
before making a bathroom
run. The inside of my
head feels like a blender,
whirling a strange
concoction of this
morning’s Prozac
and this evening’s lithium.
Enough Already
I really do need
to use the bathroom—
a likely side effect
from the blended mess
in my brain. And how
will I ever sleep tonight?
One problem at a time.
I reach under my mattress,
extract the blouse,
stained red at the elbow,
stash it under my sweats.
Then I open the door,
poke my head into
the hall. “May I go to
the bathroom, please?”
No answer. Unusual.
Someone is always
monitoring the cameras
in the corridors. I decide
to go anyway, plead
diarrhea if I’m caught.
The girls’ bathroom
is five doors down,
on the left. You have
to ask for permission
to go because once you’re
inside, they kind of have
to give you some privacy,
at least in the stalls.
I go on in, turn on the cold
water, and as I start
to rinse my sleeve,
I notice I’m
not alone.
One Stall, Four Feet
That’s what the mirror
reveals, and a volley
of shushes at the sound
of water in the sink.
One pair of feet quickly
lifts, and as I watch,
it comes to me the shoes
look awfully large
to belong to a girl.
That, and the soles
are facing out, heels up.
I make a big deal of
drying my hands, loudly
wadding the paper towels
and tossing them in the trash.
Then I go to the door, open
and shut it without exiting.
Quick! You’re squashing
me. Dahlia’s voice.
Just a minute. I’m
not finished. Paul’s.
Well, hurry up. We’re
gonna get busted.
Whoever that was
shouldn’t have been
here. She didn’t
get permission.
So what are you going
to do? Bust her?
No wonder no one
was manning the cameras.
Paul was manning Dahlia.
Ugh. I make a quick escape
before he does finish.
And only when I’m back
in my room do I remember
that I really do have to go
to the bathroom. Like, right
now.
Conner
Today We Have a Visitor
In the classroom. I get there
a few minutes before nine,
overhear her conversing with
Mr. Hidalgo, who whispers
behind the half-closed door. These
kids are the best of the worst—
bright, capable under achievers.
It’s truly bizarre
that they end up here. For
some it’s addiction, for
others, abuse. A few simply
succumb to depression.
The others arrive. We push
inside. It’s the perfect chance
to rub up against Vanessa, one
I decide to take advantage of.
Nice, how the top of her head
nests perfectly under my chin.
I want to let my hands circle
her waist, lift to her small breasts.
Something stirs, for the first
time in weeks, and it has
nothing to do with Emily—
or a taste for expert sin.
Vanessa can’t help but
react. Unusual way
to say hello, Conner.
Rather overt, in fact.
But she doesn’t pull away,
or move my hand from the curve
of her back. And both of us
understand the meaning of that.
Flushed to My Core
I walk stiffly to my seat.
Stiff, yeah, that’s it, okay.
Three rows over, Vanessa
smiles, and I wonder if
she’s feeling a little “stiff”
too. No time to think about
it now. Mr. Hidalgo clears
his throat, ready to do his thing.
We have someone special
here today. Ms. Littell is
an artist-in-residence,
and we’re going to hear
from her all about how to
write great poetry. No groans.
I’m sure you all have what it
takes to create a poem.
Ms. Littell draws herself
up real straight. Teaching
us posture, too? Or trying
to feel more in control?
She talks about herself
for ten minutes—who she is,
what she does, how well
published she is. Then she
rambles on for another
half hour about what makes
a poem good—word choice,
the power of metaphor.
Finally she instructs,
Write a poem about your
happiest memory.
Excite me with your words.
Excite Her?
Was she talking to me?
Not if she expects that to
happen over my happiest
memory, whatever that
might be. I sit, dissecting
my childhood, think about
holidays and vacations,
most of them good enough
if you measure by toys,
clothes, cool things to do, but
can things really make you
happy? I suppose some
people think so. I remember
one time spending a week
with a friend. His family
didn’t have much. Except fun.
The concept stunned me. Fun, with
his mom and dad? Fun, with
his sister? He even had fun
with his grandparents. Mine bore
me to death—the two that are
still alive, anyway. Dad’s
parents died before I was born,
left him a mint in their will.
Ms. Littell stands, hands on
hips, waiting for me to write
something. I’m sure that she’s
anticipating something else.
I put my pen to paper,
begin: My happiest memories
are sun-streaked afternoons
in the cinnamon arms of
my Emily….
Tony
What Is It
With these artsy types?
Happy memories? Excite
her with my words?
Does she have half
a clue what kind of
kids she’s dealing with?
If we were wallowing
in happy memories,
would we be here at all?
I can’t remember a single
group session dedicated
to happiness; not one
conversation about
the Magic Kingdom
called Home. Now
Nathan might believe
there’s a Magic Kingdom
in some distant galaxy,
and maybe he’s happy,
letting his mind—what
there is of it—wander
to that place. And no
doubt Justin smiles when
he goes to bed at night,
chants a mantra to his
Lord, prays for quick
deliverance. I guess
he might be happy
in his dreams, rocking
in the arms of seraphim.
But then I look at
Conner, frustrated
with his memories,
and Vanessa, who
stares at the table,
longing for her knife.
I’m Pretty Sure
She knows that Conner
and I know. What I
don’t get at all is that
no one else seems to
have noticed the way
she hides the blood.
Maybe she’ll write
her poem about how
happy it makes her
feel to ease her skin
open, drown herself
in the ebb of tide
within her veins. Damn
if that’s not poetic.
Maybe I should write
that, here on this
blank, white piece
of paper. Blank
as the slate in my
brain that is supposed
to have happy
memories etched
on its clean, shiny
surface. All I find is black.
I close my eyes, assess
my life, search for
a scene worth reliving.
The first thing that comes
to mind is the day I
got out of lockup, free
to walk wherever I chose,
talk to whoever happened
> by, without having to ask
permission. And then
it came to me that I had
only one place to go.
My Ma Picked Me Up
Apparently, like it or
not, it was a parent’s
duty to sign a kid out.
Ready to go? Ha-ha!
Stupid question. Would
you get a move on?
Apparently, she had
better things to do
than catch up with me.
You sure are scrawny.
Didn’t they feed you three
squares in that place
Apparently, she was
worried that she might
have to fatten me up.
I’m living in a new
place—a studio
Have a new man, too.
Apparently, she thought
I gave a fuck about who
she was sleeping with.
Watch out for Pete. He’s
got a temper, ’specially
when he’s drinking.
Apparently she believed
I would let another one
of her lousy boyfriends
abuse me—in whatever
ways. Wasn’t going
to happen. Not ever again.
I followed her up two
flights of stairs at a fleabag
weekly motel. Took
one look at the “studio” I
was supposed to share
with Ma and Pete. Hit
the streets.
Vanessa
Prozac, Lithium, and Conner
One, two, or all of them
have put me in a completely
happy space. Can I write
about now—this instant?
Pencil to paper, in perfect
round cursive, I begin:
Memory is a tenuous thing….
(I know, I’ve lately