Impulse

  Vanessa? Dr. Boston’s

  voice swims down through

  the blue, disturbs me enough

  to set my feet in motion.

  The eyes follow me as I sit

  beside the guy with the most

  startling eyes of all—

  round, dark eyes, with

  gold flecks. Eyes that look

  like they’ve glimpsed

  behind the gates of hell.

  So Why Are His Eyes

  The only ones mine want to meet?

  I can feel the girls, taking

  measure, and part of me

  wants to turn and offer my own

  assessment. The bigger

  part is consumed by blue.

  Hey, Vanessa, I’m Tony,

  says the guy with hellfire

  eyes. I would have expected

  a deeper voice from someone

  who has shaken hands

  with the devil.

  And why do I think that?

  He seems friendly enough. In fact,

  he’s the only one in the room

  who bothers with introductions.

  The others sit, staring,

  in impassioned silence.

  Tony glances around the room.

  What’s up, people?

  Usually you won’t shut up.

  Now you’ve got nothing to say

  just because a pretty girl

  walks through the door?

  Well, that woke them up!

  Everyone looks simply

  stunned, including Dr. Boston.

  Is it because I’m anything

  but pretty? Or a less likely reason?

  The guy with dishrag

  hair finally opens

  his mouth. I thought you

  only thought dudes were

  pretty, Ceccarelli.

  The room explodes

  with laughter. I guess

  the session has officially begun.

  Forty-five Minutes Later

  I know a lot more about most

  of the people in C-3.

  Tony is pretty cool, for a gay

  guy who tried to commit suicide.

  He didn’t really talk about why,

  only said that it’s not easy

  being queer and living on the street.

  “Queer.” His word. To me

  it means strange, but he doesn’t

  seem near as strange as Justin,

  who expects Armageddon any second,

  or Todd, who lost a few too

  many brain cells to crystal meth,

  or Stanley, who’s a total lunatic.

  I mean, he spoke at length

  about torturing insects—

  I tattered their wings and tore

  off their legs, joint by joint,

  watched them crawl

  in circles, like little lost

  infants, until they decided to die.

  Somehow, I doubt bugs

  were his only victims.

  Dahlia hasn’t said one word,

  just sits there with her nose

  in the air. Every once in awhile,

  she licks her lips, like a lioness

  lording it over prey.

  Finally, Lori begins to talk

  about the pain that forces

  her down into a figurative

  grave—deep, damp, just her size.

  It’s hard to climb out sometimes.

  I try to look inside her

  head, see if the color in

  there is navy blue, like

  the space I’m treading

  now.

  Conner

  Brain Poked and Prodded

  But still holding secrets,

  I glance over at Dr. Starr,

  who’s locked in a computer

  screen trance, typing words—

  my thoughts, her analysis—

  at a steady thirty-per-

  minute pace. I tingle,

  heady with a synthesis

  of emotions. I feel

  satisfied, that I didn’t break

  down, didn’t confess major

  sin, open my mouth too wide.

  I feel lonely, displaced, yet

  secure within the silence

  curtaining each cubicle.

  This is a detour, that’s all.

  I feel relieved to have to

  admit a little of what’s

  inside my head. Sometimes

  I think it might split wide,

  cracked by the upheaval

  bubbling beneath my skull.

  But most people think there’s

  nothing troubling me at all.

  At least they didn’t used to.

  Who knows what they think

  of me now, which way the wind

  of small-town gossip blows.

  Finally Dr. Starr looks up.

  We’ve got a lot of work to do.

  Conner. A lot of work, indeed.

  But not today. You may go.

  Dismissed by the Bulldog

  Stephanie guides my way

  along the blue line. She

  could pass for a Stephan, tall,

  broad, and strong, but her eyes

  tell a different story.

  I discern a softness there,

  compassion I want to wade

  into. We turn a corner

  and the blue line merges

  with a thread of yellow,

  another of white. I wonder

  where all the crazies have fled,

  and just then I hear voices,

  leaking out of the rec room.

  Two are shouting, one merely

  speaking, trying to keep

  a handle on the unfolding

  situation—from what I

  can tell, the probable

  annihilation of one

  of the dueling duo. Stephanie

  shifts into takedown mode.

  Wait right here, she commands.

  It’s a mistake to leave me

  alone, and we both know it.

  I choose not to play the wild

  card she’s dealt me. One day

  I’ll use it to my advantage.

  A woman like that will work

  like clay—soften her up, touch

  her just right, the sculptor

  is guaranteed to have his way.

  Back in My Room

  Walled in by this impossibly

  ugly shade of green, I wait for

  my evening meal, no doubt

  delayed by the incident

  in the rec room. Will I

  ever get used to living

  with paranoid mutants who

  endeavor to win games

  of pool by swallowing

  the chalk? Between that, no

  food, and Dr. S wanting me

  to talk, all in all, it’s been a

  miserable day, almost

  as rotten as those leading

  up to that one, the one

  best left forgotten unless

  I want to drop down again

  into a pit of despair. God

  knows I’ve spent much too

  much time floundering there.

  I suppose I could have

  shared that information

  with dear Dr. Bulldog.

  But no, I spared us both

  a sordid tale of Conner

  the incompetent. Hard

  to believe that perfect me

  underwent such complete

  demolition in the space

  of four short months. First-

  string to benchwarmer, grades

  through the floor, and all because

  of her.

  Tony

  I Keep Watching

  Pretty Vanessa as the group

  tries to freak her out, whether

  that’s spilling spine-chilling

  tales or clamming up altogether.

  Nothing real
ly fazes her,

  except maybe Stanley’s bullshit.

  The longer we sit here,

  the further she withdraws,

  like a turtle holing up

  in its shell, expecting

  a major rollover. I want

  to reach under and yank her

  back out again. “How

  about you, Vanessa?” I ask.

  “What brings you to our

  home away from home?

  Are you really fucked-up or

  just totally misunderstood?”

  Everyone laughs. It’s an

  inside joke, one we’re all

  privy to, except Vanessa,

  whose brown velvet

  eyes stay hitched to the

  tabletop. Not good enough.

  “’Cause personally, I’m both

  fucked-up and misunderstood.

  Can’t somebody get me,

  please?” This time, even

  the Black Widow laughs.

  Finally Vanessa lifts her eyes

  and she gifts us with a smile.

  Then she shows us the arm

  she’s been hiding, the one

  wrapped in white like a

  ball-game hot dog. She smiles.

  I guess this is why I’m here.

  One Cut or More?

  That’s the first thought

  to grab hold of my brain

  and give it a rattle. Was

  this charming little thing

  into self-mutilation, or

  shopping for a coffin?

  Before I can open my

  mouth to ask, Stanley

  slobbers, Hey, cool.

  Tell us about the blood.

  Did it make a big puddle?

  Did it spurt or just dribble?

  Dr. Boston clears her throat.

  I think we’re finished for today.

  Odd. You’d think she’d want

  to jump all over that bit

  of psychology. Then I notice

  her face has drained, white.

  Hmmm. Something about

  blood? Have to file that

  away for another day.

  Good ol’ Stanley has caused

  quite the commotion.

  And now, as he walks out

  the door, he adds, I still want

  to hear about the blood.

  Which makes Todd grin

  and Justin start praying.

  Lori and Dahlia lean their

  heads together and whisper.

  Vanessa falls to the back

  of the pack, and though

  I know I should have no

  contact, I touch her arm.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. And she

  turns. It’s okay. Not your fault.

  The Grim Reapers

  Appear in the hall. Dr.

  Boston must have buzzed

  them, afraid of—of what?

  We’re all behaving

  quite peaceably, though

  a part of me would like

  to rip Stanley to pieces.

  Join the club, he’d tell me.

  Paul and Stephanie divide

  us according to gender

  and herd us up the hall.

  At the far end, the girls

  turn left and we go right,

  with me bringing up

  the rear of the pack.

  Move it, Ceccarelli, urges

  Paul. You walk like an

  old woman…. His unfinished

  thought hangs in the air:

  or maybe a young woman.

  I wonder if I’m his

  kind of woman…. Never

  know about these big

  mooks. “Gym-dandies,”

  I call ’em. Before he got

  sick, Phillip was a big

  guy, at least that’s what

  he told me. And I believed

  him. Phillip was the one

  person who never lied to me.

  I glance back over my

  shoulder at Vanessa’s

  retreating behind. Damn,

  she’s something special.

  But why do I think so?

  Why would I care in

  the least?

  Vanessa

  Brain Swimming

  In swirls of blue, I follow

  the other girls up the corridor.

  I feel eyes on my back

  and turn to find Tony,

  staring at me. He waves

  and I half-wave back, unsure

  of his motivation.

  Can’t be lust. Friendship?

  Daddy would die

  if he thought

  I’d made friends

  with a gay guy.

  Once he told me,

  God had a plan,

  and it didn’t include

  wangs in bung holes.

  Gross, I know, but it’s

  how they talk in the military,

  just another way of cutting

  themselves off from the truth

  of what they do.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  It’s tough, being

  a hostile presence

  in a more hostile land,

  he said one time.

  You do what ya gotta

  do to stay alive. And

  you trust your instinct.

  Aspen Springs is a hostile

  land, the people here crazier

  than most soldiers

  I know. And at the moment,

  my instincts are shouting

  to do what I gotta do

  just to get by.

  Drowning in Blue

  Pulled deeper and deeper

  into the void,

  I dig down

  into my pocket,

  find the capsule I stashed,

  first beneath a flap of tongue,

  then in a cave of fleece.

  I hold it like a jewel,

  the key to some magic

  kingdom where only good

  feelings are allowed.

  Funny, but sometimes all I feel

  is good. More than good.

  Great. Invincible.

  When Mama felt like that,

  Daddy called her manic.

  But why is mania bad,

  if it means you’re on top

  of the world, where

  everything is white? Bright.

  I wish I were up there now,

  instead of treading water

  in this damn blue hole.

  This magic pill won’t fly

  me there. It will only take

  me halfway, to what others

  call normal and I call gray—

  toeing a straight gray line

  is all medication is good for.

  Bad genes have doomed me

  to seesaw, white to blue

  and back again,

  for the rest of my pitiful life.

  And the thought of that

  makes me want

  to open a vein,

  experience pain,

  know I’m alive, despite

  this living death.

  I Swallow the Capsule

  Wait for the flood of silver

  to gush through my bloodstream,

  settle in my brain.

  Outside, darkness comes

  to rest upon the snow, shadows

  the ordinary world.

  Why can’t I live, ordinary?

  Which brings me back to my mother,

  who gifted me with this odd

  disorder—up, down, right, left,

  never a straight line, until

  I got here, to this house of control,

  where they believe they can

  tell you how to think,

  how to manage the feelings

  that never quite go away.

  The funny thing is, they still

  haven’t diagnosed

  my manic-depressive playground.


  Oh yes, I know all about

  the disorder. It’s everywhere

  on the Internet—clinical

  studies, message boards,

  bipolar chat rooms.

  Yet these so-called health-

  care professionals can’t

  see past the cutting,

  to the highs and lows

  that invite such release.

  I guess I’m supposed

  to tell them—isn’t that

  what therapy’s all about?

  But it’s a lot more fun

  watching them flounder

  about, halfway trying

  to earn their annual

  60K.

  Conner

  I Haven’t Let Myself

  Think about her since this

  whole stinking mess began.

  Emily. The name suggests

  she has a soul, but where

  she hides it is a complete

  mystery. I can’t believe

  I fell so hard for someone

  with a heart of lead. Emily.

  Her smile is like summer

  moonlight—beautiful

  and magical, with a fire

  that could melt the night.

  I flop on the bed, close my

  eyes, try to conjure her

  beside me—the scent of her

  skin, the silk of her thighs,

  the breathless melody

  of her voice. I would be

  with her now, if she had

  allowed me that choice.

  But no, she had to worry,

  not about right or wrong,

  but about how people

  might talk. What would they say,

  she asked, more than once, if

  they knew? I wasn’t sure

  exactly who “they” were,

  but it was certainly true

  that nasty tongues would gossip.