“I know. I just wanted to say ‘getting it on.’ But they are touching.”
He looked again. “Hmmm,” he turned to me. “Whose turn is it to deal?”
Justin wasn’t interested, but I still was. I was amazed that for some people it is just so natural to be sexy and sexual and rebellious. I am so not able to be any of those things. God, I could have sat next to Justin for a hundred years, and I would never have gotten the nerve to even assume he would want to touch me. But there they were, having known each other only two days, and not even having an opportunity to talk or plan to hook up, and they were just groping away in the corner. Does that make me immature, or just a total feeb? When I finally become “mature” will I just know how to kiss and know when a guy likes me and know where to touch him and when?
And then I felt something. It was on my shoe. At first I thought I was kicking a table leg, which always happens with my big feet. But I wasn’t moving my foot, and something was moving against my shoe. First the front rubber part was tapped, and then there was definite friction along the side of the shoe. And then I felt a pant leg against my pant leg (or is it pants leg? Oh, who cares at this point!). We were still in the middle of a card game, but I knew who it was. The shoe being rubbed was my left shoe, and on my left sat Justin. The movement, the touching, was so slow that I didn’t think anyone else noticed. I began to move my leg farther out and farther left, so he knew I was reciprocating. Slowly, slowly he crossed his foot over mine, and our legs locked. We would never have gotten away with holding hands at Lake Shit, so there we were, holding legs. Matt O. won the game. “Man, you guys bit that game!” And then, “Holy shit!” We all turned to see what he saw. Callie and Troy were seriously making out, with Phil just chuckling and watching. In two seconds, Eugene yanked Troy off of Callie and dragged him into the hallway. Quickly, Justin and I unhooked our legs. Bettina yelled, “Free Time’s over. Go back to your rooms. Callie, come with me.” Somberly we all walked back to our rooms. I wanted to grab Justin’s pinky like he did to me once, to let him know how much I enjoyed being with him, but I was afraid if I did, someone would see and they would separate us like Callie and Troy. I wonder if I’ll ever get to touch Justin the way Callie and Troy touched each other. God. I wonder if I’ll ever be allowed to touch anyone ever again.
AFTER RELAXATION
Tonight was hilariously unrelaxing. I placed my pillow gently, ever so gently, on the floor. The music of choice for the evening was the smooth sound of Michael Bolton. Nast.
There we were, pretending to be relaxed, while all I could think about was the hair on Justin’s face and the feeling of his pant leg. Sandy was next to me, with Morgan, of course. Tanya was there, and Callie and Abby. It was a regular girls’ slumber party, without the actual slumbering or even the hint of a party. The music was blaring away, “Bwa-wa-wa.” Groan. Then someone in the room played a horn of their own. Tooooot! If you know what I mean. And if you don’t—someone farted.
Callie sat up quickly and was like, “What? You guys say anything, and I’ll kick your ass!” It was so funny that we were rolling on the floor laughing. Even Flora was laughing hysterically. I wonder how Troy will feel when he learns his woman can’t control her gas.
Day 14
Thursday, Day 14
AFTER BREAKFAST
Weird. You know how Callie said not to tell anyone about her unexpected expellation yesterday? I don’t know who told, but all of the boys were giggling about it at breakfast. Callie didn’t eat anything, and Troy tried to console her. “It’s OK, baby, it’s OK,” like some tragedy happened. This was the proof to what I have already told you: No one forgets a farter. What’s so wondrously wonderful is that the farter wasn’t me. At least not this time …
In other news, Troy reported that this morning, instead of his newly reformed praying to God, Lawrence was back to praying to Satan. “That God shit wasn’t working for him. I mean, Abby wasn’t going for it, so he gave up on it. So it’s all your fault, Abby, if he kills me in my sleep.”
“Huh? What? Nuh-uh,” was all Abby managed to spit out, along with some sprays of Cocoa Puffs.
“Hey, Abby,” Phil asked, “how come you haven’t had a seizure since you’ve been here? I want to see you talk like the devil!”
“Shut up, Phil. I don’t choose when I have a seizure. It just, like, happens.”
“Well, just let me know if you think you’re gonna have one so I can come watch.”
Nice. I really hope she never has a seizure when I’m around. I’ve never seen anyone have a seizure. I wouldn’t know what to do. They haven’t prepared us here either. Even if they did and Abby has a seizure, and I’m expected to help her, what if I can’t? To tell you the truth, remember when we were both signed up for a CPR course last summer? And I called you and told you I had diarrhea and couldn’t go? The truth is that I chickened out. I was afraid that if I learned how to do CPR and then I was in a situation where I was expected to use it, I would screw it up and make a person die. I know—totally irrational, since trying would be better than not trying and knowing would be better than not knowing. But it’s someone else’s life, you know? Back to Abby—I just hope that someone in this hospital is actually trained in medicine and not just on how to prevent kids from touching each other.
It would be kind of weird if Abby doesn’t have one of her seizures while she’s here. My panic attacks (knock on wood, as my mom always says) have almost stopped completely. Colby hasn’t heard any voices lately (as far as I know), and Abby … Could the medications they have us on be working? Or has being taken out of our normal life context changed us completely? What happens when we go back?
AFTER SCHOOL (SPECIAL!)
School was so lovey-dovey today. The “teacher” let Justin show me some of the blueprints he drew for an architecture class he has at real school. We sat next to each other on a bench, our jean-covered thighs touching. He leaned over numerous times to point things out, and every time he did I inhaled him. I think I was giving off some sort of hormonal force field, because the teacher told me it was time to go back to my own desk.
It’s times like those when I just want to scream my head off to some really loud music. Punk. Cheesy ’80s metal. I’d even blast The Doors. I need to get out all of this pent-up … aggression? Tension? Lust? I’m going crazy! I mean, I have obviously liked guys before (see: The Erik Johnson Debacle), but nothing was ever tangible (in the abstract sense, of course). The actuality of it all is so intense! I can’t get close to Justin anymore. I want us to touch so badly. My desire is so overwhelming I’m sure people can see it emanating from my body. Why oh why can’t we have music here to help relieve the pressure? Why can’t I sing when I want to? I must get it out or I will explode!
MINUTES LATER …
I have a plan. I’m going to get myself into the Quiet Room. If I get myself into the Quiet Room then I can sing anything I want as loudly as I want to. With the floor so small and the walls so thin, it’s just known and accepted that if you go into the Quiet Room you turn into a wild, raging performer for the whole floor. That’s what I have to do. But how will I get in?
AFTER LUNCH
Some regular Quiet Room customers are acting as my advisors on my new plan. Matt O. suggested running down the halls naked. He figured that’d be good for at least a couple of hours in the QR, but I figured he just wanted to see a naked girl (especially after being locked up for six months. I wonder if he’s seen a naked girl before?). Troy suggested I hit Abby over the head with a chair, but I thought that might cause me to be confined to a desk in the hall again. Not to mention I’ve never hit anyone in the head with a chair. Or without a chair. Oy.
“I don’t want to actually get in trouble,” I said. “I just want to go to the Quiet Room.”
“What’s so bad about getting in trouble?” Troy asked.
I couldn’t tell him the real reasons I didn’t want to get in trouble. It’s embarrassing to tell a group of kids who hit people and escap
e from boarding school that I’ve never gotten in trouble a day in my life, and I’m too afraid to start now. So I said, “I don’t want to have to eat lunch in my room or in the hall. They never bring up the good food.” Which was sort of true, although the real reason I didn’t want to miss meals was because then I’d also be missing Justin.
“What about asking?” That was Justin’s suggestion. “Maybe they’d let you go in if you asked.”
Hmmm. Beautiful and brilliant. I think I’ll try it.
AFTER GROUP
Group gets more and more useless the longer I am here. We never really talk about our families or our problems from home. It’s always about some issue we’re having at Lake Shit, like Eugene explaining why the No Touching rule is so important now that there has been a “breach,” as he called it. In order to get points, we’re supposed to say how the incident with Callie and Troy made us feel. But it’s not like we could tell the truth and get any points. There was no way that if I said, “Seeing Callie and Troy made me kind of jealous and made me want to do the exact same thing with Justin, and I think the rule sucks,” that I would’ve gotten any points. I don’t know how anyone around here gets enough points to make it to Level III. Except for Matt O. Did I tell you he is now a permanent Level III? Somehow his “doctor” decided that he needed more positive reinforcement, so every week he is the only Level III and gets to have a Friday night pizza party all by himself. If I could make it to Level III, I’d get a pizza party and a field trip. Matt O. only gets a field trip if there is another Level III to go with him. Pizza. Man, I miss pizza almost as much as I miss music. And a field trip? Actually leaving the building? I wonder if I would burn up from the contact with the sun.
The other discussion during Group today was that there have been a number of incidents lately that created a “violent air” to the floor. According to Eugene—and he looked right at Lawrence—“This needs to stop.” Lawrence is such a total freak that he smiled a big, dark grin at Eugene. His gums showed, and I want to say they looked like my old German shepherd’s gums, all black and slimy. I might be making that up, though.
FREE TIME
Free Time kind of sucked tonight. It was Sean’s turn to choose TV stations [why is it always his turn?], and he put on Full House again. I don’t get it: Is there a Full House channel that only mental hospitals subscribe to? Who else would? Phil/Shaggy watched the show and salivated at the Olsen twins because, as he put it, “They are hot as hell now!” Um, maybe, but you’re drooling over a pair of seven-year-olds at the moment. He should be locked up. Oh, wait—he is!
Because of the Callie and Troy incident, we were only allowed to socialize near members of the same sex. It was kind of funny because the rule only said “near,” not “with,” so Sandy, Matt O., Justin, and I attempted to play Hearts sitting across the room from each other. That didn’t work, so Matt O. suggested, “Why don’t we play catch with the doll.”
“It’s not a doll,” Sandy smirked. “It’s my baaaaaby.” She sang the word “baby” in a cutesy voice and cuddled Morgan.
We decided to give up and watch the crap on TV.
About twenty minutes into Free Time, Bettina came into the Day Room. “Sandy? Sandy and Morgan?” Sandy raised her hand and called out, “Here.” Bettina spoke as if she were reading the lines off of a teleprompter, “Morgan is crying very loudly and is interrupting everyone else’s Free Time. Please take her back to your room so she does not disrupt Free Time.” Robotically, Bettina left.
“At least you don’t have to watch the rest of Full House,” I said and shrugged. Sandy walked out of Free Time in misery, leaving me with the Olsen twins.
BEDTIME
I’m a little saddened by Sandy these days. She doesn’t seem at all interested in taking care of Morgan. She used to tuck her into her bed at night, and whenever she did her homework Morgan sat next to her on her desk. Now she just puts Morgan on one of the shelves in the closet and closes the door whenever we’re in our room. I asked her about it tonight.
“How come you don’t hold Morgan anymore? What are you going to do when you have a real baby? I think you’d get arrested if you kept it in the closet.” I was trying to be lighthearted.
“I don’t know,” she said, not looking at me. “I don’t know what to do,” and then she looked up at me, eyes all scared and trembly and wet.
I didn’t know what to do either. This was so out of my reality, like from a TV show. Sex, pregnancy, plastic babies—isn’t there supposed to be some doctor helping her through this? What if I say something wrong and she hates me for it? Or what if she listens to me and does something she regrets for the rest of her life, and it’s all my fault?
I opened the closet door and held Morgan. “I can watch her for a little while, if you want.”
“OK, thanks.”
I looked into Morgan’s fake dull eyes, laid down on top of my bedspread with Morgan on my chest, and pretended to read The Crucible.
Day 15
Friday, Day 15
AFTER BREAKFAST
I talked again at breakfast about the Quiet Room. Justin still thought I should just ask them to go in. “The worst they can say is ‘no.’” I’ve heard that saying before, but it never sounded as profound as when Justin said it. Justin. What the hell is going on with Justin and me? I feel like I’ll never know. I mean, we’re not allowed to touch and have relationships, and if either of us ever gets out of here someday (will we?), then what? It’s not like we go to the same school or live in the same town. God. For all I know he doesn’t even like me, and I’m just delusional from being locked up for two weeks. I wish there were some international sign of liking. Like, I like you, so I will now wave the symbolic flag of likehood. And let’s just say Justin does like me. Does he like me because I’m the only girl (out of five) who is somewhat his type, and as long as we’re locked up he’ll take what he can get? But then he gets out of Lake Shit, goes home, gets a tall, skinny, big-boobed, blond girlfriend and forgets about me. It sounds like my odds are better off in a loony bin.
AFTER GROUP
Whoa, was I on a rampage today. First I bitched about boys and men and how women are expected to be a certain way, but we all can’t possibly be that way so what the fuck?
“What happens if I never get thin and tall and perky? Does that mean that I am wrong? That I can never be correct unless I am that way? That absurd, gross, hard, angular way that all women are in the movies and TV?”
Victor piped up. “Hell no. I don’t want some bony-ass bitch. Give me some soft, squishy goodness anytime.” Why is it that the only guy I ever heard say he likes a chunky girl is locked up in a mental hospital? Maybe some of those guys who put anorexic freaks all over TV and magazines need to be locked up. And so do the anorexic freaks. Force-feed them a few Tater Tots and some Cap’n Crunch. I am so sick of feeling like shit just because I don’t look like them.
That rant went on for almost the entire Group. I actually garnered some applause at the end from Abby, Victor, and Matt O. It’s nice to know that some people agree with me about the unrealistic expectations thrust upon women’s bodies, but it doesn’t help me in knowing how Justin feels. And I’m still assless.
THE AFTER-LUNCH NEWS
Well, well, it seems our satanic troubles are finally over (some of them, at least). Lawrence has left the building. Actually, he’s leaving this afternoon. According to Troy, “His parents want him to come home and help take care of his brothers and sisters.” Can you imagine that freak taking care of little kids? I’m having trouble picturing him even having parents. I wish I could be there when they pick him up. His dad’s probably eight feet tall with horns coming out of his head, and his mom’s really skinny in a red leather bodysuit with a tail hanging off the back. It would be hilarious, though, if his mom is just a suburban soccer mom in a pastel suit and his dad is a businessman with slicked-back hair.
It should be interesting to see how he says goodbye to us. When people leave here, they can eith
er say goodbye in Group and Community, or write letters to people they want to say goodbye to. Hmmm … I have a feeling he’ll choose letters so he doesn’t have to deal with anyone. Eeew. What if he writes them in blood?
AFTER SCHOOL
I have been dissed! Double-dissed, in fact!
Diss #1: I asked Bettina really nicely if I could please have some time in the Quiet Room.
“What for?”
“I just want to go in there for a little while … you know … to be alone?” I felt totally retarded asking her, and I know I sounded all wimpy and suspicious.
“You gotta do something wrong to go into the Quiet Room, honey.”
“Are you sure you couldn’t just make an exception? I mean, I really need to go in there. Just for, like, ten minutes would be OK.”
“Uh-uh,” she said and walked away. Why am I such a goody-goody?
Diss #2: Lawrence did not leave me a goodbye note! Whatever! I was in his Group and put up with all of his faux evil bullshit, so what gives? And of course guess who got a note—Abby! I mean, the girl totally ignored his God-fearing advances, and he still cares enough to write her a note? I haven’t seen the note yet, but Abby said she’d leave it in the bathroom for me to read. She said I should be glad to have not gotten a note from such a crazy freak, but at least it would have been something. I haven’t even gotten one piece of mail since I got here. Doesn’t anyone give a shit about me? I guess I shouldn’t talk, since technically I haven’t sent any of these letters to you. Yet. They are piling up on my desk, smearing a little because of the pencil. I don’t have any envelopes or stamps, and I kind of like to see what I wrote about each day. It reminds me of how different things have gotten. I promise to give them to you when I get home, as long as the pencil hasn’t smeared too much.