Get Well Soon

  TRANSCRIPTION OF LAWRENCE’S EXIT NOTE TO ABBY (TRANSCRIPTION DONE DURING STUDY TIME BY YOURS TRULY)

  To My DEAR Abby,

  Although you WERE not willing to join ME on my life’s path, I want you to know that I am OK. I know my Lord Satan has PLANS for the two of us that will be revealed someday. You will COME AROUND. SEE you soon.

  Luv,

  LAWRENCE

  Hee-hee. He signed the letter “luv.” That’s so hilarious and absurd. I guess I’m glad that he didn’t write me a letter because in the back of my mind I would always be wondering how and where he would “see me soon.”

  AFTER FREE TIME

  It’s another second Friday night without a pizza party, since there were no Level IIIs (except for the poseur Level III that is Matt O.). It would be so cool if they told me I was Level III this Sunday (when they announce each week’s levels) because then I’d get to enjoy the magical goodness that is pizza. Not to mention that if I were a Level III and no one else was, I would have complete control over the stereo and TV. No more Full House Channel! No more classic rock (except for The Doors, of course)!

  Why am I in such a good mood, you ask? (Go ahead, ask me.) Justin and I had a wondrous conversation tonight. It turns out that Matt O., Justin’s roommate, told him all about my rant in Group today.

  “Matt told me what you said in Group today.” Justin looked at me through his bangs while he, Matt O., Sandy, and I sat around a table playing Hearts. The proximity ban had ended for everyone except Troy and Callie.

  “Oh yeah? Which part?” I was afraid that maybe I accidentally said something in Group about Justin and how he could never like someone like me, etc. I hoped I only thought that.

  “About how women have all sorts of unrealistic expectations about their bodies,” Justin continued. “Matt and I were talking about how we totally agree with you. It sucks. I mean, look.” Justin pointed to the TV, where some Victoria’s Secret whores writhed their greasy bodies across the screen. “How’s anybody supposed to compare to that?”

  “Why is anybody supposed to compare to that?” I asked desperately.

  “Nobody really is. It’s an ‘ideal’ the media set for everyone.”

  “So you’re saying that perfect fake bodies are ideal?”

  “No, of course not. It’s all just to sell more products. For instance, in Health class, in real school,” Justin explained, “we learned all about how advertisers put subliminal messages in commercials.”

  “There’s nothing subliminal about half-naked sluts on TV! I think that’s pretty, um, liminal.” I was angry and disappointed, but I was losing steam. I felt resigned to the fact that all guys, no matter how wonderful they may seem, are always going to be skank-lovers.

  “No, I mean like in ads for alcohol, they show a glass with ice, and one of the cubes is in the shape of a naked woman. It’s not something you notice unless you’re looking for it, but your brain picks up on it and makes you think the drink is sexy or something.”

  “But now we’re just back to what makes a naked woman sexy. Women are supposed to drink—”

  Justin cut me off. “Anna, I’m not arguing with you. I’m agreeing with you. The media sucks. Unrealistic bodies suck. Big, floating breasts suck. At least, I think they do.”

  “I don’t know if I agree with you on that one, buddy,” Matt O. piped in. “I’d settle for one small, deflated breast at this point. When you’ve got nothing to compare them to, they all look good.”

  “Charming,” I said to Matt O. To Justin, “I bet you say all that, but every girlfriend you’ve ever had has been skinny and perfect.” I couldn’t help myself.

  “Every girlfriend? I’ve only had one, and she was short, and … Matt, what’s that word you used the other night?”

  “Juicy,” he answered.

  “Yeah. She was juicy.”

  And then Free Time was over. Do you know what this means? It means that not only is Justin capable of being attracted to non-skinny girls (the thought of him and an ex makes me gag just a little), but he and Matt O. talked about someone together and used the word “juicy.” As you and I know, Matt O. told me I was juicy. Could that mean that there could actually have been a dialog between Matt O. and Justin, O Boy of My Dreams, which contained both my name and the word “juicy?” I think I am going to wet myself.

  Day 16

  Saturday, Day 16

  IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORN

  On weekends they let us sleep in (ooh! 8:30!), but since we go to bed so early and I barely expend any energy in this place, I’m wide awake at 6:30.

  Sometimes I just look at the walls in this room and feel like crap. I feel sad that I can’t have my posters and magazine clippings and the rest of the junk in my bedroom at home. I feel sad that I have no choice but to lie on this bed (on top of the covers, of course) and stay in this room until I’m told to leave. But I also feel sad that I am kind of happy and comfortable here. I have friends, a nice roommate, and a gorgeous boy who possibly likes me, stuff planned for me to do every day so I don’t even have to think, no parents making me feel like I’m their crazy little disappointment. I’m sad that I may have to leave someday. What if my life can’t be this normal in the real world?

  BREAKFAST

  This morning Bobby and Phil/Shaggy played a game to see how many times they could go back to the lunch counter for a new box of cereal without getting caught. Phil only managed three boxes before the lunch lady (breakfast lady?) told him he’d had enough. If he hadn’t been snickering like a hyena and overexaggerated his sneaking, he probably would’ve managed at least one more box. Plus, I have a feeling that his choice of muesli (“It keeps me regular,” he insisted) was what gave him away. Usually only the old people eat the muesli, and Phil was depleting their source. Bobby stuck to a more juvenile cereal, Apple Jacks, and managed to scam five boxes by way of his youthful charm. “I’m a growing boy,” he pleaded to the lunch lady as she made him sit down. True loony bin excitement.

  “I talked to my parents last night, and they said I get to go home soon,” Bobby told us between slurps of his cereal. “They’re going to let me go to Step.”

  “What’s Step?” I asked.

  “It’s a school for kids with BD.”

  “What’s BD?” Everyone looked at me like I was an idiot for asking this.

  “Behavior disorders, duh.” Oh yeah. “That way I won’t be the only one who can’t sit still. And the teachers won’t get so mad at me. I hope.”

  I hoped so, too. Poor little growing boy.

  ROTATION

  This weekend we attended something new called “Rotation,” where we sat opposite a person, talked to them for three minutes, and then switched. It seemed oddly social for this place, not to mention a lot like that speed dating I’ve seen on TV. The worst part about it was that I was forced to have three-minute conversations with people I don’t normally enjoy talking with. Picture me sitting with Tanya for three minutes, asking her questions like, “How do you like being Abby’s roommate?” and “What did you think of that breakfast game?” and Tanya just sitting there looking at her nails. She didn’t say a single word to me. How rude! (Oh GOD! Did I pick that line up from Full House? Is that crappy show working its way into my subconscious? Soon I’ll be saying, “You got it, dude” and thinking Uncle Jesse’s mullet is cool!)

  I was also forced to sit with Phil/Shaggy for three minutes, which felt like a perved-out eternity. He kept asking me questions like, “So, do you have a boyfriend? Why not? What would you do with him if you did?” I tried to change the focus and asked Phil questions about home and school. “I don’t remember,” was the only answer he gave. Then he went on to ask what size bra I wore.

  The good—no, great—no, wonderful!—part of Rotation was that I got to talk a whole three minutes with Justin. That was the first time we ever really got to talk without anyone else being in the conversation or monitoring us.

  When we sat down, we were both silent for a few seconds.
Then we started talking at once, stopped, started, stopped, and then both said, “You go first,” and laughed. Finally I said, “I’ll go first.” I wanted to make sure we were kosher (I have always heard that word used to mean “OK,” but I have never used it myself unless referring to hot dogs). It wasn’t often that I opened myself up and shared my feminist views. Can I still be considered a feminist if I’m sucked into the body image bullshit? I have often wondered if the only people who can defend women’s bodies are beautiful, thin, perfect women. My fear is that I’ll talk about the unrealistic standards for women, and when I’m done some asshole will blurt out, “You’re only saying that because you’re fat and no one likes you.” I said to Justin, “I hope I didn’t freak you out yesterday with my diatribe.”

  “You didn’t. Don’t worry. I wasn’t lying when I said I agreed with you. Not everyone watches those people on TV and thinks they’re hot. How can I when they look so fake?” His hands were on his knees, which bounced up and down as he emphasized his ever-intriguing point. “Like, they’re making all of these pouty faces and they’re groping walls. Why am I supposed to think that’s sexy again? Plus, not to be graphic, but the whole idea of touching a fake breast makes me think of squeezing a big ball of tapioca. And tapioca grosses me out.”

  “Ohmigod! Me, too!” I blurted. “That bubble tea they sell now? That’s so sick! It looks like little fish eggs or balls of fat.”

  He laughed. I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea that a guy could see past the long legs and cleavage to an actual person. Not to mention how gorgeous he looked as he talked about it.

  “You know what else I hate?”

  “Enlighten me,” he said with a sly smile.

  “I hate that face that all models and actresses make in photographs where their mouths are closed and not smiling, but you can just see their two front teeth. What’s that about? It’s so unnatural. I’ve tried doing it in the mirror, but it’s hard. Maybe that’s how you become famous. There’s a test where they make you do all of these stupid poses and say stupid things, and the very last piece is where they take your picture, and if you can make the front tooth non-smile pose then you’re in.”

  Justin laughed, and we both tried to make the face for the remaining twenty seconds of our time. When someone yelled “Switch!” Justin broke into a full, toothy smile, lifted his right hand, and gave a small wave. “’Bye.”

  Shit. That would have been the perfect time to ask him about his hand.

  STUDY TIME

  Ugh. The Crucible. There has been no improvement to this tale of blandness. How could everyone in Salem be that utterly re-tardo? And the girls, excuse me, the “witches,” are so lame. I wish they’d turn all The Craft and start doing evil things to the townsfolk who’d done them wrong. Or at least they could go Charmed and dress like skank-ho witches.

  Tired of reading, I looked out the window with Sandy. The pastel getaway cars were still there. How could someone leave such funky cars in such a yucky parking lot? If I had either of them, I’d want to be seen in it driving around the city. Maybe whoever they belong to has a bunch more cars, even cooler than those, and felt like they didn’t need the pink and blue ones around. Or maybe pastel cars are just too much trouble. Maybe it was easier for whoever owned them to just leave them in a parking lot across the street from us.

  AFTERNOON

  Who the hell is running this freak stand? Today our afternoon movie was the “classic” ’80s flick The Boy Who Could Fly. Do you know this movie? You should, since they rerun it on UPN just about every Sunday. If not, here’s a refresher: A mentally challenged boy (played by some guy named Jay Underwood, but whom I prefer to call Jay Underwear) lives next door to this boring girl. The boring girl has a brother and a mother, but no father because he killed himself when he found out he had cancer. The mentally challenged boy next door is always on the roof pretending he can fly. He actually believes he can, but no one else does. Until one day he and the boring girl are forced to jump off of a roof together and wheeeeee! They can fly! And, eeew, there was this totally gross kiss at the end between the boring girl and the mentally challenged flying boy. This movie was, like, directly out of the handbook on what not to show at a mental hospital. First of all, way to go, Dad! Not only did you just give up, but you killed yourself! And mentally challenged flying boy? What kind of lesson is this supposed to teach us exactly? I hardly think it wise to put the idea of flying into the heads of impressionable teenagers who are already battling the challenges of lunacy.

  AFTER DINNER

  I spoke with the floor again about getting into the Quiet Room. How can I be expected to get along for over two weeks without shouting out at least one Descendents’ tune? While everyone theorized on the best way to get into the Quiet Room without getting in trouble, I thought more about the motives of the adults in this place. I know I’m always joking about how absurd everything is here, but the truth is that most of the things they make us do or tell us not to do don’t make sense. If anything, being locked up here just makes me feel more disassociated with the real world. Maybe I couldn’t sit inside of a movie theater or a classroom without freaking before I came here, but what exactly have they done for me in Lake Shit that is going to fix my panic attacks when I leave? What if they just start right back up again? If I want to sing, I should be allowed to sing—encouraged to sing for my well-being! The fact that they said no, I couldn’t go into the Quiet Room just because I wanted to, pisses me off! I seriously don’t know if these people, these “grown-ups,” want to help me or if they just want to make their lives as easy as possible. Sounds like some other adults I know … Isn’t that the reason I’m here in the first place? Because my crappy therapist couldn’t fix me, and my parents had already pawned me off onto the crappy therapist. Easier to just send me away and hope I come home all better. Must be nice having the luxury to deal or not deal with a person.

  “Why don’t you just break something?” Victor suggested. “That way you don’t gotta hurt nobody, but you still got a ticket in.”

  “I find that high-pitched screams work well.” Bobby had already been in the Quiet Room twice for this.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, just ask them.” As fine as Justin is, his pacifism was wearing on me.

  “I already tried that. They don’t care that I need to go in. I’m thinking of taking drastic measures.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ve never taken drastic measures. I just like how it sounds.”

  “If you do something bad you might not get to Level Three,” Justin reminded me.

  “Nobody ever gets to Level Three, except for the almighty Matt O.! I don’t know if I even believe in Level Three. It’s probably just something the staff made up to make us behave like little robots and stick our stupid fingers out and sit in farty chairs and drink juice that makes us even more thirsty than before we started drinking!”

  “Good thing you’re in a mental hospital, ’cause you’re sounding a little crazy,” Bobby said.

  He was right. I did sound crazy. But crazy is sometimes good. I mean, you can be crazy in love, right? Crazy about the Cubs. Crazy for yellow cupcakes with frosting and colored sprinkles (mmmmm). Maybe crazy is what I need to make things actually happen in my life.

  SATURDAY NIGHT—WITH FEVER

  Give me a break! Bettina and Eugene are now telling Sandy that Morgan’s sick and that she keeps pooping in her diaper and crying.

  They came into our room every five minutes for the first hour of her as-yet-unnamed illness and told Sandy to change her diaper. Then they said they weren’t going to come in anymore, but Sandy better keep changing her diaper every five minutes ’cause there were going to be surprise checks. I’m so sure. They only stopped coming in because they didn’t want to move. What I want to know is, who’s paying for those diapers? Are they charging Sandy’s insurance for that? And what a waste! I heard that the #1 thing polluting our world’s landfills is diapers. There’s not even poop in t
here!

  “Maybe you should just use the same diaper over and over again,” I told Sandy.

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said wearily.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong? I’m sixteen years old. I’m pregnant. I’m locked in a mental hospital with my plastic black baby, and I’m going to get fat from all of this eating … .” She trailed off as tears started falling. “My doctor’s still talking about abortion.” Sandy curled up on her bed around Morgan.

  What will Sandy’s life be like if she has an abortion? If she doesn’t? I just think about what if I believed that an abortion was killing a human being, and then I had one and I felt like I was killing my own baby? Is that how she would feel?

  Day 17

  Sunday, Day 17

  Sundays always suck. Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve been taught since childhood that Sundays are the end of the weekend. I don’t know why it should feel different than any other day here, but it does. They don’t keep us as busy on Sundays, and instead of actually seeing the people we want to see in activities, we’re stuck most of the day in our rooms. Not that I mind spending time with Sandy, it’s just that she’s been so mopey and quiet lately. I’m sure she’s stressed about the baby decision. I decided to try and cheer her up.

  “Wanna play a game?”