In other news, I finally ate a meal. They brought a tray with Cap’n Crunch and some orange juice to my room. I’ve never had Cap’n Crunch before. My mom won’t buy it because she thinks we should all start our day the healthy bran way. I may have started my day with bran, but the moment I got to school I headed straight to the vending machines and bought myself some Little Debbie Zebra Cakes. They do say you should eat a balanced breakfast, and I felt the creamy goodness of the Zebra Cakes balanced out the paperlike quality of the bran quite nicely. Cap’n Crunch isn’t exactly a Zebra Cake, but it is pretty good, despite the strange, pasty texture. And I can’t deny the sugar buzz. I topped it off with OJ in a little plastic cup with a peel-back foil lid. It was obviously not anywhere near fresh-squeezed, and it burnt my throat.
After breakfast they told me to get ready to go to Community. I still didn’t know what it was, but I knew I’d probably be seeing the other kids and wanted to look somewhat decent. I looked in the wavy plastic bathroom mirror and couldn’t believe how nasty I looked. My hair was kind of ratty because there was no time to condition it (and I can’t comb my curls or they frizz). My face looked all jaundice-y, and I had purple puffs underneath my eyes. So much for my stunning debut. I took two deep breaths and followed one of the desk people down the hall.
Community turned out to be a group meeting of sorts. The grand ol’ Day Room had its fart chairs set up in a circle, and each chair had a kid perched on it. I sat down on a green chair, let it rip, and chuckled to myself as I looked around to see if anyone else thought it funny. No one did. I glanced up at a few people, but no one looked at me. I must have really looked like ass, especially because I was the only one wearing hospital pajamas. I wonder if they thought I was crazy.
There were about fifteen teenagers, mostly boys, and two adults leading the meeting: One was a greasy-looking guy with a mustache (the words “greasy” and “mustache” should always appear together in a sentence) named Eugene, and the other was a larger woman with a South Side accent named Bettina. Bettina started the meeting by announcing “Restrictions.” Two boys stuck their fingers out (two-finger style, out, not up). Bettina called, “Phil,” and this short guy, looking exactly like a miniature Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, stood up.
“I got a one-hour room restriction for telling Matt O. he’s a dickhead.” The adults nodded, as if this were standard stuff. I wanted to laugh, but, of course, no one else was smiling.
Bettina called out, “Troy,” and the hottie from the hallway stood up.
“I’m still on hall restriction for hitting Benny in the head with a chair.” Can you believe that? I was totally freaked out at the prospect of him being violent, and yet I still found myself curiously attracted to him, twisty dreads and all.
“Confrontations,” Eugene announced. He spoke as if he had a bubble in his throat. The girl who gave me the finger in the shower (whoa—that sounds raunchy!) stuck out her hand. “Tanya.” When she stood up I got a better look at her than the showers allowed. Tanya was cute and petite—all perfectly fitting clothes and a teeny waist. I wondered if her obnoxiously bitchy air made her less attractive to guys, or if they even care about personalities at all.
Tanya turned to Bowlhead from the showers and said, “Jolene, I am mad that you kept me up all night snorin’ like my wrinkly ol’ bulldog, Dexter.” I noticed a couple of guys holding in smiles (so at least we know their faces hadn’t been tampered with to prevent smiling).
“Tanya,” Eugene said, shaking his head. “You do that same confrontation every day. Do you think I’m gonna give you points for that? You do that again, and I’m gonna give you a restriction.” Tanya flared her nostrils and sighed out of them like a bull.
“Apologies.” Jolene and a rather cute boy that I hadn’t noticed before stuck their fingers out. “Jolene.” Bettina called on her, and she stood, placing her hands stiffly against her sides. Jolene, sorry to say, was pretty homely. The bowl haircut was just the icing on her stylish-less cake. She was wearing leggings, which I guess are making a comeback (damn everyone to hell for that), but she had on a tight, generic Mickey Mouse T-shirt OVER a pink, poofy-sleeved blouse. I don’t know if she looked worse than I did, but it made me feel a little better.
“Tanya, I just want to say that I’m really sorry for keeping you awake. But tomorrow’s my release day, so you can just suck it, bitch.” Jolene looked smugly at Tanya.
“That’s a one-hour room restriction, Jolene.” Eugene took notes as he said this. “And you can write an apology letter while you’re in there.”
“Like I give a shit. I’m out of here.” Then she flashed this faux-homey peace sign.
Eugene moved on to the newly discovered cutie. “Justin.” Justin stood up with his hands in his pockets, looking remarkably tall even with the standard cute-boy slouch. His hair was straight and brown, and the strands in front of his face were just long enough to settle on his eyelashes. His hair bounced each time he blinked. “Matt O., I want to apologize for losing your pencil.” And then he sat, head down, hair blocking my view of his sweet face. He lost a pencil. I’m sure whatever he was doing with that pencil must have been very important, or Matt O., whoever he is, would have his pencil back! Perhaps he was sketching a picture of a pet from long ago, or writing a poem about the loneliness of the waning moon. Or maybe he was trying to stab other patients with it … . Whatever it was for, I’m sure he had a good reason for losing it. It does kind of make me wonder, though, what kind of guy Matt O. is if he needed an apology for losing his pencil. Wow, Justin is quite lovely.
“Appreciation.” Eugene announced this, and five people stood up. I won’t bore you with the lame details, but the appreciations all went something like this: “(Insert crazy teenager’s name here), I appreciated (choose one) eating dinner with you/talking with you at lunch/that joke you told … .” They all seemed like pretty bland things to be appreciated for, so maybe that’s a good indication of things to come here.
When Appreciation was over, the staff selectively chose people to excuse from the meeting. It was like in first grade when the teacher would look around the room and let the people who were being good go out to recess first. I was the baddy because I didn’t get to go until everyone else had left. Actually, I think it was because I was the only person in the room with an escort. Nobody looked at me as they passed: Anna the Dog-faced Girl.
BORING IN-ROOM TIME, STILL MONDAY
They obviously don’t trust that we will not try to jump out our windows because they are covered up with this impossibly thick wire screen. My view is very city: dirty-looking, nondescript buildings, many with yellow pieces of laundry hanging from the windows. Right across the street appears to be some sort of junky hotel because cars keep pulling up under what looks like a check-in awning. In the parking lot there are two really cool old cars, one pink and one powder blue (God, do you think the hospital placed them there to soothe us as we look out our windows?). They kind of look space-age, like they’re from a 1950s movie that’s supposed to take place in the distant future but everything still looks funky and retro. Maybe there are men from the future staying at the junky hotel! I will try to send them a message of peace with my light switch.
THINKING …
I just realized that I didn’t have a panic attack in Community. I wonder why. Probably because I was so focused on all of the high drama and cute boys that I forgot to have one. Or maybe the antidepressants are kicking in (doubtful). Or maybe they’re pumping some sort of antidepressant gases through the ventilation system here.
AFTERNOON
I’m back in the hallway at a desk. They said it was too depressing for me to be sitting in my room alone all day. The good news is that tomorrow I get to meet with Doc Asshole about getting off of PSI I and getting my clothes back! Plus, Troy the dreadlocked wonder not only leered at me today—he gave me the finger!
LATE
What the hell is with this place? I have no clue what I’m doing here, and everyone acts like I’m
supposed to just know about everything that’s going on! They told me to come into the hall with my pillow, so I went out there and started to ask what was going on. They SHHHSHed me all obnoxiously, so I just stood there, arms full of pillow. Then all of the guys walked by me in a line, and I was totally excited because cute boy Justin LOOKED at me, even though I’m in gross hospital PJs, but then some hag at the check-in desk told me to stop smiling. I don’t get it. They want me not to be depressed, yet a person, let alone the cutest guy here, looked at me for the first time and they tell me not to smile.
Tanya and Jolene came out of their room with pillows, and a woman who came on duty while I was waiting in the hall whispered to follow her. Her name tag said “Flora,” which was appropriate, as she had on a flowery dress and had a flowery voice. Flora led us down the hallway, where I normally sit at the desk, into a small room with all of the lights off. Of course I’m thinking here’s where the cultish crap begins, but then she popped in a James Taylor tape. Isn’t that song “Fire and Rain” about a girl who dies in a plane crash and James wanting to kill himself because of it? Is that appropriate to play in a mental hospital? Maybe it’s too appropriate. Maybe there’s an entire soundtrack that mental hospitals pay for, to include songs such as Madonna’s “Crazy for You” and “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley. God, I can think of a million songs with “crazy” in the title. I’ll have to boycott them if I ever get out of here.
I watched Tanya and Jolene put their pillows on the floor and lie down. I took my cue from them, dropped my pillow, and began to hunker down onto the floor, but just as I was about to get comfortable Flora stopped me. “This is Relaxation. We do not drop our pillows during Relaxation. You need to go back to your room now.” Huh? Did I just get in trouble for DROPPING MY PILLOW? I have no clue. How would I know? How will I ever know if I’m not allowed to talk to anybody or smile at anybody or condition my hair, for that matter?! I feel like there should be circus music blaring do do doodle loodle do do doodle and a barker shouting, “Come look at the freaks!”
If only I had some of my own music to soothe me to sleep. It would be so great if I could somehow teleport my stereo from home into my room here. I know the sound is really crappy, since I’ve had it since 7th grade, but I miss it! I even miss the scratch-and-sniff stickers I covered it with to make it look cooler. I’m not sure that the stickers ever achieved the cool look I was going for, but at least it smelled pretty good.
Day 5
Tuesday, Day 5
Dear Tracy,
Hurray! Hurray! They’re going to give me my clothes back today! Now I can be a lunatic in style. I met with Dr. Asshole today, and he took me off PSI I and put me on Level 0. What that means is that now that I’m not threatening to kill myself, I can earn points by hitting people in the head with chairs and stealing pencils! Actually, I may lose points for that, but live and learn! The goal here is to obtain points by being a good girl, i.e.: doing what I’m told, making an obvious effort to fix what is supposedly wrong with me, and getting along with others. When these points add up, I get onto higher levels, which allow me exciting new privileges, like going to the cafeteria to eat! Watching one half hour of TV per day! And if I’m extra good I may win up to $25,000 at Plinko! All Plinkos aside, it doesn’t sound very hard. It’s not like I’ll be throwing chairs or stealing pencils or anything bad like that. I hate getting in trouble.
Doc A-Hole said that most of the therapy I have to do here is group work, but I’ll meet with him about once a week. It’s so weird that they just hook me up with some random guy shrink and I’m expected to be OK with that. What if I don’t want to tell him anything? I’m starting to get a stomachache.
LATER
Tragedy strikes! I so was not thinking when I packed my clothes to come here. Why did my mom let me leave home without my red Converse All Stars? Now I’m stuck in a very chilly mental hospital forced to wear the shoes I had on when I got here—flip-flops—with socks! I recognize that some folks in the world think the whole socks and sandals bit is cool, but to me it equals white people with hemp hoodies listening to Phish and stinking up the hallways at school with patchouli. This is so not me. I would much rather have my comfy, worn-in, hole in the right toe, low-top red Converse All Stars. I noticed that Justin had black Chucks. I thought maybe if I had my Chucks here that we could bond over our choice in footwear, but nooooo. He’s going to think I’m a dork and won’t ever look at me again, and I’ll become an old maid and live in this mental hospital for the rest of my life without getting a date. What if?
AFTERNOON
I just had my first group therapy session. The floor is divided into two groups, A and B. I don’t quite know how they choose which kid goes into which group, but I’m in B. Because you are dying to know, Justin is not in Group B. Tanya, however, is in Group B, which sucks because she is a royal bitch who gives me an “eat shit” look every time I glance her way. I’d try to look tough, but I don’t want her to kick my ass. I’ve never even been close to having my ass kicked, but I’d like to believe that if it ever happened I would have some sort of built-in kung fu abilities that would automatically activate. And there’s always our self-defense training from gym class: Always go for the eyes, nose, and throat. (I still think it’s totally ironic that while the girls were learning self-defense in gym class, the guys were in a different room learning wrestling.) Thankfully, Tanya spent most of Group staring at the floor, trying not to have to speak to anyone.
We had Group in the Day Room, where we actually got to sit in nonfarting chairs that were placed in a circle. Eugene led Group, and because it was my first time, everyone had to do a little introduction of themselves. Very Alcoholics Anonymous. It was about time someone actually told me something. Not that anything anyone said was very informative. I had to go first, which I guess was good because then I could relax a little and hear what everyone else had to say.
“I’m Anna Bloom. I’m sixteen. I have a younger sister, Mara. I like to listen to music, mostly punk. I’m teaching myself to play the bass. The Cap’n Crunch here is pretty good.” That got some light chuckles. I thought I was finished, but Eugene looked at me to continue. “That’s it,” I said.
“And why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I guess because I stopped going to school.” And that’s when the tears started. Embarrassed, I didn’t want to say anything more. I simpered through the entire hour as I listened to everyone else’s stories.
Victor, a short African-American guy, seemed pretty funny, although he’s definitely a lot more city than I am (which probably isn’t saying much, as I am a card-carrying suburbanite). He said he was here “Because they didn’t like the fact that I was selling drugs in school. But I told them it was the only way to pay for my mom’s cancer treatment. They were soft on me and sent me here instead of jail.” I wonder who sells drugs at our school. I wonder if they would sell them to me.
Unfortunately, Phil/Shaggy is in my group. He has a lewd (funny word!) way of looking around at people that makes me want to wash my hands. Someone needs to hose this freak down ’cause the way he introduced himself was by saying, “I’m sure glad we’re getting some more ladies on this floor.” I don’t care if guys never give me that kind of attention; I do NOT want it from the likes of him.
“And why are you here?” asked Eugene.
“Oh, you know, I got myself in a little trouble. You might say I was playing with fire.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
“And you might say that he set some girl’s house on fire ’cause she wouldn’t go out with him,” explained Victor.
Matt O. (the soul without a pencil) sat next to me (and was rather ripe in the b.o. department). He’s a sweet-faced guy who has apparently been in this place for six months. Six months! I hope that’s not the norm. He never actually said how he got here in the first place. All he said was, “I’ve been here for six months, and now they’ve got me on a new plan that lets me eat whatever I want a
nd go to the Quiet Room whenever I want. My doc says we needed to try something different.”
After six months, maybe it doesn’t matter why he’s here in the first place. It’s like, after you’re here for so long, whatever happened in real life probably floated away. For some of these people, that’s not such a bad thing. Take Colby (like the cheese), also a member of Group B. He’s a scrawny and shy kid who apparently has problems hearing voices. I mean, he doesn’t actually have problems hearing voices. He hears them fine. They just happen to be inside of his head. He claims they started jabbering after he began playing Dungeons and Dragons with his older brother. What is the deal with people and role-playing games? You and I have played a little, Trace, and we know that there is nothing about it that would make you hear voices or kill people or channel the underworld. Plus, who blames Dungeons and Dragons for evildoing anymore? That’s so ’80s. Aren’t we supposed to blame violence on TV or video games? Colby does seem kind of peculiar, though, so who knows. Sean, a member of Group B with a nasty scum-stache (“nasty” may be substituted for “greasy” when discussing mustaches), said that he would lend Colby one of his rosaries to protect him. I have two things to say about that: 1. How is a rosary going to protect Colby from the wrath of a game? and 2. One of his rosaries? Sean’s story sounded exactly like the stereotypical rebel character in any teen movie (aside from the rosary deal): He was kicked out of school, sent to boarding school, escaped and ran away, got caught, and was sent here. He nervously gnawed on his fingers the whole time we had Group, and I swear I could see little droplets of blood.