Get Well Soon

  THE PHONE CALL

  Not that I know what it would be like to be escorted to my own execution, but that is how I felt when Sparkle knocked on my door and told me my parents were on the phone. She took me into the Day Room, where brown carrels acting as phone booths were set up on several tables. Sean was at one table, sitting silently but rolling his eyes at whatever the person on the other end of the phone said. Bobby hid his head deep in the carrel, and I heard him crying and saying, “C’mon, Mom, please? I thought you wanted to visit. Can’t you change your schedule?”

  As I approached the table, my stomach rolled around, and I thought about leaving to go to the bathroom. “You get ten minutes,” Sparkle said. “Then it’s Relaxation time.”

  I sat down, put the receiver to my ear, and said, “Hello?”

  “Anna?” My dad’s voice was on the other end. Then my mom’s, “Anna!” They both had an extension. “Don’t yell, Beth,” my dad said to my mom. “It’s loud when we both have a phone.”

  “So how are you, honey?” My mom’s voice sounded sweet, like she was trying to be calm for me.

  “Um, OK, I guess.”

  “We miss you,” my mom interrupted. “And we’re sorry.” I heard snuffling and sniffing; someone was crying. Since my mom was talking, I realized with horror that it had to be my dad.

  “What are you sorry for?” I asked.

  “For bringing you there without more warning. For not being able to help you ourselves.”

  Then I was choking back tears. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted them to know I was mad, that I was tougher now and I didn’t need them. But everything spilled out when I said, “Why’d you do it, Ma?”

  “We didn’t know what to do. You were so different, so sad all the time. You wouldn’t go to school and you wouldn’t go out. You used to be so …” She paused, and I knew what was coming. “ … Good.”

  How was I so bad now? All of these kids here—drugs and devils and fire—and all I did was stop going to school. “I was never bad, Mom.”

  “Of course not, Annie, but you were different. You changed, and we couldn’t help you. You wouldn’t listen to us, and we were worried about your future. We just want you to be happy. To be better.” My mom’s voice broke then, and I began to feel guilty. I could hear my dad breathing unevenly in the background. I almost never saw my mom cry, and I don’t think I saw my dad drop a single tear in my life, and now because of me they were both crying. Good, I thought for a minute. But then I just felt bad that I had done something to make them upset.

  “I’m getting better,” I told them, my tears ending.

  “Really, Anna? That’s so good to hear,” my dad finally joined in. “We just want the best for you. We can’t wait until you come home. We’ve been working on your room, painting and redecorating. We think you’ll like it.”

  “My room?” I didn’t like the sound of that. I love my room. Did they think changing my room would make things different when I got back? I wanted to ask, but Sparkle came at that moment to get me.

  “I have to go. Say hi to Mara for me, OK?”

  “We love you, Anna. We’ll talk to you soon.” The call ended with overlapping exclamation of loves and misses. “You, too,” I said aloofly. I couldn’t let them know that I wasn’t all that angry with them anymore. How could I be? They sounded remorseful, and even a little pathetic. Plus, if I weren’t here, I might not be losing weight, or making new friends, or falling hard for an ambidextrous Doors fan.

  Shit. I forgot to ask them about the razor.

  Day 12

  Tuesday, A Day of Death (Day 12)

  Ha! Remember that story I wrote and performed for creative writing class during freshman year about Taco Tuesday in the caf? Here, I can remember it:

  Tuesday: A Day of Death

  By Anna Bloom

  As I casually stepped into the dark, crowded lunch line, I could tell this was no ordinary lunch day. Yes—it was Taco Tuesday. The thick, burnt stench of the so-called meat lingered in the air. Putrid pieces of soggy taco shells randomly lay on the dull silver counter next to me. I ever so slowly trudged my way ahead to the stained counter and wearily said to the lady, “Uh, taco salad?” I heard a squish, like someone shoving their hand into a vat of brains. After that there were a couple of silent plops, and a thin Styrofoam tray was handed to me. I stared down at the monstrosity. Lugging the vulgar dish to my table near the window, I saw the other disgusted faces of weary students as I passed them. Placing the mass on the table, I stared at the grotesque mound of hard, muddy meat covered in a thick, nauseating chunk of pink sauce, which looked like a combination of ketchup and sour cream. I decided to declare it a National Health Hazard and took it over to the garbage can adjacent to me. Not to my surprise, the garbage can had the same staggering odor that the taco salad did. I bent over and stared. In the garbage can was a large mass of trays identical to the one in my hand. I tossed it in and went to get a candy bar.

  Wasn’t I a clever little freshman? So many adjectives! Now Tuesday is officially the Day of Death because (brace yourself) Satan has arrived at Lake Shit. He has come in the form of a sixteen-year-old boy named Lawrence. Six foot five, dark skin, huge shop class–looking glasses, and skinny-as-hell with enormous feet. I don’t actually believe he is Satan, but what Lawrence believes … I can laugh at Colby and his D&D voices and even at Abby with her possessed seizures, but Lawrence has actually kind of freaked me out.

  He was introduced at Community this morning. He sat in the chair next to me, and the entire meeting he was panting with what can only be described as evil. Eugene asked him to stand up and introduce himself. When Lawrence stood up, he looked like a tree, swaying in the breeze with each dark breath.

  “I am Lawrence,” he said in his Darth Vader–deep voice. “Satan is my lord.”

  I swear Sean gasped and grabbed for his rosary. Sandy, who had Morgan sitting on her lap, covered the doll’s eyes.

  Eugene didn’t buy into it right away. “Why don’t you tell us a little more about yourself, Lawrence?”

  “I worship the Dark Lord.”

  “That’s fine, Lawrence [it is?], but we would like to hear about something other than your beliefs.”

  “Beliefs?” Lawrence’s breathing increased to full-on heaving. “You belittle my master. He will not be pleased.” This guy seriously talked like that!

  “Lawrence.” Eugene stood up, about a foot and a half shorter than the evil giant, and said, “This is the last time I will ask you to tell us something else about yourself. If you cannot do that, I’m going to have to give you a Restriction.”

  “My lord will not be pleased with you and your doubters.” His doubters? Don’t be draggin’ me into this!

  Eugene sat down and flipped open his notebook, where he kept track of points and things. “Restriction.” He made an exaggerated tick mark in his book.

  Raging, Lawrence leaped out of his chair, and with one stroke of his extremely long arm he banked Eugene across the face. With a roar, Lawrence ran out of the Day Room.

  Eugene held his mouth and choked out a few coughs. Another staff member came in and dismissed us from Community.

  As we all left the Day Room, I could hear people breathing in, as if they were about to begin a sentence but had to stop themselves because we aren’t allowed to talk to each other in the hall.

  Justin walked up next to me, and I looked up with an apprehensive smile and mouthed, “Pretty weird, huh?” He nodded and then reassuringly pinched my pinky with his left hand.

  I realize, T., that this should have been the pinnacle of my story. I mean, no guy has ever touched me on purpose like that, let alone the finest boy on the loony block, but I am so freaked out by the psychoness that is Lawrence that even Justin’s lusty hand-touching comes in a distant second in today’s events.

  You’re probably wondering why this even bothers me, I mean, seeing as how you and I used to pretend we were satanists sophomore year. (Flashback to Mr. Judson, my math teacher,
making me turn my Claire’s cross earrings right side up.) But us wearing black nail polish and flashing the “Satan” hand signal at each other does not a satanist make. Nor did when we used to talk about our “goat sacrifices” during basketball in gym class to see if anyone noticed. Remember? “That goat put up a pretty good fight last night, eh?” “Yeah, and I thought I’d never get all the blood out of the curtains.” Why did we think that was cool again? Not that I actually believe in the satanic aspect of Lawrence’s satanism, but he sure seems a lot more evil than we did. (In fact, didn’t people just think we were lesbians?) Before today, I had never actually heard the sound of someone hitting someone. It was like a hollow pop, but maybe that’s because there’s not much in Eugene’s head. Satanist or not, Lawrence seems highly capable of spastic, unpredictable, violent behavior, and that’s more real to me than the devil is.

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  Woo-woo! Love is in the air (and Lawrence is in the Quiet Room chanting prayers to his big, scary man). On the elevator down to school, Justin finally stood next to me. We both stood really still, staring straight ahead. Nothing happened for the first few seconds (Minutes? Hours? It seemed like forever), but soon I felt a little tickle on the back of my right hand. At first I was going to jerk it up and scratch it, but as it became less tickly and more warm and smooth, I realized it was Justin’s hand. Back to back, the hair on our hands danced and played for the rest of the elevator ride. I closed my eyes and melted into the elevator wall. Having any contact here is exciting, but this contact was exquisite. And, if I may say even though I’m no expert, highly erotic. There were definitely other parts of me heating up besides my hand.

  The ka-chunk of the elevator door popped my eyes back open, and all of the other boys came into focus. I was let off of the elevator first, and Eugene stepped between me and any of the boys getting off to prevent contact. But, oh, we had contact.

  EVE

  This afternoon everyone went to “Physical Therapy.” Eugene and Bettina took us up in the elevator to the top floor of the building. For a moment it felt like the elevator was taking us to heaven. As the doors opened, the light from all of the unscreened windows made the entire floor blinding white. We squinted our way to a small gym.

  Physical Therapy ended up not being much like therapy at all, but more like remedial gym class. The gym was filled with workout machines from the ’80s. All we did was get on a piece of equipment and pretend to exercise, and every five minutes a staff person told us to rotate. The thing was, I knew we weren’t getting showers after this, so my biggest workout was trying not to break a sweat. Some of the guys were totally pumping iron (’80s term for an ’80s gym). Sean took his shirt off when he got to the weight-lifting station, but Eugene made him put it back on (he was probably jealous). At least we were allowed to talk to the people at our station. Girls and girls, boys and boys only, but still. Our station had me, Sandy, and Abby. Bettina gave Sandy a cardboard box with a pillow stuffed inside to carry Morgan around. How realistic—if you live in a tree house.

  Abby was less annoying than I expected. Kind of immature and white-trashy (she thinks reruns of Married with Children are funny), but whatever. At one point in our workout regime (I believe we were on stationary bikes) Lawrence started freaking out, lifting one of those giant barbells above his head over and over again really fast. As he did it, he was seething and frothing at the mouth (slight exaggeration), and the whole time he was staring right at Abby. Sandy and I were cracking up because it just seemed so cartoonish, but when Abby pointed out that he was staring at her and we all looked at him and he kept staring … Shivers.

  Speaking of shivery, Justin wasn’t looking so bad in his workout mode. Thank god he wasn’t all gung ho (’cause you know I like my men gangly like Joey Ramone. That’s “my men” in a theoretical sense), but there was something strangely appealing about watching him lift weights. Perhaps he was sending off manly sweat pheromones that I was helpless against absorbing.

  I had some anxiety about the whole workout thing. Tracy, you have watched me excuse my way out of countless gym classes. Anything to avoid running. I’m afraid of someone watching my body jiggle and sweat if I’m exercising, but I’m also afraid of looking like a fat, lazy slob if I’m not. Besides needles, my biggest fear in life is the twelve-minute run. I know everyone else in gym class is concerned with their best time and their bogus fitness goals, but I can’t help feeling like every time I run (i.e.: shuffle/walk), there’s a giant spotlight over me so people can laugh at the pathetic sight. Luckily, the majority of us in the Lake Shit workout room were more concerned with socializing than exercising, so at least I looked normal here.

  The most fun part of Physical Therapy (besides the obvious joys of exercise—as if) was that there was a radio playing the whole time. True, it was on a classic rock station, but I couldn’t resist singing along when “Lola” by The Kinks came on. In fact, it was a regular nuthouse sing-along. I was totally surprised that almost everyone knew the words. Victor sang along, and so did Phil/Shaggy. Lawrence didn’t, but that might have been expecting too much. Bobby did that thing where you sing the words directly after they are said so it sort of looks like you know what you’re saying. No one stopped us as we belted out, “Lo-Lo-LoLo-Lola!” Did you know that song’s about a man who gets the hots for a woman who’s really a man? Even though the man-woman Lola was kind of fucked up, the guy singing was just as fucked up for believing her. Everyone’s fucked up in some way, and here we were together singing our own fucked-up chorus. I’ll never hear that song the same way again.

  SNACK-ATTACK

  Tonight we had a special treat. It was Colby’s fifteenth birthday, and his parents dropped off a big chocolate birthday cake with blue food–colored frosting. I wonder if they put a file in the middle of it (not that there are bars or anything to saw through, although I suppose he could work on the window screens). Not that anyone even knew it was his birthday before they brought the cake, and not like we got to sing “Happy Birthday” to him or even thank him for giving us cake, since the pieces just came around, pre-cut on a tray, to our room. Not that I’m complaining. Cake is cake. There is no other food in the world as consistently pleasing to me, besides pizza. Mmmm—pizza. The staff claims that if enough people earn enough points to move to Level III, we’ll have a pizza party on a Friday night. Oh, to be a Level III. The funny thing is, I have not seen a single person on the floor make it to Level III. They probably rig the points system so that they don’t have to spend the extra $9.99 on a pizza. Anyway—back to the cake story. Sparkle brought around cake and milk to our room, and Sandy scarfed her cake before Sparkle could even leave the room.

  “Damn, girl, you act like you’re eating for two!” Sparkle said with a wink. When Sandy told her that she actually was eating for two, Sparkle laughed really loudly and smacked the wall with the palm of her hand. When the eruption subsided, she handed Sandy a second piece of cake! I was quite excited and jealous. Sparkle must have seen the drooly look in my eyes, because she gave me a second piece, too. She was the first adult who has been nice to Sandy about being pregnant.

  Did I tell you that some weirdo from the night crew comes into our room every night to tell Sandy that she needs to feed and change Morgan? I’m getting less sleep because of it. The nerve! I didn’t ask to have a baby. On top of Morgan interrupting my sleep, this week a woman has been peeking into our room every single hour during the night. She carries a clipboard and appears to be checking things off, I’m guessing about our sleeping habits. The joke is that every time she opens the door it clicks and leaks in the light from the hallway, so I wake up. Last night she looked at me, awake, and alarmingly asked, “Are you having trouble sleeping?” And I said, “Yes. Some woman keeps opening the door and waking me up.”

  Day 13

  Wednesday, Day 13

  We had another new arrival today—a girl. Her name is Callie, and she’s all ghetto chic, yet totally white. Because she just got here, she had a
butt-load of makeup on. It’ll be a rude awakening tomorrow morning when she finds out that they confiscated her lip gloss.

  Everyone got a good look at Callie sitting at her desk in the hallway as we went down to breakfast. There was an air of excitement in the elevator from the boys, as if they all had hard-ons that were sending off static electricity. (So gross! Sorry—it’s the first image that came into my head.)

  As Justin and I munched on bowls of Cap’n Crunch and debated the merits of American vs. British punk (I said most British bands were trying too hard with their image, while the Americans were often too lax about learning how to play their instruments well), the rest of the table seemed fixated on Callie. In the past whenever guys have ogled gals, I never have felt even in the same league—not even the same species. Not female. Like there was no way a guy would ever ogle me, so why even try to look good or bother dressing nicely or whatnot because there was no point to it. Instead, I always thought I could just wear baggy pants and band T-shirts because they were comfy, and at least I felt cool. But there’s been this weird shift since I’ve been at Lake Shit. It’s like I’m the last girl on Earth, and people have to choose me. I feel like a woman. W-O-M-A-N. The sucky thing is now that there’s another female here, I mean one who isn’t pregnant or possessed by Satan, and especially one who wears makeup and clothes that actually fit her, I kind of feel like my old self. Like I should go to the back of the Woman line and stop pretending that I’m something more than I am—just an anxious chubby girl with long brown hair who likes to listen to music and worships boys who will never like me back.