The Evolution of Mara Dyer

by Michelle Hodkin

  “Yes,” she said as we followed him down the strangely claustrophobic hall. The ceiling yawned over us, but the spaces we walked through felt tight.

  “What’s your specialty?”

  “I work with couples, mostly.”

  “That’s wonderful!” He skipped right over asking my father the same question. I imagined he already knew—anyone who watched the news probably did.

  Mr. Robins finally ushered my parents into an office in the back, which clearly wasn’t his. A stack of papers towered precariously on the glass desk.

  He indicated a bench just outside the door. “All right, Mara, you can have a seat out here while I talk some things over with your parents, okay?” He winked.

  If I hadn’t been freaked out, I would have rolled my eyes at the condescension. Maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with him much, after today. A girl could hope.

  The door to the office closed with my parents inside then, and I sat on the horribly uncomfortable plank of wood across from it. There wasn’t much to see, and I found myself idly staring at the ductwork in the exposed ceiling when something soft hit me in the shoulder, then bounced to the floor.

  I flinched—it was that sort of morning—but it was just a crumbled piece of paper. I opened it to find a crudely drawn picture of an owl, with a speech bubble that said:

  !!!

  I whipped around.

  “Well, schmear my bagel, if it isn’t Mara Dyer.”

  12

  JAMIE.

  Minus the dreadlocks and taller, but definitely, unmistakably Jamie. I smiled so widely my face hurt; I jumped up to hug him but he raised his hands defensively before I could.

  “Can’t touch this.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” I said, still beaming.

  Jamie’s expression mimicked mine, though he appeared to be trying not to show it. “I’m serious. They’re strict about that,” he said, giving me a once-over.

  I did the same. Without his long hair, Jamie’s cheekbones seemed higher, his face more angular. Older. His jeans were uncharacteristically well-fitted and his T-shirt clung to his frame. On his shirt was an image of what appeared to be ancient Greek men linking arms in a row and kicking their legs like Rockettes. He was so strange.

  At the exact same time we both asked: “What are you doing here?”

  “Ladies first,” Jamie said with a little bow.

  I looked up at the ceiling as I thought about what to say. “PTSD,” I decided finally. “A few hallucinations here and there. Nothing to write home about. You?”

  “Oh, my parents were persuaded that it would be a wise preemptive measure to send me here before I shot up a school.” He dropped onto the bench.

  My mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”

  “Unfortunately, I am. Our best Croydian friends made sure that’s what the all-knowing adults would think when they planted that knife in my backpack.”

  Anna and Aiden, those assholes. At least I’d no longer have to see them on a daily basis. Lucky me.

  Lucky them.

  I sat back down on the bench and Jamie went on. “Unable to comprehend the idea that my earlier threat to give Aiden Ebola was made in jest,” he said, “I was considered a two-time offender and was therefore labeled ‘at risk’ by the guidance department, those ultimate arbiters of wisdom. They in turn scrawled that all over my record.” His mocking tone changed, then. “Words have power. And I may be privileged and have a higher IQ than any of our former teachers, but when people look at me? They see a black, male teenager. And there is nothing quite as frightening to some folks as an angry young black man.” He popped a piece of gum into his mouth. “So. Here I am.”

  I offered a small smile. “At least we’re together?”

  He grinned. “So it seems.”

  My eyes rested on his shorn head. “What happened to your hair?”

  “Ah.” He ran a hand over it. “Once overanxious parents are told that their child is ‘at-risk’, they decide that all ‘at-risk’ attributes have to go. Good-bye, long hair. Good-bye, rebellious music. Good-bye, delightfully violent video games.” He exaggerated a lip quiver. “Basically, I’m allowed to play chess and listen to smooth jazz. That is my life now.”

  I shook my head. “I hate people.”

  He nudged me with his elbow. “That’s why we’re friends.” Jamie blew a small turquoise bubble and then sucked it back into his mouth. “I actually saw Anna last week when my mom dragged me to Whole Foods. She didn’t even recognize me.”

  “Did you say anything to her?”

  “I politely suggested she drive off a cliff.”

  I grinned. I felt lighter just being with him, and I was so glad to not have to endure this ridiculousness alone. I was about to tell him so when the office door opened in front of us and Mr. Robins peered out.

  He looked back and forth between Jamie and me. “We’re ready for you, Mara.”

  Jamie stood. “And I’m going to be late for electroshock therapy!” Then he faced me and said with a wink, “See you ’round, Mara Dyer.” He saluted Mr. Robins, turned on his heel, and left.

  I bit my lip to keep from smiling and entered the office appropriately somber.

  “Have a seat,” Mr. Robins said, closing the door behind me.

  I slid into an uncomfortable plastic chair next to my parents and waited to hear the proclamation of my sentence.

  “I just want to explain a few things and then we’ll have you sign some paperwork.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “The Horizons Outpatient Program, or HOP, as I like to call it, is part of an overall behavioral evaluation that your parents are enrolling you in. You will be expected to be here five days a week, from nine a.m. until three p.m. without fail, barring an excused absence accompanied by a doctor’s note. Your success here will depend entirely on your participation in your activities and in group therapy, and—”

  “And academics?” I wasn’t a Daniel-level student, no, but there had never been a future for me that didn’t include college. I didn’t like thinking about how my adventures in psychotherapy would affect it.

  “You’ll be completing coursework under the guidance of tutors, but the emphasis at Horizons, Mara, is not on academic achievement but on personal achievement.”

  Can’t wait.

  “As I was saying, your participation is integral to your success. After a period of two weeks, there will be a reassessment to determine whether this is the right place for you, or whether it would be prudent to move you to our residential treatment facility.”

  So this was a test, then. To see whether I could make it here in the real world without any . . . problems. I looked up at my parents’ hopeful faces as the word residential echoed in my mind.

  It was a test I needed to pass.

  13

  WHEN MR. ROBINS FINISHED HIS LECTURE, he held out a pen.

  My parents had explained this part to me—the “informed consent.” I had to agree; Horizons required it. And I didn’t mind the idea in the abstract, but sitting here in this weird place on this hard little chair staring at that pen, I hesitated. After a few uncomfortable seconds, I forced myself to take it and signed my name.

  “Well!” Mr. Robins said, clapping his hands together. “Now that that’s settled, I’ve set you up for a tour with Phoebe Reynard, another student at Horizons. Yes,” he said, nodding meaningfully, “everyone is a student here. A student of life.”

  Oh, God.

  “Each of you is assigned to a buddy, and Phoebe will be yours. That means she’ll be your partner for most of your exercises. Not so different from a normal school, right?”

  Sure.

  “She should be along any minute. In the meantime, did you bring a bag with you today?”

  I had, in fact. I toted my school bag along with me out of habit, even though this definitely wasn’t school. I nodded at Mr. Robins.

  “Can I see it?”

  I handed it over.

  “It will have to b
e thoroughly checked every time you enter the front door. Everything you bring in has to be cataloged, and contraband removed.”

  “Contraband like . . .”

  “Drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, cell phones, laptops. We do allow portable music players, as long as they don’t have Internet access. So your iPod,” he said, nodding at the earbuds dangling out of the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie, “should be fine. I’ll get your bag checked and make sure it gets back to you ASAP,” he said with a toothy grin. “Got anything else in your pockets, Mara?”

  I blinked. “Um, string or nothing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “The Hobbit?”

  He looked concerned. “A what?”

  “It’s a book,” my father piped up. He met my gaze and winked.

  Mr. Robins looked from my father to me. “You have a book in your pocket?”

  I tried very hard not to sigh. “There’s nothing in my pockets, is what I meant.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well then, you won’t mind emptying them.”

  It wasn’t a request. That would take some getting used to. I emptied my pockets to find some change, a packet of sugar, a receipt, and of course, my iPod. “That’s it,” I said with a shrug.

  “Great!” He indicated that I could take everything back.

  Just as I finished, a tall girl with lank, dyed black hair peeked in through the doorway. “Mr. Robins?”

  “Ah, Phoebe. Phoebe Reynard, meet Mara Dyer, your new buddy.”

  I extended my hand. The girl eyed me warily, her eyes deep set in her wide moon face. She had a perfect ski slope nose that didn’t quite match the rest of her features; it seemed lost, like it had wandered onto the wrong face.

  After inspecting me for what felt like an hour, Phoebe took my hand and gave it a limp, sweaty shake, then dropped it like I was on fire.

  Awkward. Phoebe’s eyes darted back to Mr. Robins.

  “All right, I’m going to send you two off,” he said, “while I speak to your parents for a bit, Mara, and introduce them to some of the staff. Phoebe—you know what to do.”

  Phoebe nodded, then walked out without a word. I gave my parents a low thumbs-up and then followed Phoebe out.

  She led me down a different hallway that was sparsely decorated with unironic motivational posters. I kept waiting for her to say something as we passed different partitions within the space, but she never did. Awesome tour.

  “So . . .” I started. How to break the ice? “Um, how are you?”

  She stopped short and faced me. “What did they tell you?”

  Oh, boy. “Nothing,” I said slowly. “I was just making conversation.”

  Phoebe glared at me. Continued to glare at me. But just as I was about to scurry back to my parents, Jamie reappeared. He stood at attention.

  “I’ve come to rescue you,” he announced.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” Phoebe mumbled.

  “Now, now, don’t be testy, Phoebe.” His eyes never left her, but his next words were for me. “Has Sam come back for you yet?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Then you have the next ten minutes free. Want to make them count?”

  I looked over at Phoebe; she was ignoring both of us. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” I asked him.

  Jamie grinned. “Would you like to join us, Phoebe?”

  “I’m busy.”

  His brows drew together. “With what, pray tell?”

  Phoebe didn’t answer. Instead, she sank down to the floor and stretched out like a plank. I found this to be highly alarming, but Jamie just shrugged.

  “There’s no point,” he said to me. Then, “Don’t forget Group, Phoebe,” before we headed out.

  “So where are we going?” I asked him.

  “Does it matter?”

  I followed him into an open area with sleek white leather couches. He swept his hand in front of him. “The common room. Where we share our feelings.”

  I sank onto a couch. I remembered meeting Jamie on my first day at Croyden; it wasn’t that long ago but it might as well have been a million years. He decoded the social hierarchy, he showed me around. I was lucky he was here.

  “What’s with the face?” he asked.

  “Was I making one?”

  “You were looking all wistful-like.”

  “Just a touch of déjà vu.”

  Jamie nodded slowly. “I know. It’s like we just did this.”

  I smiled, and looked at his bizarre T-shirt again. I tilted my head at the image of the ancient Greek Rockettes. “What is it?”

  He looked down and stretched the picture out. “Oh. A Greek chorus.”

  “Ah.”

  He leaned back against the leather couch and flashed a grin. “Don’t worry, nobody gets it.”

  “Mmm.” I cocked my head to the side, considering him. “It’s weird that we’re both here, right?”

  A noncommittal shrug.

  “Well, of all the behavioral modification programs in all of Florida, I’m glad I walked into yours,” I said with a smile. Then flashed a knowing look. “Must be fate.”

  Jamie stroked his chin. “A nice thought, but there aren’t that many. Not as swank as this, anyway.” He gestured to the sleekly blank room. “This is where the privileged send their screwed-up progeny; no gluing macaroni to construction paper for us.” He paused meaningfully. “They only let us create with ricciolini here.”

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “It’s very fancy, I assure you.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said as teenagers began to file into the room. Jamie added a comment under his breath with each one. “Phoebe’s the psycho,” he said, when she walked in. “Tara’s the klepto, Adam’s the sadist, and Megan’s the ’phobe.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And you?”

  He pretended to ponder my question. “The wise fool,” he finally said.

  “That’s not a diagnosis.”

  “So you say.”

  “And me?” I asked.

  Jamie tilted his head, considering me. “I haven’t figured out your fatal flaw yet.”

  “Let me know when you do,” I said, not entirely kidding. “What about everyone else?”

  He shrugged. “Depression, anxiety, eating disorders. Nothing fancy. Like Stella,” he added, nodding in the direction of a girl with strong features and curly black hair. “She could almost pass for normal.”

  “Almost?” I asked as I heard my name called behind me.

  “There you are!” Mr. Robins said. He approached with my parents and Dr. Kells in tow, who was as expensively and impeccably dressed as ever. “Mara, you’ve met Dr. Kells,” he said. “She’s the director of clinical psychology here.”

  She smiled. Her matte makeup made the lines around her mouth seem deeper. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Not exactly. “Nice to see you, too.”

  Mr. Robins handed me back my messenger bag. “All clear,” he said as I slung it over my shoulder. His gaze circled the room. “So, did Phoebe show you around?”

  Before or after she spread out on the floor? “Yeah,” I lied. “Very helpful.”

  “And you’ve met Jamie,” Mr. Robins said, his eyes resting on my friend. Who had promptly abandoned our couch for an armchair on the far side of the room.

  “We knew each other at Croyden,” I said.

  “Ah. What a coincidence!”

  My mother leaned down to brush a strand of hair from my face. “I have to get to work, sweetheart.”

  “And you have to get to Group,” Dr. Kells said to me with a smile. “I’m looking forward to getting the chance to know you better.”

  That made one of us.

  My parents hugged me good-bye, Mr. Robins made his excuses, and Dr. Kells said, “I’m really happy to have you here,” once more before she left. I forced a smile in answer, and then faced my peers alone.

&n
bsp; There were fourteen of us, some draped on couches, some settled in armchairs, some seated on the floor. I settled into a chair and dropped my bag at my feet. A freckled, grinning woman bedecked in a bronze headscarf with horn-rimmed glasses and a multilayered long skirt was perched on the arm of one of the sofas. She clapped her hands with authority and the bangles on her wrist clinked.

  “Are we ready to get started?” the New Agey counselor asked.

  “Yes,” everyone mumbled back.

  “Great! Today we have someone very special with us,” she said, beaming in my direction. “Would you introduce yourself to the group?”

  I raised my arm in an awkward half-wave thing. “I’m Mara Dyer.”

  “Hi, Mara,” the chorus replied. Just like in the movies.

  “We’re so glad you’re here, Mara. I’m Brooke. Now, just to get to know you a little better, I’d love for you to tell us where you’re from, how old you are, and one special, secret wish of yours. We’ll all go around the room and share after you. Sound good?”

  Phenomenal. “I’m from a city outside Providence.” I was met with thirteen glazed stares. “Rhode Island,” I clarified. “I’m seventeen,” I added, “And I wish I didn’t have to be here,” I finished. I couldn’t resist.

  My secret wish earned a chuckle from Jamie but he was the only one who shared my sense of humor, it seemed. No one else even cracked a smile. Oh well.

  “We understand how you feel, Mara,” Brooke said. “It’s a big adjustment. Now then, let’s move clockwise.” She pointed to a boy sitting in an armchair to my left. He began to speak but I didn’t hear what he said, because Phoebe slid into the seat next to me and I was distracted by the smell of her breath in my face. She slipped a folded piece of paper into my lap.

  A love letter, perhaps? Could I be so lucky? I opened it.

  Not a love letter. Not a letter at all. The piece of paper was a picture of me, lying in my bed. In the pajamas I wore last night. I faced the camera, but you couldn’t see my eyes.

  They’d been scratched out.