Counting Backwards

by Laura Lascarso

  CHAPTER 12

  I wake up the next morning feeling more rested than I have in weeks. After “Sunday reflection,” I get permission from Kayla to go down to the second floor and visit with Margo. It might be one of our last times together, and I want to say a proper good-bye.

  When I come into her room, she’s sitting in a chair in front of her distorted carnival mirror. I really hate those mirrors. The longer you stare at yourself in them, the more you forget what you really look like.

  “I’m so old,” Margo says, pulling down on the skin around her eyes.

  “Margo, you’re seventeen.” I push some of her clothes off her bed and lie down on my stomach.

  “I’ve been out of the biz for so long. I’m going to have to start all over—new agent, new head shots. I’m going to have to sit through casting calls and wait for hours to only say one word, just to have someone tell me that I’m too short or too tall or too fat or too skinny, too—whatever.”

  I want to be sympathetic, but it’s hard when she’s basically living my dream, to be getting out of here. I wish I had her problems.

  “It’s better than sitting in here,” I tell her. “At least you have a chance of getting paid after all that waiting.”

  “But what if I’m not good enough, T? What then?”

  “You could try getting a job at Burger King, like the rest of us.”

  She ignores my sarcasm. “My mother already has a photographer lined up for me. He’s got a waiting list, he’s that good. I mean, I love performing, it’s just a lot of pressure.”

  She pulls a silver flask out of her pocket, unscrews the top, and takes a long swig—vodka; I’d know that smell anywhere.

  “Did Victor give that to you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Listen, Margo, getting drunk isn’t going to make it go away. It’s just going to make you feel worse when it’s over.”

  “I want to get drunk, Taylor. I want to start a trash fire. I want my therapist to tell my team that I need more time.”

  “Margo, that’s crazy.”

  “I’m crazy.”

  I shake my head, frustrated with her. “No, Margo, you’re not crazy. You’re just . . . scared.” I know the feeling. I’m scared myself, of running away, of staying here and only getting worse. I glance around her room, trying to think of something encouraging to say.

  “You know that feeling,” I say, “right before you go out onstage?”

  “Stage fright?”

  “Yeah. You’re worried that you’re going to go out of here and mess up your lines or trip on your high heels, but you’re not. You’re going to blow them away, just like you always do. You’re a woman who knows what she wants, and you know how to get it. You’re going to be the most, Margo, to say the least.”

  She studies her reflection in the dingy mirror. “Stage fright, huh?”

  “And another thing: You’re a hundred times prettier in real life, only you don’t know it, because you’ve been looking in that mirror for so long. It’s a lie, Margo. You’re better than this place. So much better. And so much stronger.”

  The edges of her lips curl into a tiny smile, and I feel a little better. For her and for me, too.

  “All right,” she says, shaking out her long hair. “It’s just stage fright. A little nervousness is good, right? It’s normal.”

  “It’s completely normal. It’s to be expected.”

  “It’s to be expected,” she repeats. She flashes her I’m-Not-Scared-of-Anything smile at the mirror, and I remember the reason I came here, to tell her good-bye.

  “Listen, Margo, you know that school project I’ve been working on?”

  “Yes,” she says cautiously.

  “Well, it’s almost finished now, and I want you to know that I’ve had a lot of fun hanging out and . . . getting to know you. I hope we can be friends again . . . on the outside.”

  She turns to me with her hands folded in her lap.

  “You’re really going to do it, then?”

  “Yes.” It’s all I ever think about. I’ve traced my route to Valdosta more times than I can count. I’ve looked up bus fare to Atlanta. I already know Trey’s numbers by heart. I’m ready to go.

  “Taylor, you know what happens if you get caught? They give you a room on the first floor. They’ll keep a safety on you all the time, even when you go to the bathroom.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Is it really that bad here?” she asks. “I mean, I know the Latina Queens gave you a hard time, but they’ve backed off. And Victor says A.J. really likes you. I mean, he’s not the most normal guy, but he is pretty hot.”

  I think about our moment in the darkroom last night and all the confusing feelings it brought up. I promised him I’d stay until December, but I don’t think I could last that long in this place, especially not without Margo.

  “I just wanted to say good-bye, and to tell you that you’ve been a really great friend. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Her mouth droops into a mopey frown as she holds her arms out to me. I go over and give her a hug.

  “I just worry about you,” she says.

  “I’ll be fine, Margo.”

  “If only we could trade places,” she says. “I could stay here and you could go. Then we’d both be happy.”

  I squeeze her tightly one last time. If only we could.

  I walk into school on Monday morning with an extra spring to my step.

  It’s a beautiful day for escaping.

  In automotive I volunteer to be chief key turner, but when I climb behind the wheel, instead of using Mr. Thomas’s key, I use my own copy. The Bronco starts up just fine, which means the key is good. I’m so elated by the steady thrumming of the engine I feel like I could fly. I scope out a way to get inside the garage and notice that the window on the side door is fixed with regular old glass, and could easily be broken by one of the decorative cement pavers that line the flower beds outside. Then I just have to reach in and unlock the deadbolt.

  After school I walk over to the mind factory, aka healing center, ready to endure my very last fifty-minute silent strike. But when I walk into Dr. Deb’s office, I see something that makes me stop short.

  My parents.

  The last time I saw them together was in the courtroom, and before that, I can’t even recall. It seems I’ve interrupted something, because everyone gets quiet when they see me. My mother stands and hugs me tightly. She’s worn makeup and put on perfume, but it’s not strong enough to hide the smell of vodka. She’s lost weight, too. She’s made up of skin and bone and vodka tonics.

  My father only nods at me, and I remember that last time I saw him—a couple of weeks ago when I told him I hated him. I didn’t think he’d come back after that. I was wrong.

  “Good afternoon, Taylor,” Dr. Deb says. “I invited your parents to join us today.”

  “Is this my punishment for not answering your questions?”

  “Taylor,” my father says in a warning tone.

  Dr. Deb smiles and motions to the empty seat between them. “I’d like to begin this session with a mission statement from each of you,” she says, “to hear what you’d like Taylor to accomplish in her time at Sunny Meadows. But first, I’d like to hear it from you, Taylor.”

  “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “You stole a car,” my father says. “You ran away from home and resisted arrest.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “It wasn’t your first mistake.”

  “Let’s think forward,” Dr. Deb says brightly. “Taylor, what do you hope to gain from your experience here at Sunny Meadows? What do you want?”

  I look at her tiredly. Do I tell her what she wants to hear—that I hope to be rehabilitated, from what I still have no idea? Or do I tell her the truth?

  “I want my MP3 player back,” I say to her. “I want to shave my legs without someone watching. I want to eat food I can recognize when I’m hungry
, and go where I want, when I want. But most of all, I want you people to stop asking me questions and let me deal with my business in my own way.”

  My father frowns. My mother lifts her chin a fraction of an inch but makes no comment. She knows what it’s like being trapped in these places, where you can’t go anywhere without getting it cleared by five different people. I have no freedom, no control. I’m not a person to them; I’m a problem that needs fixing. And there’s nothing wrong with me.

  “As long as we’re making impossible wishes,” I continue, “I’d like my mom to stop drinking. Really stop drinking. I want her to stop bringing creeps home from the bar and pay her rent on time. I want my father to act like a human being again and say he’s sorry for leaving us. I even want my parents to get back together, because they’re worse when they’re apart.”

  I sit back in my chair and cross my arms. I think Dr. Deb might kick me out, I even hope for it, but she only nods her head. I should have known.

  “Thank you, Taylor, for being so honest and direct with your feelings. Mr. Truwell, it’s your turn.”

  My father clears his throat and looks over at me. I avoid his eyes.

  “I’d like Taylor to think before she acts and consider how her decisions affect others. I’d like her to do better in school and think about her future. I want . . .” His voice cracks, and he stops to take a breath. “I want my daughter back.”

  His daughter. I have no idea who he thinks that person is, only that it’s not me. It hurts my feelings that I’m not enough. And if he thinks he doesn’t know me anymore, it’s because he never did. He’s the one who’s changed, not me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Truwell,” Dr. Deb says. “And how about you, Mrs. Truwell?”

  My mother’s face is a mask, much like my own. I learned it from her, after all, how to shut people out and reveal only what you choose. It’s not lying, it’s selective telling. It’s the safest way to be. It’s the only way to be.

  “I want Taylor to be happy,” she says, and I can’t help but scoff at that.

  “Well, I’m not happy here.”

  She nods. She knows what this is like, to be probed and prodded, to have to defend yourself to complete strangers. So why is she letting them do this to me?

  “I’m sorry,” she says stiffly, and stares at her hands, bare of any rings or bracelets, just like mine. I know who she’s apologizing to. It isn’t my father or Dr. Deb; it’s me.

  My father looks over at me. “You could have come to me,” he says. “If things were bad with your mother. You didn’t have to run away.”

  “That’s why you sent me here, isn’t it? Because I didn’t come running to you.”

  “No, Taylor.”

  “What about when you took the house because I went with Mom?”

  “Taylor,” my mom says, “we couldn’t have afforded that mortgage. Please, don’t bring that up again.”

  I understand now what they’re doing. Teaming up against me. They can talk about me and all my problems, but when we talk about their dysfunction, it’s suddenly not allowed. They’re hypocrites, the both of them. I turn and glare at my father. “You’re not the one trapped in this place. When this is over, you get to leave and go live your life. But I’m still going to be here, caged up just like Mom.”

  I remember all the times we went to see her when she was in rehab, the way she looked so tired and withdrawn, trapped in some fluorescent prison, just like Sunny Meadows. And what did it ever do for her? Because here she is, still unhappy, still a drunk.

  I turn to Dr. Deb. “My mother has a word for what you’re doing. It’s the same word she used when our power got turned off, when she got fired from a job, or when we had to move again because we got evicted. What is it, Mom?”

  My mom gives me an icy stare. I know she’s angry, because these are the things we don’t talk about. To anyone. But I can’t stand what they’re doing, acting like it’s my fault. All this time, I’m the one with the problem.

  “It’s bullshit.”

  I walk out of the office, blinded by my anger and the crushing feeling in my chest. I can barely breathe, but I force myself not to run past the safeties in the waiting room. Outside I take deep breaths, trying to get on top of it, but it’s coming on too fast, forcing me under. Halfway across the lawn I drop to my knees and claw at my clothes, but I can’t get any air. It’s unrelenting.

  A.J.’s suddenly there beside me. The worried look on his face scares me even more. I lean forward and grab hold of the grass, clawing at the dirt, trying to gather my strength, trying to breathe. My chest is so tight and I feel like I’m being squeezed right out of myself, splitting in half. I tilt forward until my forehead is just inches from the ground.

  “I think I’m dying,” I whisper to the grass. It must be true. This is what it feels like to die. The earth shifts beneath me as tiny bugs crawl into my head, blurring my vision. My sight blinks out as the earth opens up and I tumble, headfirst, into the darkest, deepest hole.

  My eyes flash open to find A.J. above me still. I gasp for breath as he smooths back my hair and points at his face. Look at me, he says, and I focus on his gray eyes. Neither light nor dark, gray is always in between.

  “Where am I?” I ask, taking in the white room, the bed, my school uniform, wrinkled and damp, the safety standing by the door, watching without watching.

  “The first floor,” the safety says. “You fainted on the lawn. The nurse gave you a sedative to help with your breathing.”

  I sit up and feel an echo of the terror course through me. My muscles tighten, and I rub my chest instinctively. I stop when I see A.J. watching me.

  “I thought I was going to die,” I say to myself, and A.J. nods gravely, like maybe he thought so too. I think back to the therapy session with my parents, walking out of the healing center, trying to make it to the dorms. And then I . . . fainted? That’s never happened to me before. The feeling is getting stronger, getting worse.

  “Have I been out long?”

  A.J. shakes his head no. But my memory of what happened right before is so hazy, like a dream I can’t seem to recall. I pinch my arm and watch a red welt bloom on my skin. A.J. watches me do it.

  I swing my legs over the bed and stand up to go. The room tilts like a carnival ride, and he puts his hands on my shoulder, pushing me back down, then points one finger at me, Wait here. He leaves the room and comes back a minute later with my father at his side. A.J. takes up a post next to the safety, like he doesn’t know whether to stay or go.

  “Is Mom here?” I ask my father.

  “No, she had to . . . leave.”

  “She had to go get a drink, you mean?”

  He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t need to. Instead he asks, “How are you feeling?”

  “I want to go home,” I say. I don’t know where home is, but I want to go there, someplace safe and normal. I only know it’s not here.

  My dad pulls a chair over to my bed and sits down. He takes my hand in his, and it feels strange. I haven’t touched him in so long.

  “If I take you home with me, I’ll do something to upset you. We’ll get into an argument, and you will get angry and leave, and you’re old enough now that I can’t stop you. I don’t want you at your mother’s house, and I don’t want you running away.”

  “I won’t,” I say, but how can I be sure?

  “The time for running is over, Taylor. It’s time you look inside yourself. Be the warrior I know you are.”

  I let go of his hand and cover my face with my arms. I feel like crying. I feel so hopeless and trapped.

  “I hate it here.”

  “You hate it because there are rules and consequences, but you need boundaries. I had your anger when I was your age, and it took me many years to conquer it. I don’t want you to make the mistakes I made.”

  I recall the bits of stories I’ve heard from my grandmother and her friends about my father as a teenager, a wild one, drinking and partying with his friends on the rese
rvation, going out to bars in nearby cities and getting into fights, a brief time he spent in jail for it. Then he met my mother, who was visiting from Tennessee. He turned his life around for her. But he didn’t know that she came with problems of her own.

  “I’m not going to make your mistakes, Dad.”

  “What about what just happened? What if you had been driving a car? Or crossing the road? You could have been seriously hurt, Taylor.”

  I shake my head, because that’s never happened to me before. It’s this place that’s making me crazy. “I skipped lunch and my blood sugar was low. That’s why I fainted.”

  But I can see he doesn’t believe me. He stands up to go. He’s going to leave me, again. “I’ll be back to visit in a couple of weeks,” he says. “I want to hear from Dr. Deb that you’re making a real effort. She wants to help you, Taylor. We all do.”

  I turn away from him and stare at the wall. I know if I was on my own, I’d be fine. I could manage my episodes and I could survive, which is more than what I’m doing in here.

  My father pats my shoulder and heads for the door. He motions for A.J. to join him out in the hallway. I hear my father speaking softly, and I know he’s talking about me. I hate it, being treated like a patient, weak and feeble, like my mother. I’m not crazy. I know my own mind.

  A.J. comes back a minute later and sits down next to me, but I have nothing to say to him. He’s supposed to be on my side, not taking orders from my father. He reaches for my hand, but I pull it away.

  “Go away.”

  He sighs but doesn’t leave. I want to go right now. Get into a car and drive away, lose myself in a big city where no one knows my name and I am just another face in the crowd. There I can start over and be someone else—someone better. And all my bad memories will wash away like dirty water down the drain.

  “Please, A.J., just leave me alone.”

  He stands and shuffles his feet a little, like he’s hoping I’ll change my mind, but I turn away and face the wall. Finally he leaves. I bury my face into the pillow and bite it to keep from crying. I reach into my pocket and feel the metallic smoothness of the car key.