The Innocence Treatment

by Ari Goelman

  I do my best to follow them, but I can’t always resist. I love hugs! So I can’t always follow Rule #2! And I just don’t see the point of not giving my friends money if I have it (breaking Rule #5).

  All the rules but one have come from my father. On my tenth birthday, Evelyn brought me into her room and gave me Rule #7. She had me copy the whole thing about a dozen times—by hand, on paper, until she was sure I had it memorized. Then she lit a fire in her trash can and burned the paper that I’d written it on. Since then we’ve done the same thing every year on my birthday.

  It’s a long rule, but I can recite it word for word without even trying: “Never repeat anything you hear someone else say about the authorities. The ‘authorities’ means: the government, the police, the sponsoring corporations, and most especially, the Department. Don’t even repeat it to me (meaning Evelyn). Break this rule, and you will get people in trouble.”

  When I turned fifteen, I told Evelyn I still remembered her rule and I didn’t need to write it another ten times. Evelyn grabbed my shoulders, stared into my eyes, and said, “We’re going over the rule. You’re my sister. I love you. I don’t want anyone making you into a snitch.”

  Dr. Corbin, how could someone make you into a snitch if you didn’t want to be one? But when Evelyn gets that tone in her voice, I just do what she says.

  Anyway, the whole walk to school, all Evelyn wanted to talk about was her rule. What’s funny is this is the one rule I’ve never even been tempted to break. I break pretty much every other rule at least once a month. Like the week before the operation, my special education assistant wasn’t paying attention during lunch, and Jimmy Porten convinced me to eat a cockroach. (Breaking Rule #3—“Never accept anything to eat or drink from anyone not on the safe list.”) But I’ve never—not once—broken Evelyn’s rule. So I don’t know why she was making such a big deal about it this morning.

  Other than that, my first day back at school was fine. Everything’s pretty much the same as last year. Except for the new kid, Sasha, who turns out to be in every one of my classes. I can see why Riley thinks he’s cute. He has bright blue eyes and light brown hair, both of which set off what my mother would call his “peaches-and-cream” complexion—you know, rosy cheeks, good skin, etc.

  After school, when Riley was driving me home, she kept asking me questions about him.

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Um. I think I heard him say New Mexico. His father works for the Department.”

  Riley rolled her eyes. “We live in Bethesda, Lauren. Everyone’s father works for the Department. Why does he wear glasses?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Because he’s nearsighted? I used to wear glasses before I got the laser surgery.”

  Riley shook her head impatiently. “So why doesn’t he get the surgery?”

  “Maybe he can’t afford it,” Gabriella said.

  “If his parents were that poor, he wouldn’t be able to afford to go to our school.” Riley turned onto my street, frowning to herself. She honked and waved at Ms. Thompson, our old English teacher, who was gardening in her front yard. “And they definitely couldn’t afford to live around here.” Riley’s eyes widened. “I bet he’s working for a reality television show about high school. I heard they use cameras mounted on glasses all the time to capture point-of-view footage.”

  “Wow,” Gabriella said. “That would be cool. Hey, Lauren, you’d be like one of the stars because you’re in all his classes.”

  I touched my bristly scalp. “Ugh. No way. Not until my hair grows back.”

  No offense, Dr. Corbin, but I wish you had used more stitches to close up the scars on my head. It looks like the hair isn’t going to grow back there and the scars are super-big and ugly.

  “It looks great,” Gabriella said.

  I didn’t say anything, but I’m almost positive Gabriella was just saying that to be nice. I would swear that she doesn’t really think my hair looks great. I guess that’s the bad part of not believing everything people tell you, right, Dr. Corbin? There are some lies it’s nicer to believe. But it was still kind of Gabriella to say that, don’t you think? So it still made me feel better, even though I think I’m going to wear a hat to school tomorrow. Or maybe a scarf—like Ms. Warnecke (the music teacher at my school) did when she had breast cancer and lost all her hair.

  Anyway, I’m super-excited that I’m starting to be able to tell when people are lying, even if it’s just white lies like that. Thanks again, Dr. Corbin!

  Your friend,

  Lauren

  CASE NOTES OF DR. FINLAY BRECHEL

  December 4, 2031

  Transcribed from interview:

  Reading your journal, it sounds like you really missed your hair.

  At first, yeah. I really missed my hair.

  Is there a reason you haven’t grown it back? By now it would easily be long enough to hide your scars.

  I’m not interested in hiding anything. Plus, with no hair there’s nothing for people to grab if … when I get into fights.

  Do you anticipate getting into many more fights while you’re at this facility?

  Actually, I anticipate getting murdered while I’m at this facility.

  (pause)

  You don’t seem so funny today, Dr. Brechel, no offense.

  I noted your reaction to the drugs yesterday and Dr. Corbin has changed them accordingly. You understand she’s just trying to stabilize your condition.

  I understand that’s what you think. Why were you asking about my hair?

  I was wondering if there was someone in particular who liked the way you looked with a shaved head. Someone who might have changed the way you thought about it.

  (Long pause. Subject audibly sighs before asking:)

  What’s today?

  Today is December 4. The day your—ah—information was meant to be made public, correct?

  Yeah.

  So do you remember our conversation yesterday?

  I remember. I think it’s a little early for me to conclude that I’m totally wrong about Dr. Corbin. Maybe the folks at the Department haven’t noticed my post yet. Maybe Corbin is still hoping you can convince me to take it down. Maybe she thinks it will be easier to call me crazy if I’m locked up here instead of dead.

  If I may, I’d like to point out that you’re transforming the facts to fit your theory. Yesterday you suggested they’d kill you today if you hadn’t told me a password. Now you’re suggesting “they” may keep you alive indefinitely. This is a classic strategy of a wounded psyche, Lauren. You’re forcing the facts—whatever they are—to conform with your version of the world.

  Doesn’t everyone do that?

  (chuckles) Maybe. I suppose the idea here is for us to come up with a version of the world that lets you live more happily with other people.

  Speaking of me living, has Congress voted to extend the Emergency Act?

  I believe the House of Representatives has approved a bill, but a few senators are holding out, asking the usual questions around government oversight of the Department.

  The usual questions. Ha. They’re going to start asking some less-usual questions when they see the stuff I’ve posted online. I know—you think this is all delusional. But they’re not delusions if I’m right.

  (pause) Ahem. I don’t think you answered my earlier question—was there someone in particular who liked your hair short?

  (sighs) A few people, I guess.

  Like who?

  (long silence)

  My self-defense teacher, for one. Mr. Benitez loves my hair like this. (smiles) He would give every girl in his class a crew cut if he could. Any time he sees a girl’s hair getting long, he can’t help himself. “What? You want to give the scumbag something to grab? Why you gotta make his life easy?”

  Ah, yes, Mr. Benitez. I believe I read about him in your journal. You’re quite fond of him, aren’t you?

  I wouldn’t say that. He’s a good self-defense teacher, that’s al
l.

  JOURNAL OF LAUREN C. FIELDING

  Thursday, October 16, 2031

  Dr. Corbin!

  I’m actually getting better at reading people! I just went to my first self-defense class since the operation, and you’ll never believe what happened!

  Evelyn and I have been going to self-defense classes two or three times a week since I was in fifth grade. It used to be fun. A lot of us started around then. You know, because after the Emergency, everyone’s parents were like, “You have to learn to defend yourselves!” Never mind that my father can barely throw a punch himself.4

  I’ve hated the classes ever since I turned twelve. That was the year they made us start seriously sparring. My friends had all dropped out by then, and I would have dropped out in a second if my father had let me. I hate sparring. We all wear mitts, a helmet, and a mouth guard, but a punch in the face still hurts. A punch in the stomach really hurts. And I’ve always been bad at it.

  It’s not that I’m slower or weaker than the other girls in the class. I have no problem breaking boards—actually, I’m better than lots of the boys at that. I’m fast, too. Not to brag, but last year my teacher, Mr. Benitez, told me I’d be one of the best fighters in the class if I was just a little more aggressive. The problem is, I don’t want to be more aggressive. I don’t want to hurt anyone. This doesn’t seem to bother any of the other kids, but I’m always worried that I might break someone’s nose or something. What if their face never looks quite right afterward, and it’s my fault?

  I thought I wouldn’t have to go back to the classes for a few more weeks—not until my head was totally healed—but today at dinner my father said, “Don’t eat too much, Lauren. You’re due at Benitez’s in forty minutes.”

  “What? I can’t go.” I gently touched my head where you sewed me up (the wounds are still pretty itchy, by the way). “My head hasn’t finished healing.”

  “You’re going.” My father pointed his fork at me. “I called Dr. Corbin and she said the exercise would be good for you. You just can’t spar.”

  I don’t think I stopped smiling for the next half hour. I was almost skipping as I followed Evelyn to the car. I kept thinking: I don’t have to spar. I don’t have to spar.

  Evelyn saw me smiling and laughed a little as she got in the driver’s seat. “Mr. Benitez is not going to be happy when he hears you can’t spar.” She shook her head and imitated Mr. Benitez’s bass voice. “Hey, how you gonna learn to take a punch without taking a punch?” Mr. Benitez says that at least once every class, usually when someone’s crying because they got punched in the stomach. He’s kind of a jerk, Mr. Benitez. Mrs. Benitez is much nicer, but she mostly works with the little kids.

  The gym’s a few minutes down the highway. Close enough to the District5 that it almost feels like you’re in the city, but not so close that it’s actually dangerous.

  We got to the gym with a few minutes to spare and changed into our practice clothes: T-shirts and sweats. Another of Mr. Benitez’s favorite questions is, “What, you gonna be in a uniform when you get into a fight? Someone attacks you, you gonna say, ‘Excuse me for a minute. I need to change into my karate uniform’?”

  I don’t know why this means we should wear sweats. I pretty much never wear sweats, so chances are pretty slim that I’d be wearing sweats if someone attacked me.

  Mr. Benitez came over to us when we walked into the gym. He’s a short guy, with a big stomach. He doesn’t look especially strong, but I’ve seen him break six pieces of wood with a punch. Not a full-body punch, either. He doesn’t wind up or anything. Just—pow—one punch and the wood breaks.

  Benitez ran his hand over my head. For a guy who spends so much time hitting people and objects, his hands can be surprisingly gentle. “What, you imitating my hairstyle?” He’s mostly bald with a little fringe of graying crew cut.

  I was about to answer no, when I realized he was joking. Pretty cool, right? I realized he was joking. No one told me. I just figured it out myself.

  I smiled. “Nah. My hair already looks better than yours.”

  Benitez smiled, then cocked an eyebrow. “Evi been giving you smart-ass lessons or something?”

  “Or something,” Evelyn said. “Hey. Lauren can’t spar today. She’s still recovering from the surgery.”

  He stepped back. “All right. You girls start warming up. Evi—when you’re ready, you find yourself a partner and get to work.” He glanced at me. “You, I don’t know … start on the speed ball and move to the heavy bag when you get bored.”

  Benitez teaches a grab-bag mix of jujitsu, boxing, and dirty tricks. His assistant teachers are all men, and they all wear jock protectors. Benitez encourages us to kick them between the legs whenever we’re sparring. “It’s a good habit,” he always says. “God forbid I get my girls in the habit of fighting fair.”

  I was punching the speed ball, wearing mitts and a helmet, when Devon Malachi walked in. Devon’s a good guy. He graduated from our high school last year, but when he was a senior and I was a sophomore he always smiled at me when he passed me in the hallway.

  “Hey Lauren,” he said. “You been sick or something? I haven’t seen you around here for weeks.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been recovering from surgery.”

  “Cool.” He feinted a punch at my face, then hesitated, his forehead wrinkled.

  “What?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just feinted a punch and you didn’t duck. You always duck.”

  “It was just a feint,” I said.

  “Yeah. But you always…” He frowned again, then feinted another punch at my head. This time he shifted his feet a little, and I could tell he was going to follow up with a real jab from his other hand. I ducked, and his punch went whistling over my head.

  He grinned a little wildly. “Holy crap,” he said. “What happened to you?” He jogged up and down a little and jabbed at my face again.

  I ducked again. “Stop it, Devon!” I said. “I’m not supposed to—”

  He leaned back on his right foot and I knew he was about to snap a kick toward me with his left foot.

  I lunged at him, planting my foot behind his right leg, and shoved him backward. I caught him off balance and he went down hard, with me on top of him. I shoved my forearm into his throat. “I’m recovering from surgery,” I hissed at him. “I’m not ready to spar yet.”

  Devon grinned at me. “You could have fooled me,” he said. “That was awesome!” His eyes went to the fringe of stubble peeking out from under my helmet and his smile vanished. “Oh my God,” he said. “It was brain surgery? I figured it was like an appendix or something. I’m so sorry.” His brow wrinkled. “But still. You totally kicked my butt.”

  I pushed off him and got to my feet.

  “Devon,” Benitez called, his voice like a whip crack. Devon shot to his feet. “Whose gym is this?”

  “Yours, Mr. Benitez,” Devon said loudly.

  “Give me a hundred push-ups,” Benitez said. “Next time you come to class, you wait until I tell you what to do.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Benitez,” Devon said. His eyes lingered on me for a few seconds before he dropped back to the mat and started doing push-ups.

  The rest of the class was a little boring, honestly. I worked the heavy bag really hard, but all I could think of was the feel of Devon’s throat pinned beneath my forearm. You wanna know the crazy thing, Dr. Corbin? It felt awesome. Like I’d been spoiling for a fight all day without realizing it.

  You’ll tell me when I’m okay to spar again, right, Dr. Corbin? I think I’m going to like it a lot more now.

  CASE NOTES OF DR. FINLAY BRECHEL

  December 5, 2031

  Transcribed from interview:

  Tell me more about your fight with … (pause) Devon Malachi.

  It wasn’t a fight, Dr. Brechel. It wasn’t even a real sparring match. Devon was just messing around. It was no big deal.

  So you say. I note that it’s the first time i
n your journal where you talk about enjoying violence.

  I’m telling you—it wasn’t violence. It was like a two-second play fight.

  Lauren, one of the reasons we’re here is your escalating tendency toward violence.

  I don’t have an “escalating tendency toward violence.” And if I do, it has nothing to do with why you’re here. You don’t really think that Dr. Corbin gives a rat’s ass about any violent tendencies I have?

  I do. I think Dr. Corbin cares very much about your violent tendencies.

  If she cares at all, she’s proud of them. She probably has a little video of me kicking that orderly’s ass on her phone so she can watch it at home before she goes to sleep at night. She probably … (shakes her head). Shoot. Don’t get me started. I think there’s still an outside chance they’d let you walk away. Which you should do as soon as possible. At some point in the near future, it’ll be too late.

  (silence)

  All right. Let me propose something to you, Lauren. You spent the first sixteen years of your life without any ability to be suspicious of others. Without any ability to read their emotions or to conceive that they might be thinking something other than what they were saying.

  Dr. Corbin’s treatment changed all that. And now you can’t turn your suspicions off. In my eyes, your pathological paranoia is the natural outcome for a person who suddenly has to come to grips with all the social messiness of the world.

  “Pathological paranoia”? The funny thing about paranoia is, it depends on the truth, right? I mean, it’s only paranoid if I’m wrong.

  I want you to consider the possibility that you are wrong. You said it yourself in one of your journal entries—that perhaps a side effect of the therapy was making you too paranoid. Just consider that possibility.