Stand Alone

by P. D. Workman

  “You’re crazy, you know that, Bywater? I don’t know why I would even ask you!” he shouted, and gasped for another lungful of air. “You’re totally nuts! What the hell was that for? All I was doing was talking to you! If you didn’t want that, why don’t you just say so? What’s your problem?”

  “Hey, hey, what’s going on here?” a teacher questioned, pushing through the crowds of students. “Is there a problem over here?”

  Justine glared at Kenny.

  “I told you to stay out of my space,” she hissed.

  He just shook his head in disbelief.

  “What’s up?” Mr. Bryant questioned, looking from one to the other. “Is there a problem? Can I help?”

  “No problem,” Kenny said flatly, withdrawing from the hands that had been supporting him and standing on his own feet. “She’s just crazy, that’s all. It’s over.”

  Bryant looked at Justine, raising his eyebrows.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “Fine,” Justine said, slamming her locker door shut. “As long as he stays out of my way.”

  As she retreated, she could hear the whispering behind her. Could hear the names that the other students called her as she walked away. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care what anyone else thought of her. As long as they stayed out of her way, along with Kenny.

  A few days later, Justine was sitting in Dr. Morton’s office. He sat down, and looked Justine over thoughtfully. She sat up instead of lounging in her chair. She had on a neat, clean t-shirt and blue jeans. Her hair was braided in two long pigtails that joined partway down her back. She even had some makeup on.

  “You look different today,” Dr. Morton observed.

  Justine looked at him, then her eyes wandered to the window, where she watched the pigeons congregating on the roof. The ledge and the roof must be very messy, with the number of birds that were always up there.

  “You look nice,” Dr. Morton tried again. “Are you dressed up for something?”

  “No,” Justine said. “Nothing special.”

  “Are you trying on a new style?”

  Justine considered this, and then nodded.

  “I guess so,” she said, “I just  … feel different today.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Everyone is entitled to dress the way they want and to try out new things. How would we progress if we didn’t try out new things?”

  Justine didn’t answer. But it wasn’t really a question.

  “Has anything else changed?” Dr. Morton asked. “What else do you feel differently about?”

  “Nothing,” Justine said with a shrug, and a slight shake of her head.

  Dr. Morton leaned back in his chair, twirling his pencil through his fingers.

  “How is school?” he questioned after a while.

  “School is annoying and stupid, as usual,” Justine said. “I don’t know why I can’t just do home study or something.”

  “We’ve discussed that before. You mother feels that you need more supervision than she would be able to provide, since she has to be at work.”

  “I do my homework without her hanging over me. It’s not like I need her supervision.”

  “It’s not just the work, Justine. You have always been a kid who tended to  … find trouble. Your behavior lately has not proven you to be particularly trustworthy. Leaving you alone all day while your mother was at work, without any supervision  … we all agree that it would not be a good situation.”

  “We all agree?” Justine repeated.

  “Your mother and I agree.”

  “I still think it’s stupid. I go to class to listen to the teachers lecture all day on what I can learn from the textbook in five minutes. I do my work during class, usually I don’t even have any homework. But I still have to spend just as long there as the stupid kids who can’t understand it without being spoon fed.”

  “There’s no need to put down the other students. Some students have learning disabilities  …”

  “Duh.”

  “  … and even the kids with normal abilities and intelligence can’t always keep up with you. You are exceptional.”

  “So why do I have to do the same thing as everyone else?”

  “You need the supervision, like I said. You also need the socialization  …”

  “Have you ever met a teenager? Socialization? It’s like being socialized by a bunch of apes. Actually, I think apes are a better role model. I get along fine with adults. It’s the kids who are a problem. I can socialize with grown-ups. Why should it matter if I get along with my peers or not? Look at the school, no one gets along with their peers. All of the bullying, and porn and drug addiction, and kids hooking up and getting pregnant  … why would you want me to be like that? Why would you want me to be like everybody else?”

  “Nobody is asking you to be like everyone else, Justine. You’re allowed to just be yourself. But you do need to be able to get along with others, and you have not done a particularly good job at that.”

  “I do fine. Who’s complaining?”

  “There have been complaints,” Dr. Morton said seriously. He leaned forward, allowing his seat to come back to a horizontal position. He pointed his pencil at Justine. “You’ve been back to school for what, two weeks? And we’ve already heard from the school about at least one incident. Are there others that haven’t been reported?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “The administration needs to act when there is violence or obvious friction between students. You haven’t been exactly  … pleasant with the other students, have you?”

  “Why should I?” Justine said, sighing hugely.

  She couldn’t understand why it was such a big deal. It was school. And they weren’t even talking about her schoolwork. What did it matter about how she got along with the other kids?

  “Because by learning to get along with your same-age peers, you learn valuable skills  …”

  Justine rolled her eyes and tuned out the rest of the lecture. She started counting the birds on the ledge. It wasn’t easy, because they kept moving around, some of them flying away, some of them coming back.

  “Justine. Justine!” Dr. Morton was trying to get her attention back, becoming aware that he had lost her. Justine looked at him and shook her head.

  “Why don’t you call me Katie?” she suggested.

  “Katie?” Dr. Morton repeated. He studied her closely, eyebrows drawn down. “You said there was nothing else new,” he said with a hint of a mocking smile.

  “Katie’s not new,” Justine said. “Katie’s old. Older than Justine.”

  “Older than Justine,” Dr. Morton said. “What does that mean? How old is Katie?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the same age as Justine. Maybe a couple of years older, because she’s been around longer than Justine.”

  “Umm-hmm,” he murmured, writing something in the file. “When did you start to be Katie?”

  “I’ve always been Katie,” Justine said, casting her mind back. Back as far as she could remember, he ghosts had visited her dreams. “Justine is the new one, remember?”

  “Right. So when did you start to be Justine instead of Katie?”

  “Maybe  … two. I don’t know for sure. It was a long time ago.”

  “It seems to me I’ve heard that name before. Have we talked about Katie before?” he suggested.

  Justine nodded.

  “Probably. Maybe when I was little. Back before  …” Justine trailed off.

  “Before what?”

  “I don’t know. Before anyone convinced me that I shouldn’t talk about her,” she said with a shrug.

  “When was that? And why shouldn’t you talk about her?”

  “People don’t like it when you talk about being someone else,” Justine said. “They feel threatened. So they get angry. There are  … consequences.”

  “Are we talking about your mother? Your mother
feels threatened when you talk about Katie?” Dr. Morton prodded, writing another brief notation in his file.

  Justine nodded vaguely.

  “Yeah, I guess. She really wants me to  … just be Justine. But I’m not like Justine.”

  “How are you not like Justine?”

  Justine stared at middle-space, thinking about it.

  “Justine is supposed to be loving and sweet and obedient. She’s supposed to be happy and friendly and do all of the things that the other girls do.”

  “And how is Katie supposed to be?”

  “Katie is smart, and careful, so no one can hurt her. She can look after herself and do what she wants to do and it doesn’t matter if someone says it’s ‘not right.’ Katie is better than Justine.”

  “She’s better?” Dr. Morton repeated.

  Justine nodded.

  “Yeah. Justine is just supposed to be a wimp. A drone. Katie doesn’t care what anybody says. She can be anything she wants.”

  “I see. Is there anything that Katie does care about?”

  “Just Mon—” Justine cut herself off and shook her head. “Katie just looks after herself. Caring about anything or anyone else would just get in the way of that. It’s better this way.”

  “Sounds like Katie is trying to protect herself from getting hurt.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you think that by trying to avoid getting hurt, you are avoiding joy too? Avoiding the chance of finding real happiness?”

  “No,” Justine said, frowning, and turning her eyes to look at him. “You can’t be happy if someone is hurting you.”

  “Anything worthwhile includes some risk. You have to put yourself out there for a relationship to develop. We’ve talked about that before.”

  “Well, Justine can try that. Katie won’t.”

  Dr. Morton was silent, pondering the suggestion. He sharpened his pencil in the electric sharpener on his desk, and scribbled something in his file.

  “What has happened to Justine?” he questioned.

  “I don’t know,” she said brusquely. “Katie doesn’t care.”

  Dr. Morton watched her, searching her face and body language for unconscious signals.

  “I know that you don’t have multiple personalities,” he said slowly, “and you know that I know that. We both know that this ‘Katie’ personality is just something that you’re trying on again. And that’s okay. It’s a safe way to try out new ideas. We don’t grow if we don’t try out new ideas. If you’re more comfortable being Katie, then be Katie for a while. This is a safe place.”

  “What about at home? With Em? And at school?” Justine challenged.

  “What about them?”

  “They  … don’t like it. At school, I’ll get detention if I say I’m Katie instead of Justine. And at home  …” Justine shrugged, thinking about how Em had reacted in the past, just to the name Katie. “People don’t like it,” she said lamely.

  “Well, if it is too hard other places, then for now why don’t you just start here? We can talk about what is appropriate in other settings later.”

  Justine sighed. She stared out the window for a while.

  “What about emancipation?” she questioned.

  “What about it?” Dr. Morton questioned.

  “Katie is independent. She doesn’t need a mother. So she—I—should be emancipated,” Justine suggested

  “We can’t emancipate Katie without emancipating Justine, and Justine does need a mother. She’s not ready to take care of herself.”

  “Justine could too,” Justine said crossly. On one hand, she was glad that Dr. Morton would take her seriously and talk about Katie; but on the other hand, it irritated her that he insisted on treating the whole thing logically. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t something that could be dealt with using your head. She had lived with Katie in her head for long enough to know that it wasn’t reasonable, that it didn’t make sense. Em had forced to her to bury Katie, but Katie was still there, trying to dig her way out.

  “I don’t think so,” Dr. Morton said. “Justine won’t take any responsibility to cook or help take care of the house. Justine wanders off and squats in empty houses and ends up sick or in trouble. Justine needs someone looking out for her welfare, and taking care of her.”

  Justine scowled at this.

  “I don’t need a mother,” she asserted.

  “Who, Katie or Justine?”

  “Neither.” Justine shook her head irritably. “I don’t want to talk about Katie any more.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Morton smiled and made a few more notes in his file. “That’s just fine.”

  The next morning, as Justine put her books down on her desk, Ms. Taupe, the teacher, looked up at her.

  “Justine, can I see you please?” she said quietly.

  Justine got up, glancing at her face to see what this was all about. Ms. Taupe’s expression was masked. She didn’t give anything away. Justine took a couple of steps toward her. Ms. Taupe jerked her head.

  “Bring your books,” she advised.

  Justine went back to her desk to retrieve them, and went up to the teacher’s desk. Ms. Taupe didn’t look at her face. She handed Justine a buff envelope.

  “Please take that to your guidance counselor,” she said.

  Justine took it from her slowly, looking at her teacher’s face. Finally, she shrugged.

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  Ms. Taupe nodded and looked back down at her attendance and homework log, dismissing her. Justine pushed past the last few students straggling in through the door. She headed down to the main office and looked at the student manning the desk.

  “Mr. Cord in with anyone?” she questioned.

  “Yes. Have a seat, please.”

  Justine sat down on one of the ugly, uncomfortable waiting room chairs. She was the only one there so far. It was early in the day, so there hadn’t been much time for troublemakers to be sent down yet. Just Justine. She put her head back, staring up at the ceiling. There were large holes in some of the suspended ceiling tiles where other students had flicked pens up into them, embedding them to fall or be retrieved later. Justine grinned at it. She closed her eyes and daydreamed, letting her thoughts float from one thing to another without much effort.

  “Justine?”

  She opened her eyes. Her guidance counselor, Mr. Cord, was standing over her. Justine jerked her head up and got to her feet.

  “Come on in,” Mr. Cord told her, turning back into his office. Justine followed him in and sat down in the guest chair. She had missed seeing who had vacated it. It was still warm from the body heat of whoever it had been. Justine wiggled a bit, trying to get more comfortable.

  Mr. Cord shut the door and went around his desk to sit down in the big, black, padded chair.

  “What is this about?” he questioned.

  Justine looked at the envelope in her hand, and tossed it onto his desk.

  “What’s this?” the man questioned, picking it up. He ran his fingers through his dark, wavy hair.

  “Don’t know,” Justine said. “Ms. Taupe sent me down.”

  He slit it open with his finger, and slid the contents out. Justine saw a handwritten essay, her essay, and the teacher’s cover note clipped to it. Mr. Cord crossed one ankle over his opposite knee, and leaned back, reading the cover note seriously. He skimmed over the essay, putting it back on the desk face-down one page at a time. His foot beat time, speeding up restlessly as he read the essay. Eventually, Mr. Cord looked up.

  “This essay is very disturbing,” he told Justine.

  Justine shrugged.

  “I just did the assignment,” she said flippantly.

  “It disturbed Ms. Taupe, and I think for good reason. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Justine shrugged and shook her head, looking around his office restlessly.

  “Justine. Look at me.”

  Justine looked toward him, head cocked.

  “Justine. Ar
e the feelings you’ve expressed in this essay true?”

  Justine considered. It was an odd question. Feelings weren’t true or untrue. They just were. There was nothing in the essay that was not true, but it was a personal perspective essay. Ms. Taupe said that your personal perspective couldn’t be wrong, it was just your perspective. The essay was to be graded on technical writing skills and how well the position was explained and defended.

  “Did I pass?” she questioned.

  Mr. Cord looked perplexed. His foot stopped beating time.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Justine picked up the papers from his desk, looking for her grade. There was no letter grade on it. Justine pressed her lips together.

  “She didn’t grade it.”

  “What we’re concerned about here is not your writing skills. It’s what you wrote that is concerning.”

  Justine leaned the chair back, balancing on two legs.

  “Ms. Taupe said I could write what I wanted.”

  “You didn’t write something you weren’t allowed. You wrote something that worries us.”

  Justine shrugged.

  “Justine. Look at me.”

  “I am looking at you,” Justine snapped.

  “No, you’re not. You’re looking in my direction, but I want you to look in my eyes.”

  She looked vaguely toward his face, her lids half closed.

  “Justine.” Cord stood up and came around his desk. Sitting on the edge of the desk, he attempted to hold her gaze, leaning forward slightly and exuding his concern. “We are taking this seriously. If you want to talk about these feelings, now is the time.”

  Justine felt extremely uncomfortable with his forced eye contact and intensity, and tried to control the anxiety and the fury that tightened and warred in her chest.

  “What I wrote was true,” she said tightly, pushing toward him, getting into his personal space, staring eye-to-eye. He attempted to pull back, but Justine pursued him, staying right in his face. “And you can’t change the way that I feel.”