POST–GROUP THERAPY
Well, thank someone (I don’t know who to thank these days—God? Satan? The Dungeon Master?) Callie is not in my group, so I don’t have to contemplate my body-image bullshit for at least that hour. That means Group can carry on normally, if normal happens to include a satanist in love. Read the gripping account of my Group meeting today. Feel free to act it out as a Reader’s Theater.
EUGENE: Lawrence, what is going on with you today?
LAWRENCE: Love.
EUGENE: Yes, Lawrence, we know you think you love Satan.
LAWRENCE: My love is beyond Satan now. I love [dun-dun-duuunn!] Abby. [Deep gasps and snickers from the audience.] The Dark Lord has told me she is to be my bride.
ABBY: Hell no! [Faux ghetto speak] I ain’t ready to be no one’s bride, and certainly not your Satan-worshipping ass.
LAWRENCE: The Dark Lord told me you would respond in this way and that it may be necessary to take more drastic measures to win your love. I will unveil my plan soon.
I swear that’s how Lawrence talks! It’s like he should be standing on a stage holding a skull with a spotlight on him every time he says something. I have no idea how Lawrence chose Abby to be in love with (is it weird that I feel just a little jealous that a giant satanic freak didn’t choose to be in love with me?), but I have a feeling it has something to do with her brush with Satan during her seizure. Perhaps he thinks Satan will be pleased and turn him into a personal assistant.
For our second act of Group Therapy Reader’s Theater, let us enjoy this tasteful discussion of teen lust I like to call “Pervs with Problems.”
EUGENE: We on staff have been noticing lately that y’all are getting a little hormonal [hee-hee]. I must remind you that there are to be no relationships of the boyfriend/girlfriend variety.
ME: What if someone’s gay? Is that OK then?
EUGENE: None of that either. No touching. No whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. And definitely no making out in school. We’ve got our eyes on you.
TANYA: On who? [Waking up from her regular Group nap.]
EUGENE: Don’t think we don’t know, Tanya.
TANYA: Know what? What a wonderful student I am? [I don’t see how she gets any work done with all of the lap dances she gives Luther in school.]
EUGENE: I don’t want to see it, and no one here wants to see it either.
MATT O.: Amen!
PHIL/SHAGGY: Speak for yourself.
It is pretty gross being forced to watch people make out in school. It’s almost like being in real school, where Julie Ganty and Chris Panlin are always groping in front of my locker. They’re pretty nice about moving, but it makes me feel doggish to have to ask. And that no one has to ask me. However, if they’ve “got their eyes on us” then why haven’t they ever stopped people from making out? If I were an adult, I would feel like a total perv having to walk up to some teenagers and say, “Can you please get your tongue out of her mouth and your hand off her ass and get back to work?” That’s like acknowledging that you were watching and probably why schools have No PDA rules, but no one ever enforces them. The last thing I would ever want is Eugene separating me from Justin in a passionate embrace. Dare to dream.
PLAY THERAPY
I just returned from the weirdest thing. They called it “Play Therapy.” Only a handful of us were there, while the rest were at something called “Tough Love.” I feel so immature, like why did I have to play while other people got some tough lovin’? Actually, I could have played all day because Justin was in Play Therapy with me. Swoon.
Some flaky woman with the craziest giant black hairdo—like, so over-the-top Hairspray the Musical you wouldn’t believe it—brought us up in the elevator to the top floor (with only five of us in the ’vator, it was hard to get any arm-touching action without being obvious). The light in the room was gray, although it was warmer than the screened-in light of our floor. The only furniture was a circle of (nonfarting) chairs. Why are they always seating us in circles? So we don’t kill ourselves on the corner of a square setup? Anywho, the hair lady, who I shall now call “Big ’Do,” spoke in what she thought was a soothing manner. I wondered whether it was condescending or genuine. Big ’Do explained, “Welcome to Play Therapy. For those of you new to the experience, I hope you will find this a refreshing way to look at your ‘issues.’ [Finger quotes here.] Play Therapy allows us to use our imaginations to free us from the constraints of physical walls … .” She went on from there, but that calm voice and the rocking motion of her ’do nearly put me to sleep. The gist of it was that we were given a topic, and we had to use our imagination to re-create that topic physically without actually using anything tangible, except the other people in the room. Of course, the people weren’t actually tangible either, since we aren’t allowed to touch anyone. Does any of this make sense? No? Example: Today the topic was “safe places.” We had to sit for way too long and think about what our favorite safe place was. Then we had to use what was in the room (i.e., the chairs and the humans) to re-create that place.
Big ’Do set the rules, “You must guide each other with your voices. If you describe the scene well enough, it will fall into place organically.” What does “organic” mean when it’s not describing fruits and vegetables? The whole thing was a little flaky. I thought this could have been my chance to get a little arm-on-arm action with Justin, but not a chance. The ’Do watched us like a hawk with big hair. Any time one of us got close to touching an arm, she would give a “gentle cough” as a reminder of the rules.
I chose to re-create my bedroom. I set up Sandy as my stereo (with Morgan as a speaker), Victor as a Willy Wonka poster, Colby as my bulletin board with the collage of punk and skater hotties you and I made, and Justin as—you guessed it—my bed.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” Big ’Do exclaimed. “This says a world about you without you having to say anything at all. Now, go play!”
“Play what?” I asked her.
“Play like you are in your safe place. Use your safe objects and show us all how good it feels to be in this place.”
I walked over to Sandy and pretended to push her nose in as if I were turning the stereo on. I was this close to pretending her boobs were the radio knobs, but I thought better of it. Instead, she held up her fingers like buttons, and I pretended to put a CD in.
“And what kind of relaxing music are we listening to?” Big ’Do asked.
“The Dead Kennedys,” I answered, knowing this was not the answer she was looking for. Bobbing my head to the “music,” I walked to the Willy Wonka poster and the bulletin board and pretended to admire them by putting my hand on my chin and stroking it. I soon realized that people only do that when they have beards, and stopped. Victor cracked a wicked grin, and I was glad to see that Big ’Do allowed it. I smiled back. I could almost hear the corners of our mouths squeaking after not having used our smile muscles for so long, like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. “Oil. Can.”
I slowly approached Justin. I made him lie down on the floor, arms to the side, legs straight out, to give the illusion of a bed. What was I supposed to do? I would’ve freaked if I could actually have lain down on him (although I would also have been petrified that I would crush him). I looked at Big ’Do and said, “This is my bed. I like to lie on top of my bedspread and listen to music.”
“Go ahead, dear, just do it without touching.” Did she expect me to levitate? I overexaggerated a fake yawn and stretched, then slowly placed myself on the floor parallel to Justin. I turned on my side and curled into a loose fetal position. I could see the side of Justin’s face, the patches where he was starting to grow hair and the patches where he couldn’t. He had a small layer of fuzz on the rim of his ear, which looked like it had a velvety animal quality. All I wanted to do was reach out and touch it, touch him. I could hear his breathing, and I tried to align mine with his. It was almost impossible because I was so afraid of him hearing my breathing and thinking that I had fat perso
n breath that I kept holding my breaths, until they ended up coming out in quick puffs. Justin’s chest rose slightly, and I saw the corner of his mouth spread. He was quietly laughing. I totally thought it was because of my breathing, but then he turned so his whole face looked in my direction and said in the quietest of voices, “This is pretty weird, huh?”
I let out a relieved sigh (but made sure not to do it in his direction in case my breath stank) and smiled, “Yeah.”
It was weird being in my “bedroom.” I haven’t thought about it in a while, how much time I used to spend there. I wonder what my parents are doing to it. My posters better be in the exact same place when I get back. What if Mara has moved into my bedroom now that I’m gone? She was always complaining about how much bigger my room was. Nah, she’d never do that. She loves hanging out in her big sister’s room, I can tell. My bedroom door is the only one that she knocks on before she comes in. I miss her. But right now the only bed I’d like to be in is the one in front of me.
“Do I make an OK bed?” he asked me. Before I could think of a witty yet somewhat seductive remark, Big ’Do said, “Victor, it’s your turn.”
Foiled by The ’Do.
You will die when you hear what Victor’s safe place was: Wal-Mart. Isn’t that hilarious? Everyone busted up laughing when he said that, and Big ’Do told us that everyone is entitled to their own safe place without being laughed at.
“That’s alright,” Victor told her, “the only reason they laughing is ’cause they know Wal-Mart is safe ’cause I never got caught shoplifting there.” He thought this was very funny, and I wondered how serious he was. I remembered what he said back in Group about his mom having cancer. “I’m just playin’. It’s like they got everything I need right under one roof. And have you tried the popcorn from the snack bar?” I had, actually, and he was right. Quite good.
Big ’Do interjected, “I seem to recall from your files that your mom works at Wal-Mart.”
“You read my files?”
“It’s part of my job to get to know all of you,” ’Do explained calmly.
“Well, yeah, she used to work there. In customer service. Before she got sick.” Victor looked at Big ’Do accusingly. “Thank you so much for bringing that to everyone’s attention.”
“I’m sorry. I thought that was part of your safe place exploration.” ’Do looked concerned in a glazed way. The rest of us waited. I wondered if Victor would cry.
Victor glared at Big ’Do for several seconds, then dropped his head and balled his hands into fists. He took one big breath, then another. Quite suddenly, he lifted his head and announced, “Free popcorn for everyone. Anna, you stand over here.” And like that he directed each of us to our places amongst Wal-Mart’s rollbacks and cheap clothing. I admired Victor for being able to hold it together like that. I hoped that someday I could be that strong.
Sandy chose her grandparents’ house as a safe place. I got to be her grandpa’s favorite old recliner. Justin was the TV set that still had a rabbit ear antenna. All Sandy wanted to do was sit around and watch game shows.
Colby didn’t have a safe place. “This is Play Therapy, dear,” Big ’Do urged. “Pretend you have a safe place.” This didn’t help Colby, and he chose to pass.
“If I had known we could pass, maybe I woulda done that,” Victor argued.
“We’re very proud that you didn’t, Victor.” Big ’Do smiled knowingly.
“Speak for yourself,” Justin said. “My popcorn was stale.”
“And mine didn’t have enough butter,” I joined in.
Victor looked at Justin and me with a grateful smile on his face.
Justin’s safe place was, as expected, very cool. He set us up as his 1989 maroon four-door Volvo that his uncle Barney, a mechanic, fixed up for him. Victor was the obnoxious horn, which he took the liberty of demonstrating every time the room seemed just a little too quiet. Sandy and Morgan were the brake lights. Colby was a bumper sticker that said “Fight Racism,” and I was his stereo. Each time he pretended to turn me on (ah, who’s pretending?), I blared a little piece of a Doors song. He laughed, changed the station, and I sang a different song. “When you’re strange …” Turn turn. “Come on, baby, light my fire …” Turn turn. “Love me two times, baby …” He kept me on this channel, and I struggled to remember the words. I tried to use my best, sexy singing voice. As Justin sat in a chair in front of me and I stood, his radio, I felt so in control. My voice has never been a thing I hated about myself, and I could tell Justin wasn’t hating it at all. He even joined in and sang with me! I stopped singing for a second to hear his voice, and then he said, embarrassed, “I always sing along when I’m alone in my car.”
“You’re not really alone, though,” I pointed out.
He blushed a little and bit his lip. “I guess not.”
And then, “HOOOONK!!!”
“Thanks, Victor,” Justin said, smiling through gritted teeth.
“Just getting you back for the popcorn comment.” Everyone laughed.
Singing to Justin today was the first time I have sung in almost two weeks. And even though it was The Doors, it still felt really good. So good that I wish I could do it again. There’s no way I could sing in my room here, though, without some adult running in and telling me to be quiet. I love the irony of the Quiet Room: It’s the only room in this whole place where people are allowed to be loud.
AFTER DINNER
As Lawrence is on permanent room restriction for hitting Eugene, he never comes down to dinner. This is good because it gives the rest of us plenty of time to talk about him.
Troy, who has finally been let out of his hallway desk, had some insight since he shares a room with Lawrence. “The guy’s a freak. And he reeks. Hey, that rhymes.” OOOK. Profound words from one of the great minds of the twenty-first century.
“Isn’t anyone else just a little afraid of him?” I asked.
“I am,” Colby answered, but we all knew that already. “What if he eats Morgan?”
“Morgan’s just a doll,” Matt O. answered.
“And a plastic one at that. Do satanists eat plastic dolls? I didn’t know that was part of their belief system.” I couldn’t help but crack a smile. The thought of Lawrence sitting down at a table with a fork and knife, checkered napkin tucked into his shirt, carving a plastic doll, was too genius.
And speaking of genius, “What’s everyone talking about?” I should probably mention that Callie was eating with us. She was definitely toned down from the skankiness presented when she first arrived. Her clothes were still tight, which should have bothered me, except that she was wearing giant white leather high-tops. So sick. When I saw those I knew she couldn’t possibly be an All Star–wearing girl like Justin’s type. Besides, Justin hasn’t looked at or said a word to her since we got here, unless he did in Group when I wasn’t around. What if he professed his love to her, and I don’t even know it? Coincidentally, her presence also explains why there haven’t been any elevator innuendo stories to tell. Now that there are several girls who can ride in the elevator, we ride separately from the boys. Isn’t that illegal? I mean, segregation and all.
And isn’t it interesting how the smallest details can make or break a person’s attractiveness factor? For example, Troy was totally hot to me when I first got to the hospital, but the second he gave himself white-boy dreads, I lost all interest. That, plus the fact that the reason he’s here is because he started a white supremacist group at his school after his black girlfriend dumped him. What I don’t get is why then would he want white-boy dreads? Maybe that’s part of his treatment: getting back to his roots. Or his ex-girlfriend’s roots.
Callie, who I assumed was going to be the floor hottie with her perfect bod and general hoochiness, turned out to be a generic dud with hideous footwear. Never mind the fact that, according to our town gossip, Matt O., Callie’s a klepto and a compulsive liar. I better keep an eye on my eraser-less pencils. One never knows when a lying klepto may str
ike. I’m trying to assume that Justin has the same negative opinion that I do, but what if he really wasn’t looking at her or talking to her because he was playing hard to get and at night he has wet dreams about her? I think I will forever be traumatized by sex ed movies.
AFTER FREE TIME
Tra-la-la! Tonight I played Hearts with Justin, Matt O., and Sandy. Morgan just watched. I am getting quite good at the game. I watched Justin’s scarred hand as he dealt the cards. I wonder if he’ll ever tell me what happened.
Sandy is terrible at cards, since every time she tries to concentrate she has to lay Morgan on the table. Then Eugene or Bettina sees her and tells her that’s no way to treat a baby, and she has to forfeit.
Tonight the TV was on, Sean’s choice, and he watched a nature program about lions. I wasn’t facing the TV, but Sandy was. Every time a lion did something she thought was gross, like rip apart a gazelle or have sex, she would wince and cover Morgan’s plastic eyes. I faced the other end of the Day Room, where Phil, Callie, and Troy sat. It was darker over there, and I began to notice a proximity discrepancy. That is to say: Troy and Callie were touching. Phil, of course, was watching. It was very subtle, which I think is why it took everybody a while to catch on. Callie and Troy kept their eyes on the TV, but I watched as their hands slowly crept towards one another’s legs. I think we got through two rounds of Hearts before they made actual contact.
Justin noticed me. “What are you looking at?”
“Don’t turn your head,” I said. “Callie and Troy are getting it on in the corner.”
“What?” And he automatically turned. “They’re not ‘getting it on,’” he said.
Get Well Soon Page 9
