Between the Lines

by Jane Charles

  My students are gathered around on blankets and some sit at a picnic table, Isaac included. They have their notebooks and pens at the ready. Mag is with them.

  I’m not prepared to teach and my gut warns that they aren’t here to learn. At least not from me. What exactly does Mag have planned? If she intends to put Ellen on the spot, making her answer questions that are nobody’s business, I’ll take her from here in a heartbeat. She doesn’t deserve to be interrogated, especially since she seems to have finally recovered from her anxiety attack. I’m not about to let these kids bring on another one.

  I want these kids protected just as much as anyone else in the school, but I’m just as serious about protecting Ellen.

  Mag stands as we approach.

  “After your visit the other day, the students visited your blog.”

  They are nodding their heads.

  “They wanted to know more about you.”

  “Okay,” Ellen says slowly, looking over the class.

  “And, they have a few questions.”

  She’s biting her lip and looks at me. My gut tightens. Then she straightens her spine, lifts her chin and faces my students. “What do you want to know?”

  “Who are you?” Eric blurts out.

  “We aren’t asking that one,” Tamara warns.

  “We said we wouldn’t make her answer if she didn’t want to, but we could ask, Tamara.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ellen says after a moment, but there’s suspicion in her eyes, as if she does know exactly what they are asking but wants to make sure.

  “We researched you,” Eric says. “But we can’t find anything before you went to college.”

  She nods. “That’s because I had to change my name.”

  “Do we get to know what it is?” he ask.

  Ellen looks him dead in the eye. “No.”

  “But—”

  “—We aren’t going to make her answer questions she doesn’t want to any more than we are going to answer what we are not comfortable with,” Tamara says.

  The students turn back to Ellen and Tamara raises her hand. Ellen nods to her.

  “We’ve read your blog and it’s quite thorough, but we can’t understand why you’ve chosen Baxter.”

  I never did find out why Ellen is set on this place. Of course, I could have pressed for an answer, but so many other things have happened.

  “What do you mean?” she counters.

  “All of those places and people, are bad. Baxter is awesome. We don’t get it.”

  “Is it really?” Ellen asks after a moment.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t you think it isn’t?”

  Ellen

  Well, I suppose the moment of truth has arrived. I doubt I’ll get anything from them, unless I tell them my reasons.

  “Why?” another asks me when I don’t answer.

  “I find most of my stories usually because of a short article in a paper, someone sends me a message, or I overhear a conversation. That’s what happened in this case.”

  Mag straightens and a look of concern flashes through her eyes. I’m not surprised. She’s so protective of this place I guess she would hate anyone speaking about it outside the walls of Baxter.

  “It all started when I was sitting in the ER after a minor fender bender.” Then I proceed to tell them what I overheard. “You’ve read my blog. You know what I write about. That I investigate any place accused of wrongdoing, or harming innocent people.”

  “Research into Baxter should have convinced you that nothing bad is happening here,” Tamara says and I’m beginning to think she is the spokesperson for the group.

  Okay, they want honesty. “It’s hard to find information on Baxter. The more I couldn’t find, the more I was convinced that girl was right.”

  Mag is just shaking her head, as if everything is suddenly clear to her. “I can assure you, Miss West, what that former student said, is the furthest thing from the truth.”

  “I’m beginning to believe that now, but things still don’t add up.”

  “And they probably won’t,” she admits. “We’re private for a reason. The students are minors, it’s for their protection. If it was in me, I’d allow a few to speak with you and assure you that what that girls said is untrue, but my hands are tied in this.”

  Once again she is giving me the same lines and story to keep me from delving further.

  “I disagree,” Tamara says, coming to her feet.

  The other students are nodding their heads.

  “Umm, you know the rules,” Mag reminds them.

  “I’m eighteen. An adult.”

  “But you are a Baxter student,” Mag says with an edge of warning.

  “Then, I’ll just talk about me.”

  Mag studies her. Their eyes are locked, almost in a silent battle of wills going on between them. Finally Mag speaks. “Only about you and what you’re comfortable telling Miss West.”

  This is really weird, but at least I’m finally getting some answers.

  “The rest of you, stay with Mr. Gabe. Tamara and I will talk with Miss West privately.”

  I really wish Gabe was with me and I glance over at him. He gives me a reassuring nod and I allow Tamara and Mag to pull me away from the group.

  “Okay then, let’s start with how I came to be here.”

  “In a minute.” Mag turns toward me. “If I had it my way, none of the students would tell you a thing, but Tamara is an adult. Please don’t ask any questions about anyone else and please, think long and hard before you publish an article.”

  At least she didn’t make me promise not to write one, which is odd in the first place. “I promise to give everything I learn a lot of consideration before doing anything.” It’s not hard to make that assurance. I do that with every investigation and every post.

  “Well, now that that is settled, let’s begin,” Tamara says brightly. “I was being groomed to be a model. My mother was a model and my father, a photographer. They were in love and I was the result.”

  It sounds more like a fairytale, but I don’t ask anything, yet.

  “That’s the good part,” she says and the smile slips from her face. Tamara takes a deep breath. “The rest of what I am going to tell you I have not shared with anyone who was not a therapist. I’ve been told that I need to learn to trust eventually.”

  Her therapist?

  “I am choosing to trust you. Consider this the first risk I’m taking as an adult and I hope you don’t reinforce my belief that most people can’t be trusted.”

  What is she going to tell me? “I promise.” And I know, in my heart, that no matter what she says, I will not tell a soul.

  “My father died when I was four. A year later, my mother, despondent and lonely, married another photographer.” She wanders over and sits on the bench underneath a shade tree. “He had hoped that he could make it big, using my mom to get there, but it never happened.” She looks away from us. “So, he found a more lucrative way to make money with his photography. Secret pictures that pay well.”

  My stomach churns.

  “While mom was at work, he was taking pictures of me. Not nice pictures.”

  It hits me what she’s referring to. “Oh, God.”

  “Yep,” she says a little too brightly. “Mom found out, had his ass arrested and we went on. Then, when I was about twelve, a classmate found one of them in a stash of his dad’s photographs. He brought it to school. He was in a world of trouble, and his dad, but not before the entire school knew.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I switched schools, but I always feared another friend would get a picture. Mom told me not to worry about it but think of my future and my career.”

  All I can do is stare at her.

  “She had me focusing on becoming a model. Put the past behind me, and all that crap. So, that’s what I did. I dieted, faked the smile and walked the runway, waiting to make it big. Instead, I got offers for other kinds of modeling, from guys t
hat knew my stepdad. Guys who had pictures of me as a child. They are still out there and there isn’t any way to have them all destroyed.”

  I sit next to her, afraid I was going to be sick. But I force down the bile and keep listening.

  “By this time, I’d developed an eating disorder because my mother was always harping on my weight, I hated myself, and started cutting. At first, it was because I thought if my body was scarred, nobody would want me to model, but then it became an addiction.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I know I’m saying the same thing, but I have no idea what to say.

  “I cut too deep and ended up in the ER. That’s when I finally got help. Mom didn’t have a clue until then.”

  She straightens and looks at me. “I began journaling, and found I really liked to write. My therapist thought I was good and got me enrolled in Baxter.”

  “You like it here?”

  “I love it here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’ve helped me. Or, have helped me help myself.”

  “Okay,” I finally say. “But that girl had a different take on it. And, to be honest, the students I’ve observed at this school are better behaved than on any campus I visited. It does make me wonder.”

  She smiles and rolls her eyes. “Because we know this is our chance for an incredible future. I wanted to die, even after coming here. I know those photos are out there and they haunt me. But, now I can face it. Or, I hope I have the strength to face it if they show up. But, I can’t let the past rule my life. If I do that, I might as well end it now because I’ll be fucking miserable.”

  Mag clears her throat.

  Tamara colors. “I apologize for my language.”

  I want to assure her that there is no need, but I’m sure cussing is one thing Mag wants to keep at a minimum.

  “Let’s address her comments one by one.”

  “Okay.”

  “This girl, who was kicked out, I think I know who she is.”

  “No names,” Mag warns.

  “I know.” Tamara rolls her eyes. “She probably didn’t get with the program because certain things are expected of us. We are to study hard, maintain a “C” average, and participate in our field of art. In my case, I need to meet with a therapist weekly and monitor my meds.”

  I still. “Meds?”

  “Besides the eating disorder I developed because of my mother always harping on my weight for modeling, I suffer from depression and anxiety. I haven’t puked in well over a year, but it’s something that’s not far from the surface and something I need to control. The depression and anxiety might always be a part of me, but the meds help. I’ve accepted it, whether I like it or not, and will continue to take them so I can remain as healthy as I can.”

  With each word this girls speaks, my admiration for her rises. She’s come through a hell of a lot and is taking responsibility for her health-mental, emotional and physical.

  The words of the girl in the ER come back to me.

  “What happened?”

  “I was the best fucking artist they had. The rest, are just little robots playing at art.”

  “Okay.”

  “Taking their drugs like good little kids.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “Hell no. I’m not going to become one of their robots to be controlled.”

  “So, it’s not about being a robot and falling in to line of a perfect student.”

  She snorts. “Hardly.”

  “What about the punishment?”

  Tamara is shaking her head. “There is very little punishment at Baxter. If you misbehave, you’re confined to your room, simple as that. Sometimes you’re monitored, but that’s rare, and therapy sessions are always increased.”

  “The drugs, the meals, if that’s that you want to call it, rooms that are no more than cells. It’s like being in prison.”

  “What are the rooms like?”

  “It’s a dorm room. Probably no different than you see on any college campus.”

  I glance back at the buildings, with their tiny windows.

  “Come on.” Tamara gets to her feet. “I’ll show you mine.”

  “That’s no necessary,” Mag warns. “It’s your room and should remain private.”

  “It’s a room,” Tamara dismisses.

  I follow after Tamara. After she’s punched in a code to get in the building, she turns and goes up a flight of stairs and then down a long hallway, stopping about halfway. This looks more like a hotel than a dorm, with plush carpet, frosted shades of hall lights, paintings along the wall.

  She unlocks the door and steps inside.

  “It’s kind of messy.”

  She’s a teenager, and to be expected, though I did assume I’d find neat barracks type of rooms, with cots and sheets tucked with military corners. That’s not the case. Under the window is a desk with papers and books strewn across it. Beside it is a single bed, unmade, but a pastel quilt is tossed across it and the sheets are a pale green. Beside the door is a closet, though half of her clothes are on the floor, but some made it into a hamper. There’s a dresser along the wall opposite the bed and most of the drawers are open. This is most definitely a teenager’s room. But it isn’t as tiny as I imagined. Sure, there isn’t a lot of room, but enough for one person to sleep, walk around and work. So not the prison cell that girl described.

  “Somebody needs to do their laundry,” Mag says, shaking her head.

  “This weekend, I promise.”

  We leave the building and walk back out into the bright sunshine. I turn and take in the campus again. Seeing it in different eyes.

  “That girl, she basically just didn’t want to get help, or help herself, did she?”

  Instead of answering me, Mag turns to Tamara. “Go join the others. Miss West and I need to have a discussion.

  She waits until Tamara is far enough away not to hear us before answering my question. “I cannot speak to this girl because I don’t know who she is.”

  “Tamara isn’t the only one who needs help and treatment, is she?”

  “I cannot answer that question.”

  I’m frustrated, but I also get why Mag is so insistent on protecting these kids. And, she’s not going to tell me a damn thing unless I share a few things in return.

  “Do you know why I write the posts I do?”

  “You want to right the wrongs in the world and bring people to justice.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a reason.”

  “Okay.” She’s studying me.

  “I’m going to trust you with something very private, the way Tamara trusted me. Then, I think you’ll understand.”

  “Does it have anything to do with why you changed your name?”

  “It has everything to do with that.”

  The bell rings and the students who had been sitting with Gabe get up and gather their stuff as other kids start coming out of the buildings where classes are held. I can’t talk out here, where anyone can hear us. “Let’s go somewhere, to talk in private.”

  Gabe meets us halfway across the campus. He’s watching both of us and he’s probably wondering what I’ve learned or what I’ve said.

  “Miss West and I are going to have a discussion,” she tells Gabe. “Why don’t you work in your classroom or wait for us?” At least she’s protecting my privacy for a moment.

  “That’s okay. Gabe already knows what I’m going to tell you.”

  Her eyebrows raise in surprise, but Mag says nothing else and leads us to a side gate. After pressing in a security code, she opens it and we step through. A calm, clear lake is not far away and a picnic area is arranged. I had no idea this was here. From the picnic area the grass slopes down a hill to a long sandy beach. Across the lake are large homes. This is close enough to town that people probably live there year round, but someone of them may simply be vacation homes. Each has a dock, but nobody has put their boat in the water yet. It’s a little too early in the year for that but I suspect that
during the summer, the lake gets a lot of traffic.

  I follow as we walk to a sitting area and stop. “So, what do you want to tell me?”

  I take a seat and so does Mag. Gabe stands behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder. I don’t know if it’s to give me comfort, keep me grounded or just to let me know he’s here. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll go into another panic attack. I doesn’t matter. I’m just happy to have his presence and his touch. I’m taking a huge risk, but if I want to learn anything, I’ve got to give too.

  She says absolutely nothing but listens intently as I tell her everything that has happened to me from the moment I opened up my father’s computer to yesterday and my panic attack.

  “You are the friend Mateo wanted to stay with.”

  “I assumed he called in, but he never told me why.”

  She smiles and nods. “It’s okay. You needed him.”

  “So, you see why I needed to investigate Baxter after I overheard that girl in the ER.”

  Mag is nodding. “Yes, I do. And, I think it’s admirable what you are doing, but you have nothing to be concerned with about Baxter.”

  “I get that now. I also think I figured out the school.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tamara isn’t the only student who is talented and in need of a therapist, or on track following a mental health issue.”

  “I can’t answer that question.”

  “You don’t need to,” I assure her.

  “I suspect all of your students came here by way of one therapist, counselor or from some form of the system. They are talented and you are giving them a chance.”

  “I can’t answer that either.”

  “I know,” I say. “If I’m correct, this is a really good place and the kids are lucky to have it.”

  Mag simple gives a quick nod of her head. “So, are you still going to write the post?”

  “I don’t get why they even allowed me here in the first place.” If anyone should keep their secrets, well secret, it’s Baxter.

  “Many of our students do go off to college, but most people haven’t heard of us. The school’s only been in existence for ten years. They thought some good publicity would help.” She smiles. “I don’t think they were counting on you being the kind of reporter you are.”