Jeremiah Quick

by SM Johnson

  I waited. There was a chair beside the door, and after what felt like half an hour of shifting foot to foot, I sat down. More time went on, and even more, and I started getting pissed off. It didn't help that my fucking neck was throbbing and nobody gave a shit. They offered me a Tylenol and an ice pack. I took the Tylenol and turned down the ice. What I wanted to do was go to bed, trace my five stitches with the pads of my fingertips and wallow in self-pity for a couple of hours. Then I'd regroup and figure out a new plan.

  And I wanted – no, needed – my walkman, headphones, and cassette tapes. I needed to turn off my brain for a few hours or I was going to freak right the fuck out.

  I cleared my throat to get the guy's attention.

  Nothing. Not even a flinch. Except for the sound of clicking keyboard keys, he might as well have been a mannequin.

  I waited as long as I could stand, but pissed-off finally won.

  I said, "Are you going to ignore me forever? Fuckin'-a, dude."

  Before I became a pacifist, I could be pretty tough when someone pissed me off.

  The chair slid to the side, his head now visible, and he – no, SHE – said, "Oh. It's you. Yeah, I figured as much."

  And then, no kidding, she slid the chair over so the monitor was in front of her face again.

  Get the fuck out. "I can't believe you get paid for this. Playing video games while a client waits? Pretty sure I could get you fired."

  She spun around to face me again. "Come here," and crooked a finger at me. Nuh-uh. I wasn't getting close enough to get my face slapped. No way.

  "Just come here. I want to show you something."

  What, my file? There couldn't be much there. I mean, yeah, I hit that social worker, but it was like… not that hard. I didn't knock him out or anything. And my neck thing, but that couldn't be on her computer already, could it?

  "This is so cool," she said, under her breath.

  Call me a sucker, but that pulled me in.

  I trudged across the room, holding one hand over my bandage, hoping to look vulnerable or some shit. But she was still more or less ignoring me.

  She was reading something.

  "Come around and sit on the bookshelf so you can see."

  I boosted myself up onto the low shelf. There was a boom box against the wall at my left. I stared at it, longing for my tapes.

  She was looking at words on the screen. "There's this thing in the works called File Transfer Protocol. You can send files from one computer to another. Not through an on-site mainframe, but almost like… through the air. Well, the phone line. But to the other side of the world, even. Of course, you need the software, and so does the person on the other side of the world, but then you could send… like, documents. Letters to your pen pal. Through the phone line!"

  Okay, yeah, pretty fuckin' cool. But I didn't want her to know that, so I made my face all bored and said, "Don't have no pen pal. Are you a dyke, or what?"

  I figured if I pissed her off right away, then I'd know what to expect from her at her worst, right?

  She turned off the computer monitor and swiveled her chair to face me. She didn't say anything then, didn't smile, nothing. Just stared at me like she could see right inside me, past the fuckin' carnival mask I had to wear to navigate this fucked up place. It felt like she could see everything.

  I looked away first.

  Hated that.

  My fingers started worrying the bottom hem of the regulation blue shirt they'd given me. My second one, because the first got all bloody. This one was too big, but that was better. The other one had felt like it was strangling me.

  "Can I have my walkman and tapes and shit?" I asked.

  "Doubt it. You're on suicide watch."

  "Yeah, I figured. I just… have this noise in my head, you know?"

  I risked a look at her, and she was nodding, like she really did know. That wasn't good.

  "You ready to listen?" she asked.

  I shrugged. I was here, wasn't I?

  "Somebody said 'You're Corrie's problem now,' yes? I'm Corrie. I'm going to be your problem too, so get used to it. I got three rules in here. You respect me, and I'll respect you. That's number one. Number two is no lying. Not even little white lies. That's also for both of us. Truth or silence. I'll respect when you don't want to talk. Fair?"

  She seemed to be waiting for me to answer, so I said, "Yeah, okay."

  "Good." She sat back in her chair, like… lecture over.

  "What's number three, no swearing or some fucking shit?" I asked.

  She laughed, and it was real, and even kind of nice. Her mouth opened when she laughed and her teeth were small and white, and something happened between her mouth and her cheeks that made her look way more girly. Almost pretty.

  "Fuck no. Number three is more complicated. I hate taking notes, so what you say in here, or to me in general, doesn't go far. Not into your permanent record, your juvie record, medical record, or any other record. My progress reports are a bunch of made-up bullshit that sound like something, but aren't. But. There are a couple of loopholes. If you tell me you're going to hurt yourself or someone else, or that someone is abusing you, all bets are off. I have to report that shit, even if you don't want me to. I'm ethically and legally bound."

  Okay, so I can't live with my uncle, but I can't tell her why. And my dad beats the shit out of me, but no matter what, I need to get sent back there. My two big problems were off limits. I should have known. No matter how much they say they're on your side, they aren't. She wasn't going to be able to help me. No one was going to be able to help me. Fuck.

  And once again she saw right through me.

  "There are ways around it, Jeremiah. I'll stop you if I think you're about to cross the line, and we'll talk about where the line is."

  I nodded because there was a lump in my throat too large to talk around. Hey, at least she knew my name. For a minute there I was worried she had the wrong kid in her office.

  "Let's get the big thing out of the way. Why did you try to kill yourself today? And I mean… really, why?"

  Her bluntness startled me. No one had asked that. Not the supervisors, not the nurse.

  "Do you even know?" That question was a lot quieter.

  I thought about not answering, and I thought about telling her everything, get the fucker locked up. But who would believe me over him? I'm sure my dad would back up anything my uncle said. My dad was afraid of my uncle. Had maybe been afraid his whole life.

  I didn't think my uncle called social services about my dad. It was probably a well-meaning teacher, seeing me hollow and hungry and dirty. I even had a pretty good idea which teacher, and I'm sure she only wanted to help.

  But the crux of the problem was I couldn't live with my uncle.

  "They said my dad neglects me, and I'm supposed to go live with my uncle. I can't do that, for reasons I can't discuss."

  "Okay," Corrie said. "I believe you. And?"

  "They said that's where I have to go. They said it's not up to me. And I can't. I just… can't."

  Despair. Just… so much that I almost slid off the bookshelf, boneless.

  My hand went to the bandage at my throat, wanting to tear it off and claw through my flesh with my fingernails.

  When I glanced up at her, Corrie was watching me.

  The she grabbed a file-folder from somewhere and laid it open beside me, scooting her wheeled chair closer with a squeak.

  "We need to talk, really talk," she said. "And I can't have you pretending to listen while playing a cassette in your head. So you need to find some music to put on, and I need to look at the social services report. There are tapes under your legs. Pick something and put it on."

  I leaned all the way forward, folding myself in half to look between my legs. Three shelves of cassette tapes. Phil Collins, Styx, Quiet Riot, Motley Crüe. The Bee Gees, for god's sake. Alice Cooper. REO Speedwagon (gag). They were arranged in no particular order, because who would put Alice next to REO on purpose?


  The lowest shelf had Blondie, Queen, AC/DC. Aretha. And… The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, Siouxsie and the Banshees. Bowie. No shit? No shit.

  I chose Bowie and fiddled with the boom box, put the tape in, adjusted the volume. Not too loud. I didn't want anyone to barge in and make us turn it off.

  Us. Fuck. She was good.

  We were already co-conspirators, even inside my own head.

  Less than two hours ago I wanted to be dead. Tried to be. And now here's some crazy dyke tossing me a rope – for rescue, not to hang myself with – and it pretty much looked like I was grabbing on.

  She glanced up as the tape started to play. "Nice choice. Okay. I have a handle on things, so let's see what we can do to get you sent back home."

  Despair changed to hope, just that quick. Home wasn't great, but I could function there. I was getting better at avoiding my dad. "Even after… everything?" I gestured to the bandages on my neck.

  "So long as your uncle doesn't file for custody of you, I think we can find a work-around. You'll have to do your part. No more of that," she made like she was going to flick her fingers against the bandage. "None. No talk of depression or suicide. You've never gotten along with your uncle, can't stand him, and the thought of living there made you do something dramatic and stupid. That's all. No more. You're going to need to smile at people, laugh ruefully at yourself, shake your head in disbelief that you ever thought suicide was a good idea. You're going to have to be really good at playing happy and well-adjusted by the time your release date rolls around."

  "Fuck." I couldn't help it. I'd never been particularly happy or well-adjusted.

  "Twenty-six days. I'll give you a calendar, you can mark them off. You can think it over for a day or two, but then you have to start coming out of your shell, embrace the program, express gratefulness for all the help you're getting."

  I would die.

  Seriously.

  Maybe she read my mind, because she said, "You can do it. You have to."

  I must have made a face, because the next thing she said was, "Let me tell you the story of you…"

  Oh, this should be good.

  "You've always been a little bit odd. You get lost in books and music, almost to where you feel like you can disappear. Things that hurt you emotionally, hurt deep. A story or song can make you cry, sob like your heart is broken. No one knows this, because you don't let anyone know this."

  I found myself listening, really listening, as she blithely spit most of my life out of her mouth.

  "Took to wearing all black within the past couple of years. You carry everything important in your backpack at all times. You write about and draw bloody things. You've already tried most substances of abuse – but don't tell anyone here that. People don't like you much, and you don't like them either. In most settings, you have no idea what's expected of you, or you have an idea, but either can't be bothered to comply, or the very idea of compliance fills you with rage."

  I was a stunned mess when she was done, ready to fall at her feet and beg her to take me home.

  What I was able to say, after at least a full minute of shocked silence was, "How do you know all this?"

  She winked at me. "I was a Dark child, and I raised a Dark child. And I've fostered two others. I know. I knew the first time I saw you that you'd become "Corrie's problem."

  A single great and most wonderful idea leapt into my brain and fell out my mouth. "Can you foster me?"

  Her face went blank. Closed. Still.

  It was almost frightening. And yet I recognized that look. I wore it often. It said Don't you even dare try to go there.

  I took it back. "Sorry, of course not. I was being ridiculous."

  Her expression opened just a little then, her mouth relaxing, jaw less clenched. Her eyes stopped being cold and just looked sad.

  "Oh, baby, I would take you all in if I could. But I lost my foster license."

  I knew better than to think she'd tell me more than that. Of course she lost her license, because anyone who understood Us had something wrong with them, or was a bad influence…. whatever They needed to tell Themselves.

  She stood up and stretched, shook herself as if shaking off bad memories.

  "Go back to your room. There's about an hour before dinner. Go to group. Watch how everyone acts, make a note of what seems to please the group leaders, the supervisors. I'll schedule a session for us tomorrow, and we'll brainstorm how to get you back home."

  That was how I met Corrie, the woman who saved my life.

  Dinner was barely edible, but I expected that. The hour before dinner was rest time for fuck- ups on suicide watch, but free time for everyone else.

  I was confined to my room. My new room, I should say, because when I got back from Corrie's office, I was shown into a room much closer to the supervisors' office, and warned that if I did anything that wasn't safe, I'd have a supervisor stationed IN my room, dogging my heels, and watching my every move.

  For fuck's sake.

  I assured them that Corrie was fixing me, and promised not to hurt myself further.

  They seemed to have a healthy respect for the power of Corrie. In fact, one of the supervisors brought me my Walkman and favorite tapes, and a pair of cheap foam-padded headphones that weren't mine, but were better than nothing. The foam padding was orange, like the chairs in the TV room. Yay.

  He said, "Corrie said you can have these. If you come to group and don't be an asshole, you can keep them. If you fuck up again, you won't get them back until you leave. Clear?"

  "Crystal," I said, because I couldn't help it.

  As he turned away, I said, "Thanks. A lot." And then remembered to ask his name. People like it when you learn their names. I knew that, somebody somewhere along the way had told me this, and it seemed true enough, when I bothered to remember.

  "Tim," he said.

  And I logged in my head – friendly brown eyes, short hair, mustache that's a bit silly, Tim. I repeated his name in my head. "Nice to meet you," I said. "And thanks. The music will help me."

  I offered my hand, and he took it, one quick grasp and shake. "Good. You're welcome." He studied me for a minute, then gave a little shrug and walked away.

  An hour of bliss. I'd have to ask Corrie where to get batteries, because the Walkman ate them like a child eats Halloween candy. But a machine with life-saving properties deserves a little candy.

  I ate in my room. An institution-variety cheeseburger, cold French fries, and milk in a plastic coffee mug. No eating utensils. I suppose after what I managed to do with a pen they weren't interested in giving me anything so handy as a knife. Even a plastic one.

  Then it was group time. There were seven boys, including me, and two girls. Three of them, two boys and one girl, were leaving on Friday. I put those three at the top of my observe list.

  The other girl was new, and from the chatter I gathered another boy had come into the facility while I was at the nurse or in Corrie's office. He came into the group room while I was too busy staring at the fake wood-grain of the table to even look at him.

  We all had to introduce ourselves and say which week we were on, like, as an icebreaker or something. Nine kids, two group leaders, two supervisors. No way was I going to be able to keep all those names straight.

  But. All the staff wore nametags, so at least there was that.

  One group leader was Karen, the other was Nick. "Day two of five," they both said, and laughed. It took me a second to catch on, that it was Tuesday, and sure enough, they'd been the same group leaders as last night. Which I barely remembered, because I'd ignored the whole thing as much as possible. Except for the part where I stole a pen.

  A tiny bouncy girl, the one leaving on Friday, was next. I didn't catch her name, but she was already tagged in my brain as "Li'l Bit." She was a li'l bit hyper, probably a li'l bit crazy, and definitely more than a li'l bit on the short end, height-wise. "Out of here on Friday," she said, and the new girl, sitting two chairs to L
i'l Bit's right, with an empty chair in between them, started to cry.

  We skipped her intro, and before I could do much more than tag the next three boys (Stoner, Baker, Rock Candy Maker), it was my turn.

  "Jeremiah," I mumbled. "I have a lot of days left. Most of them."

  "What the hell happened to your neck?" Li'l Bit said, and Karen the group leader admonished her.

  "No, it's okay," I said, remembering what Corrie said about opening up. That I had to, in order to go home. Or at least had to appear to open up. "Kind of… stupid. I’m better now. Scout's honor." I held my hand up, trying to remember the Boy Scout sign, but I'd only been a Boy Scout for a week or two, until the cost of the uniform became known, so I went with the Vulcan sign instead. Live long and prosper.

  The new girl squeaked, and gave me the sign back, with both hands. Not everybody can do it with both hands, although I can, so I was suitably impressed.

  Big, thuggish mean-looking boy next to me said, "You guys are total fucking geeks." And then, "I'm Luke, and I'm out of here on Friday, like Jenny." I could have tagged him "Bruiser" but I had a little association game I could play. Spock, Star Trek, Star Wars, then Luke. Easy.

  He seemed like an asshole.

  Next to him was an empty chair.

  My chair next to him would have been empty, too, except the only other space was between the two girls, and I wasn't going to put myself there – or right next to either group leader. And… no. I'd play along because Corrie said I had to, but there's no fucking way I was gonna brown nose or suck up. I couldn't possibly play that nice. Not and survive this intact.

  Bad enough one of the supervisors was sitting behind me.

  I was daydreaming when the next kid, a boy with average brown hair and freckles, introduced himself, but caught the part where he said he was also leaving on Friday.

  Next to him was the new boy, who I finally looked at, but had to look away from as fast as possible. He was so pretty he almost made me cry. I couldn't stop myself from peeking at him, though, so I was stuck playing look-don't look for whole rest of the session.