The D.B. List

by Rebekah L. Purdy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2017 by Rebekah L. Purdy

  THE D.B. LIST by Rebekah L. Purdy

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-946700-11-7

  Mobipocket ISBN: 978-1-946700-12-4

  Published by Swoon Romance, Raleigh, NC 27609

  Cover design by Danielle Doolittle of DoElle Designs

  Chapter One

  There are three things I’m absolutely sure of.

  1: Sometimes the darkness can consume even the most brilliant of lights.

  2: Hayden Barber is a douche bag.

  3: School pretty much sucks (see number 2).

  Have you ever had one of those defining moments in your life that kind of changes everything? For some people, it’s getting a job or their first kiss or getting accepted to their top choice college. Mine? Well, it’s a hell of a lot more depressing than that. End of junior year—should be awesome, the whole summer to look forward to. And I end up in the psych ward. Because of my sunny attitude, I received an upgrade to psychotherapy and a stint in the Lovely Soul Institution.

  Therapist Angel says I’m making great progress, which of course makes my parents happy. It’s weird when they come to visit me because I get a lot of “Oh we can’t wait until you get better, you know back to your old self—when you were happy and bubbly.”

  The problem is, the happy bubbly me was a fake me. Always trying to impress everyone, putting on this Oscar-worthy show of how perfect I was. It was and is total bullshit, or as my therapist says “bull do-do”. And I don’t want to pretend anymore. But the longer it takes for me to find that happy place, the longer I’ll be stuck here, playing checkers with myself and avoiding the “real” nut jobs who like to talk to themselves or ram into walls or break things to try to kill themselves with. It’s like I’m kind of crazy, but not “their” kind of crazy.

  “Ellie, you haven’t answered my question? Where did you go just now?” Therapist Angel says, sliding her glasses down her nose—her pink lipstick is smudged on her coffee mug like she’s been making out with the cup.

  “I’m sorry, I was looking at the lake out the window,” I say. “Can you repeat the question?”

  She smiles. “I said, what do you think about working in a group next week?”

  “You mean with other people?” Of course, I know what she means, but I’m not one of those huggy, want to share all my feelings kind of girls. Although, Haydon Barber would say differently, just ask the whole school. But I digress.

  Therapist Angel laughs, her wispy dark hair falling out of her ponytail. She looks about twelve in her kitten dress and leggings. “Yes, with other people. I think it’ll be good for you to socialize.”

  Right, she obviously didn’t see what we had to work with out there. For shit’s sake, last week Megan, the girl with forty-inch-thick glasses (made of plastic) tried to use a spoon to scoop out her own tonsils. And Bart (or Big Bart as the nurses like to call him) was actually caught trying to hide cake in his pants because he was afraid someone would try to take his food. I’m so glad I’m not the nurse who had to clean his ass off. Ugh. Frosted crack; no thank you.

  These were not the types of people I wanted to hang out with.

  “Um—I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I already hang out in the game room during social hour.”

  She pats my arm. “Okay, well then I think if you’re not ready for that, how about we work on something else. Something fun.”

  I laugh. Because I know her idea of fun and mine are two totally different beasts. “Sure, what did you have in mind? A trip to the mall, or boating, maybe some swimming?” Of course, I know I’m not allowed to leave the premises, not until Doc Angel says I’m all better, so even suggesting it is pointless. Not that I have anywhere I need to be, but it would be nice to sleep in my own room again, to have some privacy where I don’t have nurses or staff checking me off their clipboard list every fifteen minutes to make sure I haven’t offed myself yet.

  “Actually, more along the lines of I’m going to give you a little assignment that I want you to spend the rest of the week working on.”

  My fingers trail over the jagged scars on my arms. Great, homework. I thought therapy was supposed to get me out of this crap. Obviously, almost dying isn’t a “get out of homework free card.”

  My gaze meets hers, and I wait for her to continue.

  “I want you to make two lists for me. In one I want you to write down all the good memories and thoughts you have. These can be anything from any point in your life. The important thing is to make them all happy. And then I want you to have a second list with all the negative stuff on it. These can be memories, people, just bad things that you want to get out of your system. You just need to be honest.” She hands me two notebooks with dividers in them. There is a square on the cover of each left blank.

  I wonder what she intends me to do with those, but before I can ask she tells me.

  “I want you to think up a title for each of your lists. It’ll be private.”

  By private, I know she means she’ll be able to look it over too. So, I’m basically writing the story of my life for her, and she’ll tell me where I went wrong or some shit like that.

  “Next week, we’ll go over some of it and see if we can get to the bottom of all this.”

  “Okay.” I take a pen from her desk, which I know she’ll make me give back before I leave—because I could try to lodge this thing in my throat or something, or at least that’s what the nurses around here think. I sit there a moment, chewing on the end of it. For my “happy” thoughts I write, “Happy Rainbow Farting Unicorn List”. And for my bad one, that’s easy; it will be my “Douche Bag list” or D.B. for short. God knows I have enough douche bags in my life to fill this list quickly.

  “So, I think that’s all for today. Why don’t you go see Nurse Rita for your pills? And make sure you give me back my pen.” She excuses me, and I get up, drop the pen on her desk, then shuffle out of her office and down the shiny white tiled floor to the nurses’ station, where all the patients are lining up for their daily dose of coma-inducing meds. Once I pop my pills, it’ll be free time. Although locked in this stupid, sterile building, I don’t exactly feel free. This just makes me more motivated to write these lists and hope it heals me. Kind of like a coming to Jesus moment. I push strands of brown hair out of my face, wishing I could use a barrette to pull it back, but unfortunately, they think I’ll use one to chop my arm off. Because, according to them, everything can be a weapon. Although, I did know a boy who, a few weeks ago, made himself choke on a hairbrush.

  I shiver. God, I hate this place.

  Once I take my meds, I plop down on a couch in the “homier” side of the institution, overlooking the large yard below. From here I can see the trees bending beneath gusts of wind, the lake rippling beneath the force. Sun glimmers off the surface like tiny shooting stars.

  What I wouldn’t give to sit beneath one of the trees. To feel the air on my face and not be stuck up here.

  With a sigh, I take a cray
on from my pocket, the only “writing utensil” I’m allowed to use and stare at my empty D.B. list. Here goes nothing.

  Douchebag number one Raelynn Kuipers.

  Chapter Two

  D.B. List Number 1: Raelynn Kuipers

  Okay, so Raelynn Kuipers isn’t THE biggest douchebag I know, but she’s kind of the person who first made me self-conscious about myself. Who made me start finding faults in everything I said, did, or knew. Basically, she ruined the last year of junior high for me. And it stuck with me. So here’s to you, Raelynn Kuipers … D.B. number one.

  I stand in the locker room, drying off after my shower. Gym teacher’s rules: No one can leave until they’ve showered. Apparently, people don’t like the stench of sweaty kids filtering down the hallways.

  As I reach for my white bra and flowered panties, I see Raelynn Kuipers wriggling into her new black lace bra and matching thong. And I know it’s new because she keeps telling us, while she’s checking out her ass in the mirror.

  “God, I’ve got a nice butt. I bet Luke will love to see me in this.” Raelynn grins then glances at Megan Schroeder. “What do you think?”

  Megan giggles. “Your butt definitely looks good. How about mine?”

  “Perfect.”

  They so make me want to vomit.

  I roll my eyes. Luke Domingo is Raelynn’s on again off again boyfriend. And supposedly they’ve already had sex, even though we’re only in eighth grade. The first time was in the movie theater. Again, I only know this because she can’t keep her mouth shut in the locker room. Like we all want to hear the details of how that happened. Nasty movie theater floor, popcorn stuck to one or both of their asses. God.

  Wanting nothing more than to get out of there, I hold my towel up in front of me as I attempt to get my bra on. Unlike Raelynn, I don’t want everyone seeing me strutting around naked. But as I grab for my underwear, my towel slips to the floor.

  Raelynn starts laughing. “Oh. My. God. Do you not own a razor?”

  My gaze shifts to see who she’s talking to and realize she’s pointing at me. Face on fire, I grab for my towel and miss, nearly falling on the floor.

  “I think someone needs to trim their bush,” Raelynn says, making a scissor motion with her hands.

  Mortified, I scramble to get my clothes on, trying to ignore the laughing and whispering. But as I head to my next hour class, the rumors start. Soon guys in the hall are asking if I’m going to hide in the bushes after school.

  In art class, my favorite class, Jessie Cooper actually asks if I want him to call his landscaper dad to come help trim the hedges. And on and on the jokes go, until I’m on the verge of crying. But I pretend to ignore them and try to laugh it off. But by the end of the day, everyone is calling me “Ellie’s Bush.”

  By the time I get home, I rush into my bathroom, strip down, reach for the closest razor and shave. Of course, no one tells me that sometimes you can get razor burn down there—that there might be other ways to do this. But I’m not going to ask my mom. And for the rest of eighth grade, I’m self-conscious of my body. I worry about my bra, my underwear, making sure I’ve shaved every place that needs shaving. Whether or not my boobs are too big or too small? Am I too thin? Am I too fat? Does my haircut look like shit? All because Raelynn Kuipers gave me a complex.

  What a fucking douchebag.

  When I stop writing, I realize that I have a clenched fist, my nails are digging into my palm. Even though I’m going into my senior year this year, it’s still hard for me to not listen to Raelynn’s voice in my head. To see her lips turn up in a malicious sneer. Lucky for me, most people forgot about that incident—but I never will. And because karma’s a bitch, Raelynn ended up pregnant our junior year. Her family pulled her out of school for those nine months to homeschool.

  Of course, if you listen to rumors, apparently, her parents made her have the baby then she gave it up for adoption. They plan on her coming back to school for her senior year. And she’ll get her spot back on the cheerleading squad; she’ll be voted prom queen like nothing ever happened.

  People like Raelynn seem to bounce back from everything like there are no consequences for their choices. Their parents bail them out.

  I tuck my notebook beneath my arm, stand up, and head toward the common room.

  “Ellie,” PJ calls my name, rushing to my side. Her wispy blond curls bounce like little springs. She smiles, carrying a cookie in one hand and waving with the other.

  Penny Jean Laramie, or PJ for short, is my only close friend here. We’re roommates. Kindred spirits. Although she’s way more screwed up than I am. I’m not sure what all she’s been diagnosed with, but I know she’s schizophrenic and has manic depression. She also has hallucinations, which is kind of why she landed here.

  PJ told me that she accidentally left the gas stove on at home because there was a dragon breathing fire in it and she couldn’t get close enough to turn it off. It ended up starting her kitchen on fire. Well, there was that, and she tried to slit her wrists to see which way her blood flowed in her veins.

  “Where have you been?” PJ takes a bite of her cookie, brushing crumbs from her lips. Her blue eyes are wide.

  “Had to visit Therapist Angel today. You know, talk about my feelings and all that shit,” I say. I tug at my long sleeves, making sure they’re covering my scars.

  As we push past some of the other patients in the hall, I roll my eyes. They’re always comparing what they have to everyone else. The cutters always want to show each other their scars and talk about what they use to cut themselves with. The ones with eating disorders like to talk about food, which is ironic because they don’t even like to eat it. There are so many different kinds of people here, but I can easily spot the attention grabbers.

  My gaze flicks over the group of “cutters” all their scars running straight across their arms. Wearing short sleeves to show off their badges.

  Attention grabber.

  Attention grabber.

  Attention grabber.

  None of them even cut in the right direction. Because if you really want to die, you didn’t cut straight across like that. And you didn’t show everyone your scars. But PJ and I knew exactly what we were doing. However, someone else intervened.

  And sometimes I hated my brother for finding me. While other times, I was glad to be here—it just depended on the day.

  “Guess who’s here today?” PJ finishes her cookie and skips next to me.

  “Who?”

  “Ky, Ky, the cookie guy!” She giggles. “Ellie, Ellie pretty Ellie, he’d love you, I know it in my belly.”

  Another thing about PJ, she sometimes slips into ridiculous rhyme talk, but I just go with it. She’s mentioned her brother Ky a few times, but during his last two visits, I was in therapy. He comes in with their parents and sister to see PJ. They sometimes bring books and treats with them, and whatever PJ doesn’t want, Ky supposedly gives away.

  “Then why aren’t you down there visiting him?”

  “We already visited. And I told my mom I needed to come find you real quick. Besides, Ky is reading with Samuel now … he does that every week since Sam’s family never comes.”

  “Do you like Sam?” I ask her, chewing my bottom lip. It’s hard to tell with PJ; she doesn’t like many people.

  She frowns. “He’s nice, but I don’t like him, like him. You know I don’t like boys—because boys only want to try and touch you.” She grips hold of my shirt sleeve.

  I nod. She hates anyone touching her. Because of her mental illness, someone thought it was okay to take advantage of her—I’m not sure in what way, and I don’t ask. But now no one can really get close to her without her freaking out. Guys. Girls. Nurses. Her parents. Sometimes she’ll hold onto my arm or give me a quick hug, but I’m the only one. So, I feel kind of special that way.

  “So, is Ky, Ky the cookie guy in the commons?” I search the room for her mysterious brother.

  “No, I think he’s in the other hall w
ith Samuel. If I see him though I’ll tell him he needs to meet you.” She pats my arm then moves away. “Have fun playing with your double decker, checker—”

  “I will,” I cut her off before she can finish because there are only so many words that rhyme with checker, and I don’t want her shouting stuff like the word pecker.

  Chapter Three

  I set up the checkerboard getting ready to play against myself. To an outsider this probably seems kind of crazy. But, I don’t like to play with anyone else. For one, I don’t want to piss off one of the patients who might have real psychotic problems and end up dying. And two, I like the peace and quiet.

  The checker pieces are as big as my hand looking more like Frisbees than game pieces. The staff doesn’t let anyone play with the smaller pieces for fear of someone trying to choke their self on them.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles and I glance up to see Michael staring at me. That dude creeps me out. He’s got these super dark brown eyes that look almost black. And he’s so intense. PJ told me he’s in here for anger issues of some sort. That he got in trouble for beating on people—she thinks he put his mom in the hospital. But that could just be talk. However, the more he watches me, the more I believe it. Not wanting to freak myself out anymore, I turn back to my game.

  Staring at the board, I take turns moving the red and black pieces. The one good thing about playing alone is that I win no matter what. And sometimes it was nice to win at something.

  My hand pushes a black piece into one of the boxes when a shadow looms over me.

  “I wanna play with you,” Michael says, towering over me.

  I shiver, trying not to cower away from him. “Sorry, I only play alone.”

  “Well, I want to play to.”

  My mouth is dry, and I sit taller in my chair. “Then go over there, Michael, there’s an empty board at that table.” I gesture across the room.