There is great power in this, the ability to telegraph to the world how much you just don’t give a shit. Boys find it sexy. Girls, too.
But here’s the truth: I did give a shit.
Those jolts of panic that would rock through me whenever I realized I could never call back the control I had relinquished told me so. The moments when excitement curdled into fear, when things no longer felt like a game. Like the night last summer when me and Eve met some boys down by the Montrose Beach boathouse. One of them had a pickup truck, and we hopped in the bed and went for a ride. Everything was so much fun until the boy who was driving—whose name I’ve since forgotten—decided to pull onto Lake Shore Drive. Soon we were speeding along the water so fast that I had to close my eyes to keep them from drying up, the lake wind slashing at my face, but he kept going faster and faster, and me and Eve couldn’t do anything but cling to the sides of the truck bed and scream, knowing that with one quick swerve or sudden brake we’d be thrown over the side to explode against the asphalt, girl-shaped missiles in the night.
Later, when I got home, I couldn’t stop shaking and I couldn’t sleep. I listened to Amy and Janis and Aaliyah,21 but I found that any romantic notion I may have had about dying young had blown away on the Lake Shore Drive wind.
It scared me—just not enough to change me.
Later that same summer I almost died again. Me and some kids from school snuck up to the roof of a carpet warehouse in Goose Island to smoke weed and watch the Navy Pier fireworks. Me and this boy Adrian were sitting together on a skylight, passing a joint back and forth, when the glass cracked beneath us. We jumped up just in time, a second before the whole thing gave way, crashing down into a million pieces to the concrete thirty or forty feet below.
Lying here now, under my thin, itchy blanket, with the mute trees swaying outside, I shiver, remembering. Why didn’t I die that night? Or so many other nights, when my luck could have—should have—swung in the other direction? It’s just another reason, as if I needed one, not to believe in God. Because if God were real, why would they cut down so many kind and decent people in the prime of their lives, so many brilliant artists, and then decide to spare a piece of shit like me?
18
FOR HALLOWEEN, I get a homemade card in the mail from Lauren and Lola. On the cover of the folded construction paper is a drawing of a ghost, the typical white-sheet-looking one, except it’s topped with curly black hair, bleached lavender at the tips, and purple eye shadow smudged around its circular black eyes—so I guess it’s supposed to be the ghost of me—or at least, the me I was before I came here and they chopped off my colored ends and stopped letting me wear most of my makeup.
MIA!!! It says in shakily printed block letters on the inside of the card.
WE MISS U!!!
WE LOVE U!!!
U ARE BOO-TIFUL!!!
I miss the twins, too. I love them, too. I, too, think they are boo-tiful.
Always have.
I remember the summer they were born, the summer I turned eleven. They arrived six weeks early, so tiny that they had to spend a week in the hospital before we could bring them home. When they got here, they mostly slept, but when they were awake they cried and cried, these little mewling wails that filled the whole house, and they’d kick their tiny wrinkled legs and ball their fists so that all I wanted to do was pick them up and rock them until they slept against me, two tiny loaves of warmth against my chest.
Not that Alanna ever let me hold them much. Or feed them, either. She’d read on some online parenting blog that if she fed the babies formula from a bottle, they would grow up to be stupid, so she breastfed them constantly, even if it meant she got, like, one hour of sleep per night. She cried even more than the twins did, and she could go days without showering or brushing her hair. That summer, whenever I came home from soccer camp, she’d be sitting in the family room, lights off, blinds pulled, air-conditioning blasting, topless and wearing the same stained pair of yoga pants, holding a baby to each boob and staring at Judge Mathis without actually watching it.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked Dad one night when he took me out for ice cream so I wouldn’t feel neglected.
“Having a baby, let alone two . . . it’s a hard adjustment,” he said.
“Was Mom like this? When you guys brought me home?”
“You were a pretty easy baby,” he answered, digging into his mint chocolate chip. “And there was only one of you. But yeah, she had a hard time, too.”
“She did? Like how?”
“Just normal stuff. Sleeplessness. Hormones. You know.” But I didn’t.
“The thing with your mother,” he finally said, poking at his ice cream as he very pointedly refused to look at my face, “was that she loved being your mom. But she didn’t necessarily love being a mom, if that makes sense.”
“I mean.” I stared at him. I knew that if I stared hard enough, he’d eventually have to look at me, and soon enough, he did. “Not really.”
He sighed and put down his spoon. “Your mom, Mia. She was a complicated woman. A wonderful, complicated woman. She had a difficult history and had many different issues and she thought—we both did—that maybe having a baby could fix . . .” He made his this-conversation-is-giving-me-a-headache face and trailed off. I was about to ask him what it was that I had failed to fix for her, and whether that was the reason she left us. But he changed the subject quickly.
“Could you do me a favor, honey? When you’re around during the afternoons, after camp, could you help Alanna out with the twins?”
“But, like, how? She won’t even let me hold them.”
“So help her in other ways. Laundry. Dishwasher. Vacuum. That kind of thing.” He pointed his spoon at me and smiled. “You know what to do, right? You took care of me all those years before I met her, didn’t you?”
Which wasn’t true, of course, because little kids, even gifted little kids, aren’t exactly up to the task of running a household. My grandma had done the bulk of that, before she’d died. But what he said felt true—it reminded me that our history went deeper than his and Alanna’s, that we were still a unit, that we would always be allies no matter how many new babies he and Alanna decided to have together.
So I tried.
One morning, after the twins had been up all night, I came home from camp to find Alanna passed out on the couch with the girls sleeping in the portable bassinet next to her. Even though I’d tried to come in quietly, Lauren woke up and started bawling. I was afraid her cries would shatter this rare moment of peace, and the house was already spotless, so I decided I’d take her for a walk. I strapped the carrier over my shoulders, the way I’d seen Alanna do it, and clicked Lauren inside. As soon as we started moving, she fell immediately into a contented sleep, her little forehead resting against the fabric of my tank top. I walked all over the neighborhood with her, waving at people I knew, so proud to be caring for her, my baby sister. See? I wanted to say to Alanna. You were so afraid to trust me. Turns out, I’m a natural.
I was only gone for an hour, but when I got back, Alanna was waiting for me, pacing on the front steps with her phone clutched in her hand.
“Where were you?” she demanded, her voice choked because she was trying so hard to keep herself from screaming at me.
“I just took her for a walk,” I said. “She was awake and I wanted to let you sleep.”
“She’s not a doll, Mia. You can’t just take a brand-new baby somewhere without telling anyone. Without telling her mother.”
“Sorry.” I swallowed hard, unsnapped the straps of the carrier, and handed Lauren over. “I was just trying to help.”
“I know you were,” Alanna said, softening now that she had proof I hadn’t accidentally lost her baby or whatever. “It’s just—ask me next time, okay?”
I pushed past her and went into the house. “Okay.”
“Wait.” Something about her voice pinned me in place and I turned around. “Did you put a hat
on her?”
A hat. I had remembered almost everything. Almost.
“Please tell me you put a hat on her.”
“We were only—”
“She’s too little for sunscreen.” Alanna began to pace the front stoop again. “They can’t wear sunscreen until they’re six months old at least. But still, if you didn’t put a hat on her, you must have put sunscreen on her. Because if you didn’t . . .”
I felt the tears springing to my eyes. I was so stupid. I was so unbelievably worthless and stupid. Lauren’s little head, so thin-skinned and delicate, practically bald except for a few wisps of blond hair, was already darkening into an angry pink.
“Oh my God. You—go upstairs.”
With the world’s worst possible timing, Lauren chose that exact moment to wake up and begin wailing.
“Go upstairs!”
I did as I was told—headed toward the landing, and when I turned back once, I saw Alanna clutching Lauren against her chest, examining the damage I’d done with a look of wild, furious all-consuming love. She had never, of course, looked at me that way, not even when I’d gotten hit in the face during a sixth-grade softball game and broken my nose. It was a mother’s look, filled with a mother’s love, and it could never be replicated or replaced.
My dad came home from work that night and found me lying under the covers in my canopy bed. I thought he was going to yell at me, but instead he kicked off his oxfords and climbed in next to me. He put his arms around me, rested his stubbly chin on my shoulder, and just held me for a long time, as if I were still a baby, too. Which made me feel so much better and also so much worse. My dad—no, everybody in my family—deserved so much better than what I was. Even my mom knew this. It was probably why she left.
I look down now at the Halloween card in front of me. You are BOO-tiful!!! All the exclamation marks have little pumpkins instead of dots. I hold the card against my heart until my ache for them passes, as sharp and cresting as a period cramp.
19
RED OAK ACADEMY
STUDENT SCHEDULE
DEMPSEY, MIA
ID #47813
6:30—first bell
7:00—breakfast / kitchen cleanup / food prep
8:00—group chat
8:30–9:30—English/language arts
9:35–10:45—foreign language independent study
10:50–11:50—mathematics independent study
12:00–12:40—lunch / kitchen cleanup
12:45–1:45—individual therapy (M/W)
Dorm chores (Tu/Th)
Bathroom chores (F)
1:50–2:50—nature connection/physical education
2:55–3:55—social studies independent study
4:00–4:45—constructive relaxation
5:00–5:55—dinner / kitchen cleanup / food prep
6:00–7:00—homework
7:05–8:00—constructive relaxation
8:05–8:30—personal hygiene
8:35–9:00—lights dimmed
9:00—lights out
Day after day, each minute of my life is parceled out, measured by somebody else’s clock, then boxed away forever. Minutes and hours and days of my life that I’ll never get back—and it’s worse than prison because I don’t even have a release date to hang my hopes on. I look forward, each night, to lights-out, because the only time I’m free is when I’m sleeping.
20
RED OAK RULES DICTATE that you’re not allowed to speak to your family back home for the first two weeks of your imprisonment. Mary Pat says this is a way to speed up the process of acclimating to life here, to help “reroute your neuron loops to your new reality.” Vera says it’s to prevent you from begging your parents to bring you home right when they’re at their most vulnerable and most likely to say yes.
Guess which explanation I believe?
On the Sunday afternoon that marks the beginning of my third week at Red Oak, Dee escorts me to the admin office for my first session of family therapy. Mary Pat and Vivian are waiting for me in the demonic Cracker Barrel office, standing next to Mary Pat’s big desktop monitor. My dad and Alanna are already on-screen, waiting for me on the family room couch, pressed close together and clasping hands like they’re bracing themselves for a troubled teen tornado.
“Where are the twins?” I ask before I sit down.
“Unforunately, Mia,” Mary Pat says, patiently indicating a chair in front of the camera, “conversations with siblings are a privilege that can only be earned in your second month, with good behavior.”
I sit down with a sigh.
“Oh, Mia.” Alanna gasps as soon as I come into view. “You look so—so well-rested.” I can see that the two black eyes I gave her have faded into a topography of yellowing bruises. Couldn’t she have thrown on some concealer for this meeting? She probably wants to make me look as bad as possible to Mary Pat and Vivian, to convince them I’m super-extra troubled, and to keep me here, and out of their lives, for as long as she can.
“Hi, baby,” Dad says. His voice is tired, and his eyes are glassy, like he’s stoned or something, but since I know he’s never touched a drug in his life I can only assume that he’s been crying. Which makes me feel like a massive pile of shit.
Sorry, I say in my head. If it makes you feel any better, I hate me, too.
“Hey,” I say.
“So, um. How’s it going up there?”
“Well, let’s see.” I begin counting off on my fingers. “You guys had me kidnapped. They took my phone. They made me take my clothes off so they could body-cavity-search me. I can’t use nail polish remover because it has alcohol in it and they’re afraid I might try to drink it. Oh! And my roommate is a domestic terrorist who eats her own skin.”
“Mia,” Dad says, cracking his knuckles. “Don’t act like this came out of nowhere. You’ve been on a downward trajectory for a long time now. You’ve—it’s become impossible for us to go it alone with you anymore.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, smiling cruelly. “I’ve read the literature. Parenting is never easy. But it should never be this hard. And if it is, just get rid of your kid!”
“See?” Alanna cries, looking to Mary Pat for backup. “See the anger? The cutting comments? The, just, relentless snarkiness?”
“Of course I’m angry!” I shout. “I know I shouldn’t have hit you, okay? I know that was wrong, and I’m sorry or whatever. But it doesn’t mean I belong here, surrounded by cutters and internet porn stars and suicide cases and fire starters!”
“Fire starters?” Dad, alarmed, looks over at Mary Pat and runs a hand through his already-thinning hair. “Jeez.”
“We have, in the past, treated girls with fire-setting issues,” Mary Pat replies calmly. “There are none currently enrolled at Red Oak, though. And even if there were, Mia would not be in danger. If we don’t allow our girls to have nail polish remover, do you really believe we’d allow them access to matches?”
“Mia,” Alanna whines, her eyes filling with tears—she is a classic example of someone who uses crying as a tool of manipulation—“I know it’s hard for you to understand this, but we feel that you do belong at Red Oak. We love you so much, but it’s like, all the love we give you, you just suck it up and spit it right back into our faces.”
“You love me?” I can’t help myself. I start laughing.
Alanna’s mouth hangs open for an instant. “Of course I love you, Mia. How could you even—”
“Do you know what she said to me that day?” I ask Dad. “Before I punched her?”
Dad clears his throat, glances at his wife, then employs his superhero skill: answering a question without actually answering it.
“We had a conversation,” he says. “There are no secrets between Alanna and me. You didn’t leave us much of a choice, Mia. We just felt very strongly that you needed a complete separation from your current life, from this Xander character, and even from your sisters, from us—”
I can’t stand to hear them talk anymo
re, to hear Xander’s name in my dad’s mouth, to hear Xander’s name at all, as if he’s the problem, as if he even fucking matters. I can’t stand to look at their faces, both guilty and accusatory, and I can’t stand to see our kitchen through the doorway behind the couch, can’t stand to remember the freedom of throwing open the fridge whenever I wanted, of digging out some leftover pizza and eating it in front of my laptop. Of going where I wanted and doing what I wanted. Of being a normal teenager: a little wild maybe, and definitely making lots of mistakes, but figuring life out. Instead of now, where I’m locked up in a place where all temptation is taken away and I’m not even given the choice to do the right thing anymore. I’m sure all the kids at school are talking even more shit about me than they did when I was still around. Or maybe not. Maybe they’ve all forgotten I exist. I can’t decide which is worse. The thoughts press in, faster and faster, pushing the tears into my eyes, and since I am not a manipulative crier, since I am a person who believes that crying is weak and self-indulgent and useless, since I refuse to let Alanna know she has the power to make me cry, I get to my feet and jab the end call button.
“Mia, wait!” calls Vivian, but when I run out of Mary Pat’s office, slamming the door behind me, she has the good sense not to follow me.
21
WHAT ALANNA SAID TO ME
RIGHT BEFORE I HIT HER
You know what you are to these boys, right?
Nothing but a punch line to laugh about with his buddies.
And in the moment,
nothing
but
a
warm
hole.
22
I STILL HAVE SOME TIME to kill before I have to show up for dinner, so I decide to go for a walk. The air is sharp and flinty, but I can’t head back to my room for my coat because that would require speaking to the girls in Birchwood and right now I don’t feel like speaking to anyone. I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my fists, set my shoulders, and walk toward the trail behind the library, the one that leads into the woods and down to Lake Onamia. The sun is just beginning to set, because here at Red Oak we eat dinner at five, like old people.
You Know I'm No Good Page 6
