You want to believe him so badly.
“Where’s my roommate?”
“She’s out in the common room, watching TV.”
“Is she scary?” You’re so afraid.
“Nah. Just don’t stare into her eyes for too long.”
You can’t tell if he’s joking, but then he grins really wide and you see his straight white teeth again. You exhale.
“What do I do now?”
“Well, dinner’s at five, visitors come at six, and then you can make personal calls at seven,” Damian says. “But you only get six minutes, and it’s first come, first serve. It gets pretty busy during phone hour.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“You’ll be okay,” Damian says.
“I need to lie down. Can I take a nap?”
“Sure, I’ll see you later.” And with a quick wave, Damian leaves your room.
You crawl into what you assume is your bed since the bed on the right has slippers on the floor nearby and a robe at the end of it. You put the pillow over your head and dream of Ben.
44
“It’s dinnertime.”
The girl is standing over you, staring at you as you move from sleeping to waking. You had been dreaming that you and Ben were hiking up a hill and were about to fly over a shimmering, glistening lake. Now some strange girl wearing a Hello Kitty T-shirt is demanding you get up for dinner.
“Huh?” You’re confused, lost in the memory of your dream of Ben, not fully aware of where you are.
“Dinner. Five o’clock. I’m Savara.”
“Hi,” you say.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Pea.”
“Pea? Is that short for something?”
“Just Pea.” You decide that no one here is going to learn your real name. Ever.
She turns away from your bed and you sit up. She’s got skinny jeans on to go with her Hello Kitty T-shirt and she’s wearing dirty socks. She’s scrawny, pale white, and delicate as a piece of loose-leaf paper. You can see right through to the veiny makeup of her insides. You’re guessing drug addict, if you had to choose Reason for Admittance. Then you wonder if she’s wondering about you.
And she is, because her next question is this: “Why are you in here?”
You rub the sleep from your eyes and wonder the same thing.
Why am I in here?
“I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think I belong here.” Then you realize how that sounds and you try to retract the words when Savara scowls at you.
“I … uh … I don’t mean it like that. It’s just, someone called in an anonymous tip at school about me and now everyone thinks I’m suicidal. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh.”
She’s not buying it.
Then Savara says, “It’ll all come out in therapy anyway. It always does. Get up. We have to go to dinner. If we’re late, they mark it in our files.”
You follow her out of the room to the dining area, which is near the lounge area. The shiny aluminum tables are long and seating is bench style. Everything is bolted to the floor. You guess it’s so no one can hurl furniture at people. By the looks of it, there’s room for about fifty people, tops. There are about twenty kids there—in one section there are younger kids who all look to be about six to twelve years old. Savara takes you through the food line and dinner is served to you on a Styrofoam plate by someone behind a glass window. Your meal consists of a piece of lasagna, some wilty salad, a roll with a pat of butter, and a brownie. There is a carton of milk too. You get to eat with a spork. No knife. Of course, because you could try to kill yourself with a plastic knife.
You feel sick to your stomach.
Savara sits next to a group of odd-looking teens and you sit next to her because what other option is there.
“New girl.” Savara nods in your direction and you glance at each of them quickly, but don’t really look at them yet. Then she says, “Her name’s Pea.”
A couple of the kids say hi, and one of the guys grunts his greeting, and then they all continue to talk as if you aren’t there. They eat their food like it’s no big deal, like it might even taste okay. You take this time to look at everyone.
There’s a black girl with tragically straight hair and tons of split ends, faded red like she dyed it at home from a box, but did a terrible job. Next to her is a boy who looks to be the youngest—maybe thirteen—he’s also black and he’s rapping to some music in his head in between bites of his lasagna.
Across from Savara sits the most angry-looking guy you’ve ever laid eyes on. From the looks of him, he’s exactly who you’d expect to be in the Crazy House. Dark clothes, dark hair, dark demeanor. You can tell he’s had his lip and eyebrow pierced, and he’s got about eight holes in each of his ears. His eyes are a fierce color of green, mesmerizing and eerie at the same time—you don’t want to stop staring, although he looks like he could tear you apart with one scowl. You can also tell he’s been hurt more than anyone deserves to be hurt. He stares back, challenging you, and you glance away.
At another table there is a group of kids who are loud and laughing and you can’t believe that there is laughter in this place. That people can be happy in here. You’re curious as to what makes them feel that way.
You pretend to busy yourself with your spork, like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. The monster is whispering something to you but you’re not sure what he’s saying. Maybe, You’re hungry, you’re hungry, you’re hungry. Or, You’re trapped, you’re trapped, you’re trapped.
Either one, he’s right.
You take the roll and pick off a piece. You place the bit of bread in your mouth and chew.
Now everyone is staring at you.
“So,” the black girl says, “what got you sent here?”
You swallow the bread and feel tears welling in the corners of your eyes.
She’s not being mean. She’s just asking a question.
“I guess I might have tried to kill myself.” Although you know it’s not true. You didn’t try to kill yourself. But it’s easier than attempting to explain everything to a bunch of strangers.
It’s actually easier than the truth.
The others at the table nod. Like they know.
You take another piece of your roll. Your stomach growls so loud that everyone at the table hears it and they laugh.
“Damn, girl, you’re hungry!” Savara says.
You look down at your plate. You will not eat the lasagna, and the salad looks pretty disgusting. You will finish your roll and eat the brownie though.
The black boy speaks. “I’m Malik. I tried to do it too. Three times. I thought the third time would be my ticket out. My grammy finally had enough and brought me here.”
“Next time, Malik, tie that rope tighter.” It’s the green-eyed boy who says this. He’s staring directly at you even though he was addressing Malik.
“Nah, man,” Malik says. “Rope’s too hard.”
Green-eyed guy laughs. Then to you he says, “What about you?”
“Me, what?” you ask.
“How?” he says.
You pull your wrists quickly under the table and shake your head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”