She’s standing in front of me. Debbie’s there, too. And Tara And Claire. A semicircle of feet.
A weird strangling sound starts in my chest, then comes out my mouth. I’m crying—sobbing, actually, and gulping for air. I wipe my eyes; the feet are still there. But the crying won’t stop. I’m shaking and trying not to shake, but it’s no good. I can’t stop. Claire says something about going to get help.
Finally, a pair of white shoes pushes through the semicircle. Ruby’s there, rubbing my back, saying, “There, there, baby. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”
Then you’re standing there, in your little fabric shoes, saying the same thing, that it’s all right now.
You shut your door; I notice that it’s getting dark outside and wonder if you’d be home walking your dog or making your dinner right now if I hadn’t freaked out.
“Can you tell me what upset you so much in Group?”
I shrug. “Debbie.” It’s all I can say.
“How did Debbie upset you?”
“No.” I blow my nose. “Debbie didn’t do anything. I…she…” I rip the tissue in two and start again. “She thought it was her fault. About Becca.”
I don’t dare to look at you.
“I thought it was my fault,” I whisper.
I glance at you, then away. You look worried.
“I think everything’s my fault.”
“What else is your fault?”
“I don’t know. Everything. Sam.”
“Sam?”
“It’s my fault he’s sick. Which means it’s my fault my mom’s not the same anymore and my fault my dad’s not around. It’s all my fault.”
“Callie.” Your voice is gentle. “How can all those things be your fault?”
“I don’t know. They just are.”
“How is it your fault that Sam is sick?”
“I made him cry? I got him upset?” I’ve always taken this for granted; as I say it out loud, though, it sounds stupid.
“Callie, I’m a doctor,” you say. “If I tell you that a person doesn’t get asthma from crying, from being upset, will you believe me?”
I shrug.
“Asthma is a kind of allergic reaction. People can develop it when they come in contact with certain substances, like pollen or dust. Sometimes a viral infection can trigger an attack. But you can’t give asthma to someone. The allergic response is already in their system.”
The fog is clouding my mind again. What you’re saying sounds like something from biology class; it doesn’t have anything to do with me or Sam or my mom being scared all the time and my dad being gone all the time. I look for the rabbit on the ceiling but can’t quite find him.
“Has anyone told you all these things are your fault?” you interrupt.
“No one has to. I just know.”
“Does anyone punish you for these things?”
I shake my head.
“No one?”
I look up at you. You still look concerned.
“What about you? Aren’t you punishing yourself? By hurting yourself?”
I don’t understand. “No.”
“Then why do you think you cut yourself?”
“I don’t know.” I tear the tissue to shreds. “It just happens. I can’t help it.”
You furrow your brow.
“I know it’s bad,” I say. “I guess I do it because I’m…bad.”
“How are you bad?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like I’m this bad person.”
“What have you done that’s so bad?”
“I don’t know.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. “I really don’t know.”
You look pleased and say that’s enough for one day.
Right before dinner there’s always a crowd of people on the smoking porch. As I go past, Sydney taps on the glass door. I stop and watch as she gestures for me to come out. Before I can decide what to do, she grinds out her cigarette and comes in to get me.
“C’mon, S.T.,” she says, grabbing my arm. “Come outside with us.”
I pull my sleeve down over my thumb and follow, trying to match her big strides as her ponytail bobs up and down in front of me.
“Guess I can’t call you S.T anymore.” She waits at the door for me to catch up. “Now that you’re talking.”
“It’s OK,” I say. “You can still call me that.”
There’s a blast of cold, smoky air as Sydney opens the door. I step onto the porch, take in the curious looks of the other girls, and jam my hands into my pockets.
“Want one?” Sydney waves a pack of cigarettes in front of me. I shake my head and watch the careful way she lights up, cupping her hand around the match to keep it from blowing out. “My favorite addiction,” she says, blowing out a fat white smoke ring.
Tiffany wanders over. “Does anybody else think it’s weird that we’re allowed to smoke here?” she says.
Sydney admires her smoke ring as it floats away. “Yeah,” she says. “No barfing, no bingeing, no inhaling fumes from the art supplies. But smoking’s OK.”
The other girls laugh and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. I lift my sleeve to my mouth, but the smile stays as they make jokes about the rules, about the food, about Group. It’s cold outside and I wonder why no one ever wears a coat at Sick Minds. Mostly, though, I test out what it feels like to smile again.
I’m so tired that night that I fall asleep in my clothes. I’m sitting up in bed reading a story for English and the next thing I know Ruby’s leaning over me, telling me it’s almost lights out.
“You want to put this on?” She’s holding one of my nightgowns.
Then she’s gone, her shoes squeaking down the hall. The room is dark; Sydney’s on her back, sleeping. I get up slowly, then make my way down to the bathroom.
Rochelle’s in her chair and Amanda’s standing at the sink, although I hardly recognize her. She’s washed off all her makeup—her pencil-arched brows, her black eyeliner, her red lipstick—and she looks very young. She’s studying her face in the mirror, so she doesn’t notice me right away. When she does, she scowls.
I find a corner, turn my back, and begin the process of getting undressed for the shower without letting her see me. First I unhook my bra, tug the straps down, and pull it off from under my shirt. Then I drape the towel over my shoulders and take off my shirt, quickly pulling the towel around me, toga-style, as my shirt falls to the floor Next I step out of my jeans, holding the towel in place with one hand and tugging my pants off with the other I’m balanced on one foot, kicking off my pants leg, when something metal hits the tile floor with a tiny plink.
The metal strip from the dining room table: I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. Instinctively I slide my foot across the tile, covering the piece of metal.
Rochelle’s head bobs up, but she looks in the wrong direction, over at the toilet stalls. But Amanda turns quickly toward me. She takes in my awkward position, the towel gripped to my chest, one foot half stuck inside my pants leg, the other stretched out uncomfortably far away, across the floor Then she nods slowly, approvingly.
“Rochelle,” she calls out, still looking at me. “Is there anyone down at the desk? I need something.”
I’m too startled to move. Is she going to tell on me, get me in trouble?
Rochelle’s gotten up; she’s banging the toilet stall doors open one by one, checking to make sure no one’s in there. When the last stall turns up empty, she gives Amanda an annoyed look. “What do you need this time of night?”
Amanda smiles at me, then turns to face Rochelle. “A tampon.”
I don’t understand. Then I do. Amanda’s sending Rochelle off on a fake errand so I can pick up the metal
