I actually almost laugh at that.
“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely.”
She checks another box and then looks up at me, smiling.
“Well, congratulations. You’re officially off probation. And, honestly, Nic, I’m very impressed with the change I see in you. Good job.”
I smile back.
I mean, what choice do I have?
Ch.6
Because I’m finally off probation, Melonie went ahead and okayed me for the Sunday outing—a hike somewhere—a place called Tent Rocks, I think. The van’s not loading up for another ten or fifteen minutes, but I’m already up waiting ’cause I’m pretty anxious to get off this goddamn compound.
Not that it’ll be my first time.
I’ve gone out twice this week to twelve-step meetings—plus on a group trip to Target and Borders. Of course, I still don’t have any money, but this stealing thing I’ve gotten into is a hard habit to break.
When I was with Zelda, we subsisted entirely on stolen food from grocery stores and drugstores and wherever. We’d even drive down to the Grove shopping center with the sole purpose of roaming from shop to shop, stealing books and CDs, clothing, computer supplies—basically, whatever we could get away with.
And, it’s crazy, you know, ’cause I never really thought jacking shit could become some kind of addiction, but still, now that I’m sober, I find myself walking outta places with books in my hands and candy bars in my goddamn pockets—none of which I need or even want particularly.
It’s super dumb.
I mean, dumb.
There’s actually a part of me that wants to call up Zelda just to ask if she’s having the same problem, but I figure that’s probably just some excuse, or whatever. I mean, as it is I have to spend, like, every second I’m awake trying not to think about her—keeping myself busy—messing around on the guitar, talking with my friends, playing board games—fucking Scrabble—going to groups. Hell, the other day I ended up spending almost two hours watching this guy Kevin solve the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I think I contributed about three answers.
I mean, even here, waiting for the van, I pace back and forth.
I light a cigarette, listen to my old Discman—playing The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust over and over. David Bowie singing about a Starman waiting in the sky.
If only there really was someone waiting out there—waiting to take me away from all this.
David Bowie singing, “If we can sparkle he may land tonight.”
Suddenly something hits my shoulder kinda hard.
I take off one of my headphones and turn to look back behind me.
I guess, not surprisingly, it’s that Sue Ellen girl.
She punches me in the shoulder again, this time even harder.
For some reason that makes me really fucking laugh.
I tell her, “Ow, man.”
She hits me again.
“What you listenin’ to?”
Her voice is jarring—maybe a little too loud.
She takes off the baseball hat she’s wearing, shakes out her hair—looking up at me through narrowed eyes—her body thin—delicate-looking—I mean, fragile.
She catches me staring.
“Hey… Nic…”
This time I’m able to dodge her punch.
“Damn, girl, all right…. It’s David Bowie. I’m listening to Ziggy Stardust. You know that album?”
Somehow the green of her eyes seems to clear or brighten or something.
“Are you serious?” she asks me, her mouth remaining slightly open. “That’s my favorite album ever.”
I laugh.
“Right on. I wouldn’t’ve thought y’all listened to a whole lot of David Bowie in the South.”
She smiles, tucking her hair back behind her ears.
“Yeah, well, there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
I start to say something in response to that, but then a sharp, burning pain shoots through my hand and, instinctively, I drop the smoldering end of my cigarette butt that I’d totally forgotten about, swearing loudly.
Sue Ellen laughs and laughs.
She puts her hat on over her face so I can’t see her eyes at all.
“Sorry,” she says, her voice kinda muffled. “I don’t mean to laugh. I’ve been up since five thirty writing this stupid good-bye letter, so I guess I’m still a little punchy, you know? Have you had to write one of those?”
I shake my head but then remember pretty quickly she probably can’t see me.
“No, uh, no. What do you mean? What kinda good-bye letter?”
She pushes the hat up so her eyes are just barely visible beneath the brim.
“Oh, you know—just some lighthearted Sunday morning fun. My counselor wants me to write a good-bye letter to all my friends and family who didn’t stand by me, or even believe me, after it happened. I mean, the way my dad acted, you woulda thought I was the one who did something wrong—it was like he couldn’t even look at me. So I’m supposed to write this letter saying good-bye to all these people, including my dad, my boyfriend, and basically all my friends from school, who I’m supposed to be cutting outta my life for good. Do you know Amy, my counselor?”
I half nod.
“Well, she says I have to start the grieving process with everything that happened—otherwise I’ll never be able to, you know, like, go on with my life. Even though, honestly, I’m not really sure why having to think about all this shit all the time is supposed to help anything.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, they talk about that kinda thing a lot here—all that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross shit—you know, that doctor who talks about the five stages of grief, or whatever. Like, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, uh, acceptance, I think. Basically, the idea is that in order to get over any trauma that’s happened to us in our lives, we have to go through that entire cycle—that’s the only way we can move on.”
I find myself doing something awkward with my hands—overgesturing, maybe, like a politician at a goddamn press conference.
I can’t help it.
“What happens to most of us is that we get, you know, stuck in one part of the cycle. At least, that’s what Melonie tells me. She says that
