Beast (4 page)

She's pushing me and I'm starting to sweat. I need to nip this in the bud because I get pungent. “Can I just say my five good things now?”

Jamie frowns. She's disappointed. Fine, I'm used to it. “Go ahead. Your turn,” she says.

“Okay.” Since this is my only session, there's no point going beyond the basics. “Five good things about me. One: my mom and I are cool. She can be annoying, but I love her to death. Two: I'm in all Level 1 and AP classes at school and I have the highest GPA in my class. Three: I've got a great seat at lunch because it's next to JP, and he and I hang out all the time. Four: I'm a nice guy. Five: I have nothing to complain about—I'm fine.”

She bobs her head. “Well, all right then. How about that.”

“How about that.”

“You have nothing to complain about.”

“Nope.”

“Even though you made that wish.”

“Yup.”

“Lucky you,” she says.

“They don't call me Dylan Luckiest Guy Ever for nothing.”

“Except you don't seem like a Dylan.”

“What did you think my name was, Throg the Rock Crusher?”

She giggles. After Fern in the library, I don't want to hear another girl laugh ever again, but she has the best laugh. “I admire you for making a joke. I'm not there yet.”

Now I squint at her. “What could you possibly need to joke about?”

“Um, maybe everything!” Her laughter comes from a way-deep place and erupts. “It wasn't the wish I made on the star last night, but I've had your wish too. Maybe that's why it didn't come true for either of us. We're overloading the system.”

“Maybe the wish factory needs a new call center.”

“You're funny,” she says. “Even if you are a liar.”

“What? Why would you call me a liar?”

Jamie bends near enough for me to see her pores. Except there are none. She has the most perfect skin I've ever seen. It's like cream. Her face reminds me of almonds. Her chin, her forehead, her cheekbones, all smooth, but just enough subtle edges and sharp points to leave a mark if you push too hard.

“If your life is so flipping fantastic,” she whispers, “then why are you here?”

Why am I here? Because I fell off a roof, duh, but I'll never tell her that.

I look right into Jamie's eyes. “I don't know why I'm here.”

“Hmm.” She drops her line of sight to her knees, and it feels like someone hit the dimmer switch. Everything goes dull. She switches legs, unbraiding them and recrossing them on the opposite side. Maybe she'll look at me again and bring the light back, but no. Those eyes of hers, their corners lifting high despite the purple bags underneath, they land on everything else in the room but me. The fake plants, the dull linoleum floor. They sit for a spell on the hospital's interpretation of what decorative knickknacks should be. Like that poster of a kitten dangling from a branch.
HANG IN THERE
. Because a kitten with shitty manual dexterity will solve all our problems? Done. Can I go home now?

Jamie's attention eventually strays to my cast. After she reads the doodles and messages, she looks up at me. The light comes flooding back (don't look, don't do it, don't fall) and I shut my eyes.

“The Beast?” she says. I open them and there she is. A face that launched a thousand somethings. Cars. No, tugboats. Ships. One of those.

“Is that your nickname?” she asks. “They call you the Beast?”

“Guess so.”

“Why?”

I lift my forearm and show her. My bare palm facing me and the hairy full-length sweater facing her. Fur everywhere, all the way up, even coating my knuckles.

“Can I touch it?” she asks.

“Uh…okay.”

She gently smooths her fingers across the back of my hand, like she's touching the head of a newborn. “It's soft.”

I sneak my hand back. Am I like a dog now? Did she just pet me?

“Shall we come together?” Dr. Burns asks. “Anyone have a topic they'd like to discuss?”

A girl in the corner raises her hand, and if I saw her coming down the street, I'd step aside so I wouldn't accidentally breathe on her and mess her up. Everything about her is precision perfect. Like she parts her hair with a laser and resews every button so each row of little holes lines up north to south. While my bag lies dumped on the ground with all the crap spilling out, her bag stands at attention by her foot like a guard dog. “Dr. Burns,” she says, not asks.

“Yes, Gabrielle?”

“I still find it difficult to illustrate to my family that what I'm undergoing is a legitimate concern. They thought I was crazy when I used to cut,” Gabrielle says. “They said black girls don't do this; it's a white-girl problem.”

“How did that make you feel?” Dr. Burns asks. I inch my wheels closer to the door. If that's the default follow-up question to everything, no wonder these girls are robots.

“Like they didn't care,” Gabrielle says. “Like no one cares.”

I want to laugh. Oh, Gabrielle, take it from me. No one gives a flying shit how you really feel. Not your friends, not anyone.

“Thank you, Gabrielle.” Dr. Burns nods and looks at me. “Dylan? Would you like to add anything?”

“I don't hack myself up with razor blades,” I say. “So I don't think I should be here.”

A way-too-skinny girl, Hannah, jumps out of her seat. I'm surprised she has the energy. “If he doesn't think he should be here, then he should go,” she says. “Because what he said is insulting.”

“I agree,” Jamie says.

Jamie lists to the side like she was punctured with a pin. I suddenly feel bad.

Our Lady Black of the good ship Weltschmerz raises her hand. Dr. Burns points at her. “Yes, Wretched?”

“
Wretched?!
Your name is
Wretched
?” I burst out.

“We're respectful toward others,” Dr. Burns says to me.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. But that's perfect.”

“Fuck off, Caveman Jim,” Wretched snaps at me.

“Name-calling,” Dr. Burns says, playing referee.

“I can call myself whatever name I want,” Wretched spits. “I don't need some misogynist acting like he has a say.” She looks like she's about to throw a chair at my head. “You know nothing about me.”

“Likewise,” I say.

“Oh, but it's okay for you to get all up on your high horse because of someone's name or what they look like?” Wretched sneers.

“At least you chose—” I stop. I pull the brim of my hat down and dunk my hands in my lap. Shut up, shut up, shut up, I chant in my head as I squeeze my hands into fists.

“At least what, Dylan?” Dr. Burns asks.

“Nothing.” I glare at my fingernails. My hands relax and I look up. I grin at the room so they'll see I meant no harm. I'm a nice guy. Besides, I know when I'm outnumbered. I don't want them to rise up and drown me in lip gloss. “Nothing. Sorry I said anything.”

Wretched sighs and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “I would like to know what you were going to say.”

“Me too,” Gabrielle says.

“Me three,” Jamie says.

She sends me a smile, a small peace offering.

Gripping my jaw, I drag my fingers across my chin. The raspy five o'clock shadow that sprouted after lunch scritches louder than sandpaper. I take a breath. “I was going to say”—I debate how to put it—“at least Wretched chose to look that way and call herself that name. That's all.”

“Um…,” a tiny voice says.

“Yes, Emily,” Dr. Burns says to the blond goddess. Except she's not a goddess and I'm not a gladiator about to bang her in the backseat of my gilded chariot. We're just two people sitting in a circle.

“I can relate,” her soft voice whispers. “Because I'm twelve and sometimes I feel trapped. Like I didn't choose to look like this, like there's nowhere to go. It's a cage. Or jail, or something. I'm afraid to raise my hand in class. I don't want to give anyone a reason to look.”

“Thank you, Emily,” Dr. Burns says. “That's very heartfelt.”

Her little mouth full of purple braces grins at Dr. Burns and I'm sick. She's
twelve
? My throat seals shut and I almost choke. Oh god, I'm a pedophile.

No wonder every girl on the planet avoids me like the plague.

I turn off the volume and tune out.

The session lasts forever, and outside of telling everyone the five good things about Jamie, I don't say another word. For the rest of the time, I'm gone. This isn't for me and I'm fine with that, so okay. I went to therapy to make my mom happy. I gave it a shot and now I'm done. The end.

Emily elbows me. “What?” I ask her.

She points at the group. They're all staring at me. Jamie fidgets, a nervous smile stabbing her hot red cheeks. “Are you still with us, Dylan?” Dr. Burns asks.

“Uh…yeah?”

“Great! Would you like to add to the conversation? Any thoughts regarding what Jamie just said?” Dr. Burns says.

About what Jamie said? The five good things? “I…um…” Shit.

The girls don't blink. They wait for an answer.

This must be what being on trial feels like. “I think what she said is fine.”

“You do?” Jamie asks.

I shrug. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't I? It's cool.”

She smiles. A real smile, not a fake one like before.

Time's up and I get my things together to go home. Dr. Burns puts her hand on my shoulder as I'm halfway out the door. “I look forward to seeing you next week.”

I shake my head. “I only had to go once, and I think once is enough.”

“Well then, it was nice meeting you,” she says. Dr. Burns steps back and lets me leave.

Freedom! Even the air smells better outside that room. So claustrophobic. And I don't turn around to see the girls leave, no way. I push my wheels into the hall and keep on going. I don't want to see Emily scurry back to the sixth grade. Don't want to see Hannah's death stares from her skin-hugging-skull face. Don't want to hear Gabrielle's polished shoes storm off to conquer the world. And I definitely don't want to see Wretched. Like, pretty much for anything, ever. I'll pass on that one.

They won't miss me. Jamie won't either. She probably already has a boyfriend. Or nine.
Right, Dad? Did you watch this whole pile of ridiculousness? What'd you think of me getting shot down by a roomful of girls? Par for the course, right?
I glance around, looking for any sign my dad agrees with me from above. A crooked stripe in a pattern, a loose shoelace on someone walking by. Something.

I'm always looking for that one something extra to tell me he hears me. If I'm locked in my head thinking about something that's bugging me, that one blip—a text that won't load, milk that's got one day left before it expires, anything—is my dad telling me,
I got you. I'm with you. I'm still here.

Instead, I get nothing. Silent as always, so I push his non-answer into a little box inside my gut and shut it tight. As soon as it's all locked away, my phone buzzes. Digging it out of my pocket, I turn it on and see I have one text from JP. It's a quick one that says:
Did you talk to Adam Michaels yet?
And shoot, the answer is no. Not looking forward to that—he's a senior on the basketball team. Could be a challenge to collect, for once.

The other eighteen missed texts are from Mom, all in pigeon talk because she's the COOL MOM. This is what COOL MOMS do.

So sorry! Running late, big mtg!

Sorry Sweet <3! Work…u know how it is.

Pls don't b mad!

FYI ILU!

I'll make it up 2 u w/McD!

(Even tho McD is evil corp)

I know u <3 chicken nuggets!

I'll get u a 20 piece meal

(although chickens r ground up into goo)

(And tortured in sm. cages)

K?

Or do u want Big Mac?

2 Big Macs? (Even tho cows suffer to make beef & cheese)

Lemme know asap…

After that it was her emoji fetish. Emoji purple heart, emoji smiley, emoji pink heart, emoji panda bear (why a panda bear? Is McDonald's selling a McPanda now?), emoji burger and fries…
I got your messages,
I text back to her.
I will study while I wait for you. Stop worrying.

What abt chix nuggets?
she immediately texts back.

Fine,
I text, and find the money she gave me so I can get a candy bar and a bag of pretzels. Debate getting a soda too, but decide to pass. Screw fruit.

ilu!!!
she texts.

I sigh. It's not like I haven't encouraged her to use actual English; I have, but she's stuck in 2003.

Love you too,
I text back. I have to. If I don't shut that down, an avalanche of emojis will destroy my data plan, and I need that to talk to my actual friends. Like when JP wants to humble-brag about how he didn't tap whatever ass fell on him from the sky because “she deserves a guy who cares.” How magnanimous of him.

Snacks in my lap, I make my way to the front of the hospital. I sit under the wide awning and wait. There's not a great deal to look at. To my left, there's an off-ramp from a highway. To my right, there's a bus stop. Nothing special, just a boring clear and metal box with some posters and a bench and a schedule on a pole. One of the posters tugs at my eye. It looks like an advertisement for my favorite podcast about stuff you missed in history class. It's literally called Stuff You Missed in History Class. I listen while I do homework because I like it when my brain bounces around, the colliding information zinging between hemispheres. Graphing the derivative of
f
while learning about an eighteenth-century vampire panic in New England must be what smoking a whole bong feels like.

I wheel over to the bus stop. The poster turns out to be a regular old band poster. An upcoming show. One band is called Stuff (original) and the other is called Missed History. I clench my fist and shake at it, old-man style. Curse you, poster. Making me wheel over here under false pretenses—get off my lawn. I'm about to wheel back when I slam on the brakes.

In the far corner under the giant plexiglass dome, huddled in a tiny little ball of boots and legs and skirt, kneels Jamie.