Counting Backwards (16 page)

That’s when I hear it—the haunting melody of his guitar. I look up to see him staring back at me, playing this song for me. I’m so angry at him that I stand and scream at him like a
madwoman. There’s no order to my rant, no words, only the sheer force of my pure, bottomless fury.

His eyes are full of misery and pain, but he won’t stop playing. I cover my ears with both hands, howl, and kick dirt in his face as Pamela drags me away from the fire.

I feel my wall crumbling all around me.

December brings with
it Victor’s release, which means the end of cigarettes and Twinkies. It’s the end of Dominic’s program as well. We haven’t spoken since I tried to run away, but I remember the story he told me about how when he got out, he hoped to make things right at home. On his last day at Sunny Meadows, I catch his eye in the hallway. He nods as if he understands.

Winter break arrives, and most of the residents leave to visit with their families for the holidays, except for those of us who are here as part of a court order. The dozen of us leftovers are rounded up on the lawn and given jobs to do around the campus under the supervision of the maintenance crew and a few safeties. Pamela is just another safety now, but I remain on the first floor.

We rake and bag leaves and haul them up or down the hill. They keep us busy enough to not start trouble. It’s hard work, but the fresh air helps me breathe deeply, and the long
hours of manual labor allow me to sleep better at night. After a couple of days I even feel my appetite returning.

Sulli calls us the Chain Gang and makes up mildly inappropriate songs that they sing together while working. I don’t sing, but I enjoy watching the safeties squirm. I’m sure they’d like to make a rule against it. We get our digs where we can.

Brandi and I are the only girls on the Chain Gang, and over the course of a week we’re paired up frequently. Stacia and Trish were released around the same time as Margo, so she seems to be going through a similar kind of heartbreak. With their numbers dwindling, they no longer call themselves the Latina Queens.

“You want some good advice, Taylor?”

We’re painting garbage cans when Brandi says this to me. I stop midstroke and look at her. The paint drips off my brush, two gray splatters on the dead ground.

“Play their game,” she says. “You tried running away, which was a massive failure. So what are you trying to prove now? Just how crazy you are? Congratulations, you’ve done it. Why don’t you try acting normal for a while? Answer their questions and make them think they’re winning. Unless you want to be here until you’re eighteen.”

I continue painting, one stroke up, one stroke down, no drips, but her words have a way of worming themselves into
my brain, the chorus playing over and over . . .
until you’re eighteen
. Can they really keep me here that long? Maybe. It seems they can do whatever they want.

After that day Brandi and I forge an uneasy truce. We never mention what happened between us. We don’t apologize and we don’t look back. We’re the same in that way.

A.J. is there too, always watching. I feel his presence like a safety. He’s waiting for something, maybe for me to acknowledge he exists. But he may as well be a pile of leaves or a garbage can, for all the effect he has on me.

One day we’re outside chipping paint on the maintenance shed when he drops a folded-up piece of paper at my feet. I stare at it among the paint flakes and wait for him to pick it up again.

“It’s a note from Margo,” he says. “I’ve been holding on to it for you.”

I look at him suspiciously. Exasperation crosses his face. “Just take it,” he says.

I reach down slowly and tuck it into my shoe, afraid that a safety might try to take it away from me. There are so many things they won’t let me do now, so many privileges I never thought could be lost.

We continue scraping, and the tension between us crackles like a live wire. His pitying looks and his apologies didn’t work on me, but his frustration I recognize—I have a few
unresolved feelings myself. I tell myself he’s not worth it. He’s someone I thought I knew.

Later that night in my room I unfold the note from Margo carefully.

Dear Taylor,

I’m being released tomorrow, and my biggest regret is that I can’t give you a proper good-bye. I wish I could stay and be the friend to you that you’ve been to me. We have so many things to talk about.

You’re a fighter, Taylor, so fight. Do what it takes to get out the hard way. Then come visit me and we’ll celebrate our rehabilitation together.

Remember you are strong and this is temporary. A.J. has my numbers. Call me as soon as you can. I’ll see you again on the outside.

With love, your friend,

Margo

I caress the paper like it’s made of silk and read it again and again.
Do what it takes to get out the hard way
. It seems she and Brandi are telling me the same thing. What if I put on a happy face and answer their questions? Every one of them. Is that all it will take to convince them that I’m rehabilitated? Could it really be that simple?

I’m still pondering it the next day when my father comes to visit for Christmas. Not my mom, though. She’s never been one for the holidays. That was always me and my dad. She calls me in the morning, but I don’t have much to say to her. It’s not a very merry Christmas.

My dad and I eat lunch together in the dining room, which has been laid out with tablecloths and real silverware and plates. The safeties stand by like distant relatives. The only thing they’re missing is the bad holiday sweaters. My father tries to engage me, but I’m less interested in small talk than ever before. By the time dessert comes I’ve zoned out completely, watching the whipped cream melt down the sides of my pumpkin pie.

“Taylor,” my father says, “this isn’t the solution.”

I glance up and see the concern in his eyes. I know that my distance is scaring him. It’s scaring me, too, but I don’t know what to do about it.

“You’re still running away,” he says. He places one finger to my temple. “Up here. You’re giving up. You’re surrendering.”

When we could not fight, we ran. When we could not run, we hid. But we never surrendered. . . .

He doesn’t say the next words, but I know what they are.
Just like your mother
. I stare at my plate and think he’s right. I am just like her—giving up at every turn, feeling sorry for myself, playing the victim. I hate myself for it, but I don’t know how else to be.

“Try,” he says, and reaches for my hand. And I know I have no other options. I have to let them think they’re winning. That’s the only way I’m going to get out of here. The math is simple enough. Six months or eighteen months? Until I’m seventeen or until I’m eighteen? I inch my hand toward his, and he curls his fingers around mine.

“Okay, Dad. I’ll try.”

When winter break is over, they move me again. To the second floor this time. Tabitha is my new intern. She smiles nervously when she first sees me and the fake me smiles back. Rhonda, their floor safety, doesn’t seem the least bit pleased about my arrival. “You cause us any trouble and it’s back to the first floor.”

I unpack my stuff for the first time. On the third floor, I’d kept everything in my duffel bags, but here I decide it will look better if my clothes are in drawers. It’s not a surrender; it’s a strategic maneuver.

On our first day back to school I stand outside the building and give myself a pep talk. I’m going to raise my hand in class and do my assignments. Like Kayla once said,
Participation is the first step to rehabilitation
. I’m going to smile at my teachers and my classmates, because I’m normal and happy. I’m going to do these things because
I want out
.

In first period Mr. Chris passes out worksheets but skips my desk, since I haven’t touched anything paperish in a couple of months. I raise my hand, and it takes him a
moment to realize I’m waiting for him to call on me. Finally he does.

“Yes, Taylor?”

“I’d like a worksheet, please.”

His brow crinkles and he glances at the safety, who only shrugs. If we’re not misbehaving, the safeties couldn’t care less.

“I’d rather not waste the paper,” he says. “If you don’t intend to do it.”

“I do.”

Mr. Chris hands me a worksheet and then watches me as I uncap my pen and answer the questions. When I’m finished, I turn it in, but instead of adding it in with the others, he studies it for a moment.

“Speak with me after class.”

The bell rings, and everyone else files out. I stand by my desk and try to quell the nervousness in my gut, hoping he doesn’t see right through me.

“Do you hope to pass this class?” he asks.

The real me doesn’t care, since I’m headed for a GED anyway, but no teacher wants to hear that.

“Yes, Mr. Chris, I do.”

He crosses his arms, and I can tell by his face that it’s going to take more convincing. “I don’t think you’ve completed an assignment since you’ve been here.”

I think back and realize he’s right, but I knew what they were. I mean, I listened to everything he said. I read over the questions even if I didn’t answer them. Then I understand what he’s getting at—all that missed work.

“I could make up the assignments.”

He sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t say no. I have to try harder, to show him I’ll follow through. “I have independent study after lunch. I could start today, working backwards maybe.”

I think about how that would work, to do the assignments backwards, figuring out how it all came to be.

“I just don’t know, Taylor.”

He’s still holding out on me. Why? I rack my brain, trying to figure out what he wants. An apology, maybe. I hate apologizing, but it’s just two words, and that’s a small price to pay for my freedom.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but not very loud.

“Excuse me?” he says, even though I’m pretty sure he heard me.

“I said, I’m sorry for . . . having a bad attitude.” That’s pretty standard. I’ve been hearing that most of my life. And it’s something I should be sorry for. Mr. Chris just wants to teach me history and he’s given me a hard time, but it wasn’t personal. It’s not like he
betrayed
me. Not like some people.

Mr. Chris sighs. “You have been difficult.”

I nod my head in agreement. “Yes, I have.”

“This is going to be a lot of extra work for me. Having to go back and make an individualized learning plan.”

“Maybe I could . . .” I glance around the classroom, trying to see if there’s something I could do to help him out. Sharpen pencils? Grade papers? I doubt he’d trust me with either of those tasks. Then I see the huge stacks of books he has in the back of the room. Maintenance has a ton of scrap wood. And I know how to hammer in a nail. Maybe with supervision I could build him a bookshelf. It might not be that pretty, but it’s better than having his books get trampled on.

“I could build you a bookshelf,” I say. “And organize your books. Alphabetically or . . . whatever.”

He purses his lips and glances at his small collection. Finally he nods. “We’ll give it a try. I’ll have your first set of assignments ready for you tomorrow. A bookshelf sounds nice too. Ms. Suzanne in wood shop could help you with that.”

“Great,” I say, and smile. It’s progress.

In my next couple of classes, I follow the same strategy. I participate. And after class, I ask my teachers if I can make up my work. My English teacher is pretty forgiving and just asks that I read the books and answer the study questions, which won’t take me too long, but my chemistry teacher wants me to retake all the tests, and my Algebra II teacher wants me to
start on Unit 1 in the textbook and work my way through it, doing
all
the homework. I don’t know if there’s enough time in the day to do all these problems, but I have to try. I want my team to talk about what a turnaround I’ve made. I’m on the road to rehabilitation.

In the pen that day, I bring my math book outside with me. Instead of staring at the asphalt or counting the diamonds in the fence, I start plugging away at math problems. After a few minutes Sulli and Brandi stop by, throwing their twin shadows across my page. They’re officially a couple. I suspect they always were, but now there’s a lot less fighting and a lot more making up and making out.

“Whatcha up to, T-scream?” Sulli asks me. T-scream is the name he gave me on the Chain Gang, on account of my spontaneous outbursts. If anyone else called me that, I’d mind it, but Sulli gets away with it. Because he’s funny and you can’t laugh at everyone else without getting a name of your own.

“Math.”

“Why?”

“So I can pass the eleventh grade.”

“Is that what we’re supposed to be doing here?” he says, always the clown.

“She’s playing the game,” Brandi says. “Right, Taylor?”

“Something like that.”

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to be seen with friends sometimes,” she says. “Laughing and joking around. It would make you look less like a murderer-in-the-making.”

I give her my cheesiest, fakest laugh.

“Gosh, you seem almost nice now,” she says with a smirk. Out of the corner of my eye I catch A.J. watching us, and I drop the act. I don’t want him to think I might be looking for a friend.

For the rest of the day I continue with my
new
school project, which is getting out the hard way. But the real test comes that afternoon, when I walk into the mind factory. Everything I’ve done up until this point has been a warm-up. Because if there’s anyone I have to convince of my new attitude, it’s Dr. Deb.

“Good afternoon, Taylor,” she says.

“Afternoon,” I say brightly. She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. The game has changed again, and she’s thinking of her next move.

“You look . . . well rested.”

“I am.”

“How was your vacation?”

The real me would say that a
vacation
is two weeks at the beach, not shut up in Sunny Meadows painting garbage cans and chipping paint. But the fake me smiles pleasantly enough and says, “Just fine.”