Counting Backwards (2 page)

I think of my confiscated MP3 player. I can live without all the other stuff, but no music?

“What do I have to do to get privileges?”

“Just show us you’re a ready and willing participant in the program.”

She must be talking about my “rehabilitative program.” I read about it in the Sunny Meadows brochure. I’ve got the next six months to complete it. And my dad told me if I try to run away, it’ll be a breach of my probation and I’ll be hauled back to juvie.

But only if they find me.

Kayla stops in front of an open door and motions for me to go ahead of her, but my shoes are glued to the floor. I can’t go any farther. My father takes hold of my arm and guides me into the room.

The cinder-block walls are a custard color with one tiny window high up in the corner. It’s fixed with some sort of shatterproof glass that makes the outside look foggy. My duffel bags are already here, sitting beside the twin bed. There’s a desk, a chair, and a dresser with a mirror bolted to the wall. The polished metal is like the kind of mirror in
playground bathrooms—dim and creepy. The room smells like hand sanitizer, and it’s cold enough to make me shiver. Goose bumps form all along my arms, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from crying.

“I’ll let you say your good-byes,” Kayla says, and backs out of the room.

I turn to my father, because he must realize by now what a mistake this is. I don’t belong in a place like Sunny Meadows. I’m not crazy.

“Dad, don’t leave me here.”

He says nothing, only strokes his chin and surveys the room.

“I won’t do anything like that again, I swear.”

“Taylor, it is too late. You brought this on yourself.”

“I could do my probation at your house if you want. I don’t have to live with Mom.”

“Give it time, Taylor. Give this program a try.”

“Dad, I don’t belong here.”

“This experience will be good for you. It will be a positive change.”

He’s not listening to me or he doesn’t care. He’s going to dump me in here and forget about me for the next six months, and by the time I get out, I might not even recognize myself. I’ll be no better off than when I got here, because my mother will still be a drunk and my father will still be cold and unforgiving. And I’ll still be . . . me.

“This is just like what you did to Mom,” I say, thinking about the times she came out of rehab, how every time she lost a little more of herself. “You’re locking me up just like her.”

He sighs and looks away. “No, Taylor, I’m doing this so you don’t turn into your mother—an impulsive, reckless, selfish woman.”

I glare at him. He has no right to say that about her. It’s his fault she’s the way she is. He’s the one who left her, who left
us
.

“Get out,” I say. When he doesn’t move, I say it again louder. “Get
out
.”

“Your anger is bigger than you are. You let it control you.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say to him. I am a too-full jar about to spill over.

“You’re right, I don’t.” He stands there like a statue, unmoved. I want him to know what it feels like to be me. I want him to hear me for once in my life.

“I hate you.” Three words I’ve never uttered to anyone before, but I say them to him because if he’s going to leave me here in this strange place with its hospital smells and weird rules, then I want him to just
go
.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says, every word clipped and measured, like he’s talking to a business partner and not his own daughter. “I’ll return soon for a visit.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t want to see you.”

He nods slowly. “Well, then. I suppose this is good-bye.” He nods once more and walks out of the room. I listen to his footsteps retreating down the hallway, the sound of him speaking with someone else, then the stairwell door opening and shutting, followed by a silence that echoes in my mind.

My chest tightens, and it feels like a fist inside my rib cage, squeezing my lungs so I can’t draw enough air. My breathing is erratic and shallow, like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. I’m nauseous and dizzy and I suddenly have to move. I have to get out of here.

I dash out to the hallway and head for the nearest exit. I knead my breastbone with my knuckles until my chest opens up and I’m able to take a few quick breaths. I punch down on the door’s metal bar and throw my weight against the door, but it’s stuck.

Not stuck. Locked. I’m trapped.
Trapped
.

Behind me a voice taunts, “You’re not getting out that way, girlfriend.”

I spin around to see a girl my own age, tall and thin as a pine. Her long blond hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and she tilts her head and smiles at me like some demented flight attendant.

“That’s where they keep the boys,” she says. “Behind door number one. But you’ll never get through that way. They keep it locked up tight.”

“Who are you?” I ask, knuckling my chest as hard as I can. I’ll leave a bruise, but at least I can breathe.

“You must be Taylor Truwell.” She offers her hand, but I only stare at it. “I’m Margo Blanchard, your new peer mentor.”

“My what?”

“Peer mentor. It was my therapist’s idea. He thinks I need to take on more responsibilities to prepare for my release, but between you and me, I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs. “This place has its charm. But enough about me. Tell me, where are you from?”

“Tampa.”

“Are you Cuban?”

“No. Seminole Indian. Half.”

“What’s the other half?”

“German, English, some Polish. How about you?”

“French, mostly.” She steps closer and inspects my face. “Are you wearing makeup?”

I reach up to touch my cheek. “No.”

“I have makeup privileges. We should give each other makeovers.” She claps her hands excitedly. “I just got this new liquid eyeliner that would really make your eyes pop. And I’ve perfected my smoky eyes technique. With a little shadow and some sculpting . . .”

She rattles on about makeup and beauty tips, but I only half listen because in the meantime a girl with curly red hair emerges from the room next to mine. I listen as she raps on my door frame in a complicated pattern. It sounds like a coded message, frenzied and desperate.

“There’s no one home, Charlotte,” Margo says to her. “Come meet Taylor.” The girl glances over at me, and I’m about to say hello when she suddenly turns and sprints back to her room.

“That reminds me, Charlotte, I brought you something.” Margo heads for Charlotte’s room, but as soon as she crosses the threshold, Charlotte starts screaming her head off. Margo steps back, looking slightly annoyed, and the
screaming stops. When Margo tries to re-enter, the screaming starts up again like some weird human alarm system.

I yank on the stairwell door again, but it still doesn’t budge.

“I thought we were past this,” Margo says to her as a woman thunders down the hall toward us.

“What’s this all about?” the woman calls to Margo, hooking her thumbs over her thick black belt, where all sorts of gadgets—a walkie-talkie, a miniature Maglite, and more—hang like charms on a bracelet. She wears a polo shirt with khaki pants, which means she must be Sunny Meadows staff.

“Charlotte and I were just practicing a little scream therapy,” Margo says, and winks at me like it’s an inside joke.

“No more,” the woman says to Charlotte, then aims one hot-pink talon at Margo. “You know better than to get her going. What are you doing on this floor, anyway?”

“I’m Taylor’s peer mentor,” she says, and smiles demonically at me. The woman shakes her head, and Margo giggles. I can’t tell if Margo’s
trying
to scare me or if she’s sincerely insane.

“On my floor, you mind your manners,” the woman says to Margo. Then she turns to me. “And you, don’t let this one be a bad influence.”

I don’t know her
, I want to say, but the woman’s already walking away.

“That’s Tracy,” Margo says. “As far as floor safeties go, you could do a lot worse.”

“Safeties?”

“Haven’t you noticed all the beefy men and full-bodied women? Those guys and gals are doing everything they can to keep us safe and secure. But back to the task at hand.” She pivots toward Charlotte’s room, where Charlotte is now camped out on her bed, scribbling furiously in an open book. Margo reaches into her boot and pulls out a pack of twistable crayons, which capture Charlotte’s attention as she fixes her eyes on the package.

“I’m just going to throw them in, okay?” Margo says.

Charlotte nods while one fist clenches the blanket on her bed, as though it’s physically hurting her to have someone enter her room. I feel sorry for her. I even know a little how she feels. I don’t like people invading my personal space either.

Margo approaches slowly, tosses the pack on the corner of Charlotte’s bed, and backs out of her room. “Now, tell Taylor your rule, or else how will she know?”

Charlotte stares at me with a wild look in her eyes. “No one’s allowed in my room.
No one
.”

I nod enthusiastically. That won’t be a problem.

Margo swipes her hands together as though her job is done, and I hope maybe now she’ll leave. But instead of heading for the stairwell door, she goes toward my room. I follow her inside and stand guard next to my two duffel bags.

“Do you smoke?” she asks, retrieving a cigarette and matches from her other boot.

“I’m trying to quit,” I say, even though I’ve never tried smoking. My mother has enough bad habits for the both of us. “Besides, isn’t smoking against the rules?”

“Not my rules.” She strikes a match and lights her cigarette, taking a long drag. “It’s a real inconvenience that they don’t let me have matches. Though I’ll admit, things did get a little out of control the last time.”

“The last time?”

Her answer is a massive cloud of bluish smoke. I hear Tracy’s voice in the hallway, “You smell cigarettes?” followed by her heavy footsteps heading our way fast.

“At least when I’m on the outside, I might get to finish an entire cigarette,” Margo says, and takes three more quick puffs.

“Put it out,” I hiss. I’m about to get totally busted, and it’s only my first day here. Margo smiles and throws her lit cigarette into the trash can while I fan the room, trying to disperse the smoke. She tosses me her matches like a hot potato, and I’m about to peg her back when I see one of Tracy’s black boots in the doorway. I make a fist around the matchbook and try to act natural.

“Who’s smoking in here?” Tracy asks, staring directly at Margo. She knows who’s responsible.

“Martha Washington told me to do it,” Margo says. “She said if I didn’t, she’d dye my hair brown.”

Tracy shifts her weight to the other hip; she doesn’t seem too impressed.

“Empty those boots, Margo. Don’t make me frisk you.”

Margo huffs, takes off both boots, and turns them over, dumping everything onto the linoleum floor—cigarettes, an empty book of matches, a box of Tic Tacs, loose change, a few dollar bills, and a tube of lip gloss. Tracy pulls a plastic bag out of a little black container on her belt and holds it open while Margo dumps everything inside.

“Take me away,” Margo says, and holds out her wrists like she’s waiting to be handcuffed. I’ve been handcuffed for real and it wasn’t much fun. Tracy just shakes her head and waits for Margo to pass in front of her. “See you tomorrow,” Margo says to me, “if they let me out.”

“That’s enough,” Tracy says, and nudges her along. “Peer mentor. I’m going to have to talk to somebody about this.”

I worry about where Tracy is taking her, maybe to a padded cell. That was pretty dumb of Margo to smoke a cigarette, knowing she’d get caught. But how bad could the punishment be?

I glance across the hall to see a girl in the opposite room, glaring at me with eyes like knives. “FYI, new girl,” she says. “You make friends with Margo Blanchard, you make enemies with us.”

Us? I glance around her room. She’s the only one in there. Maybe she has split personalities or something. I have no more expectations for normal in this place. I can’t believe my dad left me here. These people are crazy. If my mother knew what this place was really like . . .

My mother.

I have to call her. My mom knows me better than anyone else. She knows I’m not crazy.

I find Kayla’s apartment at the other end of the hallway—the only one with the door closed. I knock, and a moment later she opens it.

“Hi, Taylor, what do you need?”

“I’d like to call my mom.”

Kayla frowns. “I’m sorry, but you haven’t earned that privilege yet.”

“I really miss her,” I say as a desperate feeling creeps in. “I just need a few minutes.”

“It takes three days of good decision making to earn a phone call.”

“Please, Kayla, I really need to talk to her. I never got to say good-bye.”

Her eyes search mine, and I say a silent prayer she’ll grant me my request. Her face softens, and she looks past me into the empty hallway. “You’ll need to make it quick.”

Kayla walks me down to the shorter end of the L-shaped
hallway to what she calls the common room, which is just a weathered couch and chairs in front of an ancient television set. She points to the phone, the old-fashioned kind with the curly cord so you can’t go too far with it. “Five minutes,” she says, “and I’m going to be monitoring your end of the conversation.”

I call my mom’s cell phone and wait ring after ring. It takes forever for her to finally pick up.

“Hello?” she croaks.

“Mom, it’s me.”

“Taylor?”

I glance up at the clock hanging on the wall—it’s four p.m. on a Sunday. “Are you
just
getting up?”

“No, no, honey, I was taking a nap. Hold on, give me a second here. . . .”

I hear some scraping, the fridge door opening, and the sound of liquid pouring into a glass. Hopefully it’s water. I glance back at the clock. Almost a minute gone.

“Baby,” she says at last, “how are you?”

“Not good, Mom. I’m at this place—Sunny Meadows—and the people here are . . .” I glance over at Kayla. “Disturbed.”