Get Well Soon (13 page)

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Authors: Julie Halpern

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Depression & Mental Illness, #Love & Romance

BOOK: Get Well Soon
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FREE TIME
Free Time kind of sucked tonight. It was Sean’s turn to choose TV stations [why is it always his turn?], and he put on
Full House
again. I don’t get it: Is there a
Full House
channel that only mental hospitals subscribe to? Who else would? Phil/Shaggy watched the show and salivated at the Olsen twins because, as he put it,
“They are hot as hell now!” Um, maybe, but you’re drooling over a pair of seven-year-olds at the moment. He should be locked up. Oh, wait—he is!
Because of the Callie and Troy incident, we were only allowed to socialize near members of the same sex. It was kind of funny because the rule only said “near,” not “with,” so Sandy, Matt O., Justin, and I attempted to play Hearts sitting across the room from each other. That didn’t work, so Matt O. suggested, “Why don’t we play catch with the doll.”
“It’s not a doll,” Sandy smirked. “It’s my baaaaaby.” She sang the word “baby” in a cutesy voice and cuddled Morgan.
We decided to give up and watch the crap on TV.
About twenty minutes into Free Time, Bettina came into the Day Room. “Sandy? Sandy and Morgan?” Sandy raised her hand and called out, “Here.” Bettina spoke as if she were reading the lines off of a teleprompter, “Morgan is crying very loudly and is interrupting everyone else’s Free Time. Please take her back to your room so she does not disrupt Free Time.” Robotically, Bettina left.
“At least you don’t have to watch the rest of
Full House
,” I said and shrugged. Sandy walked out of Free Time in misery, leaving me with the Olsen twins.
BEDTIME
I’m a little saddened by Sandy these days. She doesn’t seem at all interested in taking care of Morgan. She used to tuck her into her bed at night, and whenever she did her homework Morgan
sat next to her on her desk. Now she just puts Morgan on one of the shelves in the closet and closes the door whenever we’re in our room. I asked her about it tonight.
“How come you don’t hold Morgan anymore? What are you going to do when you have a real baby? I think you’d get arrested if you kept it in the closet.” I was trying to be lighthearted.
“I don’t know,” she said, not looking at me. “I don’t know what to do,” and then she looked up at me, eyes all scared and trembly and wet.
I didn’t know what to do either. This was so out of my reality, like from a TV show. Sex, pregnancy, plastic babies—isn’t there supposed to be some doctor helping her through this? What if I say something wrong and she hates me for it? Or what if she listens to me and does something she regrets for the rest of her life, and it’s all my fault?
I opened the closet door and held Morgan. “I can watch her for a little while, if you want.”
“OK, thanks.”
I looked into Morgan’s fake dull eyes, laid down on top of my bedspread with Morgan on my chest, and pretended to read
The Crucible
.
AFTER BREAKFAST
I talked again at breakfast about the Quiet Room. Justin still thought I should just ask them to go in. “The worst they can say
is ‘no.’” I’ve heard that saying before, but it never sounded as profound as when Justin said it. Justin. What the hell is going on with Justin and me? I feel like I’ll never know. I mean, we’re not allowed to touch and have relationships, and if either of us ever gets out of here someday (will we?), then what? It’s not like we go to the same school or live in the same town. God. For all I know he doesn’t even like me, and I’m just delusional from being locked up for two weeks. I wish there were some international sign of liking. Like, I like you, so I will now wave the symbolic flag of likehood. And let’s just say Justin does like me. Does he like me because I’m the only girl (out of five) who is somewhat his type, and as long as we’re locked up he’ll take what he can get? But then he gets out of Lake Shit, goes home, gets a tall, skinny, big-boobed, blond girlfriend and forgets about me. It sounds like my odds are better off in a loony bin.
AFTER GROUP
Whoa, was I on a rampage today. First I bitched about boys and men and how women are expected to be a certain way, but we all can’t possibly be that way so what the fuck?
“What happens if I never get thin and tall and perky? Does that mean that I am
wrong
? That I can never be
correct
unless I am that way? That absurd, gross, hard, angular way that all women are in the movies and TV?”
Victor piped up. “Hell no. I don’t want some bony-ass bitch. Give me some soft, squishy goodness anytime.” Why is it that the
only guy I ever heard say he likes a chunky girl is locked up in a mental hospital? Maybe some of those guys who put anorexic freaks all over TV and magazines need to be locked up. And so do the anorexic freaks. Force-feed them a few Tater Tots and some Cap’n Crunch. I am so sick of feeling like shit just because I don’t look like them.
That rant went on for almost the entire Group. I actually garnered some applause at the end from Abby, Victor, and Matt O. It’s nice to know that some people agree with me about the unrealistic expectations thrust upon women’s bodies, but it doesn’t help me in knowing how Justin feels. And I’m still assless.
THE AFTER-LUNCH NEWS
Well, well, it seems our satanic troubles are finally over (some of them, at least). Lawrence has left the building. Actually, he’s leaving this afternoon. According to Troy, “His parents want him to come home and help take care of his brothers and sisters.” Can you imagine that freak taking care of little kids? I’m having trouble picturing him even having parents. I wish I could be there when they pick him up. His dad’s probably eight feet tall with horns coming out of his head, and his mom’s really skinny in a red leather bodysuit with a tail hanging off the back. It would be hilarious, though, if his mom is just a suburban soccer mom in a pastel suit and his dad is a businessman with slicked-back hair.
It should be interesting to see how he says goodbye to us.
When people leave here, they can either say goodbye in Group and Community, or write letters to people they want to say goodbye to. Hmmm … I have a feeling he’ll choose letters so he doesn’t have to deal with anyone. Eeew. What if he writes them in blood?
AFTER SCHOOL
I have been dissed! Double-dissed, in fact!
Diss #1: I asked Bettina really nicely if I could please have some time in the Quiet Room.
“What for?”
“I just want to go in there for a little while … you know … to be alone?” I felt totally retarded asking her, and I know I sounded all wimpy and suspicious.
“You gotta do something wrong to go into the Quiet Room, honey.”
“Are you sure you couldn’t just make an exception? I mean, I really need to go in there. Just for, like, ten minutes would be OK.”
“Uh-uh,” she said and walked away. Why am I such a goody-goody?
Diss #2: Lawrence did not leave me a goodbye note! Whatever! I was in his Group and put up with all of his faux evil bullshit, so what gives? And of course guess who got a note—Abby! I mean, the girl totally ignored his God-fearing advances, and he still cares enough to write her a note? I haven’t seen the note yet,
but Abby said she’d leave it in the bathroom for me to read. She said I should be glad to have not gotten a note from such a crazy freak, but at least it would have been something. I haven’t even gotten one piece of mail since I got here. Doesn’t anyone give a shit about me? I guess I shouldn’t talk, since technically I haven’t sent any of these letters to you. Yet. They are piling up on my desk, smearing a little because of the pencil. I don’t have any envelopes or stamps, and I kind of like to see what I wrote about each day. It reminds me of how different things have gotten. I promise to give them to you when I get home, as long as the pencil hasn’t smeared too much.
 
TRANSCRIPTION OF LAWRENCE’S EXIT NOTE TO ABBY (TRANSCRIPTION DONE DURING STUDY TIME BY YOURS TRULY)
To My DEAR Abby,
Although you WERE not willing to join ME on my life’s path, I want you to know that I am OK. I know my Lord Satan has PLANS for the two of us that will be revealed someday. You will COME AROUND. SEE you soon.
Luv,
LAWRENCE
Hee-hee. He signed the letter “luv.” That’s so hilarious and absurd. I guess I’m glad that he didn’t write me a letter because in the back of my mind I would always be wondering how and where he would “see me soon.”
AFTER FREE TIME
It’s another second Friday night without a pizza party, since there were no Level IIIs (except for the poseur Level III that is Matt O.). It would be so cool if they told me I was Level III this Sunday (when they announce each week’s levels) because then I’d get to enjoy the magical goodness that is pizza. Not to mention that if I were a Level III and no one else was, I would have complete control over the stereo and TV. No more
Full House
Channel! No more classic rock (except for The Doors, of course)!
Why am I in such a good mood, you ask? (Go ahead, ask me.) Justin and I had a wondrous conversation tonight. It turns out that Matt O., Justin’s roommate, told him all about my rant in Group today.
“Matt told me what you said in Group today.” Justin looked at me through his bangs while he, Matt O., Sandy, and I sat around a table playing Hearts. The proximity ban had ended for everyone except Troy and Callie.
“Oh yeah? Which part?” I was afraid that maybe I accidentally said something in Group about Justin and how
he
could never like someone like me, etc. I hoped I only
thought
that.
“About how women have all sorts of unrealistic expectations
about their bodies,” Justin continued. “Matt and I were talking about how we totally agree with you. It sucks. I mean, look.” Justin pointed to the TV, where some Victoria’s Secret whores writhed their greasy bodies across the screen. “How’s anybody supposed to compare to that?”
“
Why
is anybody supposed to compare to that?” I asked desperately.
“Nobody really is. It’s an ‘ideal’ the media set for everyone.”
“So you’re saying that perfect fake bodies are ideal?”
“No, of course not. It’s all just to sell more products. For instance, in Health class, in real school,” Justin explained, “we learned all about how advertisers put subliminal messages in commercials.”
“There’s nothing subliminal about half-naked sluts on TV! I think that’s pretty, um, liminal.” I was angry and disappointed, but I was losing steam. I felt resigned to the fact that all guys, no matter how wonderful they may seem, are always going to be skank-lovers.
“No, I mean like in ads for alcohol, they show a glass with ice, and one of the cubes is in the shape of a naked woman. It’s not something you notice unless you’re looking for it, but your brain picks up on it and makes you think the drink is sexy or something.”
“But now we’re just back to what makes a naked woman sexy. Women are supposed to drink—”
Justin cut me off. “Anna, I’m not arguing with you. I’m agreeing
with you. The media sucks. Unrealistic bodies suck. Big, floating breasts suck. At least, I think they do.”
“I don’t know if I agree with you on that one, buddy,” Matt O. piped in. “I’d settle for one small, deflated breast at this point. When you’ve got nothing to compare them to, they all look good.”
“Charming,” I said to Matt O. To Justin, “I bet you say all that, but every girlfriend you’ve ever had has been skinny and perfect.” I couldn’t help myself.
“Every girlfriend? I’ve only had one, and she was short, and … Matt, what’s that word you used the other night?”
“Juicy,” he answered.
“Yeah. She was juicy.”
And then Free Time was over. Do you know what this means? It means that not only is Justin capable of being attracted to non-skinny girls (the thought of him and an ex makes me gag just a little), but he and Matt O. talked about someone together and used the word “juicy.” As you and I know, Matt O. told me I was juicy. Could that mean that there could actually have been a dialog between Matt O. and Justin, O Boy of My Dreams, which contained both my name and the word “juicy?” I think I am going to wet myself.
IN THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORN
On weekends they let us sleep in (ooh! 8:30!), but since we go to bed so early and I barely expend any energy in this place, I’m wide awake at 6:30.
Sometimes I just look at the walls in this room and feel like crap. I feel sad that I can’t have my posters and magazine clippings and the rest of the junk in my bedroom at home. I feel sad that I have no choice but to lie on this bed (on top of the covers, of course) and stay in this room until I’m told to leave. But I also feel sad that I am kind of happy and comfortable here. I have friends, a nice roommate, and a gorgeous boy who possibly likes me, stuff planned for me to do every day so I don’t even have to think, no parents making me feel like I’m their crazy little disappointment. I’m sad that I may have to leave someday. What if my life can’t be this normal in the real world?

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