Jeremiah Quick (21 page)

That made her smile.

"The mental health system loves to diagnose
odd kids with prolonged and serious mental illnesses that are
difficult, if not impossible, to cure. They'll say you're bi-polar,
borderline personality disorder, antisocial – if not sociopathic.
They'll get you in the system and give you state healthcare, which
is guaranteed payment. Then they'll dose you up with meds that
don't work, get you locked into the adult system, and it goes on
and on and on. And every time you display behavior or admit to
thoughts that are outside the norm, they'll stick you in the
hospital and try you on new meds. And if you don't want the meds?
They'll do a civil commitment and get a court order and force you
to take them. And this will become your whole life. So… cui bono?
Who benefits?

"Believe me, you won't benefit. They'll ruin
you. They'll institutionalize you and make you non-functional. And
that benefits the doctors, and the hospital. Not you.

"And this is why I say please, please… don't try to
kill yourself again. Take something from this place. Learn
something. Because I have hope for all of Us, including you."

I listened, I did. Who but Corrie was going
to make sure I understood The Way Things Really Work?

So. I served my time, went to
groups, observed the behavior of the other kids, and learned a
whole new level of let's pretend.

Chapter 19

P
retty
figured out that Jeremiah's story about Corrie wasn't about Corrie
at all. It was about a boy named Jamie.

She flinched when he said the
idiots were going to force him to live with his uncle, god, the
thought that they'd inadvertently move a child in with his abuser,
just hand the lamb right over to the wolf... They didn't even know
what they were doing. Systems were like that. It was one of the
things about the world she would have liked to change.

She saw a fierceness in Jeremiah
when he talked about Corrie, and wonder light his face when he said
Jamie's name. It occurred to her the whole time she'd known
Jeremiah, Jamie had been the missing piece.

The sad, lost look she saw once in a while - Jamie.
The desperation to leave town, to go searching for something -
Jamie.

His inability to settle, to be
happy, to love her –all of it – Jamie.

The girlfriend who was a costume, a
good friend who kept him safe from being rumored as gay, and kept
him safe from breaking Pretty's heart.

"You were insecure," he said when
she commented out loud about this, "but always so fair. You
wouldn't let yourself fall in love with me because you wouldn't let
yourself steal someone else's boyfriend. You were way too good for
that."

Pretty thought it was sweet he
thought so well of her. He was right, but then again, he wasn't.
He'd never quite belonged to her, so the possessive streak she
might have had never grew very strong. It was something she
couldn't have even put into words back then, but the element of him
that she now knew was missing Jamie was a gaping hole, soft-edged
and not-new, a part of him defined by its absence, and it wasn't a
Pretty-sized hole at all. Somehow she'd known she couldn't fill it,
and that trying would hurt worse than she was already going to be
hurt.

She loved him. She did. But it was
the kind of love she knew would never be able to contain him. And
perhaps what he mistook for "too good" was merely self-protection,
an acceptance that he didn't belong to her and never
would.

Chapter 20

E
very group started
the same way – with introductions, which week we were on, and,
depending on the group leader, some kind of divulging of private
information about oneself, like favorite musician, song, or
film.

Nobody seemed to mind this – but I always
lied. It was automatic. My favorite things said too much about me,
and I didn't divulge them casually. I just didn't. And they
couldn't make me. So there.

The time served part was helpful though,
because I could observe how the normal kids acted during different
stages of the program.

Week One people talked about what got them
here, if they talked about anything at all.

Week Two kids talked about what they could
have done differently.

Week Three was the remorse and the crying. A
lot of crying. I wasn't sure I could pull that one off, but I'd
have to try. Thank every fiber of my being that it was still a ways
off.

Week Four was all about resolutions, vowing
to stop fighting, stop stealing, stop using, stop being a perfect
asshole.

Group format made it easy enough to figure
out the program.

I wasn't put on the spot until Friday
afternoon, and I guess I deserved it, because at lunchtime Jamie
walked past me and held out his hand like… let's shake. I ignored
my inability to breathe, and when I took his hand, he slipped me a
black eyeliner pencil.

I wondered more about how the hell he knew
than where the hell he got an eyeliner, but I was pleased to accept
such a gift.

Before group I used the eyeliner to outline
my eyes and fill in my lips and to draw a lightning bolt on the
side of my neck opposite the gleaming white bandage.

I felt a lot less naked. I'd have much
preferred my own clothes rather than these horrid scrubs that were
like pajamas, but still, makeup was a plus. I vowed to find out
what Jamie liked and get some of it for him.

The group leader, Nick, a grown up jock
drowning in his non-jock failure of a life, addressed me.
"Jeremiah. You're looking quite at home all of a sudden. Why don't
you tell us why you're here?"

Yeah, because Week One is all about why
we're here. Check.

I shrugged, tried to look sullen, but I'd
been practicing the answer to this with Corrie, along with making
appropriate eye contact in a group situation.

Flick your eyes to the group leader more
than anyone else, as if you're seeking his or her approval,
checking to see if they're engaged. If the group leader starts to
fidget, then you're entering Dark territory, and need to tone it
down or switch gears entirely. You can always say you lost your
train of thought, and wait quietly for a prompt.

Look at group members, but only really fast,
then look away, as if you're a little embarrassed. You can look at
them longer when you're done talking, and definitely make eye
contact with anyone offering their thoughts. And also… nod here and
there if the other kids offer ideas or advice.

So now I said, "Umm, Well, let me think for
a second," and paused. Usually when I'm put on the spot, my voice
came out too loud for the setting. The pause was my voice test. So
far so good.

"It's just been me and my dad for a long
time, you know? We don't know where my mom went off to, but it's
okay – me and my dad co-exist just fine. It ain't perfect, of
course, I mean, he's got a lot to put up with." I gestured to my
own face then, just sort of spontaneous, and it must have been
good, because Karen, the female group leader, nodded like she
sympathized with any parent of mine.

"But the thing is, my dad warned me against
fucking up, said I'd never survive in the child welfare system, not
the way I am – because everybody would try to make me change, and
we sure knew how that never worked."

Of course, what my dad actually said was,
Go ahead, call me in. But when I get back you'll be in for a
REAL ass-kicking. I brought you into this world, and I can take you
out
.

"So there I was at school, and I get called
to the counselor's office, where two people are waiting for me.
They didn't introduce themselves, and I didn't know they were child
welfare people until later. The lady looked sad at least, but the
guy just looked bored as fucking hell. And he says, 'Okay champ,
you gotta come with us, so go get your shit, and be snappy about
it. Chop-chop.'"

He really did say that.

"I just looked at him, confused, but also a
little pissed off. I was supposed to leave school with a complete
stranger?

"I said, 'Who the hell are you?' and plopped
down in a molded plastic chair, like a sit-in. I was going nowhere
with this asshole.

"'Jeremiah,' says the lady. 'We're going to
take you to a safe place, get you cleaned up and into decent
clothes. Get a good healthy meal into you. Then we'll figure out
what comes next.'

"So then I figured it out, at least
partly.

"'No fucking way,' I looked at the
counselor. 'Did you call my dad? Does he know about this?' and the
social worker guy says, 'Someone's talking to him now, Sport. So
let's just get this over with. Go get your stuff. You must have a
backpack or something.'

"I said no, I wasn't going anywhere.

"This next part is where the asshole fucked
up. He grabbed me by the arm and the front of my sweatshirt and
yanked me out of the chair. And he said, I kid you not, 'Don't
fucking disrespect me. Do as you're told.'

"So I punched him. Right in his stupid, rude
mouth. And I said, 'How's that for disrespect?'"

"Apparently where there are child welfare
workers, there are also cops, because in less than a minute two
boys in blue were wrestling me to the ground.

"I landed here."

Some of the kids were nodding. They'd been
through similar stuff. "I was eight the first time child welfare
pulled me from school," Li'l Bit said. "My mom was cracked out, and
I went to foster care for nine months that first time. Five
families. I still have nightmares. The next time it was seven
families and a year and a half. And then my aunt won custody, but
by then I was already a fucking mess. The child welfare system
sucks."

I made eye contact with her, and it was
really real that time, I wasn't pretending, and she let me see the
pain in her eyes for a second. Then she covered it with a grin and
said, "Awesome makeup, dude."

I cracked one of the smiles Corrie made me
practice, and said, "Thanks."

Another voice said, "I'm sure I met the same
social worker."

That was Jamie.

I stared at him, his eyes that were the
bluest eyes I'd ever seen. "I think he scarred me for life." His
voice was soft, and he didn’t cover his pain with a smile or
anything else, just let me see it, on purpose. We looked at each
other for what felt like way too long. Then he gave a tiny shrug,
almost a shiver, and said, "And I second the makeup."

And THEN he smiled, a smile so sweet and
gentle that it seemed to showcase his pain even more.

My heart. My breath. Both seemed to leave me
stuttering.

And thank fate, the group leader moved on to
someone else.

Later she tried to get Jamie to talk, but he
shook his head. He wasn't shy, more… quiet and self-contained. I
tried not to look at him too much, but failed. Sometimes he caught
me at it, but didn't seem offended or scared. And once he even gave
me the tiniest grin, his eyes dancing with restrained mischief.

Huh.

I didn't know how to read that at all.

The new girl talked, said her name was
Brianna, Bree for short, and she'd been caught shoplifting for the
third time. "Three strikes, I guess," she said, and sighed. "I
can't seem to help it. I don’t think about it or plan it, and half
the shit I don't need and won't use. I just like stealing." She
slumped against the back of her chair.

I memorized her name. We were going to be
around here together for like… the whole time, so I figured it was
the polite thing to do.

I felt a little sorry for her, because she
was going to be the only girl left. Her wing would be lonely.

The girls were allowed in our commons area
after group, and I gathered that this wasn't unusual on Fridays. It
was time to say goodbye and all that. Closure.

I was still on room restriction, so I headed
there, a little bit sorry, but a little bit not, because that group
had been exhausting, and the noise of the commons area would
compound my tiredness. Not that I couldn't hear the whole shebang
from my room, which was damn near in the middle of everything.

The better to keep an eye on me.

I'd flopped down on my bed and was
detangling the cheap headphones when I looked up and saw Jamie
standing in the doorway.

"You should come out," he said.

I pointed to my neck, the bandage. "I don't
think I’m allowed."

"Oh." He hesitated. "I'll ask a supervisor,
if you want."

No, he wasn't shy.

My heart. My breath.

All I could do was nod. What
was
this?

Jamie talked to Tim, and they let me (coaxed
me?) to join the party, but not until the cake (cake!) was cut and
the knife tucked away.

Because I wasn't to be trusted.

I fingered my bandage for a second, lost in
this little humiliation. I knew darn well what they were thinking.
I'd rather stay in my room. And would have, except for Jamie. Jamie
didn't want me to stay in my room, and that's all that
mattered.

The cake was good. I'd always had a
sweet-tooth, but denied myself indulgence. Truth was, fat people
disgusted me, so it was a point of pride and a demonstration of
self-control. But it was a party, after all, and everybody else was
doing it (eating cake).

The frosting was that thick, rich chocolate
that tasted like homemade – well, what I guessed tasted like
homemade, and the sugar-sweet of it exploded on my tongue and sent
a pleasure shiver all the way to the back of my throat.

I closed my eyes in bliss, couldn't help it,
and when I opened them, Jamie was staring at me, and he looked – he
looked like he'd just seen something beautiful.