Beast (3 page)

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I leave it there. Keep my head in my hands, feeling the rasp of my scalp with my fingertips. Like sandpaper.

My phone buzzes again. And again. I pull it out.

The first one blares:
DON'T FORGET! This afternoon, you've got therapy. —Mom

And worse:
You've got therapy, f yi.

Then even more worse:
Dr. Burns said u need to try one session. Reminding u it's today.

And finally:
Wanted to touch base—therapy/this afternoon, k?

Got it,
I text back.

Another buzz and I look down.
btw, ilu.
Jeezus, Mom, enough.

I'll be there. Stop texting me,
I send back before she can pop off one more.

What I really want to say is this: leave me alone.

“I'm so sorry I took so long,” Mom says from the front seat.

“What are you talking about? You picked me up from school right on time,” I say, yanking my baseball cap down hard. School's out; hat's on.

She stares from the rearview mirror at me in the backseat, where I'm stuck just like some little kid because of my leg. Her brows furrow with worry. “I had a meeting that ran long. I didn't want you to think I forgot you.”

It's easier to let my mom fret about nothing than try to help her not worry, because *spoiler alert* she will worry.

We pull up to the hospital. Mom parks in a handicapped spot and puts on the hazard lights. “No one will mind; we'll hurry-hurry,” she says, opening my side door.

She lugs my wheelchair from the trunk and pops it open on the sidewalk in front of the outpatient wing of the hospital. People trudge in and out of the sliding mechanical doors. Pregnant women, kids hugging teddy bears tight, old people with humped backs and walkers, and me. We're all here to dip in and out for our scheduled hour.

I unbuckle the seat belt and lurch out into the sun and into my chair.

“You all right?” she calls out.

“Fine.”

She stuffs some money into my hand. “For some snacks,” she says. “Try to get something healthy. Like an apple.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe a banana.”

“Okay.”

“Or even an orange, if they have one.”

“I know what fruit looks like, Mom.”

She gives me a kiss on the cheek and squeezes my shoulders. “Want me to go with you to the room?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure? I could help get you set up, find a good spot, carry your bag….”

“I'll be okay, Mom.”

“All right then.” She sighs and then smiles. “Have to get back to work. I'll pick you up as soon as you're done. I'll be waiting in the parking lot. Unless you want me to be here in the bay?”

“Mom, seriously, it's fine. I'll see you in ninety minutes.”

“I'm proud of you, you know,” she says, eyes filling with enough sap to fuel a greeting-card factory.

“Bye.” I leave her in the parking lot and push myself into the giant box of glass and shiny surfaces. I find Room 12, no problem, but all I want to know as I wheel through the door is how to seem
untroubled
enough to never have to come here again.

The room where we're expected to hold hands and sing “Kumbaya” is plain. Bleached linoleum floors in a gray-on-gray checkerboard pattern with beige walls to box us in. Opaque shower-curtain-type blinds on the reliably rectangular windows. Fire-retardant furniture in a sloppy circle. It's the kind of room where you take one look and don't bother breathing because what's the point? Even the plants listing in their wicker baskets look like they're begging to be composted.

A girl is already sitting pouty-style on one of the couches. She glares at me before going back to tearing fresh holes in her shredded fishnets. Black hair, black makeup, black clothes, black combat boots, black nails, and radiating a sullen aura as strong as the stench of her old cigarette smoke. I could chew the ennui.

Of course this girl is at Therapy for Self-Harmers 101. If I'm being honest, I'm guessing her parents only send her here because they got tired of their credit cards getting maxed out at the local hardware store for all those chains around her neck.

The girl in all black says nothing. I pull my baseball hat down, park in an empty space, and drum my fingers on the armrest.

“You're in Dr. Burns's spot,” the girl says.

“Oh.” I shuffle my wheelchair far over to the left and nudge aside a plywood armchair exploding with foam cushions. I check to see if this is a more appropriate spot, but she never stops picking at her nails, so I drop my bag on the floor and claim it.

In time more girls file in. Based on Little Miss Sunshine over there on the couch, I worry this is going to be a bottomless pit where they all [fill in the blank] just to see if they can feel. But they seem more normal than my welcome wagon. With any luck, these girls are like me and were sent here by doctors and mothers who mean well. We're all fine and we can all go home and forget about the whole thing. Except their tugging at and fidgeting with their long sleeves is too obvious.

It doesn't make any sense why they would hurt themselves, they're all so pretty. And everyone—except for the Child of the Night—is friendly, nodding hello and saying hi. You'd never guess why they were here. They could be any girls from any school anywhere. T-shirts and jeans. Normal girls. The circle grows with lots of meandering small talk from everyone but me. I am the only guy here. This is not my scene. But whatever. I'm only here for a day, no point in butting in.

Instead I observe, bio-lab style.

This one girl, oh my god, when she enters the room I have to look down because there's a part of me I keep locked up. Not the amiable furball joking in the halls at school, not that guy. The real beast. One look at this girl and the key is turned. The cage is open. I want to grab her hips and hold on for a long ride. Wavy blond hair rippling with every step she takes. What's the word…“diaphanous”? Yeah, she's like that too. She flows. Like a goddess on a throne, and I'd kill all the lions in the Colosseum if it meant she'd be underneath me.

I want to get her on my lap and roll with her right on out the door, and we'd catch the bus to my house because my mom is still at work, and we'd…oh yeah. In my version, she'd be excited to go with me. I'd finally have my first kiss. A real one, not that stupid one with Tara Jardin. This girl, this goddess, she'd want me—and oh, the things I would do to her.

Except once the goddess sits in her chair, her body screams she's off-limits. She is not here. A part doesn't fit right, and it shudders to the surface as she holds her knees and lightly rocks and rocks to try and knock it back into place.

I want to pull my skeleton out through my nostrils so I can punch myself in the face.

There is no hope. I need to learn how to slowly turn to coal from the inside out so I stop falling ass over teakettle for anyone who claims the pronouns “she” and “her.”

I can't fall for another girl again. I can't. I look at the Raven Queen and that does the trick. She's like a living cold shower. The real beast goes back to his cage and I lock him in. I remind myself of what I'd rather be. A gentle man.

I notice a poster on the wall mocking a dangling kitten with
HANG IN THERE
in all big, white letters. My eyes slide off that and they fall on a bust of Nefertiti. Except she sniffles and wipes her nose. Holy shit, she's real.

Directly across from me a very tall girl sits on an aluminum folding chair. I'm instantly into everything about her. Even if I don't want to be because girls, boo. Girls despise me; why wouldn't this new one be any different? But she's striking. In a way that's like a neon-yellow bubble in a level not quite lining up, so instead she tilted the world and said, “There. That's where it should be.” Everything about her is good and crisp: the skirt, the scarf, the boots; nothing has that super-relaxed, worn-in look. No scuffs, no soft folds. It's all new. But then again, what do I know? I wear a uniform every day. She gets to wear whatever she wants to school.

She's reading a book I read over the summer, and I can see she's almost at the best part. I want to start a book club with her where we sit over cookies and talk about the strange ending where everything was just bathed in sun and then it was over.

As she reads, something about her catches all the light and holds it in her skin, divvying it about the room like cards for poker. Her legs, her willowy long legs. (Stop…keep it clinical.) She has two of them. She crosses them all ladylike despite, or because of, her short-short skirt and sky-high boots. Her dimpled knobby knees smile like they're happy to be there. She plays with her long, curly brown hair and wears a loose purple scarf streaked with glittery bits. Our eyes hook as she lightly drapes it around her neck.

“Hi,” she says in a voice that reminds me of cinnamon being grated into a mug of hot apple cider.

“Hello.”

“You're new.”

I nod once.

“I'm Jamie.”

“Dylan.”

“Hi,” she repeats, and goes back to the book. Long hands hold the spine. Long fingers flick the pages one after another.

“Sorry I'm late. Hi, guys!”

A woman comes busting through the door, holding a fat trapezoid pillow and dragging an office chair behind her. She can't possibly be the doctor. “I'm late, I'm late, so horrible, forgive me,” she says. I can tell when she was a little kid, she must've been cute. Like, overalls and lisping, “Mithter, would you like to buy a glath of lemonade?” cute. The ringlets and freckles give it away.

She angles the trapezoid pillow behind her and settles into it. As she sits, her pants hitch up, exposing mismatched socks. Now I'm all irritated. She's a doctor. She should wear a white coat, be on time, and wear matching clothes. “Ahh…,” she breathes. “Never deadlift televisions in your youth, guys. It may not hurt now, but I swear your back will remember forever.” The girls laugh but I smirk at the thought of anyone in this circle deadlifting anything heavier than a tissue.

“So we have a new person. Welcome!” she announces. “I'm Dr. Burns and this is group. We meet once a week, but I consider it more like hanging out in a really ugly room.” More laughter from the girls. Dr. Burns reaches into her bag and brings out a crusty notebook splitting at the seams with papers and stickies. “I think what you guys have to say is very important, so please don't mind if I take notes. Does anyone want to go over some rules? Jamie?”

Jamie keeps her legs crossed and leans forward on the lip of her chair. Lucky lip. “Everything is confidential; we're here to share, not to give advice. No interrupting. Anyone can ask whatever they want but no one has to answer,” she says like a trained monkey.

She's been at this way too long.

“Good,” Dr. Burns says. “And most of all, I believe in laughter, so feel free to give in and laugh if you feel like it.”

I check on Mistress Raven, and I'll be damned if she's not smiling.

“Because we have a new member”—she refers to her notes—“Dylan, please raise your hand, thank you—we finally have an even number!” Dr. Burns high-fives the sky. Oh my god. “So let's start off with an icebreaker by pairing up with the person directly across from you. I want you to tell each other five good things about yourself and then your partner will share your good things with the group, so pay close attention to one another. It can be anything. Okay? Go for it.”

The room rumbles as the girls shift about, and I watch as Jamie gets up and drags her folding chair across the room. She dunks it in front of me with authority and sits, instantly crossing one knee over the other. They line up like a lock and a key. I enjoy wondering which one is which. “I figured it would be easier to come to you,” she says, rearranging her scarf. “What happened to your leg?”

“Broke it.”

“Oh,” she says. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Me too,” she says. “I thought you were older.”

“I'm sure you did.”

“You're so big—how tall are you?”

“Is this what you really want to talk about?”

“I just…I'm tall too.” She looks away.

“You want to go first?” I ask. She's probably done this a billion times already; she might as well.

“Sure,” she says, and takes a breath. “Five good things about me are…um…Okay, one: I helped my mom make breakfast and when I could've said something that would've set her off, I held my tongue. That was hard, but I did it. Two: I'm transferring schools—finally! Three: my dad said I looked nice today. That was amazing. Um. Four, hmmm…Okay, four: I saw a shooting star last night and I made a wish—”

“Did you wish for fascinating things to say?” I interrupt her with a joke.

Her face falls. “Excuse me?”

I wince. Too far. “I was only, um. I don't know.”

“You're lucky I'm forced to talk to you right now. Why would you make fun of someone's wish? Do you know how many shooting stars I've seen in my life? One. And you just shat all over it.”

I hang my head and smooth my furry knuckles with my thumb. “What was your wish?”

“Like I'll ever tell you.”

“I'll tell you one of mine?”

She peeks over at me, waiting for my confession or something. I don't know what to say; I never tell anyone this type of stuff. Like JP would give a shit about what I wish for? He'd just try to buy it for me, but what I want can't be bought. I think of a safe one. A wish I'm pretty sure everyone's had at least once. Or for me, a minimum of fifty thousand times. “I wish that I could wake up and not be me. Just for a day.”

Jamie perks up. “Like in what way?”

Um, the fucking obvious ogre way? “My exterior.”

She sits tall and nods. “Right. Sure, yeah. The packaging, I get it.”

Of course she does. She has two working eyes and they are looking at me.

Jamie reaches into her bag and fidgets around, pulling out a camera. “The fifth thing I was going to say was I'm really good at photography. Maybe if I took some pictures of you so you could see how the light—”

“I hate cameras.”

“Oh.” She sinks her camera back into her bag.

“I mean, if you like it, that's cool. I don't.”

“Do you know anything about photography?”

“Pictures are cool.”

“Pictures are cool,” she echoes. Jamie sits back in her seat and tucks her long fingers underneath her thighs. I imagine it's quite warm under there. She narrows her eyes and smiles. “How can pictures be cool if you hate cameras?”