Get Well Soon (9 page)
Authors: Julie Halpern
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Depression & Mental Illness, #Love & Romance
AFTER INDIVIDUAL THERAPY
Oh crap. Doc A-Hole told me that my parents are scheduled to call me tonight during Snack Time.
“They are pleased to hear that you are doing so well,” A-Hole said.
“You told them I was doing well? Why did you say that?”
“Well, you’ve moved up Levels, the teachers say you’re doing fine in school, you haven’t gotten any Restrictions, and according to your charts, you’re losing weight.”
That disgusted me. Do all of the doctors monitor all of the patients’ weights, or is it just the fatasses? If some skinny guy was losing weight, they would be all over it. I lose weight, and they want to celebrate. I mean, so do I, but
they
don’t need to be so happy about it. It sounds like the reason I’m doing so well is that I’m not doing anything wrong. What else is new?
they
don’t need to be so happy about it. It sounds like the reason I’m doing so well is that I’m not doing anything wrong. What else is new?
I’m so nervous about talking to my parents. I wonder if it’ll be both of them, or if only my mom gets on the phone. My dad’s
usually asleep by 8:00. I know I have to ask them for the electric razor, but then what? Why do I have to wait all day? My stomach is starting to hurt.
usually asleep by 8:00. I know I have to ask them for the electric razor, but then what? Why do I have to wait all day? My stomach is starting to hurt.
LATER
This place sucks. During Community, I was totally planning on standing up and saying how I appreciated Justin for, I don’t know, talking and eating with me or something, and when they called “Appreciation” I even put my fingers out for the first time. Justin put his fingers out, too, but I’ll never know if he was planning on commending me for my juicy body because before any of us kids were allowed to Appreciate, Eugene made an announcement. “Appreciations have been getting repetitive lately, so we’ve decided that there will be no more Appreciations about eating meals or chatting with people. You guys are wasting our time trying to get points just because you talked to someone. This time is for real Appreciations only.”
Everyone who had their fingers out put them down, except for Matt O. When Eugene called on him, Matt O. stood up, smirked, and said, “Eugene, I appreciate what a fat bastard you are.”
Everyone laughed. In the real world, I can’t imagine anyone saying something like that and me thinking it sounded cool, but in here it seemed like the most excellent, rebellious thing ever. “Matt,” he said. “Go to the Quiet Room.” I swear I could see steam coming out of Huge Euge’s ears.
“But I didn’t do anything,” Matt whined. His shiny eyes looked worried.
Eugene mumbled into his walkie-talkie, and soon two of the T-shirt-tucking men from the Harold incident appeared. Eugene pointed at Matt O. , and the men walked towards him.
“What the fuck? I didn’t do anything!” Matt jumped up and began to run, bowling over one of the two men. The other followed him out. We could hear Matt O. yelling and feet pounding, and then a door slammed. Community was completely quiet.
LUNCH
Lunch was anxiety-filled with the impending parental phone convo. Matt O. was locked in the Quiet Room, so Justin and I had our first official Anna and Justin Solo Lunch Chat. We sat at the end of the table, opposite each other. He ate with his left hand and, as usual, kept his right hand on his lap. I had to know. “Why do you eat with your left hand but write with your right?” I cringed when I realized how stalker-esque I sounded.
Choking on a chip, he asked, “You noticed that?”
“Well, yeah. I’ve always been interested in the right-handed, left-handed thing, and I thought it was cool that you were left-handed. Which I thought you were, since you eat with your left hand, but then I wasn’t sure because I saw you writing with your right hand.” Oh my god. I was so not helping my stalker case.
He smiled a little. “You’re very observant.”
“Yeah, well, there’s not much to look at here at Lake Shit, you know?” Was I hitting on him?
“Um, thanks, I think.” He looked down and slowly lifted his right hand to the table and set it down close to my tray. “This is why I eat with my left hand.” It was my first good look at his right hand. His pointer and middle fingers were pudgy and misshapen. The skin was glossy, and there were several pink scar markings. “I don’t want to gross anyone out while they’re eating,” he said, “so I keep my hand under the table.”
“It’s not that gross,” I said, although it was a little. The shiny skin looked almost waxy. “What happened?” I asked, looking up at him.
He didn’t look back at me, but brought his hand back to his lap. “I’ll tell you some other time. Like I said, I don’t want to gross anyone out.”
I nibbled on a pretzel until he decided he wanted to talk to me again. “So how come you have so many Ramones T-shirts?” he asked.
I gushed, “They’re my favorite band. They make me feel like it’s possible, you know, that maybe I could be a musician someday because their songs are simple but amazing.”
Justin surprised me. “I used to have this bootleg concert video, and I couldn’t believe how crazy they were on stage. They look kind of old and mellow in pictures.”
“You have a bootleg video of The Ramones?” I couldn’t believe it. “What about the almighty Doors?”
“I
used
to have it. That was a long time ago,” he said, chewing on his sandwich and swishing some OJ around in his mouth.
used
to have it. That was a long time ago,” he said, chewing on his sandwich and swishing some OJ around in his mouth.
It’s not like we’re eighty years old. How long ago could he have been into The Ramones that he could switch over so dramatically to The Doors? And what happened to his hand? I wish I was some teen super-sleuth so I could solve the mystery.
STUDY TIME
Sandy and I aren’t really in the mood to do homework. It’s not like anyone back at school really cares if I do it anyway. Supposedly, I do my work and it’ll get sent to my teachers back at real school, but nobody is giving me any actual work to do. Yeah, there’s
The Crucible
, but my English teacher didn’t say I have to actually do much once I read it (except gag at how lame it is). Mrs. Downy, my art teacher at school, sent me a box of colored pencils and paper, as if the plastic walls I’m surrounded by are going to inspire me to create a masterpiece. She assigned us a collage project when I was at school, where we had to create a collage from magazine clippings and then draw the collage with colored pencils. Mine’s so bad. I don’t know why I decided to make it based on the life and death of Aaron Spelling. At the time we got the assignment, I thought it was pretty funny and easy, since there are pictures from his TV shows everywhere.
But now that I’m stuck with these overlapping images of Heather Locklear’s fried hair, I don’t know how I’m going to draw all of the faces. I get stuck on the noses. Every person I’ve drawn so far looks like a jack-o’-lantern.
The Crucible
, but my English teacher didn’t say I have to actually do much once I read it (except gag at how lame it is). Mrs. Downy, my art teacher at school, sent me a box of colored pencils and paper, as if the plastic walls I’m surrounded by are going to inspire me to create a masterpiece. She assigned us a collage project when I was at school, where we had to create a collage from magazine clippings and then draw the collage with colored pencils. Mine’s so bad. I don’t know why I decided to make it based on the life and death of Aaron Spelling. At the time we got the assignment, I thought it was pretty funny and easy, since there are pictures from his TV shows everywhere.
But now that I’m stuck with these overlapping images of Heather Locklear’s fried hair, I don’t know how I’m going to draw all of the faces. I get stuck on the noses. Every person I’ve drawn so far looks like a jack-o’-lantern.
I wonder what Mrs. Downy thinks about sending colored pencils to a student in a mental hospital. She knows me relatively well, as I’ve taken classes with her since freshman year, but I’ve never really been one of those stars of art class. I guess I don’t wear enough black or have enough piercings or smoke enough clove cigarettes. I’d rather hang out in the darkroom for photography anyway. At least there it’s more technical, which I think I’m better at. No noses to mess up in photos. Mrs. Downy didn’t include a note with the pencils. Maybe she doesn’t know where I am. What if no one else does? What if something happens to you, Tracy, and something happens to my family, like all of you are abducted by the future car people, and then no one knows where I am! Lucky for me, the future cars haven’t moved yet.
LATER
Matt O. is still in the Quiet Room. It’s not all that quiet, though, because the room is right next to me and he keeps pounding on the wall and yelling, “Hey, Anna! Hey, Sandy! Wut up?” Then he goes through his “proclamation” over and over again. “When I die, I want them to bury me facedown and ass up so that the whole world can kiss my ass!” I don’t quite get what he
means, but it sounds funny as shit. Where did he even get that? I don’t know how funny it would be in the real world, but right now I can’t stop laughing. I hope I don’t get in trouble.
means, but it sounds funny as shit. Where did he even get that? I don’t know how funny it would be in the real world, but right now I can’t stop laughing. I hope I don’t get in trouble.
Sandy hasn’t gotten any homework from her teachers yet, so we just spend most of our Study Time doing one of the following three things:
Staring out the window and planning our escape. The pastel cars are always taunting me with their futuristic, yet retro, styling. I still can’t tell what the building across the street is. If it is a hotel, then it’s not a very nice one judging by the rusty old vans that are always pulling up at what appears to be the check-in.
Talking to the “spy cameras.” Sandy and I are convinced that the light fixtures in our room have cameras in them where all of the pervy workers watch us get undressed. Sometimes we do faux stripteases for them, but I feel gross and just assume no one would want to see me stripping anyway.
Decorating. We’ve got quite a little art gallery going. They won’t give us any tape, and you can be damned sure we can’t get any tacks, but if we stick a piece of paper against the wall and dig our nail into the corners, it usually stays pretty well. Sandy’s got a lot of photos up of her boyfriend, but all I can manage in the way of dudes is ripping out movie star photosfrom the Friday section of the newspaper. I wish they’d stop putting pictures of Ben Affleck in it ’cause there’s no way I’m putting his nasty ass on my wall. The best I could do was a picture of Orlando Bloom dressed as Legolas, even though he is way hotter with his normal brown hair and eyes. I also got a picture of The Donnas rocking out. I wish I had the confidence to play the bass in public and have my hair go all crazy like that.
The room still looks kind of sad, with pictures of her boyfriend she can’t even see or talk to and my newspaper pictures with raggy edges because I can’t use scissors to cut them out. We decided to use my colored pencils and paper to draw portraits of each other. I was pleasantly surprised at the lack of chins Sandy drew on me. When I had to do a self-portrait in art class, I looked like a droopy dog. One could even call her drawings flattering, not
fattering.
In the last hour we’ve managed to do ten total (I did six in a more abstract, slashy style, and she did four, neatly and precisely). I’ve never really done any kind of art outside of school, except for writing. Does writing count? I write all the time, but I don’t know if anyone would consider it art. Tracy, maybe you can gather all of the letters I write you (when you finally get them, of course), and when I’m ninety-seven years old and withering away in a loony bin you can publish them. We’ll split the profit, 50/50. Ah, you can have it all actually. I can’t do anything with money here anyway.
fattering.
In the last hour we’ve managed to do ten total (I did six in a more abstract, slashy style, and she did four, neatly and precisely). I’ve never really done any kind of art outside of school, except for writing. Does writing count? I write all the time, but I don’t know if anyone would consider it art. Tracy, maybe you can gather all of the letters I write you (when you finally get them, of course), and when I’m ninety-seven years old and withering away in a loony bin you can publish them. We’ll split the profit, 50/50. Ah, you can have it all actually. I can’t do anything with money here anyway.
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