Impulse (8 page)

Tony and I exchange a glance, brimming with disbelief.

But we know it's a delicate dance and keep our mouths

shut. 208

213

Vanessa's Cutting

And the only thing I can do is point it out to someone in charge--betray her to the enemy. Not really an option. I wouldn't want her to tell on me. So I shrug. "Hope it doesn't get infected. You should clip those fingernails!"
Yes, Mother I
'
ll put it near the top of my list. Right after flossing.

Conner asks,
Are Sunday services really required? What happens if you say you won
'
t come? Will they lock you up, throw away the key?

"They'd drop you back down a level," I answer, as the resident expert. 209

214

Back to being a big

zero,
Vanessa says.
Back to isolation.

"Only if you're Level One. But hey, lucky me, I've been promoted to Level Two. Just wait. You get to play pool, get to watch TV."

No kidding?
says Conner.
And what do you get for making Level Three?
210

215

Level Three Privileges

"From what I hear, you get trips to the mall, movies, sometimes, always well supervised. You also get to go home for weekend visits."

Maybe I
'
ll just skip Level Three,
Conner comments.
Level Four?
"That's the wilderness camp--Challenge by Choice, they call it."

Vanessa chimes in,
If you complete the Challenge, you get Level Five.
"And that," I add, "is when they let you out of here for good." 211

216

Sounds like it would be easier to wait it out until I turn eighteen,
Conner observes.
Not so long, only six months, two weeks, three days.

Speak for yourself
says Vanessa.
It
'
s eleven months until my birthday. And I don
'
t plan to celebrate that party in here! I
'
ll be out long before then.

"They'll probably kick me out next week," I say. "I gave my dad hell yesterday, and he's footing the bill. 'Course, I've got his guilt train steaming real good." 212

217

Time to Vacate

The room, so they can turn it back into a place to eat lunch. I volunteer to help. Nothing better to do than fold down tables, set chairs around them.

Conner has apparently digested our recent conversation, because he volunteers to help too. Anything extra you do goes in the "plus column."

Vanessa doesn't dare. Someone might notice the seep on her wrist. Someone less discreet than Conner or me. We watch her hustle off.

"That girl is something special," I say. "Wonder what her story is.,' 213

218

Other than cutting herself you mean? The why behind the blade?

"Exactly. She seems so grounded, compared to other losers in here."
I might say the same about you. But you tried to off yourself too. Didn
'
t you?

"Yep. Failed miserably, too. Some things take practice. Suicide, for one." Conner laughs.
You
'
re right. And who knew? Next time I
'
ll be more

careful.
214

219

All This Talk

About reaching levels and getting out of this place makes me want to put myself on a fast track to freedom. I guess that means opening up in group, succeeding in school, which I started again last week, hopeful I might catch up after missing so much.

I hadn't even cracked a book in over a month. Magazines, yes. Plenty of those in the hospital, and I've borrowed a
Cosmo
or two from my pal Dahlia. Pretty tame stuff, for her.
Hustler
is more her style.

I've seen a couple of those, thanks to darling Trevor, who five-finger-discounted them from the local liquor store. 215

220

I can't believe women would let themselves be photographed like that! Nothing "artsy" about fake rape scenes or lying naked with a dog. It's pure nasty. And all for money.

I'm not sure what I want to do for money when it's up to me to make it. Not sure what I can do, bouncing white to blue. But I don't plan to use my body to make it. I plan to use my bipolar brain. 216

221

Monday Morning

Up early, shower, breakfast at seven thirty. Not so different from living at home, except none of it is by choice, everything choreographed, right down to the soap we use, the toothpaste we're allowed, the exact amount of eggs on our plates.

It's easy, really. Easy and frustrating.

Classes, remedial for many here, start at nine. Lucky me. The month off didn't put me too far behind, which means I get to be with the advanced group, and that includes Tony.

He's book smart. Street smart.

I never knew for sure the two

could go together, but they're

intertwined, inside of him. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. My first gay friend. 217

222

I've never really had much in the way of friends before. A few little girlfriends, army brats all, and tough to keep when you change bases like clothes. But I'm pretty much stuck here for a while. A friend seems like a good thing to have, and I think I have two.

Tony. And Conner. Cute. And devastating. A daunting duo. 218

223

They're Both in Class

Of course Conner would be in the advanced class. He's college prep all the way. Maybe he can tutor me in the fine art of finesse. Girls sit on one side of the classroom, guys on the other, in alphabetical order. Easier to keep track of. Guess Mr. Hidalgo isn't as smart as his students.

Good morning, all,
he says.

Today, we
'
re writing essays.

Topic: The Patriot Act, right, wrong, or indifferent.

A half-dozen groans answer his request, but I like putting my opinion on paper for the world to read. Conner raises his hand. 219

224

Excuse
me,
sir, but can

you tell us, please, how
the Patriot Act affects the rights of minors?

I mean, we were basically

locked up here without a hint of
"
due process.
"

How is that any different
than treading all over
the due process of a so-called adult?

Mr. Hidalgo clears his throat, considers how to answer a student as impertinent-- yet polite and somehow correct, in context--as

Conner. 220

225

Okay, I Should Have

Kept my mouth shut, gone with the flow, especially the first day in Mr. Hidalgo's class. But I need to know

what makes every teacher tick. Some really care about their students' reasoning processes. Others just stick to the three Rs--rote learning, recitation, rhetoric. In here, I didn't expect to find a discerning

teacher. But Mr. Hidalgo does seem pretty reasonable. He even allowed me to expand on the theme

"due process and minors." Why do I care, anyway? "Life" has lately not meant much. I haven't a clue why 221

226

"liberty" should concern me.

Like I've ever really been free? (Or ever could be.)

Whatever. At least I've got

something to do besides pace my room. I start to write, in a perfect hand so I won't have to erase.

One thing I won't stand for is a sloppy paper, and I

refuse to write a first draft, then have to copy over.

227

Duplicating Effort

Is a true waste of time, one I watch others take unusual pride in--spilling mistakes, which must be undone before turning in their papers. Why not just do it right the first time? Working around the knot in my neck, I write:

Our forefathers envisioned the Bill of Rights as a safety net--necessary corrections of the Constitution c oversights.

But where did they write that one must be at least eighteen for those rules to apply? Would they have found such a provision just, when many patriots of the day, who died in the name of freedom, were themselves only boys?
I've made the same argument 223

228

before, in a different school, with another teacher. Like her, Mr. Hidalgo is cool with my opinion.

You
'
ve made some excellent

observations, and conveyed

your thoughts clearly. I have

high expectations of you.

High expectations--great, I burned myself again. You'd think by now I would have learned to underachieve. 224

229

Especially in Here

Where underachievement is an art. Not that success isn't possible for these people, that they're not smart.

If Justin could just get past his Jesus fetish, he'd likely be an algebra whiz, but such linear

thinking conflicts with his four-dimensional ideals. Then there's Nathan, whose unconventional theories about extraterrestrial visitation defy known laws of science: E.T, the brains behind creation.

Tony, at least, is rooted in reality tinted as his view might be, intertwined with his iffy sexuality. 225

230

He puts his words on paper well; writes with clarity and passion; is not afraid to tell us how he feels:

Freedom is a double-edged

ideal, because true freedom

comes without the protection of laws that also enslave us by defining us--female,
male; Christian, Islamic;
good, evil. All at the whim of a frail minority.

Right on. 226

231

Odd Thing Happened

When I started school here, at Aspen Springs. I found out I'm good at it. I never was before. Of course, I never had much chance to excel in the juvenile detention center. Anything I learned was because I wanted to, not because someone expected me to. I'd be a total ignoramus

if not for Phillip. Now
he
expected great things from me. And being an ex-college professor, he was just the gentleman to teach me. 227

232

He taught me the basics-- algebra, biology U.S. history. He taught me the extras-- trig, chemistry world affairs. He taught me the necessities-- philosophy, religion, psychology.

I could have learned from him forever. But we didn't have forever, only two almost-perfect years, years that might have been perfectly perfect except he got so sick. I'm not sure how I've managed to avoid that whole vicious viral thing. Then again, maybe I haven't. I can only wait and see. 228

233

Anyway, I Don't Worry

About it, not on a daily basis. The weird thing is, I don't really worry about much anymore, not with Phillip gone. That was my biggest worry for the last couple of years. I had no idea what I'd do when he died. He had put me in his will, but his son contested and won, claiming his house and every possession.

Yes, Phillip was married once, back when most gay men remained in the closet, at least to family and friends, taking their need to be with other men to the darker parts 229

234

of town--bath houses, bars, back alleys, and cars. No wonder AIDS spread like it did. Everyone was afraid to talk about it. What if the wife found out?

Phillip was one of the brave ones who couldn't stand sneaking around. So he told his wife, who promptly ran off to tell her priest and get a divorce, in that order.

Poor Phillip lost his wife, his son, his friends, and his church, all within a few days. Luckily, the university where he taught was in San Francisco. At least he kept his job. 230

235

Mr. Hidalgo
Clears is Throat

Brings me back to my essay: "The Patriot Act, Who Cares?" I write:
I think it
'
s totally messed up that cops can arrest anyone they want, just because they don
'
t like how a person looks. But what, exactly, is so new about that? The only difference I can see under the Patriot Act is the authorities

don
'
t have to tell anyone they
'
ve busted the guy. They can keep him for days, even weeks, and no one who cares about him will know where he
'
s gone.
231

236

They call that patriotism? And wiretaps? Or investigating what a person reads? Who, then, gets to decide what reading materials constitute terrorist training guides?

When will America quit living in the shadow of 9/11? When will her people decide to stop living in daily fear? When will they think

twice about who they should be afraid of-- some would-be terrorist a thousand miles away, or some U.S. politician, hell-- bent on peeking behind closed doors?
232

237

Writing Essays

Is usually easy for me. But I'm having a hard time with this one, for a couple of reasons. The first is Daddy, who's been fighting terrorists on their own turf ever since 9/11 went down. Ask him, the Patriot Act doesn't do nearly enough to keep America safe. Ask him, he'd send every "damn towel head" back to where they came from, with a stop at Guantanamo for a little debriefing.

The second is Grandma, who is quite vocal about patient confidentiality and the need to keep medical records inviolable. I know I wouldn't want just anybody to be able to take a look at mine. 233

238

Nope, no job for Vanessa.

She
'
s crazy, you know.

I may very well be crazy, but the manager at McDonald's doesn't need that information to decide if I'm safe to flip burgers. Not like I'd freak out and off someone because he complained the fries were greasy. At least, I don't think so. 234

239

The Third Reason Is Mama