Jeremiah Quick (19 page)

She spun around to face me again. "Come
here," and crooked a finger at me. Nuh-uh. I wasn't getting close
enough to get my face slapped. No way.

"Just come here. I want to show you
something."

What, my file? There couldn't be much there.
I mean, yeah, I hit that social worker, but it was like… not that
hard. I didn't knock him out or anything. And my neck thing, but
that couldn't be on her computer already, could it?

"This is
so
cool," she said, under
her breath.

Call me a sucker, but that pulled me in.

I trudged across the room, holding one hand
over my bandage, hoping to look vulnerable or some shit. But she
was still more or less ignoring me.

She was reading something.

"Come around and sit on the bookshelf so you
can see."

I boosted myself up onto the low shelf.
There was a boom box against the wall at my left. I stared at it,
longing for my tapes.

She was looking at words on the screen.
"There's this thing in the works called File Transfer Protocol. You
can send files from one computer to another. Not through an on-site
mainframe, but almost like… through the air. Well, the phone line.
But to the other side of the world, even. Of course, you need the
software, and so does the person on the other side of the world,
but then you could send… like, documents. Letters to your pen pal.
Through the phone line!"

Okay, yeah, pretty fuckin' cool. But I
didn't want her to know that, so I made my face all bored and said,
"Don't have no pen pal. Are you a dyke, or what?"

I figured if I pissed her off right away,
then I'd know what to expect from her at her worst, right?

She turned off the computer monitor and
swiveled her chair to face me. She didn't say anything then, didn't
smile, nothing. Just stared at me like she could see right inside
me, past the fuckin' carnival mask I had to wear to navigate this
fucked up place. It felt like she could see everything.

I looked away first.

Hated that.

My fingers started worrying the bottom hem
of the regulation blue shirt they'd given me. My second one,
because the first got all bloody. This one was too big, but that
was better. The other one had felt like it was strangling me.

"Can I have my walkman and tapes and shit?"
I asked.

"Doubt it. You're on suicide watch."

"Yeah, I figured. I just… have this noise in
my head, you know?"

I risked a look at her, and she was nodding,
like she really did know. That wasn't good.

"You ready to listen?" she asked.

I shrugged. I was here, wasn't I?

"Somebody said 'You're Corrie's problem
now,' yes? I'm Corrie. I'm going to be your problem too, so get
used to it. I got three rules in here. You respect me, and I'll
respect you. That's number one. Number two is no lying. Not even
little white lies. That's also for both of us. Truth or silence.
I'll respect when you don't want to talk. Fair?"

She seemed to be waiting for me to answer,
so I said, "Yeah, okay."

"Good." She sat back in her chair, like…
lecture over.

"What's number three, no swearing or some
fucking shit?" I asked.

She laughed, and it was real, and even kind
of nice. Her mouth opened when she laughed and her teeth were small
and white, and something happened between her mouth and her cheeks
that made her look way more girly. Almost pretty.

"Fuck no. Number three is more complicated.
I hate taking notes, so what you say in here, or to me in general,
doesn't go far. Not into your permanent record, your juvie record,
medical record, or any other record. My progress reports are a
bunch of made-up bullshit that sound like something, but aren't.
But. There are a couple of loopholes. If you tell me you're going
to hurt yourself or someone else, or that someone is abusing you,
all bets are off. I have to report that shit, even if you don't
want me to. I'm ethically and legally bound."

Okay, so I can't live with my uncle, but I
can't tell her why. And my dad beats the shit out of me, but no
matter what, I need to get sent back there. My two big problems
were off limits. I should have known. No matter how much they
say
they're on your side, they aren't. She wasn't going to
be able to help me. No one was going to be able to help me.
Fuck.

And once again she saw right through me.

"There are ways around it, Jeremiah. I'll
stop you if I think you're about to cross the line, and we'll talk
about where the line is."

I nodded because there was a lump in my
throat too large to talk around. Hey, at least she knew my name.
For a minute there I was worried she had the wrong kid in her
office.

"Let's get the big thing out of the way. Why
did you try to kill yourself today? And I mean… really, why?"

Her bluntness startled me. No one had asked
that. Not the supervisors, not the nurse.

"Do you even know?" That question was a lot
quieter.

I thought about not answering, and I thought
about telling her everything, get the fucker locked up. But who
would believe me over him? I'm sure my dad would back up anything
my uncle said. My dad was afraid of my uncle. Had maybe been afraid
his whole life.

I didn't think my uncle called social
services about my dad. It was probably a well-meaning teacher,
seeing me hollow and hungry and dirty. I even had a pretty good
idea which teacher, and I'm sure she only wanted to help.

But the crux of the problem was I couldn't
live with my uncle.

"They said my dad neglects me, and I'm
supposed to go live with my uncle. I can't do that, for reasons I
can't discuss."

"Okay," Corrie said. "I believe you.
And?"

"They said that's where I have to go. They
said it's not up to me. And I can't. I just… can't."

Despair. Just… so much that I almost slid
off the bookshelf, boneless.

My hand went to the bandage at my throat,
wanting to tear it off and claw through my flesh with my
fingernails.

When I glanced up at her, Corrie was
watching me.

The she grabbed a file-folder from somewhere
and laid it open beside me, scooting her wheeled chair closer with
a squeak.

"We need to talk, really talk," she said.
"And I can't have you pretending to listen while playing a cassette
in your head. So you need to find some music to put on, and I need
to look at the social services report. There are tapes under your
legs. Pick something and put it on."

I leaned all the way forward, folding myself
in half to look between my legs. Three shelves of cassette tapes.
Phil Collins, Styx, Quiet Riot, Motley Crüe. The Bee Gees, for
god's sake. Alice Cooper. REO Speedwagon (gag). They were arranged
in no particular order, because who would put Alice next to REO on
purpose?

The lowest shelf had Blondie, Queen, AC/DC.
Aretha. And… The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, Siouxsie and the
Banshees. Bowie. No shit? No shit.

I chose Bowie and fiddled with the boom box,
put the tape in, adjusted the volume. Not too loud. I didn't want
anyone to barge in and make us turn it off.

Us. Fuck. She was good.

We were already co-conspirators, even inside
my own head.

Less than two hours ago I wanted to be dead.
Tried to be. And now here's some crazy dyke tossing me a rope – for
rescue, not to hang myself with – and it pretty much looked like I
was grabbing on.

She glanced up as the tape started to play.
"Nice choice. Okay. I have a handle on things, so let's see what we
can do to get you sent back home."

Despair changed to hope, just that quick.
Home wasn't great, but I could function there. I was getting better
at avoiding my dad. "Even after… everything?" I gestured to the
bandages on my neck.

"So long as your uncle doesn't file for
custody of you, I think we can find a work-around. You'll have to
do your part. No more of
that
," she made like she was going
to flick her fingers against the bandage. "None. No talk of
depression or suicide. You've never gotten along with your uncle,
can't stand him, and the thought of living there made you do
something dramatic and stupid. That's all. No more. You're going to
need to smile at people, laugh ruefully at yourself, shake your
head in disbelief that you ever thought suicide was a good idea.
You're going to have to be really good at playing happy and
well-adjusted by the time your release date rolls around."

"Fuck." I couldn't help it. I'd never been
particularly happy or well-adjusted.

"Twenty-six days. I'll give you a calendar,
you can mark them off. You can think it over for a day or two, but
then you have to start coming out of your shell, embrace the
program, express gratefulness for all the help you're getting."

I would die.

Seriously.

Maybe she read my mind, because she said,
"You can do it. You have to."

I must have made a face, because the next
thing she said was, "Let me tell you the story of you…"

Oh, this should be good.

"You've always been a little bit odd. You
get lost in books and music, almost to where you feel like you can
disappear. Things that hurt you emotionally, hurt deep. A story or
song can make you cry, sob like your heart is broken. No one knows
this, because you don't let anyone know this."

I found myself listening, really listening,
as she blithely spit most of my life out of her mouth.

"Took to wearing all black within the past
couple of years. You carry everything important in your backpack at
all times. You write about and draw bloody things. You've already
tried most substances of abuse – but don't tell anyone here that.
People don't like you much, and you don't like them either. In most
settings, you have no idea what's expected of you, or you have an
idea, but either can't be bothered to comply, or the very idea of
compliance fills you with rage."

I was a stunned mess when she was done,
ready to fall at her feet and beg her to take me home.

What I was able to say, after at least a
full minute of shocked silence was, "How do you know all this?"

She winked at me. "I was a Dark child, and I
raised a Dark child. And I've fostered two others. I know. I knew
the first time I saw you that you'd become "Corrie's problem."

A single great and most wonderful idea leapt
into my brain and fell out my mouth. "Can you foster me?"

Her face went blank. Closed. Still.

It was almost frightening. And yet I
recognized that look. I wore it often. It said
Don't you even
dare try to go there
.

I took it back. "Sorry, of course not. I was
being ridiculous."

Her expression opened just a little then,
her mouth relaxing, jaw less clenched. Her eyes stopped being cold
and just looked sad.

"Oh, baby, I would take you all in if I
could. But I lost my foster license."

I knew better than to think she'd tell me
more than that. Of course she lost her license, because anyone who
understood Us had something wrong with them, or was a bad
influence…. whatever They needed to tell Themselves.

She stood up and stretched, shook herself as
if shaking off bad memories.

"Go back to your room. There's about an hour
before dinner. Go to group. Watch how everyone acts, make a note of
what seems to please the group leaders, the supervisors. I'll
schedule a session for us tomorrow, and we'll brainstorm how to get
you back home."

That was how I met Corrie, the
woman who saved my life.

Dinner was barely edible, but I expected
that. The hour before dinner was rest time for fuck- ups on suicide
watch, but free time for everyone else.

I was confined to my room. My new room, I
should say, because when I got back from Corrie's office, I was
shown into a room much closer to the supervisors' office, and
warned that if I did anything that wasn't safe, I'd have a
supervisor stationed IN my room, dogging my heels, and watching my
every move.

For fuck's sake.

I assured them that Corrie was fixing me,
and promised not to hurt myself further.

They seemed to have a healthy respect for
the power of Corrie. In fact, one of the supervisors brought me my
Walkman and favorite tapes, and a pair of cheap foam-padded
headphones that weren't mine, but were better than nothing. The
foam padding was orange, like the chairs in the TV room. Yay.

He said, "Corrie said you can have these. If
you come to group and don't be an asshole, you can keep them. If
you fuck up again, you won't get them back until you leave.
Clear?"

"Crystal," I said, because I couldn't help
it.

As he turned away, I said, "Thanks. A lot."
And then remembered to ask his name. People like it when you learn
their names. I knew that, somebody somewhere along the way had told
me this, and it seemed true enough, when I bothered to
remember.

"Tim," he said.

And I logged in my head – friendly brown
eyes, short hair, mustache that's a bit silly, Tim. I repeated his
name in my head. "Nice to meet you," I said. "And thanks. The music
will help me."

I offered my hand, and he took it, one quick
grasp and shake. "Good. You're welcome." He studied me for a
minute, then gave a little shrug and walked away.

An hour of bliss. I'd have to ask Corrie
where to get batteries, because the Walkman ate them like a child
eats Halloween candy. But a machine with life-saving properties
deserves a little candy.

I ate in my room. An institution-variety
cheeseburger, cold French fries, and milk in a plastic coffee mug.
No eating utensils. I suppose after what I managed to do with a pen
they weren't interested in giving me anything so handy as a knife.
Even a plastic one.

Then it was group time. There were seven
boys, including me, and two girls. Three of them, two boys and one
girl, were leaving on Friday. I put those three at the top of my
observe list.