Jeremiah Quick (22 page)

And I didn't have any real makeup on, just
the black eyeliner around my eyes and crayoned onto my lips.

Later there was a movie and popcorn, and I
sat in one of those stupid blue and orange one-armed chairs, Jamie
on the chair next to me, separated only by the armrest.

I was so aware of him I couldn't even follow
the movie. Just kept stealing looks at his profile in the dimmed
light. I turned over in my head how intensely attracted I was to
this boy. Again I wanted him trapped beneath me on a bed, naked, my
hands all over him, touching, pinching, doing things – the things
my uncle had done to me, and I wanted him to struggle and to cry
and to
like it
. That was the kicker.

Was that even possible?

Okay.

I substituted struggle and cry and pinch for
soft sighs, smiles, and sweet petting.

It still worked.

I was uncomfortably hard in this room with
these people, and wished for my hoodie, so I could pull it off and
arrange it on my lap, hiding the evidence of my perversion.

Except, well. Corrie didn't make it sound
perverted. She made it sound okay, and probably inevitable.

She'd gotten divorced to be with a lesbian,
right? So she'd tried to be normal. She'd wanted to be
straight.

Faggot. Queer. Homo.

I tried them all on, those bad and scary
words.

With Jamie in the room, they fit like shiny
new leather gloves, the awesome kind with spikes.

With Jamie in the room, the words made me
twitch. In a good way.

Fine. I'd wear the words, but I wasn't a
sissy, and never would be. I decided that, right there.

I was Dark, not a prancing, dancing, shiny
gay boy, and nobody, no matter what, would ever put me in that box.
Fuck 'em. No boxes.

Jamie was falling asleep, his head resting
on the puffy upholstered chair arm that separated us.

I could smell his
sweet-cake-and-orange-Kool-Aid breath, and I wanted to put my lips
to his and suck it right out of him.

On the weekend they ran different groups.
Afternoons and evenings were all about entertainment, but morning
groups were Real Work.

They separated us by week, which meant my
group was just me, Jamie, and Bree. We'd be together from ten to
noon both Saturday and Sunday. Unless on Sunday we preferred the
Word of the Lord. None of us did.

I had no idea, at the beginning, how much
these little groups were going to tear me apart.

That first Saturday I had fantasies about
killing Corrie for not warning me. I could maintain and remember
the tricks about voice and eye contact when I had time to think, to
regroup, but in this, Small Group, they called it, there was none
of that.

How was I going to hide in a group of
three?

For two full hours?

Seriously.

I started getting ready immediately after
breakfast. I did the usual shower stuff, then examined the little
pile of makeup that I now had. Bree had emptied her pockets into my
hands last night, giving me pale ivory face powder, burgundy
lipstick, clear gloss, silver eye shadow, and a tiny bottle of
black nail polish. I could draw a mask, maybe even one solid enough
to hide behind.

That Bree… what a doll.

"Stolen property," she'd whispered to me as
she filled my hands. "Don't tell."

Li'l Bit saw the whole exchange, somehow,
even while greeting her (aunt?) with a hug. She bounced over to me
and said, "Tell Bree she's busted."

My heart fell. Bree had stolen the stash
from Li'l Bit.

"I'm sorry, Li'l Bit. Here, you can have it
back." I started pulling the makeup from my pockets.

She faked a punch to the middle of my chest.
"Li'l Bit? Is that what you call me inside your head?"

I was mortified. I hadn't meant to say it
out loud, but she made me nervous for Bree. I didn't want Bree in
trouble for being nice to me.

Li'l Bit grinned. "That's rad. I was going
to give those things to you, anyway, before they disappeared into
Bree's pocket. I won't rat her out, but tell her I caught her."
Then she threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. "You're
gonna be okay, even if you are completely fucked up," she said, her
lips vibrating against my neck.

I… froze. People didn't hug me. People
didn't look at me or talk to me.

"Thanks," I said. "I think."

"Now hug me back so I can go. My auntie's
waiting."

"I don't think I know how," I said… well,
whispered, really, into her hair. "I've forgotten."

"Put your arms around my back and
squeeze."

I obeyed.

Oh. This.

This was lovely.

I had forgotten. Or put it out of my mind,
at least. Because… well. Dad's brother, right? Full-body contact,
ugh. To say the least.

Back to getting ready for group.

Black eyeliner, nice and thick. Silver eye
shadow sparingly applied to my upper lids, but I used a wet paper
towel to really silver up beneath my lower lids, making the shadow
hug the eyeliner, then dabbed two perfect silver tears on my right
cheek.

I used the eyeliner to line my lips before
filling them in with burgundy. A light dust of silver over that.
Light dust of ivory powder over all.

I looked into the shitty plastic mirror.

My reflection said, "I would eat you. In a
heartbeat."

It was a new group leader. Her name was
Starla and she had the kind of voice that dripped with concern and
screamed 'therapist' through its soft and gentle tone.

I tried to keep the eye-rolls to a minimum,
but the careful grin I got from Jamie had 'fail' written all over
it. Or maybe he liked the makeup.

The first game we played was called Three
Minutes.

One person gets the hot seat, and the others
have three minutes to pepper that one with questions. We were told
to keep it friendly, don't get too personal, and, ask questions
that are easy to answer. She wrapped up with, "Who wants the hot
seat first?"

I wanted to be in the hot seat NEVER. I
said, "You go first," to Starla. She looked startled and
uncomfortable.

"I, ah, don't usually do that. I mean, none
of the groups ever suggested it. This is about you guys, about
building trust with your peers."

I flicked a look at Jamie, then Bree – they
were both suppressing grins, getting on board this four-wheeled
train of thought.

I shook my head. "If we do it, you do it.
Why should we trust you otherwise? Earn it."

She swallowed. Picked up a water bottle and
took a drink, taking her time screwing the cap back on. "It's not
my usual process," she protested, but it was weak, and she knew
it.

"Do I look like I fit in a box?" I
asked.

"No," Starla said without hesitation. "You
look like you're hiding."

Ow. That was a jab.

I blinked.

She sighed. "Okay, three minutes. Starting…
now." She pressed a button on a magnetic kitchen timer.

"How long have you been doing this?" I
asked.

"Five years."

"These particular groups?" That was
Bree.

"A couple of years."

Me: "What's your degree in?"

"Social work, with a Master's in
counseling."

"Are you good at it?" That was Jamie, his
voice soft, sincere, questioning.

Starla looked right at him. "I like to think
so, yes."

"Why Small Group?" Bree.

"Because you'll help each other more than
you'll ever let me help you. You need each other."

Three minutes is a long time. We asked what
college she went to, her favorite food, movie, band. We asked about
children, pets, siblings, questions flying like bullets at the end,
sharp, staccato, quick. We were all laughing.

The timer went off.

Bree in the hot seat.

Then Jamie.

I squirmed, trying to think of one single
safe question. I came up with, "What's your favorite bug?" and he
laughed, but then his eyes did this roll-blink-blink thing. "A fly
on the wall in your room," he said, with a twitch to his lips that
hurt my stomach.

Safe questions didn't exist. Damn him.

After that, I had nothing, and for an
agonizing two and a half minutes, he answered every question while
staring at me, like daring me to think of another.

I supposed he glanced at Bree and
what's-her-name, the therapist, but it felt like he was answering
every question just for me. He looked comfortable in his skin,
self-possessed, relaxed. Every damn thing that I was not, and would
never be.

I memorized his answers. His favorite food
was spaghetti, or maybe chocolate fondue, because he said they're
both ridiculous to eat.

I tried not to picture the spaghetti scene
in that old dog cartoon. Or my chocolate covered dick pressed
against his lips.

Favorite color – white, because it's so
clean and new, blank page, stretched canvas."That's not a color," I
muttered, sort of understanding that he was calm, talking slow, and
giving more (too much) information so there would be time for fewer
questions.

"Neither is black," he said, his eyes
glittering with mischief. Damn him.

"Favorite clothing label?" Bree, our
resident klepto, asked.

"The one that has the size. I like my
clothes to fit. Can't stand baggy. Otherwise," he shrugged. "I like
thrift store."

I did, too. I never had money to shop
anywhere else.

"Favorite book?" the therapist prompted.

"Lord of the Flies," he said. "Because…
because, well, just because." He ducked his chin, maybe in response
to my eye roll. "Lolita," I mouthed at him, and his eyes widened.
Good. He knew that one.

"Music?" Bree again.

"I love music of all kinds." He spent what
must have been a full minute listing off bands, including Bowie and
Siouxsie.

"Favorite movie?" Bree prompted.

"Ahh," he clutched at his head, his hair.
"Too many. I can't name one."

"Try," I whispered, hardly aware that the
word passed my lips, so intent I was on finding out.

He scrunched up his nose, and it was so
adorable I wanted to kiss him. Or bite him, maybe, just a
nibble.

"Tommy, the rock opera," he said, and didn't
look at any of us. "The Dark Crystal, and what's it called, with
Atreyu and the luckdragon."

The whispered confession electrified me.

No way. He was making it up. He was making
it all up. He wasn't… Dark. He was the opposite of Dark.

"Why are you here?" Bree asked, but just
then the timer went off. He was unhooked.

Chapter 21

I
was on deck. I
thought I might throw up.

To have to sit there and be transparent to
these people – to Jamie – I didn't know if I'd survive it. I wished
I had my hoodie, so I could hide just that much. Someone said we
get our own clothes back the first Sunday night. I can't tell you
how much I looked forward to that. And sunglasses. I was tired of
walking around naked.

I slouched in my chair, crossed my arms over
my chest, and stared at the patch of faded blue carpet between my
feet.

Ms. Feelgood, Starla, said, "You look as
closed to this exercise as any psych textbook could ever describe.
Try letting your arms hang at your sides."

My arms tightened, clutching at myself.
Everything tightened. "I can't," I said through clenched teeth.

I didn't look at her, but I could feel her
looking at me. Like she was thinking or something.

"All right. Bree, Jamie, be gentle, okay?"
The suggestion came in a soft, sincere voice.

Food. Pizza, fried chicken.

Music. I cheated a little and said The Sex
Pistols, although my list of favorites was long and dark. I wanted
to do what Jamie did and stall, but I couldn't expand on why I
loved what I loved because it would reveal too much. Favorite music
made favorite movie easy, though– Sid and Nancy. No brainer. I also
liked Jamie's favorites, and said so.

"Favorite bug?" Jamie, being a smartass.

"Whatever virus fixes overpopulation," I
answered, equally smartass.

"Favorite color that's not black?" Jamie,
again.

Red, I should have said, because that had
always been the truth, but I looked into his eyes just then and
what fell out of my mouth was, "Blue."

Bree: "Are you done hurting yourself?"

I cringed. Huddled deeper into my arms, the
chair.

Sensitive Starla cleared her throat. "Um.
Bree. Maybe that's not appropriate at – "

I cut her off with a wave of my hand, " –
No, it's fine," I took a deep breath and let my hands fall to rest
on my thighs. "I'm here to stay. Promise." I was looking at Bree,
but the words were for Jamie. If we'd have been alone, I would have
added, "forever."

The tension lifted, and it got easier. Pets,
city, or country? Beach or amusement park?

The timer dinged, and it was over.

I was sweating.

But it was over.

We got a break to go to the kitchen for a
snack.

It had only been half an hour.

These groups were going to ruin me.

"I have one more question," Jamie murmured
as we both leaned into the fridge to grab chocolate milk.

I looked at him, and waited.

"Do you like me?"

His voice was little boy soft, hesitant and
nervous. Not at all self-assured.

For one quick instant all my masks slipped
away as I stared into his impossibly blue, impossibly beautiful
eyes.

"I do," I said. "Too much."

Then I spun away, escaped to the bathroom in
my room where I hid behind two closed doors, hoping to hide my
hammering heart and shaking hands.

A few minutes passed before I heard myself
being paged to group.

Damn.

I pulled myself together and willed my body
to stop this anxiety thing, and headed to the group room.