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Sixteen And Freshman

I lied to Bobby.

We were sitting at a card table next to the window in the visitors area. We were playing checkers, and I’d beaten him three games in a row. I kept catching him staring off to the side like he was distracted. Either that or I’m a really good checkers player.

Out of the blue, he asked me, “So, Stacy, how
old
are you?”

Without hesitation, I told him, “Sixteen.”

He gave me this funny look, squinting his beautiful, brown eyes with the long, dark eyelashes.

“I thought Becca said you were a freshman.”

“Yeah, a really dumb freshman.”

He laughed.

I fessed up. I guess I’m a bad liar.

“Okay, I’m fifteen. I turned fifteen November second.”

I looked right into those eyes that were like deep, brown pools of handsomeness, and I felt like I was dying just a little on the inside. Those beautiful eyes got really wide for a split second, and he smiled and let out a big sigh, putting his hand up to the side of his head like: whoa.

My interpretation: you’re too young for me, little girl.

“Uh, happy birthday,” he said with a weak half-smile.

“But I don’t feel fifteen,” I said, trying to plead my case. “I feel like I’m sixteen or seventeen. Shoot, sometimes I feel so old, like I’m twenty or something.” He was quiet while I talked, listening to me. “I hate school. I feel like I don’t belong there. I wish I was just done with it so I can get on with my life already.”

Now I felt self-conscious, like I’d said too much, exposed myself. Bobby just sat there like he was lost a little bit. His shoulders sagged, and he looked out the window that overlooks the courtyard, then right into my eyes and said, “We have to grow up fast, don’t we?”

And for some reason, maybe the way he said it, it kind of made me want to cry a little, but I didn’t.

“Yeah, we do,” was all I said back, trying not to get all choked up.

We sat for a minute, not saying anything. Then he suddenly got up, smiled, and clapped his hands together. He was animated again.

“Let’s play pool.”

We walked over to the pool table, and he put his arm around my shoulder.

Bobby and me.

Pros And Cons
(Of Having A Boyfriend
With Issues)

Some pros and cons of Bobby and me.

•
Pro: We have a connection.

•
Con: He’ll be eighteen in two months.

•
Pro: Great smile.

•
Con: Takes meds.

•
Pro: He makes me feel floaty and wobbly.

•
Con: Mom will freak.

•
Pro: He’s ridiculously handsome.

•
Con: He’s got a semi-permanent room in Crazy Town.

•
Pro: I think I love him.

•
Con: I may have very bad judgment when it comes to the opposite sex. (See Anthony.)

•
Pro: When I’m with him, he makes me feel happy.

•
Con: His tattoos have tattoos.

•
Pro: He loves Jimi Hendrix.

•
Con: Becca will kill me.

•
Pro: He plays guitar.

•
Con: I can’t tell anybody I know about him.

Why is everything so complicated?

Bobby And Me
And Second Thoughts

I learned something amazing about Bobby.
He happens to be a bona fide math genius. When I casually mentioned (complaining) how I was dreading my algebra test and how horrible I am with math, he said, “Bring your book. I’ll help you study.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Bring it.”

So I brought my algebra book, and we sat together at the little table near the window with my book between us, me with my work folder, writing out problems. He’d lean over, “That’s it. You’ve got it.” Or, “No, you need to figure out what the replacement number is,” and I’d keep working, and he was so patient with me. Sometimes he’d tease me, telling me, “Come on, Stacy, use all
three
brain cells this time,” and I’d give his arm a little shove, then we’d laugh.

And the concepts started making sense; they’re not so abstract. I’m finally having a breakthrough, like I might just get through bonehead algebra. I couldn’t help but get a little distracted, though, by how close he was and by how good he smelled. I just sat there and breathed him in, and I thought about him kissing me and wondered what it would feel like, while at the same time thinking it was probably a bad idea.

But still, there’s something about him I just can’t shake.

I’ve been visiting Becca pretty much every day, which means I get to see Bobby every day. After school I get a ride in the disgusting Roman-mobile.

It has become so routine. When Becca sees me, she gives me a little nod, “Hey, Stace.” When Bobby sees me, he smiles his big smile and gives me a little hug, which makes me a little buzzy on the inside.

Becca has been doing fantastically well. She seems like she did before the strangeness and drama and cutting and syrup and partial public nudity. Her doctors are happy, the counselors are happy, and the idea is that she’ll most likely be ready to come home by the end of the year. Mom is
hoping
to have her home for Christmas.

I hoped the same for Bobby, that he’d be able to go home in time for Christmas too, until I caught a glimpse of him I hadn’t seen before.

“Damn. I can’t believe I missed that one. Shit.”

We were in the middle of a game of pool, and he slammed his cue down on the table and stalked off, leaving me standing there.

Each day, we’ve been getting to know each other a little bit more, having fun hanging out with Becca and Roman, but I’ve been waiting for a sign, something to show that he’s different. I kept playing by myself, getting three balls into the pockets, until he came back, apologizing.

“Stacy. I’m sorry.”

There was something different about his eyes—they were dull—and his skin was pale.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m having an off day is all.”

He ran a hand through his hair and picked up his cue. I watched him line up his shot, which he missed again, cursing under his breath.

I wondered what it would be like to date him in the real world, and the thought scared me a little. The group home was safe and protected; outside was a different story.

“It’s okay. We don’t need to play today. I’ve gotta go anyway.”

“C’mere.” He gave me a quick, awkward hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I looked in his eyes for some kind of clue, but they told me nothing except that he wasn’t himself, or at least the self that I knew.

“Sure. See ya.”

I watched him go down the hall and waited for Roman to give me a ride home. Things were starting to feel a little too real.

Bobby And Me
And Third Thoughts

Last night, when Mom came into my bedroom looking serious
, I tensed up.

“Stacy, can we talk a minute?” She sat down on the edge of my bed. “Listen, Becca told me about you and Bobby—”

And I cut her off. “We’re just friends, Mom.”

“—and I
really
think you need to be careful, sweetie. You could get hurt getting involved with someone like him. And those tattoos…”

Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head a little like she didn’t know what else to say.

“Weren’t you and Dad always teaching us to look
beyond
someone’s outer appearance?”

“Stacy, you know what I mean. And it’s more than that, it’s not just his appearance. He’s not well. He’s not like the boys you know at school. He’s not mentally healthy.”

The boys I know at school. Like Anthony? I’m so glad he’s not like that.

“Mom, he’s not my boyfriend, okay? Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

But I knew that what I said, although maybe technically correct, wasn’t the whole truth. And when I lay there in bed and looked up at the press-on stars glowing in the dark, I thought again about him and what it would be like if he were out of the group home and we could just be together, and
that
kind of scared me.

A Dog Named Jimi Hendrix

When Roman took me to see Becca after work
, Bobby gave me his usual greeting, “Hey, beautiful. You came back for me.”

And I teased him, “Actually, I’m just here to see my sister.”

He laughed and gave my shoulder a little squeeze. Roman and Becca had already gone off together; the two of them were in their own little Becca-Roman world.

We sat at the little table by the window. The windows in the visiting area all have wooden shutters on them, and they get opened during the day so you can look out, but there’s a mesh covering on the outside of the window, so when you look out, you’re looking through a grid. (Probably so no one goes nuts and tries to throw a chair through one or jump out or something.)

The view through the grid was pretty—some green plants and a few trees in the little strip of courtyard between the two buildings. It was peaceful and calm. Quiet. We sat looking out, and I ended up blurting out the question I’d been wanting to ask for so long, “So, Bobby, why are you here?”

He gave me this surprised look but then weakly smiled.

“Well—” he paused, taking a deep breath “—I don’t get along with my dad. Not for a long time anyway. I don’t even think he loves me—don’t think he ever has.” He paused again, continued, “Okay, maybe that’s not true. He does, but we don’t get along. I mean, it wasn’t
always
bad, but I started having problems. I couldn’t control my anger. Everything just seemed wrong. Nothing made
sense
anymore. It was total chaos in my head, so they started taking me to see doctors, counselors. It seems like I was talking to a different person every week. And we were fighting a lot—
big time
. The first time I ran away, I was fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” Jeez. “Where did you go?”

“I stayed at my buddy Mike’s house. My parents came and got me after a couple days. They’d always find me and bring me home, but I just started having trouble, you know? I’d get all crazy and want to break things. Or I’d get depressed and not want to do anything at all. I had a lot of anger inside of me. One time, I was just so fed up with everything, I threw a brick through the window of a 7-Eleven store, got arrested. It kinda went downhill from there.”

Bobby gave me a little embarrassed half-smile.

I just sat there not saying anything. What
could
I say? He looked kind of sad, and I was feeling mad at myself for being so nosy and pushy.

Then he reached into his wallet and said, “Here. I’ve got something to show you,” and pulled out a picture of a black and white border collie with a big smile on his face and a red bandanna around his neck. “This is Jimi, my dog.”

“You have a dog named Jimi?”

“Yeah, for—well, you know.” Then he laughed his great, big laugh, happy again.

“You named your dog Jimi Hendrix. That’s awesome.”

Yep, my dad would definitely adopt this boy. I wonder what he’d think about him dating one of his daughters though?

Bobby told me all about Jimi, what a great dog he is, and how he’s completely insanely intense—about how he runs and runs and never gets tired.

“We go for these long walks at Griffith Park and hike the trails, and he
never
wears out.” He gave me this kind of shy look. “You’ll have to go with us sometime.”

“Yeah, I’d love that, but there’s no way I can keep up with him. I’m not a hiking girl.”

And I’m really not. I’d probably poop out after the first mile.

Bobby frowned, like he was lost for a few seconds, drifting away from me.

“What’s the matter?”

“I just miss him, you know? And I know he’s probably not getting out like he needs to. If he can’t run, he just kind of goes crazy. He’s intense, you know? Kinda like me.”

He looked so sad. I just wanted to hug him, just put my arms around him and protect him for a while. We were quiet a minute, then, in spite of myself, I pressed him.

“Bobby,
when
are you getting out of here?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just got some things I need to work on, things I need to work out.”

He looked over at me and put his hand on the side of my face.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?”

His hand was so soft and gentle. And he leaned over and kissed me on the lips, and it was so tender and sweet and lasted just about five seconds. I melted into the floor, right into a big, messy heap. I was putty in his hands, and my heart skipped a few beats.

“Bet you never thought you’d have a boyfriend in the nuthouse, did you?” And he smiled at me.

He had me at “boyfriend.”

We talked for a while about his family, and how he ended up being diagnosed bipolar, and how he started to get things under control when he came to Brookside. He told me about how his dad—a big-shot businessman—wanted Bobby to be like him, and how that’s never going to happen. I mean, he looks like a roadie for DevilDriver.

The more Bobby and his dad would fight, the more tattoos and piercings he’d get.

I tried to cheer him up by telling him that of course his dad loves him, that he just wants the best for him like all parents do, and he looked at me. “He’s not like your dad, Stacy. I would’ve rather had your dad than mine any day of the week.”

“But you
have
your dad, Bobby.”

“Like I said, I’d rather have your dad any day. You’re really lucky, Stacy. My family isn’t like yours.”

That got me. I’m the lucky one? We sat for a moment, and I reached over and took his hand, and we just sat like that, holding hands, for a while.