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## PUBLISHER'S NOTE

To best preserve formatting of complex poems and elements, we recommend that this book be read at a smaller font size on your device. 

This book is dedicated to my daughter, Kelly, who helps young people like these, and to my friend Cheryl, who always puts others first. 

## Without Warning

Sometimes

you're traveling

a highway, the only road

you've ever known,

and wham!  A semi

comes from nowhere

and rolls right over you. 

Sometimes

you don't wake up. 

But if you happen

to, you know things

will never be

the same. 

Sometimes

that's not

so bad. 

Sometimes

lives intersect,

no rhyme, no reason,

except, perhaps,

for a passing semi. 

## Triad

Three

separate highways

intersect at a place

no reasonable person

would ever want to go. 

Three

lives that would have

been cut short, if not

for hasty interventions

by loved ones.  Or Fate. 

Three

people, with nothing

at all in common

except age, proximity,

and a wish to die. 

Three

tapestries, tattered

at the edges and come

unwoven to reveal

a single mutual thread. 

## The Thread

Wish

you could turn off

the questions, turn

off the voices,

turn off all sound. 

Yearn

to close out

the ugliness, close

out the filthiness,

close out all light. 

Long

to cast away

yesterday, cast

away memory,

cast away all jeopardy. 

Pray

you could somehow stop

the uncertainty, somehow

stop the loathing,

somehow stop the pain. 

Act

on your impulse,

swallow the bottle,

cut a little deeper,

put the gun to your chest. 

## Conner

## Arrival

The glass doors swing open,

in perfect sync, precisely

timed so you don't have

to think.  Just stroll right in. 

I doubt it's quite as easy

to turn around and walk

back outside, retreat to

unstable ground.  Home turf. 

An orderly escorts me down

spit-shined corridors, past

tinted Plexiglas and closed,

unmarked doors.  Mysteries. 

One foot in front of the other,

counting tiles on the floor so

I don't have to focus the blur

of painted smiles, fake faces. 

A mannequin in a tight blue

suit, with a too-short skirt

(and legs that can wear it),

in a Betty Boop voice halts us. 

I'm Dr. Boston.  Welcome to

Aspen Springs.  I'll give you

the tour.  Paul, please take his

things to the Redwood Room. 

Aspen Springs.  Redwood Room. 

As if this place were a five-star

resort, instead of a lockdown

where crazies pace.  Waiting. 

## At Least

It doesn't have a hospital

stink.  Oh yes, it's all very

clean, from cafeteria chairs

to the bathroom sink.  Spotless. 

But the clean comes minus

the gag-me smell, steeping

every inch of that antiseptic

hell where they excised

the damnable bullet.  I

wonder what Dad said when

he heard I tried to put myself

six feet under—and failed. 

I should have put the gun

to my head, worried less

about brain damage, more

about getting dead.  Finis. 

Instead, I decided a shot

through the heart would

make it stop beating, rip

it apart to bleed me out. 

I couldn't even do that

right.  The bullet hit bone,

left my heart in one piece. 

In hindsight, luck wasn't

with me that day.  Mom

found me too soon, or my

pitiful life might have ebbed

to the ground in arterial flow. 

I thought she might die too,

at the sight of so much blood

and the thought of it staining

her white Armani blouse. 

Conner, what have you done? 

she said.  Tell me this was just

an accident.  She never heard

my reply, never shed a tear. 

## I Don't Remember

Much after that, except

for speed.  Ghostly red lights,

spinning faster and faster,

as I began to recede from

consciousness.  Floating

through the ER doors,

frenzied motion.  A needle's

sting.  But I do remember,

just before the black hole

swallowed me, seeing Mom's

face.  Her furious eyes

followed me down into sleep. 

It's a curious place, the

Land of Blood Loss and

Anesthesia, floating through it

like swimming in sand.  Taxing. 

After a while, you think you

should reach for the shimmering

surface.  You can't hold your

breath, and even if you could,

it's dark and deep and bitter

cold, where nightmares and truth

collide, and you wonder if death

could unfold fear so real.  Palpable. 

So you grope your way up into

the light, to find you can't

move, with your arms strapped

tight and overflowing tubes. 

And everything hits you like

a train at full speed.  Voices. 

Strange faces.  A witches' stewpot

of smells.  Pain.  Most of all,

pain. 

## Tony

## Just Saw

A new guy check in.  Tall,

built, with a way fine face,

and acting too tough to tumble. 

He's a nutshell asking to crack. 

Wonder if he's ever let a guy

touch that pumped-up bod. 

They gave him the Redwood

Room.  It's right across

from mine—the Pacific

Room.  Pretty peaceful in

here most of the time, long

as my meds are on time. 

Ha.  Get it?  Most of the time,

if my meds are on time.  If you

don't get it, you've never

been in a place like this,

never hung tough from one

med call till the next. 

Wasted.  That's the only way

to get by in this "treatment

center."  Nice name for a loony

bin.  Everyone in here is crazy

one way or another.  Everyone. 

Even the so-called doctors. 

Most of 'em are druggies. 

Fucking loser meth freaks. 

I mean, if you're gonna

purposely lose your mind,

you want to get it back some

day.  Don't you?  Okay, maybe not. 

## I Lost My Mind

A long time ago, but it

wasn't exactly my idea. 

Shit happens, as they say,

and my shit literally hit

the fan.  But enough sappy

crap.  We were talking drugs. 

I won't tell you I never tried

crystal, but it really wasn't

my thing.  I saw enough

people, all wound up, drop

over the edge, that I guess

I decided not to take that leap. 

I always preferred creeping

into a giant, deep hole where

no bad feelings could follow. 

At least till I had to come up

for air.  I diddled with pot first, but

that tasty green weed couldn't drag

me low enough.  Which mostly

left downers, "borrowed" from

medicine cabinets and kitchen

cabinets and nightstands. 

Wherever I could find them. 

And once in a while—not often,

because it was pricey and tough

to score—once in a while, I

tumbled way low, took a ride

on the H train.  Oh yeah,

that's what I'm talking about. 

A hot shot clear to hell. 

## I Wasn't Worried

About getting hooked, though

I knew plenty of heroin addicts. 

I didn't do it enough, for one

thing.  Anyway, I figured

I'd be graveyard rot before

my eighteenth birthday. 

It hasn't quite worked out

that way, though I've got

a few months to go.  And

once I get out of here, I'll

have a better shot at it.  Maybe

next time I won't try pills. 

I mean, you'd think half a bottle

of Valium would do the trick. 

Maybe it would have, but I had

to toss in a fifth of Jack Daniels. 

Passed out, just as I would

have expected.  What I didn't

expect was waking up, head stuck

to the sidewalk, mired in puke. 

Oh yeah, I heaved the whole

fucking mess.  Better yet, guess

who happened by?  You got it. 

One of the city's finest. 

Poor cop didn't know what

to do—clean me up, haul

me in, or puke himself.  So

he did all three, only dispatch

said to take me to the ER. 

Hospital first.  Loony bin

later. 

## Vanessa

## Cloistered

I can't remember

when it has snowed

so much, yards

and yards of lacy ribbons,

wrapping the world in white. 

Was it three years ago?  Ten? 

Memory is a tenuous thing,

like a rainbow's end

or a camera with a failing lens. 

Sometimes my focus

is sharp, every detail

clear as the splashes

of ice, fringing the eaves;

other times it is a hazy

field of frost, like the meadow

outside my window. 

I think it might be a meadow. 

A lawn?  A parking lot? 

Is it even a window

I'm looking through,

or only cloudy panes

of vision, opening

on drifts of ivory

linens—soft cotton,

crisp percale—

my snow just

a blizzard of white

noise? 

## I Hate This Feeling

Like I'm here, but I'm not. 

Like someone cares. 

But they don't. 

Like I belong somewhere

else, anywhere but here,

and escape lies just past

that snowy window,

cool and crisp as the February

air.  I consider the streets

beyond, bleak as the bleached

bones of wilderness

scaffolding my heart. 

Just a stone's throw away. 

But she's out there,

stalking me, haunting me. 

I know she can't get me

in here.  Besides, I'm too

tired to pick myself up

and make a break for it. 

So I just sit here, brain

wobbling.  Tipping. 

Tripping on Prozac. 

I wonder if they give

everyone Prozac on their twice-

daily med deliveries. 

Do they actually try to

diagnose first, or do they

think everyone is depressed,

just by virtue of being here? 

My arm throbs

and I look at the bandage,

a small red stain

beginning to slither. 

Did I pop a stitch? 

Wouldn't that be luscious? 

## The First Cut

Wasn't the deepest. 

No, not at all. 

It was like the others,

a subtle rend of anxious skin,

a gentle pulse of crimson,

just enough to hush the demons

shrieking inside my brain. 

But this time they wouldn't

shut up.  Just kept on

howling, like Mama,

when she was in a bad way. 

Worst thing was, the older

I got, the more I began to see

how much I resembled Mama,

falling in and out of the blue,

then lifting up into the white. 

That day I actually

thought about howling. 

So I gave myself to the knife,

asked it to bite a little

harder, chew a little deeper. 

The hot, scarlet rush

felt so delicious

I couldn't stop there. 

The blade might have reached

bone, but my little

brother, Bryan,

barged into the bathroom,

found me leaning against

Grandma's new porcelain

tub, turning its unstained

white pink. 

You should

have heard

him scream. 

## Conner

## Pain Isn't the Worst Thing

At least you know you're not

just a shadow, darkening

someone's wall, a silhouette

thrust haphazardly into their lives. 

My fingers trace the sunken

scar as I pace the plain room,

counting steps from near wall

to far, right to left.  Eight by ten. 

Eighty square feet to call my

own for the next how many

days?  Eighty square feet, with no

television or phone, only two

tiny beds, a closet, and one

vinyl chair near the window—

a window that doesn't open,

not even a crack for air. 

Two beds.  Does that mean I

might get a roommate soon? 

Some paranoid schizo, rambling

on through the suffocating night? 

Well, hey.  Maybe he'd think

that he was the one who drew

the short straw, having to share

a room with some totally

whacked-out freak.  I wonder

how long it would take him

to realize I'm right as sin—it's

the rest of the world that's wrong. 

I'm not even sure how I

qualify for admission to

Aspen Springs.  Does wanting

to die equal losing your mind? 

## It Doesn't Seem

So incredibly insane to me. 

In fact, it seems courageous

to, for once in your life, make

others react to a plan you set

in motion.  Not that I meant

to cause anyone pain, only

to make them realize that

everyone has flaws.  Even me. 

Especially me.  Hell, I'm

so flawed I wound up here,

with sixty defective humans. 

Odd, to think I made the A-list. 

I open the dresser drawers,

start to put away my neatly

folded clothes.  No Sears.  No

Wal-Mart, but Macy's.  Nordstrom's. 

I can see my mom, stalking

aisle after aisle of designer

jeans, intent on the latest

style, perfect eye-catching fit. 

I hear her tell the silicone

saleslady, Nothing for me

today.  I'm shopping for my

son.  He fails to comprehend

fashion.  If it wasn't for me,

I swear he'd choose nothing

but T-shirts and khaki.  Now

where will I find the Calvin Klein? 

## I Reach

For a lavender Ralph Lauren

shirt, ironed into submission,

collar starched into crisp, straight

Vs, no hint of dirt or sweat. 

Back at school, clothes like this

made me the cream of my senior

class, at least in the eyes of

twisted dream girls and cheerleaders. 

Oh yes, Mom's expensive tastes

went a long way toward getting

me laid.  Did she have a clue

that all those dollars spent on

haute couture allowed her sweet

young son to feed his appetite

for carnal pleasure—to divvy

himself among a stable of fillies? 

As the vile green walls defy

my stare, some evil makes me

wad Lauren shirt and Jockey

underwear into a wrinkled lump. 

Okay, maybe that's a little

crazy.  Maybe I belong here,

after all.  Maybe crazy is

preferable to staying strong

when you just want to break down

and weep.  But big boys don't cry. 

Do they?  So instead I'll just

keep jamming clothes into drawers,

grinning. 

## Tony

## When You Try

The big S, the first thing

they do is lock you away

by yourself, like you

might try to do someone

else in, 'cause you didn't

do yourself good enough. 

Then some lame nurse's aide

checks in on you every

fifteen minutes, probably

hoping you've found a way

to finish yourself off and save

them a whole lot of trouble. 

After a couple of days

the main person you want

to strangle is the annoying

dude who keeps poking his

head through your door. 

How ya doing?  Okay? 

So by the time you finally

get to see your shrink,

you're irritated to begin

with.  And she asks you

to tell her how you feel

and all you can think

to answer is "pissed." 

Then she wants to know

just whom you're angry with

and you decide maybe you

shouldn't tell her the friggin'

nurse's aide, in case they worry

you might try to strangle

him.  So you try to think

of someone else you're

mad at, and the unavoidable

answer pops into your

warped little brain: everyone. 

## They Kept Me

Locked up in isolation

for almost two weeks. 

See, you have to make

Level One to go to school

and eat with everyone else. 

You arrive here at Level Zero. 

Nothing.  That's exactly what

you are until you can

prove to them that you

won't save up your meds

and OD or lynch yourself

with strips of your sheets. 

So you hang out in your room,

maybe reading a book

(approved literature) or

journaling with a felt pen. 

No pencils (no leads). 

No pens (no points). 

Maybe I could think up a way

to kill yourself with a felt pen. 

Maybe I could sell the idea

to the dozen or so freaks

in here determined to do

themselves in.  Maybe I'll use

it myself.  Am I saying that

I'm a freak?  Effing A! 

I quit worrying about it

a long time ago.  Better

a freak than a total loser. 

Better a freak than a liar. 

So far, everyone I've

ever met has been a liar. 

Everyone but Phillip,

my only true friend, my

savior.  Never hurt me, never

coerced me.  Never lied to me. 

## The Worst Liars

Are the ones everyone thinks

would never, ever tell a lie. 

The teachers who act like

they care about you, then

turn you in for smoking a cig

or kissing someone in the hall. 

Or the plain Jane, churchgoing

soccer moms who plaster on

some anonymous face, then

sneak out once a week or so,

pretending they're off with

girlfriends when they're really

looking for ways to get laid. 

No, my ma wasn't one of

those.  She made no bones

about getting laid, something

she did plenty of.  Laid by no-

good, nasty losers, single,

married, it didn't matter,

long as they had a few bucks

and the necessary attachments,

in good working order.  Beat

up.  Knocked up.  Messed up. 

She got all of those things,

didn't care.  Worse, she

didn't give two cents

about what her "lifestyle"

did to me.  Her son. 

Her only son, because

after one particularly

ugly abortion, her body

decided it had had enough

of Ma's mistreatment and

formed scar tissue around

her ovaries.  The odds of my

having a sibling shrank

to nil. 

## Vanessa

## I Heard My Brother's Scream

Through the cloud

that had veiled my brain,

coloring everything crimson. 

It seemed to last forever,

that scream.  Poor Bryan. 

He's only eight,

too little to understand

that dying isn't something

to fear.  It's a comfort. 

I felt comfortable, dying

that afternoon, and would

have, except Grandma

happens to be a nurse—

a good nurse, hard,

wise, through and through. 

And she happened to be home. 

She calmly dialed 911,

wrapped my arm

in a soft yellow towel

which looked ochre through

the scarlet mist. 

Stay with me, Vanessa,

she repeated over and over. 

I remember that,

and I remember one EMT,

with blondish hair and a killer mouth

that refused to say a word,

except to his partner. 

I remember his eyes the most—

brilliant blue, and filled

with disgust. 

Grandma rode in the ambulance

with me, and the last thing

I remember is telling her I was sorry

for staining her new bathtub. 

Screw the tub, Vanessa,

there's help for that. 

And there's help for you. 

## Which Is How I Wound Up Here

Left hand stitched neatly

back in place. 

They tell me it will

be good as new, but my fingers

feel like they belong

to someone else and don't

want to be attached to me. 

Nothing does. 

I've been here about a week,

I think, watching it snow

and listening through the walls

to other girls, sicker than I am. 

They talk about themselves,

about the things they've done,

the things they'd like to do. 

Parents.  Teachers.  Counselors. 

So-called friends. 

They'd all better run when

those sociopaths find their way

back outside. 

There are boys here too,

somewhere.  I know because

sometimes I hear the girls

call to them down the hall. 

The things they say! 

A truck driver would blush. 

I would never talk that way

to Trevor.  He walks on water. 

I want him to think I do too. 

For a while, he did, or at least

he pretended to. 

I did things with Trevor

I wouldn't dare confess

to anyone—things I didn't

know anyone did. 

But he wanted me to,

so I did.  That's what you do

when you love someone,

right? 

## The Door Opens

Death watch crew, come

to check up on me. 

They've been after me

all week, first every

fifteen or twenty minutes,

then every hour or two,

making sure I don't rip

stitches and let my hand

drop off after all. 

Hello, Vanessa, says Paul,

who is fabulously tall

and almost as wide

as the door.  He hands me

my morning pill, unwraps

my bandage, peeks underneath. 

Dr. Boston says if you join us

for group this afternoon, she'll

award you Level One.  You

could start school tomorrow. 

So far I've avoided group,

preferring to semi-vent

my pent-up insanity in private

therapy sessions—Vanessa

Angela O'Reilly, closed book. 

But I have to admit I'm

tired of this room, weary

of these auburn walls. 

Maybe, if I stash my meds,

I can keep my mouth

shut and just listen to the sob

stories, passed around

the big circle like joints. 

Maybe I'll find them entertaining. 

So I tuck the Prozac

under my tongue, nod. 

"Okay." 

## Conner

## Suitcase Emptied

I walk to the sealed window,

stare at the glistening world

outside.  Buried in snow. 

Glare threatens my eyes

but I don't turn away.  I like it. 

Up the hall come deliberate

footsteps.  Suddenly they

stall and the door creaks open. 

It's Paul, the rather large

guy who escorted me here. 

Everything good?  It's almost

a sigh.  All settled in? 

"Uh-huh."  I offer a (not)

genuine smile. " Unpacked

and ready to party.  When

does the shindig begin?" 

Paul, who is not amused,

tosses a pair of gray sweats

on the bed.  Put these on. 

He crosses the room, opens

drawers, assesses sundries

and wrinkled clothes as I slip

into the sweats.  You'll wear

those except for Sunday services

or when your parents visit. 

Now Dr. Starr would like

to chat.  Please come with me. 

He draws to the far side

of the door, allows me by,

takes his place at my elbow,

reminding me I no longer

own the space around me. 

## Dr. Starr Isn't Like Dr. Boston

No tight navy suit, no

miniscule skirt.  Nothing

about her hints nymph

or flirt.  She's a bulldog. 

She motions for me to

take a chair, studies me

as I move, as if the very

way I plant myself there

can tell her something

of import.  She stays silent

for several long seconds. 

Finally, as if holding court,

she lifts her chin, sights

down her nose, and asks,

Why are you here, Conner? 

An unsettling energy flows

through the room, and it

emanates from the canine

Dr. Starr.  Her patronizing

tone activates my inner

mute button.  I answer with

a small shrug, and she gives

me a grin worthy of Hannibal

Lecter—evil, overtly smug. 

You don't know?  Don't you

think it's time to find out? 

The "f" elicits a saliva spray. 

The bulldog doesn't even blink. 

I realize you don't want to

be here.  But until you give

me a hint about just what

you fear, you can't get better. 

Her voice is almost gentle,

and part of me wants to

give her what she wants. 

The smart part says no way. 

## Play the Game

I instruct myself, give her

a little taste of what

she wants to hear.  After

all, we don't want to waste

a perfectly good shrink

session.  So I settle deep

into my chair, search for

some vapid confession. 

Finding none I wish

to give voice to, I decide Dr.

Bulldog has given me

no other choice but to lie. 

"It was really all a huge

mistake.  I was goofing

around and the gun just

went off, for God's sake. 

I mean, you'd think my

dad would have left

the safety on."  I almost

feel bad for blaming him. 

But her eyes tell me she's

heard the line before.  With

quiet ferocity, she says,

Not another word, Conner. 

You believe this is a game,

and you may be right. 

But if you think you can

play it better than me, think

again. 

## Tony

## I'm Glad I'm an Only Child

Ma didn't deserve kids. 

I mean, if it had been up

to her—impossible, all

things considered—I'd be

back on the streets right now. 

Or maybe I'd have already

finished myself off.  No, it

wasn't dear old Ma who

paid my way to Aspen

Springs.  According to Dr. B,

it was, in fact, dear old dad. 

Dad, who dumped Ma and me

when I was still shitting

green. ' Course, looking

back, I guess he had every

reason to leave Ma in

his dust.  But did he ever

once think about me? 

Anthony Ceccarelli III. 

Medium height.  Medium

build.  Medium brown

hair.  A medium chip off

the ol' block.  Where was

medium Dad all that time? 

Dr. B says he lives at Tahoe,

has his own insurance office,

makes decent dough.  Ma

never left Reno, except

when she was working out

at "the ranch" near Dayton. 

Ranching hookers.  They

do that in parts of Nevada. 

Funny, if it wasn't so sick. 

Did Dad know?  And what

made him decide he gives

a damn about me now? 

## The Clock Reminds Me

It's time for group.  I open

my door, nudge my hand into

the hall.  A faceless voice

shouts, What's up, Ceccarelli? 

"May I go to group, sir?" 

Stay polite.  Earn ten points. 

You may.  Don't get lost

along the way, though. 

Old joke, not funny. 

Still, I chortle and say,

"I'll do my best, sir. 

You know how confusing

these halls can be, though." 

Yeah.  Follow the yellow

line to the classrooms,

white to the dining hall. 

The blue one leads to

the conference rooms. 

Mommy Long Legs waits,

black widow–style, in

room C-3.  Most guys

would call her a fox,

I guess.  But to me she's

all spider, poison stashed

in hidden fangs.  Yes, Dr.

Boston's questions sink

clear through flesh, into

bone.  She's after marrow,

but she hasn't managed

to get much of mine yet. 

Funny thing.  No one but

me seems to recognize

how her Barbie-doll act

covers up a real lack

of charm.  She's a user. 

Same as everyone here. 

## We Gather

In room C (for Conference)-3,

six crazies, looking to

unload.  Or thinking of ways

to avoid it.  There's Schizo

Stanley, three hundred pounds

of loaded gun, who tried to off

his little brother.  Yeah,

he denies it, but hmm . . . 

wonder how Daddy's Xanax

got mixed into Junior's milk. 

On the far side of the table

sits Lowball Lori, princess

of depression.  I bet at

home she wore nothing

but black—clothes,

makeup, mood.  Next to her

is Do-Me Dahlia, who

uses sex like most people

use money.  I heard she

tried to put the moves

on Dr. Starr, even.  Yech! 

What an ugly picture! 

Jesus-save-me Justin

lurks in one corner,

greasy hair hanging in

his eyes, while Toot-

it-all Todd rocks back

and forth, as if his past

pursuits haven't quite

deserted his system. 

Just as Dr. Boston says

it's time to start, the door

opens.  Someone new steps

inside.  She's pretty (did I think

that?),  with copper hair and

startling eyes, and her name's

Vanessa. 

## Vanessa

## Seven Pairs of Eyes

Pierce me as I walk into the room. 

I already know I can't

measure up to Dr. Boston's

expectations—she'll want

me to open my head and let

this crowd of eyes peer

into my psyche. 

I want to turn and run. 

Please sit down, Vanessa,

urges Dr. Boston. 

We're ready to start. 

If I can't run, I want to

scream.  I want to scream,

but I can't find my voice,

hidden somewhere

in the indigo sea that has

swamped my brain. 

Blue.  Blue.  Deep, dark blue. 

The blue that fills me with desire,

the desire to find a small,

sharp blade and watch

blood run, red. 

Vanessa?  Dr. Boston's

voice swims down through

the blue, disturbs me enough

to set my feet in motion. 

The eyes follow me as I sit

beside the guy with the most

startling eyes of all—

round, dark eyes, with

gold flecks.  Eyes that look

like they've glimpsed

behind the gates of hell. 

## So Why Are His Eyes

The only ones mine want to meet? 

I can feel the girls, taking

measure, and part of me

wants to turn and offer my own

assessment.  The bigger

part is consumed by blue. 

Hey, Vanessa, I'm Tony,

says the guy with hellfire

eyes.  I would have expected

a deeper voice from someone

who has shaken hands

with the devil. 

And why do I think that? 

He seems friendly enough.  In fact,

he's the only one in the room

who bothers with introductions. 

The others sit, staring,

in impassioned silence. 

Tony glances around the room. 

What's up, people? 

Usually you won't shut up. 

Now you've got nothing to say

just because a pretty girl

walks through the door? 

Well, that woke them up! 

Everyone looks simply

stunned, including Dr. Boston. 

Is it because I'm anything

but pretty?  Or a less likely reason? 

The guy with dishrag

hair finally opens

his mouth.  I thought you

only thought dudes were

pretty, Ceccarelli. 

The room explodes

with laughter.  I guess

the session has officially begun. 

## Forty-five Minutes Later

I know a lot more about most

of the people in C-3. 

Tony is pretty cool, for a gay

guy who tried to commit suicide. 

He didn't really talk about why,

only said that it's not easy

being queer and living on the street. 

"Queer."  His word.  To me

it means strange, but he doesn't

seem near as strange as Justin,

who expects Armageddon any second,

or Todd, who lost a few too

many brain cells to crystal meth,

or Stanley, who's a total lunatic. 

I mean, he spoke at length

about torturing insects—

I tattered their wings and tore

off their legs, joint by joint,

watched them crawl

in circles, like little lost

infants, until they decided to die. 

Somehow, I doubt bugs

were his only victims. 

Dahlia hasn't said one word,

just sits there with her nose

in the air.  Every once in awhile,

she licks her lips, like a lioness

lording it over prey. 

Finally, Lori begins to talk

about the pain that forces

her down into a figurative

grave—deep, damp, just her size. 

It's hard to climb out sometimes. 

I try to look inside her

head, see if the color in

there is navy blue, like

the space I'm treading

now. 

## Conner

## Brain Poked and Prodded

But still holding secrets,

I glance over at Dr. Starr,

who's locked in a computer

screen trance, typing words—

my thoughts, her analysis—

at a steady thirty-per-

minute pace.  I tingle,

heady with a synthesis

of emotions.  I feel

satisfied, that I didn't break

down, didn't confess major

sin, open my mouth too wide. 

I feel lonely, displaced, yet

secure within the silence

curtaining each cubicle. 

This is a detour, that's all. 

I feel relieved to have to

admit a little of what's

inside my head.  Sometimes

I think it might split wide,

cracked by the upheaval

bubbling beneath my skull. 

But most people think there's

nothing troubling me at all. 

At least they didn't used to. 

Who knows what they think

of me now, which way the wind

of small-town gossip blows. 

Finally Dr. Starr looks up. 

We've got a lot of work to do,

Conner.  A lot of work, indeed. 

But not today.  You may go. 

## Dismissed by the Bulldog

Stephanie guides my way

along the blue line.  She

could pass for a Stephan, tall,

broad, and strong, but her eyes

tell a different story. 

I discern a softness there,

compassion I want to wade

into.  We turn a corner

and the blue line merges

with a thread of yellow,

another of white.  I wonder

where all the crazies have fled,

and just then I hear voices,

leaking out of the rec room. 

Two are shouting, one merely

speaking, trying to keep

a handle on the unfolding

situation—from what I

can tell, the probable

annihilation of one

of the dueling duo.  Stephanie

shifts into takedown mode. 

Wait right here, she commands. 

It's a mistake to leave me

alone, and we both know it. 

I choose not to play the wild

card she's dealt me.  One day

I'll use it to my advantage. 

A woman like that will work

like clay—soften her up, touch

her just right, the sculptor

is guaranteed to have his way. 

## Back in My Room

Walled in by this impossibly

ugly shade of green, I wait for

my evening meal, no doubt

delayed by the incident

in the rec room.  Will I

ever get used to living

with paranoid mutants who

endeavor to win games

of pool by swallowing

the chalk?  Between that, no

food, and Dr. S wanting me

to talk, all in all, it's been a

miserable day, almost

as rotten as those leading

up to that one, the one

best left forgotten unless

I want to drop down again

into a pit of despair.  God

knows I've spent much too

much time floundering there. 

I suppose I could have

shared that information

with dear Dr. Bulldog. 

But no, I spared us both

a sordid tale of Conner

the incompetent.  Hard

to believe that perfect me

underwent such complete

demolition in the space

of four short months.  First-

string to benchwarmer, grades

through the floor, and all because

of her. 

## Tony

## I Keep Watching

Pretty Vanessa as the group

tries to freak her out, whether

that's spilling spine-chilling

tales or clamming up altogether. 

Nothing really fazes her,

except maybe Stanley's bullshit. 

The longer we sit here,

the further she withdraws,

like a turtle holing up

in its shell, expecting

a major rollover.  I want

to reach under and yank her

back out again. " How

about you, Vanessa?"  I ask. 

"What brings you to our

home away from home? 

Are you really fucked-up or

just totally misunderstood?" 

Everyone laughs.  It's an

inside joke, one we're all

privy to, except Vanessa,

whose brown velvet

eyes stay hitched to the

tabletop.  Not good enough. 

" 'Cause personally, I'm both

fucked-up and misunderstood. 

Can't somebody get me,

please?"  This time, even

the Black Widow laughs. 

Finally Vanessa lifts her eyes

and she gifts us with a smile. 

Then she shows us the arm

she's been hiding, the one

wrapped in white like a

ball-game hot dog.  She smiles. 

I guess this is why I'm here. 

## One Cut or More? 

That's the first thought

to grab hold of my brain

and give it a rattle.  Was

this charming little thing

into self-mutilation, or

shopping for a coffin? 

Before I can open my

mouth to ask, Stanley

slobbers, Hey, cool. 

Tell us about the blood. 

Did it make a big puddle? 

Did it spurt or just dribble? 

Dr. Boston clears her throat. 

I think we're finished for today. 

Odd.  You'd think she'd want

to jump all over that bit

of psychology.  Then I notice

her face has drained, white. 

Hmmm.  Something about

blood?  Have to file that

away for another day. 

Good ol' Stanley has caused

quite the commotion. 

And now, as he walks out

the door, he adds, I still want

to hear about the blood. 

Which makes Todd grin

and Justin start praying. 

Lori and Dahlia lean their

heads together and whisper. 

Vanessa falls to the back

of the pack, and though

I know I should have no

contact, I touch her arm. 

"I'm sorry," I say.  And she

turns.  It's okay.  Not your fault. 

## The Grim Reapers

Appear in the hall.  Dr.

Boston must have buzzed

them, afraid of—of what? 

We're all behaving

quite peaceably, though

a part of me would like

to rip Stanley to pieces. 

Join the club, he'd tell me. 

Paul and Stephanie divide

us according to gender

and herd us up the hall. 

At the far end, the girls

turn left and we go right,

with me bringing up

the rear of the pack. 

Move it, Ceccarelli, urges

Paul.  You walk like an

old woman. . . .  His unfinished

thought hangs in the air:

or maybe a young woman. 

I wonder if I'm his

kind of woman. . . .  Never

know about these big

mooks. " Gym-dandies,"

I call 'em.  Before he got

sick, Phillip was a big

guy, at least that's what

he told me.  And I believed

him.  Phillip was the one

person who never lied to me. 

I glance back over my

shoulder at Vanessa's

retreating behind.  Damn,

she's something special. 

But why do I think so? 

Why would I care in

the least? 

## Vanessa

## Brain Swimming

In swirls of blue, I follow

the other girls up the corridor. 

I feel eyes on my back

and turn to find Tony,

staring at me.  He waves

and I half-wave back, unsure

of his motivation. 

Can't be lust.  Friendship? 

Daddy would die

if he thought

I'd made friends

with a gay guy. 

Once he told me,

God had a plan,

and it didn't include

wangs in bung holes. 

Gross, I know, but it's

how they talk in the military,

just another way of cutting

themselves off from the truth

of what they do. 

Not that I'm complaining. 

It's tough, being

a hostile presence

in a more hostile land,

he said one time. 

You do what ya gotta

do to stay alive.  And

you trust your instinct. 

Aspen Springs is a hostile

land, the people here crazier

than most soldiers

I know.  And at the moment,

my instincts are shouting

to do what I gotta do

just to get by. 

## Drowning in Blue

Pulled deeper and deeper

into the void,

I dig down

into my pocket,

find the capsule I stashed,

first beneath a flap of tongue,

then in a cave of fleece. 

I hold it like a jewel,

the key to some magic

kingdom where only good

feelings are allowed. 

Funny, but sometimes all I feel

is good.  More than good. 

Great.  Invincible. 

When Mama felt like that,

Daddy called her manic. 

But why is mania bad,

if it means you're on top

of the world, where

everything is white?  Bright. 

I wish I were up there now,

instead of treading water

in this damn blue hole. 

This magic pill won't fly

me there.  It will only take

me halfway, to what others

call normal and I call gray—

toeing a straight gray line

is all medication is good for. 

Bad genes have doomed me

to seesaw, white to blue

and back again,

for the rest of my pitiful life. 

And the thought of that

makes me want

to open a vein,

experience pain,

know I'm alive, despite

this living death. 

## I Swallow the Capsule

Wait for the flood of silver

to gush through my bloodstream,

settle in my brain. 

Outside, darkness comes

to rest upon the snow, shadows

the ordinary world. 

Why can't I live, ordinary? 

Which brings me back to my mother,

who gifted me with this odd

disorder—up, down, right, left,

never a straight line, until

I got here, to this house of control,

where they believe they can

tell you how to think,

how to manage the feelings

that never quite go away. 

The funny thing is, they still

haven't diagnosed

my manic-depressive playground. 

Oh yes, I know all about

the disorder.  It's everywhere

on the Internet—clinical

studies, message boards,

bipolar chat rooms. 

Yet these so-called health-

care professionals can't

see past the cutting,

to the highs and lows

that invite such release. 

I guess I'm supposed

to tell them—isn't that

what therapy's all about? 

But it's a lot more fun

watching them flounder

about, halfway trying

to earn their annual

60K. 

## Conner

## I Haven't Let Myself

Think about her since this

whole stinking mess began. 

Emily.  The name suggests

she has a soul, but where

she hides it is a complete

mystery.  I can't believe

I fell so hard for someone

with a heart of lead.  Emily. 

Her smile is like summer

moonlight—beautiful

and magical, with a fire

that could melt the night. 

I flop on the bed, close my

eyes, try to conjure her

beside me—the scent of her

skin, the silk of her thighs,

the breathless melody

of her voice.  I would be

with her now, if she had

allowed me that choice. 

But no, she had to worry,

not about right or wrong,

but about how people

might talk.  What would they say,

she asked, more than once, if

they knew?  I wasn't sure

exactly who "they" were,

but it was certainly true

that nasty tongues would gossip. 

At stake were both our worlds. 

I didn't care, but it was

a risk she wouldn't take.  

## Now That I've Opened

That bottle of memories,

they're pouring out like wine,

crimson and bittersweet. 

Ignoring the throbbing pain,

I think back to a crisp fall

Saturday morning, my parents

and sister hundreds of miles

away in California. 

Cara is my twin, though

we're about as alike as

snowflakes—a general

resemblance, but peer under

a microscope, and we're

completely different.  Cara's

in-your-face, while I handle

things much more discreetly. 

You might call me sneaky,

though I'd call me clever,

and on that particular

day, all by myself, clever

me was in need of company. 

Emily and I had not

yet been together, but

she was most definitely

on my radar.  She was

far above the usual

objects of my lust—sleek

and bronzed, fearless of the star

raining radiation on

this ozone-deprived planet. 

The only thing she ever

feared was our short-lived love.  

## I Knew None of That Then

I only knew she was the

prettiest thing ever to run

by our house.  She was a falcon

on the wing, and I wanted

to fly along.  She jogged

past every morning, around

eight.  That day I stood like

a fisherman waiting to cast

his line and reel in something

worth trawling for.  I watched

her sinewy body run by

before calling out her name. 

"Emily."  She turned and gave

a probing look, as if she'd

never seen me before.  And

here I'd been disrobing her

regularly in my over-

active imagination. 

I guess she was lonely too. 

Unseemly fascination

made her do an about-face. 

Panting gently, she drew even. 

Hello, Conner.  How can I

help you this enchanting day? 

Several things came quickly

to mind, things to save for later. 

My eyes poked hers. " I just wanted

you to know I find you quite

beautiful." 

## Tony

## Dinner's a Little Late Tonight

Guess there was some kind

of problem in the rec room. 

Figures it would be a night

when I could chow down

a horse.  Okay, maybe not

a horse.  But half a cow. 

Food's a funny thing. 

When I was a little kid,

we never had much food,

but I don't remember

being hungry.  Wonder

how Ma managed to feed

me when I was an actual

baby.  Formula, I hear, costs

major bucks, and I just

can't see her letting me

snuggle up against her

titties.  Those things

were bait, and not for

babies.  No sir, I can't

imagine how I made

it past the mewling stage. 

I feel like mewling now. 

At least here, they can't

slap you around to shut

you up.  Not that they

don't ever touch you

at all.  Takedowns. 

Cavity searches after

visits from home. 

Once in a while, when

someone "in charge"

is in a bad mood, you

might even catch a "playful"

kick in the seat, or a teeth-

rattling shoulder shake. 

## But Bloody Cuts and Bruises

Are not something you're

going to see here.  No sir. 

Except maybe for Vanessa's. 

And why is she in my thoughts

again?  I have to admit I'd like

to peek beneath that bandage. 

I'll probably see her at dinner

tonight, not that they let

the guys and the girls sit

anywhere close to each

other.  I guess they think

crappy food is an aphrodisiac. 

A time or two or three,

I have seen some serious

make-out sessions—

male/female, male/male,

female/female.  Love. 

Lust.  The need to feel close. 

The need to feel safe

because someone dares

to wrap their arms around

you in this cold, sterile place. 

The need to feel.  I even

half-believe the story

about Dahlia and Dr. Starr. 

What better way to grab

preferential treatment? 

Oh my lovely, deep-creased

psychologist, let me stick

my tongue down your throat. 

Nothing new for Dahlia. 

Would be nothing new

for me, either.  What's

new is that I haven't

strayed down that path

since I've been here.  

## Mostly Because

For once in my life, I

don't have to have sex. 

No one demands it in

exchange for drugs,

ten minutes of disgust

for a well-deserved rush. 

No one expects it in

exchange for food,

just a burger and fries,

please; for a hot shower

to wash off the streets,

a warm bed to crash in. 

Most of all, no one is

forcing me to.  I try

not to look back on

the moment when

my pitiful life turned

unbearable.  Unthinkable. 

Try to blot it out, scrub

it out, rip it out of my

brain completely. 

But you can't forget

something like that,

no matter how much you

drink, snort, or shoot into

your veins.  The memory

stalks you forever and

creeps up to maul you

like a rabid dog, when

you least expect it. 

Like now. 

## Vanessa

## Thank God

The intercom squawks. 

Okay, Happy Campers,

dinner is served. 

Happy Campers? 

Must I join that sorority? 

Doesn't much matter. 

My days of dinner

arriving by burly butler

have come to a Level One end. 

My (non) performance at group

today has netted me a trip

to the communal dining

room.  Mmmmm.  Can't wait

to share meat loaf or fish sticks

with a table of friendly, smiling faces. 

Like Dahlia's and Lori's. 

I wonder how you make friends

with people who think

everyone is out to get them. 

What is friendship, anyway? 

I have no clue, never

lingered long enough

in one place before,

not with Dad in the military. 

We only settled down

in Reno when Mama got so bad

she couldn't find enough white space

to grocery shop or get us to school,

let alone make sure we

bathed and brushed. 

Grandma, the fool, stepped up

to the plate, volunteered to look

out for Bryan and me. 

Poor woman had no idea what

she was getting herself into—

that Daddy had not only

married a gear shifter

but fathered one too. 

## I Didn't Realize It Myself

Until a couple of years ago. 

Interesting, considering

I'd watched Mom

straddling that seesaw

for as long as I could

remember.  Except her highs

and lows lasted for days. 

So when I started shifting

gears three or four times

in a twenty-four-hour period,

at first I blamed hormones. 

Didn't PMS make

you irritable?  Didn't boy

trouble drop you to your knees

(in more ways than one)? 

Normal adolescent

feelings, right? 

Well, no, see . . .  not

when your mother's

a stark raving psycho. 

For years she went

undiagnosed. 

"Bipolar" had no

meaning when I was

a little girl, and "schizo"

wasn't short for

schizophrenic, not

in the clinical sense. 

It only meant that some

days Mama was fine—

eyes not muddied, hair

combed into submission,

speech precise. 

Those days, her hugs

and kisses were warm

as summer rain,

washing away the hurt. 

The hurt that was sure

to fall again. 

We just couldn't guess

exactly when. 

## When It Fell

It was a rock slide,

crushing, smothering,

bruising, bone twisting. 

By the time I was ten,

I knew to hide when Mama

started talking to the air. 

Don't worry, Nessa,

He's an angel.  Can't you see

him, standing just there? 

I figured if someone was

there, invisible and all,

he must be more demon

than angel, especially

when Mama started yelling. 

Go away, you bastard.  I'm tired

of listening to you. 

You make my head hurt. 

That was the thing

about her manic phases. 

They didn't always make

her feel what you might

call good.  Sometimes

they made her head hurt. 

He's pounding nails

into my brain.  Stop! 

Make him stop! 

Angel.  Demon.  Whoever

he was, inside her head,

his pounding made

her rage.  Rant.  Weep. 

Sometimes, to make herself

feel better, she took

to hitting things with her fists. 

Walls.  Doors.  Herself. 

Me. 

## Conner

## Ten Days Now

All by myself in this

peppermint green room,

nothing to do but read,

eat, collect lint, reflect

on afternoons lazily

spent, in the arms of my

Emily.  Yeah, yeah, I'm

focused.  Bent.  Obsessed. 

I have to see her again,

which means I've got to lie

my way out of here, make

the perfect self-sales pitch. 

Dr. Starr will never buy

into "Conner the saint,"

but Dr. Boston might

award me that honor. 

I've almost got her right

where I want her—on her

knees, my hands caught in

her silky blond hair as she

whispers, I want you, Conner. 

Let me chase away thoughts

of your Emily.  Come to me

when you get out of this place. 

I'll show you how a real

woman makes love to men

such as you, and I don't give

a damn how high the stakes are. 

Think it's all smoke and

mirrors?  Perhaps.  But at

our last session, I noticed

a small lapse of judgment. 

## It Was Our Second Session

The first session, I'd pouted,

told her nothing except that life

was tough at home, and I

was sick of being controlled. 

She didn't give much ground. 

Rules are a part of our lives,

Conner.  Only children and

fools believe they're immune. 

I also noticed her slate

gray eyes and how they kept

assessing me, in an intensely

provocative way. 

I mulled that over for two

days, decided it must have

been sexual attraction,

plotted the coming chase. 

I arrived at our second

session prepared to win

her sympathy.  I opened

my head, bared my brain—

or what was left of it after

a major dose of Prozac. 

"When Emily refused to see

me anymore, it almost

broke me in two.  I loved

her like Romeo loved his

Juliet, and I know that

lightning won't strike again." 

Her eyes held sympathy. 

Feeling loss is normal,

Conner.  Attempting suicide

isn't dealing with it so well. 

## She Wanted to Know

All about Emily, exactly

what made her so outstanding,

so necessary, that I'd rather die

than unknot myself from her. 

"She made me feel like the world

turned in my hands, like I could

walk on clouds."  Talking about

her, my body churned desire. 

Dr. Boston took notice,

on one level or another. 

Her own hands trembled,

and she spun her chair toward

the bookcase.  When she turned

back around, the top button

on her Jaclyn Smith blouse

had found a way to open. 

A hint of cleavage drew

my stare.  Why disguise my

obvious interest?  I

swear she did it on purpose. 

Lots of guys lose girlfriends,

Conner.  Most just go out and

find someone new.  Please try

to trust me enough to explain. 

I closed my eyes, ignoring

both request and décolletage. 

"I can't think about her

anymore."  Distressed, I stood. 

Dr. Boston rose, neck-

line dipping.  It's hard to share

secrets.  Trade, next time?  One

of yours for one of mine. 

Right.  

## Tony

## Today, They Tell Me

My dad is coming to visit. 

Wanting an accounting of

what his money's buying, is

my best guess.  No doubt

he'll be disappointed. 

I'm still just crazy Tony. 

I remember the last time

I saw him.  I was nine,

and peeing my pants,

waiting for the judge

to tell me what a bad

boy I'd been.  Oh yes. 

I'd been very bad, and

Dad stood at the back

of the courtroom, hat

in hand, a tear in his

eye. ' Course, if he'd

really cared, I wouldn't

have been there to start

with.  He never once

came to visit after he

heard my sentence:

Nine years (the max) in

a juvenile detention facility. 

They let me out early due to

good behavior and funding

cutbacks.  Seemed the voters

didn't give two cents about

feeding and schooling hard-

core kids.  Rather than build

bigger facilities, so they could

lock up more kids longer, as

space was needed, they cut

delinquents loose early. 

Lucky me, they didn't care

who the kids happened to be.  

## I Learned a Lot

In juvie, before they sprung

me.  Learned when to shut

my mouth, when to scream;

how to glom on to the guys

with power, tap into it and

suck real hard, suck them

inside out.  Learned to play—

sports, people, the system;

learned that there was no

such thing as love, only

lust.  I knew about lust

already.  I'd grown up

immersed in it, and it was

at the core of my young

incarceration.  Ma never

admitted her part in that,

never even acknowledged

that the whole thing happened. 

Larry is a decent man,

she said, when I told her

about it the first time. 

A bit rough around the edges,

yes, but he'd never ever

do such a thing, little liar. 

Like an eight-year-old

child could make up

something so evil and

perverse.  She wouldn't

even believe it when

I pulled down my jeans. 

The proof was right there

on my underwear, streaked

pink with blood. 

You sat on something,

that's all.  Or maybe you

did it to yourself.  Pig! 

## Enough Fond Memories

The clock hiccups "two

forty-five," almost

time for the meet 'n'

greet with Tony Sr. 

Fuck me, what will

I say? " Hey, Pa, thanks

for making time in your

busy schedule to drop by once

in the last eight years." 

Part of me wants to turn my

back and walk away, like

he did, so many years ago. 

And what do I remember

of that day, a major turning

point in my minor life? 

Shouts.  Accusations.  Denials. 

Nothing new, except

that day, he walked out the door

and never came home,

except to pack his things,

escorted by a policeman

to keep him safe from Ma. 

He called a few times,

asked about school, friends. 

He sent a birthday present

once—a baseball glove

and a hardball or two. 

Like I ever had anyone

to play catch with. 

Like I'd ever make a team. 

But once Dad decided enough

was enough, I wasn't enough

to make him face the ugly

truth of Ma.  And Tony Jr.

would always remind

him of her.  Severed ties. 

Severed me.  

## Vanessa

## Saturday, Visiting Day

Grandma's here, somewhere,

and I'm on my way

to see her.  Half of me

feels like I'm walking

a high wire.  The other

half feels like I'm fighting

my way through quicksand. 

I've missed her so much,

but I don't want to disappoint

her.  I mean, I'm not exactly

sane and sober.  Definitely

not ready to go back home,

back to school, back to me. 

Right now my brain

feels like a soggy sponge. 

At the end of the hall,

Dr. Starr shadows

a doorway.  In here,

Vanessa.  Your grandmother's

waiting to see you. 

Without meaning to,

I slow my pace,

try to picture Grandma's

face.  Will it look exactly

the way it used to—smooth

and pink, despite all

the care it's wrapped around? 

Or will she wear

a brand-new set of worry

lines and creases,

and will she look even

older than she is,

because of me?  

## She's Waiting Just Inside

The door.  Definitely a new

wrinkle or two, but she's

beautiful anyway. 

She hugs me into her. 

How have you been?  We've

missed you.  Bryan, especially. 

I gulp down guilt. 

"I've missed you, too. 

And Bryan.  How is he? 

What's he been up to?" 

She shrugs.  School.  A science

fair project.  Mostly, he's got

his nose in his books. 

Dr. Starr allows

several minutes of small

talk, finally reels us in, asks us

to sit opposite each other

across a narrow table. 

Vanessa has done very

well, at least on the surface. 

But sooner or later we'll

have

to scratch that surface, crack

her

shell, and look inside. 

Grandma's smile falls

away.  Will you want

me here for that? 

Dr. Starr nods.  Eventually. 

For some of it, anyway. 

Anxiety deepens Grandma's

creases.  Somehow,

she feels responsible. 

"Don't worry, Grandma. 

You're not to blame. 

'Crazy' runs on the other

side of the family." 

## Grandma's Face Drains

You're not crazy,

Vanessa.  You've had

some rough years,

is all.  We'll get you

through this and

everything will be just fine. 

I want to ask her

if bleach got the

tub white, if Bryan

still has nightmares,

bubbling red with blood. 

I want to ask if she

has visited Mama,

where no one wants

to go.  Instead I say,

"You're right, Grandma. 

We'll come through

fine."  Then I ask,

"Have you heard

from Daddy?" 

Just got a letter

from Afghanistan. 

He couldn't tell me

much, of course. 

Rangers keep tight

lips.  He's safe but

won't be home any

time soon.  He sends

you and Bryan his love. 

He always loved

us better from a distance,

especially Mama,

something she found

hard to swallow.  So

she found something

easier to swallow. 

Which reminds me. 

"Does Daddy know

about Mama?" 

## Conner

## Trading Secrets

Sounds intriguing, and I

see Dr. Boston again today. 

Saturday—no rest for the

wicked, which must include me. 

I've been thinking about

her deal.  Can the good doctor

have a secret worth knowing—

a true glimpse of the real Dr. B? 

I do want to gain her trust. 

But first I have to think

about my own secrets,

pretty damn bad to worst. 

There is the major one,

really major, in fact, about

Emily, and exactly what kind

of person she happens to be. 

There are a couple about

Cara, my evil twin, things

I have done to keep her

out from under my skin. 

There is the awful one,

the surrogate mother of all

secrets, you might say.  No, I'll

tell any other secret but that. 

It's psychological

tug-of-war.  Finally I

decide the best way out

is to tell her more about

my mad adoration for

a woman twice my age. 

I can only hope the

price tag isn't too steep. 

## My Escort Arrives

Someone short and sour

smelling, someone new—

the weekend shift, no doubt. 

No telling who'll open my

door without knocking next. 

Ready?  Dr. Boston is

waiting.  She doesn't offer

a name, just a steady stare. 

I haven't a clue what's

behind that ice-cube gaze. 

"Hi, I'm Conner.  Would you

mind telling me your name?" 

Can't you read?  It's right

here on my name badge:

Kate!  She's practically

yelling.  Anger?  Fear?  Of me? 

Whatever.  I've got my own

fear to deal with.  The hallway

buzzes today—kids, adults. 

As I veer toward Dr. B's

office, I hear shards of

conversation inside a

conference room.  The door

is open, an invitation

to listen.  Does Daddy know

about Mama?  Such sorrow

in the voice, I hesitate,

wanting to find out the answer. 

Kate shoves me past before

the reply.  Seconds later

a girl sweeps into the hall. 

Behind me, I hear her cry

and I turn, wanting to see

her face.  It's a gift, despite

the sadness etched there. 

What brought her to this place? 

## No Time to Figure Her Out Now

Dr. B is waiting for me,

a knockout in knockoff

designer suede.  The cut

of the suit leaves little doubt

about her luscious figure. 

I've got to stop thinking

that way, or I won't have

a shot at controlling

this situation.  Maybe I

won't anyway.  Hell's bells,

maybe despite my plans

I don't really want control. 

A light must have gone on

in my eyes, because Dr. B

suddenly gives me a

wry smile.  What is it, Conner? 

I shake my head. " Nothing. 

Just thinking about control

and how my need for

it seems to be shrinking." 

Her smile grows wider. 

Oh, I doubt that, Conner. 

Now, what did you decide

about confiding secrets? 

My eyes lower to the

V of her blouse. " You have

to go first, but I guess I'm

ready to play your game." 

Okay.  When I was younger

than you, but old enough

to know right from wrong,

I had sex with a teacher too. 

She knew? 

## Tony

## Hands Sweating

I walk, heel-touch-toe,

toward Room C-6

where I'm told I'll find

Tony Sr.  I stroll slowly,

making him wait, like he

made me wait all this time. 

As I round the corner

Vanessa comes hustling

along the sticky floor,

eyes glistening.  I wonder

what stroke of luck has

put us both in this space. 

"Hey, Vanessa, you

okay?"  She doesn't

look okay, but we won't

have much time for small

talk before someone

notices we're here.  Alone. 

Vanessa sniffles, Not really,

but thanks for asking. 

Why do they make you

see your family when

all you want to do is

curl up in a little ball? 

"They call it therapy,

sweetie.  Don't you

feel cured?"  I laugh and

she tries too. " I'm

off to see my own warped

next of kin.  Feel better." 

I start to skip and, a half

smile in her voice, Vanessa

calls, I already do.  And

Tony?  I'll keep my fingers

crossed that things go better

for you than they did for me. 

## Crossed Fingers

Are not enough.  Dread

sledgehammers my gut

as I approach the door. 

Inside, I hear voices:

Dr. Bellows's grunt and

a stranger's whine. 

The coward in me wants

to turn around, but screw

him.  The kid inside

wants to see his dad

again, and the avenger

wants to grill him alive. 

I step through the door,

and the man who turns

to face me looks nothing

at all like I remember. 

His hair is silver—how

old is he, anyway?— 

and his weepy eyes are

shrunk back into skin

like alligator hide.  Will

I look like this person

one day?  He can't really

be my father, can he? 

He stands and holds

out a hand to me. 

Hello, Anthony.  Long

time no see.  You sure

have changed!  How

have you been? 

All the stuff I wanted

to say slips from my

brain like oil-slicked

turds.  I stutter, "H-hello,

Pa. I'm okay, I guess." 

I even shake his hand. 

## I Draw the Line

At hugging him, though. 

Shit, I haven't hugged

anyone since Phillip. 

The last time was in

the hospital, when I

hugged him good-bye. 

Pa tries, and I duck,

slumping into a chair. 

He does likewise, eyes

never leaving my face. 

Then we sit, silent as

death, until Dr. Bellows says,

I gather it's been quite

a while since the two

of you have seen each

other.  How do you feel

about that, Tony?  He

squirms in his own chair. 

The question stings

like alcohol. " You're the

psychologist.  How do you

think it makes me feel? 

Deserted.  Unworthy. 

Fuck it.  I'm pissed." 

Finally, Pa looks away. 

I'm sorry, Anthony.  I

know I should have been

there for you.  It was

a difficult situation,

all the way around. 

Difficult?  For him?  My

hands shake and my

face erupts fire.  I struggle

to find words worthy

of the emotions churning

inside, in desperate need

of release.  

## Vanessa

## Seeing Grandma

Made me want to go home,

made me want to stay here,

made me miss her and Bryan

and Daddy.  Made me scared

to think about Mama again,

and how I left her that day. 

Blue.  I should be tumbling

low and blue, but instead

I'm swinging the other way. 

I'd rather be going blue,

where no eyes can find me. 

I think about the eyes I saw today—

Grandma's, hopeful, then nothing

but sad and confused. 

Dr. Starr's, ringed

by sleeplessness. 

Tony's, a strange jumble

of anticipation and fear. 

That other boy's, curious

and intent on me. 

Who is he, anyway? 

I haven't seen him in group,

not in the cafeteria, not

in the classroom. 

He must be new,

new and gorgeous,

the kind of guy every girl

dreams will want her,

but it never quite works

out that way. 

So why did he look

like he might

want to get to know me? 

There is another pair

of eyes too, eyes

that never saw the light. 

Little eyes, that haunt

me deep in the night.  

## Mania Blossoming

My brain won't quit churning. 

I keep seeing pictures, like movies. 

Faces.  Eyes.  Hands.  Bodies. 

My body, next to Trevor's. 

That's what I'm seeing. 

He wasn't my first,

wasn't my only, but he

made me feel how

none of the rest could. 

How I wish he was here

now, to put out this fire,

this low bank of coals,

smoldering between

my legs.  But Trevor

isn't next to me,

never will be again. 

I can't deal with your

freaky mood swings,

Vanessa.  One minute

you're solid, the next

you're like water. 

Boiling water.  I love

you.  But not enough

to stay with you. 

His words were fists,

pounding my belly,

snatching the air from

my lungs.  I couldn't talk,

couldn't breathe, so how

could I answer? 

He turned his back,

walked away, and I wanted

to die right there. 

Instead I went home,

where my hungry

new razor blade

lay in wait.  

## I Hurried Home That Day

Salivating for steel,

the cold caress of metal, skin

at the mercy of my own hands. 

I could still taste Trevor. 

He kissed me before he dumped

me, and my mouth held ghosts

of tobacco and Budweiser. 

I expected the house to be empty—

Grandma at work and Bryan just

about ready to climb onto

the school bus for an hour ride home. 

But when I opened the door,

I heard voices in the kitchen—

one voice, actually.  Mama's. 

You can't hurt me

now, not anymore. 

Why couldn't you

just leave me alone? 

It's cold here,

very cold.  Will it

be like this forever? 

I didn't want her to know

I was there, not while she

was talking to air, but it

was eighty degrees in Grandma's

house.  And why was she there,

anyway?  I tiptoed toward

the kitchen, peeked around

the doorjamb.  Saw her lying

on the floor, an empty pill

bottle near her quiet form. 

I walked over, looked down

into her unfocused eyes, saw

something resembling peace. 

I should have called 911. 

Instead, I backed slowly

away, exited

out the front

door. 

## Conner

## Dr. B Is Psychic? 

Or have I given more

away than I can recall? 

I lose my smile. " How did

you know?  What did I say?" 

You didn't say a thing. 

But Emily Sanders did. 

You tried to kill yourself. 

What did you think she'd do? 

I never thought that she'd

confess, open herself

to the authorities,

the school board, the press. 

I'm not surprised you didn't

know.  We keep things rather

insular here.  But I just

couldn't see us making

progress unless you found

out.  Since it's all in the

open out there, I hope

you'll talk about it in here. 

I shrug. " Do you want

details?  The way she cries

when I kiss her, or how she

never fails to orgasm? 

Or maybe you'd like to hear

how sunlight dances, bronze

upon her hair, how she begs me

to pull her hair, to excite her." 

Details, yes.  But not like

those.  I want to know how

you felt after, and why you

chose a woman twice your age. 

## She Set Herself Up

"You mean someone like you,

with experience, someone

beautiful and willing?  Do

you think it's a myth that guys

my age want to learn how

to please a woman?  Sex

with a high school girl is like

screwing a deep freeze." 

I'm not sure you could

label me "willing," Conner. 

But I can't say that I'm

unable to understand

an attraction to someone

older.  It's true that I

had a relationship with

a teacher, first as a shoulder

to cry on when my life

went totally crazy.  Caring

turned to passion, but we

never meant for that to happen. 

"It was the exact opposite

for me.  At first all I

wanted was sex with her,

but soon I wanted more. 

More sex, yes, in unusual

places, and all different kinds. 

But that wasn't all.  I wanted

her to fill the empty spaces

left by a father who never

once praised me, 'friends' who

used me, an ice princess mom

who raised me with glass kisses." 

## I Can't Believe

She got me to say all that,

pried open my lips for such

truth to spill out.  Dr. Boston

has managed a total eclipse

of Conner the Silent. 

Flushed, I chance a glimpse

of her eyes, find sympathy

in their gray, fluid trance. 

Define 'glass kisses,' Conner. 

I want . . .  um . . .  I don't understand

what you mean.  Nervous hands

defy her nonchalant tone. 

Conner the Silent shrugs, gives

way to Conner the Eclipsed. 

"Smooth.  Cold.  Flawless.  Tasteless. 

Glass.  Agate.  Sugarless sorbet." 

She mulls that for a second,

shakes her head, frees blond

feathers.  Glass and agate are hard. 

Not so sorbet.  Please explain. 

My turn to think, to try

and unravel my own riddle. 

Every inch of me feels weighted,

like I'm treading gravel. 

"My mother is the hardest

woman ever—cool, perfect. 

She'd be a diamond, except

you'll never melt one of those. 

Sometimes, rarely, influenced

by full moon or emptiness,

she'll rain a single kiss,

monsoon on desert, melting

glass." 

## Tony

## I Want to Jump Up

Leap across the room,

grab my pa by the neck

and choke him until

he owns up—confesses

why he can't stand

the thought of me. 

Okay, that's not such

a great idea, so I shove

it back into my dream

cabinet, the one I dare

open only when I sleep. 

Lots of bad ideas in there. 

Tony?  reminds Dr. Bellows. 

Don't you have anything

else to say?  Your father

has come all this way

to try and make some sort

of amends.  Can you do that? 

The guy is pissing me

off.  Both of them are,

in fact.  I tell myself to stay

in control, but it won't

be easy. " It's only twenty

miles from here to Tahoe. 

Some people drive

that far every day.  It's

been eight effing years,

Pa. Don't you own a car? 

Or a telephone?  What

the fuck is your problem? 

Do you know how

many nights I lay in bed,

wondering what I'd

done to deserve your

silence?  What had I said? 

What did I ever do, but love you?" 

## A New Problem Pops Up

One I never expected. 

I can't remember, not

even once in my

miserable life, crying. 

Not when Pa first

walked out the door. 

Not when the judge

sent me away to live in

a nest of juvenile delinquent

hornets.  Not even the day

I sprinkled Phillip's ashes

over his secret Truckee

River fishing hole. 

So that damn eight-

pound rainbow who

keeps giving me the slip

will never forget me

completely, he requested. 

Okay, I almost cried

that day, tears welling

up black, like thunderheads

boiling up over the Sierra. 

But they never slipped

down my cheeks, not

like they're doing right

now.  This is totally insane. 

All because of this strange

guy, perched across from me,

this completely strange guy I've

never really known as my father. 

So how can he make me

cry?  Why should he even

want to try? " Why now, Pa? 

Why come back into my

life now?  Are you hoping

to become someone's beneficiary?" 

## Until I Said It

The thought hadn't crossed

my mind.  But now that it has,

I want an answer. " Well?" 

How can you say such a thing,

Anthony?  No, I don't want one. 

I want to make you mine. 

"You think I want your

money?  I've lived just

fine without it up to now." 

Just fine?  I know how you

live, son.  I know where you've

been, what you've done. 

That can't be true, can it? 

Has an invisible eye

been looking my way? 

I can forgive you for all

of it, Anthony.  The drugs. 

The men.  Even the . . .  thing. 

Now the tears really

make me mad, chinks

in my invincible armor. 

That's a hard thing to

forgive someone for . . . 

to forgive a son for. 

Screw it.  Tears or no,

he's got it coming now. 

"You forgive me?  I

didn't turn my back

on you, didn't leave

you under Ma's thumb. 

You knew what she had

become, what kind of life

that meant for me.  Where were

you, Pa, when I went

hungry?  Where were you,

Pa, when that bastard . . . 

never mind." 

## Vanessa

## Prozac Can't Help

Lift me out of the place

I'm in now.  Thinking

about my mother always

drops me here, abandons

me clear below mania

into a field of solid blue. 

Maybe I should confess

my condition, request a lithium

fix.  The Prozac has lately

left me tossing and turning

well into the night. 

Then, despite its antidepressant

buzz, I'm tired from staying awake. 

Sleepy by day; wound

up at night, brain

fighting my body's need

for REM refreshment. 

I suppose I could ask

for sleeping pills, but they'd

drop me way down into the blue,

maybe so deep I could

never crawl back up. 

Or I could own up, ask for lith,

but once I start, I can never stop. 

And it has side effects, too—

lethargy, weight gain,

massive diarrhea. 

(Thirty extra pounds,

despite chronic runs?) 

Something else can help,

the thing I crave

more than clarity.  Self-

medication—of the most

critical, physical type. 

I should wait until after

dinner.  Can't go

to the table like Hansel

and Gretel, trailing crumbs

of red.  Besides, waiting,

anticipating, can be the best part.  

## The Dinner Crowd

Seems quite subdued,

the usual chatter strained,

as if no one really wants

to discuss their visit

from home—or lack of one. 

Only Stanley seems his usual

obnoxious self—poking

and pushing and asking

the questions no one

wants to answer:

So how did it go? 

Any cool news? 

Anyone die? 

What's your sister look like? 

God, he's such a clod. 

I go for my plate—fried

chicken, corn, and mashed

potatoes.  They definitely

wanted to impress any

parent who might inquire

about tonight's meal, which

is definitely the best I've had

since I've been here—just

enough salt, for once. 

As I turn toward the girls'

tables, Tony comes through

the door.  I try to catch

his eye, but he keeps both

of them fixed on the floor. 

Stanley calls,

Hey, dude.  How did it go? 

Any cool news? 

Hey, man . . . 

what's up with your eyes? 

Tony glances up, and even

from here I can see

the problem with his eyes—

they're red, swollen,

and that can mean only

one thing, something well

beyond the realm

of Stanley's business. 

## Tony's Fists Clench

As he turns toward

the offensive lout. 

Shut the hell up,

you fat fuck. 

I'm sick of you

and your whining shit. 

You'd think Stanley

would get the message,

but the idiot dares,

I'm whining?  Looks

like you're the one

doing the whining today. 

Suddenly the room

moves—guys push

away from their tables,

expecting (hoping for?)  a fight. 

Girls jump up, move

in for a close-up

view of the action. 

Tony is ready to deliver. 

I've never seen anyone

so intent on bestowing

a blow or two—or anyone

quite as deserving as

Stanley, who finally

finds some semblance

of brains and says,

Hey man, just kidding. 

Besides, if you hit me,

it's back to isolation. 

Tony grabs Stanley by

the cheeks, pinches them

pickled beet red. 

I don't give two fucks about

isolation, or you.  Screw

with me again, you're

dead. 

## Conner

## I Melted Dr. Boston

All those pretty words

worked, just like I wanted

them to.  Who knew a poet

lurked inside my brain? 

I understand better now,

said Dr. B. Thank you,

Conner, for opening up

instead of playing it cool. 

But I did play it cool, and in

the end, she rewarded me

with Level One.  I can't

pretend it wasn't my goal. 

So I'm on my way to

the dining room, where I'll

sit with hungry lunatics,

all of whom will turn to stare

at the new guy.  Paranoid? 

No more than I need to be. 

Trust is just a five-letter word,

one that comes before "not." 

Still, I've got to make Dr. B

believe I trust her completely,

that I, Conner Aaron Sykes,

wear my heart on my sleeve. 

Don't you feel better with

all of that out in the open? 

she asked.  Sharing your feelings

is no small accomplishment. 

Despite her corny way

of putting it, I do feel

somehow relieved, like I'm

cutting teeth on psychoanalysis. 

## I Just Hope

They don't bite one of the hands

that feed them.  Speaking of food,

a decent smell drifts toward me,

arousing at least one basic need. 

I step through the dining room

door and stumble upon

an interesting scene—a guy

threatening to polish the floor

with a dude three times his

size.  Everyone's watching

them, but, as I predicted,

all eyes now rotate toward me. 

Catcalls quiet, as if everyone

mistakes me for a member of

the goon squad—where are they,

with the stakes anted this high? 

The smaller guy pushes off

the fat dude's face.  Don't forget

what I said, Stanley, and that

includes messing with my friends. 

He and I need to become

friends.  I trail him toward

the serving line as an eerie

silence descends on the room. 

A pretty girl—familiar—

with Hershey bar eyes and auburn

hair inserts herself between us. 

She and tough guy trade hellos. 

He had it coming, Tony. 

Are you okay?  Shall I

assume the outcome of your

visiting day was like mine? 

## That Explains a Lot

A visit from home could push

me straight over the edge too—

Tony mumbles something

about his father, fills his plate. 

The girl reaches out, covertly

caresses his shoulder, gentle

and warm as September wind. 

Tony presses into her touch. 

Inexplicably, jealousy

pierces my chest.  To be touched

in such a way!  I could

easily become obsessed

with this girl.  She returns

to her seat, but not before

gifting me with her smile. 

Gift?  I remember her now—

she's the one I saw earlier,

in the hall.  Hi.  I'm Vanessa,

she says, and I think I could

drown in her husky drawl. 

"I—I'm Conner," I sputter,

but she's already gone,

something altogether new

to me—a girl, walking away. 

I stare at my fried chicken,

corn, mashed potatoes, not

enough salt, wondering why

Vanessa and Tony mourn

for families, happily

living without them. 

Mourning them means

forgiving them, something I'll

never do.  

## Tony

## Cardboard Chicken

Lumpy potatoes, way

too much salt.  It all

tastes like crap, and

this most definitely

is better than most

meals in this freak parlor. 

Guess I bit the bullet. 

I pretty much expected

a mad rush of orderlies,

hell-bent on a takedown. 

Maybe they were busy

giving each other head

or maybe they just

looked the other way. 

I bet more than one

of them would like

to stick a fist in fat

boy's megamouth. 

The mouth in question

has wisely disappeared

from the room.  Everyone

else has decided to steer

wide of me—everyone,

that is, except for Vanessa. 

She is an angel, and

she's looking at me

now.  Studying me, no

doubt trying to figure

out what makes the gay

guy tick.  I wish I knew

the answer myself.  But

even if I did know, I

wouldn't tell her.  For

some left-field reason,

I like the idea of her

trying to figure me out. 

## The New Dude

Keeps checking me

out too.  Maybe he's

into guys after all, or

maybe he's trying to

decide whether or not I am. 

All he's gotta do is ask. 

He's sitting with Todd,

who keeps probing him

with stupid questions. 

Hey, man, what's up? 

Ya got a name or what? 

What are ya in for? 

The name is Conner,

he says.  Why do you

think I'm here? 

I dunno.  Maybe you're

schizo?  You don't

look like you use. 

Not meth, that's for

sure.  He's way too

buff to be huffing

that shit, and way

too clear to be cleaning

himself off downers. 

Conner grins.  I might

very well be schizo, but

that's not why I'm here. 

Then you musta tried to

off yourself.  That's

all I can think of. 

A very good guess,

but it's not something

I'm ready to talk about. 

Looks like the new guy

and I have something

in common, after all.  

## Funny How Much

You can learn about

someone, by opening

your ears while they

talk about themselves. 

What did I learn about

Conner just now? 

That the guy is smart,

maybe almost as smart

as me.  That he's strong,

in control, definitely

more in control than

I could ever be. 

Take, for example,

my idiotic performance

in front of my father

today.  I should have

stayed cool.  Instead

I crumbled like a cracker. 

But that crap about

forgiveness really blew

me away.  I've done

no more or less than I

needed to, to get by. 

Forgiveness?  For what? 

And now suddenly

he appears, like a ghost

materializing from

out of my forgettable

past—a place I'd rather

just leave behind. 

A place where faces

wear death masks,

where cold, white

bodies walk the walk

of zombies, where

memories jump out,

scream "Boo!" 

## Vanessa

## It's Good to Feel Bad

For someone else, instead

of myself for a change. 

Poor Tony looks like he's seen

a ghost.  I guess that's how

his dad looked to him. 

Funny, Daddy would look

the same way to me. 

He has only come home

four times in the last six

years, only stayed a week

or two when he visited. 

Each time he's older,

grayer, with meaner eyes,

from seeing all he's seen. 

Yes, your father knows

about your mother,

Grandma said.  How

could I keep such

a thing from him? 

But he doesn't know

about the role I played. 

Of course, Grandma

doesn't know either. 

She probably wouldn't

believe it if someone

told on me—not that anyone

else has a clue.  Only me. 

Just another dirty little

secret, a nasty,

filthy secret that won't

quit nibbling at me. 

Mama's better off

where she is now,

so why can't I leave

myself alone? 

## Enough Introspection

I'll focus on something

interesting—like Conner. 

In five minutes flat, he put

Todd in his place,

without even being mean. 

All he did was straighten

real tall, look Todd

in the eye, and basically

tell him to mind his own business. 

You have to admire

his tableside manner. 

Not to mention the vivid

aquamarine of his eyes, the wave

of his well-styled hair,

the width of his shoulders. 

He catches me staring, smiles,

and I feel like ice cream

on an August sidewalk. 

Lori and Dahlia sit nearby,

and they're analyzing him too. 

He's so cute!  says Lori. 

How would you like to rub

up against that? 

Just like a kitty cat,

agrees Dahlia.  In fact,

my kitty's purring.  Meow! 

They are so incredibly gross,

always talking about sex,

as if it's a commodity,

something to be bartered. 

I know some people believe

that, and I guess, thinking back

to Trevor and me, I traded

sex for a chance at love. 

## Breakthrough Moment

That's what Dr. Starr would call

that sudden bit of insight. 

Sex, for me, was only

about feeling good

when vines of mania

snared me, pulled me into

this space where my brain

felt so great, my body

didn't want to get left behind. 

I can't really blame Trevor

for taking advantage

of that, only for telling

me he loved me.  Liar. 

Conner gets up, goes over

to Tony, extends a hand. 

I'm Conner.  How long

before we have to go

back to our rooms? 

Tony looks into Conner's

eyes, as if trying to find

some ulterior motive. 

He shrugs.  You've got

ten minutes to finish your pie. 

I watch them interact,

and this odd shot

of envy hits.  The two

of them are allowed to talk. 

But I, being a girl,

am supposed to stay on

"our" side of the room,

when what I'd really like

to do is plant myself between

them.  Soak up the warmth of them. 

Fall asleep listening to their voices,

snowing down all around me. 

To sleep at all tonight,

I'll have to self-medicate. 

With a whole different kind

of drug. 

## Conner

## Ten Minutes to Finish

I sit across from Tony,

who's picking at his meringue. 

Wonder why I feel like

kicking it with him anyway. 

I mean, he's really not

the kind of guy I'd hook up

with at school—not a jock, not

refined, surely not moneyed. 

There's just something about

him, something attractive,

but not in a physical way. 

On a whim, I tell him,

"They just let me out of my

room today, and I've only

had shrinks to talk to.  I feel

like I've escaped from a tomb." 

He gives me this strange look,

like he needs to climb inside

my head, walk around in there,

see where that path leads. 

Finally he says, You know

I'm gay, in a tone that

adds, This is a test.  You can

leave if you want.  It's okay. 

Part of me gets a failing

grade.  If I stay, will the

other guys think I want

to get laid—by a dude? 

Most of me couldn't care

less about what a bunch

of freaking losers think.  Why

try to impress the brain-dead? 

## Still Another Part of Me

Stresses over a simple fact,

in a major way.  I thought

he was attractive.  Can

that possibly make me gay? 

I really don't think so.  I mean,

from the time I was twelve

I had an insatiable urge

to climb into the sack

with any girl who would

let me.  Then it was older

girls, coeds, who would

seduce a kid simply to get

even with a boyfriend. 

Or to play teacher.  Cool game. 

Finally, it came down

to women, the perfect score. 

But men?  No, the thought

has never crossed my mind,

except in a voyeuristic way. 

Like, does a gay guy ever

want to be with a woman? 

Which I guess could translate

the other way, which will

continue to stress me a bit. 

The weird thing is, Tony

says he's gay and I'm guessing

he really believes it, but he

doesn't seem that way to me. 

Anyway, gay or no, something

about Tony has piqued

my interest.  So I'll step

out of my homophobic shoes. 

## Homophobia Stashed

I'll probably have to lie

to pass Tony's litmus test. 

"No problem," I tell him. " Some

of my best friends are gay." 

Tony arches an eyebrow. 

Really?  And here I had you

pegged for a total jock. 

But he smiles freely, and I

realize he's mostly kidding. 

I'm up for some fun. " You saying

gay guys can't be jocks?  Ever

heard of Dennis Rodman?" 

His laugh breaks whatever

ice was left between us. 

Good point.  But let me

give you some advice—

never wear a dress to group. 

The girls don't even wear

them.  Stockings, heels, and

pearls are also on the "don't" list. 

Okay, I like him, can

trust my instincts again. 

I notice Vanessa, taking

mental notes, know I must

cozy on up to her, too. 

Part of it is my old self,

wanting nectar from a new

flower, the beat of a new heart. 

Part of it is a simple need

to connect with someone who

might understand me,

might reach out to imperfect

Conner. 

## Tony

## Amazing

To find Conner the stud,

sitting across from me,

trading gay jokes. 

I don't get a gay vibe

from him at all.  In fact,

I notice a probable interest

in Vanessa.  Like she's

even close to his type! 

No, he looks more like

the sorority/socialite

type.  Anyway, I'm

most likely not his type. 

Not that I mind having

him at my table, literally

or tongue-in-cheek. 

(Where else does Conner

put his tongue?  I wonder.) 

Quit!  Just go with his flow. 

"Did they let you out

of isolation already? 

That was pretty quick." 

Was it?  Well, it seemed

like a long damn time

to me—eight days. 

"That's not so bad. 

They kept me locked

up for two weeks." 

Two frigging weeks,

pacing that room, I'd

be a basket case by now. 

"You must have worked

some kind of magic. 

Eight days is cake." 

Conner grins.  Magic,

yeah, that's it.  I put Dr.

Boston under my spell.  

## I Don't Doubt That at All

The Black Widow

believes she's a player. 

But players are easily

played by better players,

someone, for instance,

of Conner's caliber. 

"Yeah, well, what about

Dr. Starr?  You'll have to

work voodoo on her." 

She's a special case, okay. 

Voodoo, huh?  Have a

couple strands of her hair? 

"Shee-it!  I wouldn't

touch that greasy gray hair

with Stanley's fingers." 

Good point.  And speaking

of Stanley, what's his story? 

Can't be meth, that's for sure. 

"Definitely not crystal. 

Rumor has it he tried

to kill his little brother." 

Conner's smile vanishes. 

No shit?  They let total

nutcases in here, huh? 

"Enough money can buy

a total free ride.  His parents

were just a little short." 

More likely they wanted

him locked up somewhere. 

Just not behind real bars. 

## An Excellent Observation

One I consider as I give

my plate to the girls working

kitchen duty.  No, there aren't

always girls in there—this

just happens to be their

week to play Martha Stewart. 

One thing I'll say,

chauvinistic or not,

the girls are much better

cooks.  As far as dish

washing, I can't see that

gender makes a difference. 

The dining room buzzes

with after-dinner activity. 

The goon squad stands

by, making sure everyone

heads in the right direction—

rec room or bedroom,

depending on what level

they've achieved.  Dr.

Starr awarded me Level

Two, so I get my choice. 

This is a favorite time

for a little male-female

interaction, and Conner

takes total advantage,

moving in on Vanessa

before Kate or Paul

can get the chance

to move in on him. 

As they wander toward

the door, he whispers

something in her ear. 

I'm not close enough

to hear, but I'm close

enough to notice her

blush.  

## Vanessa

## Credit Where It's Due

I've got to hand it to Conner. 

He walked into a room

that hovered on the brink

of chaos, and the simple

weight of his entrance

seemed to put everything right. 

Tony didn't hit Stanley,

didn't wind up in isolation. 

Stanley left the room

in what would have been

a state of shame for anyone

who could feel ashamed. 

I think he mostly felt lucky

to have survived the incident

with only the slightest hint

of a bruise on either cheek. 

Then Conner had the nerve

to go sit with Tony,

who was stewing alone

at the back of the room. 

He even joked him into smiling,

something I couldn't do. 

Now, as we get ready

to go back to our rooms,

close ourselves in, fall

into our lonely vigils,

he comes to me, touches

the small of my back. 

Then he whispers, I just

want you to know you light

up this dingy room. 

Yeah, I know it's a line. 

But it makes my face heat

up—and something else, too—

in a very good way. 

## I Play It Cool

As if boys say stuff like that to me

all the time—no big deal, right? 

I whisper back a plain-

Jane, "Thank you"

but don't dare turn around,

show him how red

my face has grown, a clear

indication that I am not used

to such compliments. 

I think the best thing Trevor

ever said to me was,

You're pretty cute,

with your clothes off. 

Clothes off is actually

the worst view of me,

a few too many pounds

of flab, in all the wrong

places (i.e., my thighs,

but not my breasts). 

Of course, Grandma says

I'm just right, a perfect

size seven.  Size three

would be preferable. 

Still, I feel almost desirable,

with Conner's breath

against my neck, his voice

like a warm wind in my ear. 

At the very least, he's pulled

me way up out of the blue,

into a new bloom of white. 

Two swings in one day. 

Something is majorly

going on. 

## In the Refuge of My Room

I almost decide sleeplessness

is better than the monster,

come knocking at the little

door smack in the middle

of my forehead, begging

for a teaspoon of Prozac. 

I know what I have to do

but don't quite know how to do it. 

They check my stitches,

make sure they're not infected. 

Or messed with. 

Wouldn't want to come in

and find your hand hanging

by threads again, the nurse

told me once. 

I don't want that either. 

But I do need release. 

I've saved my "secret weapon"

for a night like tonight,

when nothing else will suffice. 

I borrowed it from Dr. Bellows's

desk one day, when his attention

turned to a ring of his cell phone,

stashed in his briefcase on the floor. 

The paper clip sat in plain sight,

almost an invitation. 

I retrieve it from my hiding

place, beneath the leg of my bed. 

It's cool and comforting in my hand

as I slowly unfold it, test

its semisharp point with one finger. 

Careful not to probe

too deeply, draw too much attention,

I insert it just below the skin

of my right wrist, down

into a single blue vein. 

Oh God!  Not enough! 

Easy now, right to left,

vein to vein, connect

the dots. 

## Conner

## Walled in Again

I walk to the window, sit

in the chair, try to dissect

the darkness with my eyes. 

How black it is out there! 

And how green it is in here. 

Still, I can almost stomach

it tonight, just a few hours

until I can escape it again. 

My head is light, cluttered

with emotion, a jumble

of lust, love, pride, hate,

jealousy, devotion. 

I still want to protect

Emily, the secrets

we shared.  But I'm not sure

why—she turned on me,

broke down and confessed

every detail of our love

affair.  Dr. Boston says

she won't go to jail

because I'm past the age

of consent.  But her days

of teaching high school

went out with the recycling. 

Weird, because they wouldn't

have suspended me.  The same

sex that was okay for me

ended Emily's career. 

I wonder if what I did

made her hurt as much as

she hurt me.  Only fair, to

trade hurt.  But life isn't fair.  

## Life Isn't Fair

My dad has told me that

at least a hundred times. 

Life isn't fair, and luck? 

That is something you create. 

He's spent forty-five years,

creating a monster stash

of luck, working twelve-hour

days, hating every minute

he had to devote to problems

at home.  Mom isn't much

better, but at least she can

remain calm when everything

turns ugly—like the day

I spurted blood on her new

Berber carpeting.  Amazing,

how she skirted the puddle,

staunched the flow with a towel,

and barely touched me at all—

didn't dare stain the Versace. 

Mom rarely touched Cara

or me, though, not even when

we were spotless.  Diaper

changing and bubble baths she

left in the hands of our nanny. 

Leona pulled "Mommy" duty

until Cara and I turned

fourteen.  She was plump, pretty,

and I will always remember

her with a love far beyond

what a child might feel for his

substitute mother.  When Leona

smiled, all was right in my world. 

## The Memory Stirs Sadness

It scatters around me like dust. 

My heart beats against

the dent in my chest and I

feel far apart from the things

in my life that brought me

to this place.  My evening

meds have yet to kick in. 

I get out of the chair, pace. 

One, two, three, four, half-

way to the piss green wall. 

Five, six, seven, eight.  Pivot,

hit replay.  One, two, three . . . 

It occurs to me that just

hours ago, all I wanted

was to get out of here,

to crawl back to Emily. 

I planned on trumping her

with the guilt card, showing

her how a .22 bullet had

scarred both body and psyche. 

But now I don't think she'll

see me.  Won't open the door

or answer the phone, which

leaves only my family

to go home to.  I know

I'm not ready for that. 

Suddenly I find myself

caught by a wave of nausea. 

Was it the chicken?  I fall

on the bed, close my eyes,

hope the churning wake

will vacate my head, let me

sleep.  

## Tony

## Sunday Morning

I slide into a clean

pair of black jeans,

a button-up blue

work shirt.  Comb

my hair, brush my

teeth, ready for God. 

But is He ready

for me?  Funny, but

the person who gave

me my first real taste

of the Good Lord

was dear, gay Phillip. 

"Do you really believe

in an all-powerful Creator?" 

I asked him, one Sunday

morning, a year or so

ago. " And in some place

we go after we die?" 

I do, indeed.  I can't

say exactly what

He is, or where

Heaven might be. 

But I believe there's

a place there for me. 

It made no sense at all

to me, but I followed

Phillip to church that

morning, and something

(Someone?)  there

spoke to my heart. 

You're safe here, it

(He?)  said.  No judgments,

no worries, you're

one of My children,

and a special part

of the Grand Plan. 

## Okay, It Sounds

Like some weird

soap opera.  But that's

what I heard, or maybe

I felt it.  I don't know. 

Don't care.  And hey,

if I'm wrong, nothing lost. 

It does comfort me

to think there might

be something after

we close our eyes

for the final time—

a light to walk toward. 

I hope Phillip took

that walk.  According

to the Book, all that's

required is faith.  He

believed, so he should

be There, waiting for me. 

"But what about being

gay?"  I asked Phillip once. 

"Some say that dooms you." 

I think God cares more

about how you treat others

than who you sleep with. 

Which worries me some. 

I did once mistreat

a man about as bad

as you could do someone. 

Though I asked Him

for forgiveness, maybe

I don't deserve it,

because I don't feel

even a little bit bad

about what I did. 

I know He knows why. 

I only hope it matters.  

## I Also Hope

He understands why I

tried to kill myself

and that He doesn't

turn His back if I one

day succeed.  Surely

that's better than taking

up room on this dying

planet, when so little

room is left.  The hardest

part about this religion

thing is that every "believer"

believes something different. 

Anyway, I don't really

believe like this visiting

chaplain does.  He's pure

hellfire and brimstone—

too Baptist for my taste. 

Oh yeah, I know Baptists,

Catholics, too.  I sampled

both along the way, in

deference to the two

sides of my family. 

Ma wasn't a churchgoer,

obviously, but her ma

was a Texas Southern

Baptist who took me to

a revival or two when

we went to visit once. 

Holy rollers!  Who could

qualify for their Heaven? 

Pa's people were Pope

lovers, and the Vatican

view of right or wrong

leaves me reeling too. 

I bet Pa's at mass right

now, spouting Hail Marys

for me. 

## Vanessa

## I'm Told Level One

Means Sunday services,

an hour or more being scared

silly by some volunteer preacher. 

They even make the little kids go. 

Church didn't used to scare me. 

But that was before

Mama introduced

me to her angel.  He was so real

to her, I used to wonder

why I couldn't see or hear him,

when Mama could. 

Plain as day. 

And if you can't hear

him, little girl, it means

you haven't qualified

to enter the pearly gates. 

You'd better ask for forgiveness. 

She never said what for,

but she sat me at the table

with a dog-eared King James,

made me read for hours.  Out loud. 

There's that other thing, too. 

Most women in that situation

move on with their lives. 

No second thoughts.  No guilt. 

Most other women aren't me. 

I did ask for forgiveness then. 

Still don't know His answer. 

My bad wrist throbs,

and my good one pulses

pleasant memories of a paper clip. 

One more little poke couldn't hurt. 

I tiptoe to the door, listen

for movement in the hall. 

No footsteps. 

Out comes my little friend. 

This time I insert it just behind

my knee, where a long skirt

will cover it so no one

but God can see. 

## A Long Flowing Skirt

And a long-sleeved blouse

disguise all signs of SI—no,

not Sports Illustrated. 

SI stands for self-injury,

another term I learned

surfing the Web.  The best

thing about those boards

and blogs is knowing

I'm not alone. 

I cut to focus when my

brain is racing. 

I cut to make physical

what I feel inside. 

I cut to see blood

because I like it. 

I don't like to cut,

but I can't give it up. 

I have felt all those things,

cut for all those reasons. 

But now I cut for another,

much more substantial reason. 

I cut when I think I hear

a baby crying.  When I think

I hear Mama calling. 

Knowing those things

are impossible but hearing

them just the same. 

And that's something

I'll never break down

and admit to anyone

but myself. 

Bipolar crazy is one thing. 

Schizophrenic is another. 

Could I have inherited both? 

## I Sit at the Back

Of the dining-room-turned-

chapel.  It's the only room

big enough to accommodate

all of us.  And attendance

is mandatory.  Do they really

think they're saving souls? 

If so, my suggestion

would be not to bother. 

In my admittedly

limited knowledge of religion,

desire to change is a requirement. 

Glancing around the room,

I can find only a few

who might qualify. 

Justin, of course. 

A couple of girls whose

names I don't know,

with beatific grins

lighting their plain faces. 

And—this is weird—Tony,

who's sitting two rows up. 

It seems to me that "gay"

and "God" make strange

bedfellows, in the most

figurative sense, of course. 

But Tony seems caught up

in the drama of the morning—

singing hymns, praying

the Our Father, listening

raptly to the sermon, a ramble

straight out of Revelations. 

There's a lot more to Tony

than what's on the surface,

that's for sure. 

Wonder how deep I'd

have to dig to find

it all. 

## Conner

## Mandatory Church Services

What other surprises does

Level One have in store? 

I don't believe in God,

don't believe in the devil. 

Unless you want to count

my mother.  She might be

Satan's sister, I suppose. 

What other explanation

could there be for someone

sizzling hot on the outside,

yet frozen solid beneath

the skin.  Not quite human. 

Anyway, I get to wear

my wrinkled Ralph Lauren. 

It's worse than I thought,

having stayed crinkled against

the back of the drawer

going on a dozen days now. 

At least my Dockers aren't

showing signs of mistreatment. 

Whatever.  It's good to be

out of sweats, feeling half

human again.  I arrive just

as the minister says, Let's

get started.  Turn your eyes

to the Lord, fill your hearts

with gladness, reach out for

your heavenly reward. 

He's a poster board preacher

and I hate him already. 

I spy an empty chair in

back, suddenly glad I'm late. 

## I Sit Beside Vanessa

I can't believe the chump

on my right left a place

next to her for me.  I settle

in as the brainwashed recite

a well-worn prayer, not

completely foreign to me:

Our father, who art in heaven,

hallowed be thy name . . . 

It's not like I've never

been to church before. 

My parents make us go

on holidays, fighting sin

twice every year—the day

Mary gave birth, the day

her son died, so the stories

go.  All to save me?  Right. 

Vanessa leans over,

sweeping my cheek with

an auburn wisp.  I'd rather

be sleeping, she whispers. 

She smells of industrial-

strength soap, but so do I.

At least we're clean.  I notice

the length of her skirt,

which covers too much, if

you ask me.  One slender

arm comes to rest on one

knee, and at the wrist, a few

drops of blood, scarlet

clues to the mystery

that is Vanessa.  I lean

back, watch her secret ooze. 

## After the Last Amen

We're allowed some time

to mingle, guys and girls

together as if, now holy, not

a single indecent thought

could cross our commingled

minds.  Vanessa's knee brushes

mine, raising some quite improper

thoughts.  A voice reminds

me we're not exactly alone. 

Good morning!  Hope I'm

not interrupting.  Tony's eyes

fall, a warning to Vanessa

to hide her wrist.  But she

doesn't, maybe because

she doesn't care, or maybe

she just doesn't see. 

He reaches out, touches

her arm.  What's this, sweet

lady?  He disguises concern

with charm.  Unexpected. 

Vanessa snatches her arm

away.  Nothing.  No worries. 

I poked myself with a fingernail. 

Her eyes betray the lie. 

Tony and I exchange

a glance, brimming with disbelief. 

But we know it's a delicate

dance and keep our mouths

shut. 

## Tony

## 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. 

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? 

## 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." 

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." 

## 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." 

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. 

## Vanessa

## 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. 

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. 

## 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. 

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. 

## 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. 

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. 

## Conner

## 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

"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. 

## 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's 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

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. 

## 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. 

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. 

## Tony

## An 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. 

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. 

## 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

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. 

## Mr. Hidalgo Clears His 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. 

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? 

## Vanessa

## 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 towelhead"

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. 

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. 

## The Third Reason Is Mama

Everything always comes back

to her, doesn't it? 

Plenty of times, tripping

around town, no meds to stabilize

her schizophrenic mood shifts,

she looked like a regular

lunatic—the kind that sleeps

in the park, digging through

trash cans for dinner

and talking to pigeons

like they can talk back. 

In fact, she did all those things. 

Sometimes cops will look

the other way.  Other times,

bad day or whatever, they decide

to roust "the wackos,"

rough them up, haul them in,

whatever their mood dictates. 

Once in a while, if the wacko

takes offense and puts up

some sort of a defense,

the cop goes overboard. 

More than once, Mama

came home with bruises. 

But what if one of those

times, she never came

home at all, and no one

knew where she'd been

taken to?  She's got red hair,

green eyes, no ties to the Middle

East.  But under the Patriot

Act, everyone is fair game. 

I have no problem with

increasing security to keep

this country safe. 

But how do we decide

who poses a threat? 

And—bigger question—

who decides? 

## Mr. Hidalgo Comes Over

You haven't written anything,

Vanessa.  Having a hard time

getting started? 

I could tell him everything

I've just been thinking,

but that would take us all

the way to lunch. " Just

organizing my thoughts. 

I tend to do most of my

writing inside my head." 

He smiles.  Okay.  But don't

let it get lost inside there. 

I'd like a first draft today. 

I glance around

the classroom.  Conner

is already finished. 

I can tell by the satisfied

expression on his face. 

Tony is scribbling away. 

Guess he knows what

he wants to say. 

Others are chewing

pencils, staring off

into space.  I don't want

to look as scattered

as they do, so I start:

Once we believed ourselves

safe from attack, here on our

home turf, hallowed ground. 

The events that occurred

on September 11, 2001,

altered our "pie in the sky"

view.  The sad fact is, no one

is completely safe.  We're all

going to die someday.  What's

important is how we choose

to live until the day of our judgment

comes. . . . 

## Conner

## Six Weeks in Aspen Springs

The doctors say I'm making

progress, however they

define that.  I'm mostly

over Emily, I guess,

so something inside me

has changed.  I no longer

feel mad with desire for her,

deranged by my inability

to see her, talk to her.  I

haven't heard what happened

after she broke down, admitted

guilt.  Not a single word,

though I've begged Dr. Boston

to ignore the rules, confide

details of Em's self-imposed

destruction.  Despite our rapport,

she maintains, You know I can't

do that, Conner.  It could

adversely affect your therapy. 

Please don't pursue this further. 

Once I even went so far as

to reach across her desk,

rest my hand lightly on hers,

and say, "Then teach me how

not to care about someone

who was everything to me. 

All I want is to know she's

okay.  Is that too much to ask?" 

She flinched but didn't move

her hand.  No.  But it's more

important that we talk

about you.  Understand? 

## The Only Way

To find my answers, learn

anything more, is to do

what it takes to let Level

Three take me out the front door. 

Even supervised outings

should give me the chance

to make a covert phone call. 

Until then, I'll play "good." 

I've swallowed most of my

pride, dressed down in sweats,

showered naked with creeps,

some of them way too obsessed

with checking out other guys. 

It's worse than any football

locker room, because while

jocks can be crude, perverse

even, they all have girlfriends

waiting outside.  These losers

have no one but each other,

one reason I haven't tried

to buddy up too close. 

Still, I stay cordial.  No

need to make enemies. 

Besides, halfway going

along with the Aspen Springs

game plan has netted me

Level Two.  Unimpressive. 

Funny, I never regretted not

learning Ping-Pong until

now.  Even Stanley can beat

me, and I haven't a clue

how—he's too fat to move fast,

so it must have more to do

with spin.  Whatever.  Losing

every game to Stanley

is beginning to wear thin. 

## So I'm Pushing Hard

To graduate to Level

Three.  I've kept my nose

to the grindstone in school,

stroked my way past Dr. B.

Now I've just got to convince

Dr. Starr.  The bulldog is

waiting for me right now,

sitting as far back from

the patient's chair as the wall

will allow, as if "suicidal"

were contagious.  Working

the bulldog takes more than skill. 

It takes subtlety. " Good

afternoon, Dr. Starr.  You

look lovely in that shade

of maroon."  Okay, not great. 

She grimaces.  Let's get down

to business, Mr. Sykes. 

When we last left off, we

were discussing your sister. 

I don't want to talk about

Cara, but we're playing

by Dr. Starr's rule book. 

I shut my eyes, see my twin's

face, so like my own—soft,

toffee brown hair; startling

hazel eyes; skin the color

of coffee with lots of cream. 

"She's really very beautiful. 

Takes after our mother,

outside and in.  Meaning

she's a bitch."  My heart aches,

remembering. 

## Tony

## Commotion in the Hall

Voices.  Shouts.  Shuffling

feet and the scratch of claws

against linoleum.  Dogs

can mean only one thing—

a drug search.  I stick my

head out the door, looking

for the source of all this

excitement.  Uniforms,

with real guns attached. 

Two German shepherds,

sniffing along the

corridor, asking to go

inside rooms which, one

by one, empty.  Guys,

some half-dressed. 

Girls, ditto.  Which most

definitely makes an

impression on the guys. 

Hey, Dahlia, calls dim-

wad Stanley.  Nice pair

of tits you got there. 

Hey, Stanley, she

yells back.  Same to

you,

but more of them! 

Despite the situation,

everyone has to laugh. 

Everyone, that is, except

Todd, who has just been

led out of his room,

face in his metal-cuffed

hands, by a tall deputy

and a short German

shepherd.  I thought

he seemed buzzed

the last time I saw him,

but didn't go there at all. 

## As Todd Is Marched Away

The search continues. 

He may have shared

his contraband, after

all.  Meanwhile, Paul

and Kate appear.  Half-

dressed or fully clothed,

we're herded toward

the dining room, where

we're instructed to wait

until the operation is

over.  A sting, in Reno's

premier RTC—residential

treatment center. 

The press will love

this one, not that it's

so uncommon.  I've even

seen drugs delivered

to inmates at the juvenile

detention center—

left by a Dumpster

within semi-easy

reach behind the chain-

link fence surrounding

the exercise yard. 

Paul and Kate pace

nervous circles around

the loosely grouped

Aspen Springs flakes. 

Out in the hallway,

I hear the muffled

voices of the younger

kids—all under twelve—

who live in a different

wing.  Most of them have

suffered abuse: physical,

sexual, or (please specify) other. 

## Which Takes Me Back

Home to Ma, a string

of "uncles" and their

friends.  Reno, small

as it is, is home to a wide

variety of perverts. 

Think how many there

must be on this poor,

sick planet!  The worst

part is, since scientists

tell us perverts beget

perverts, you almost

have to feel sorry for them. 

Perverts aren't born—

they're created.  I wish

I could give every kid

the kind of childhood

I didn't have—one filled

with toys, warmth, love. 

Speaking of love,

here comes Vanessa. 

Not only do I love

her, but, funny as it

sounds, I think I'm

in love with her.  Crazy! 

But how else can I

explain the way I break

out in a sweat when

she's near, the way

I look for opportunities

to make that happen? 

Hey, Tony, she almost

sighs.  Too bad about

Todd, huh?  I thought

he was over all that. 

And as she talks, I

shiver at a cool hint

of sweat. 

## Vanessa

## I Watch Tony

Listen to the voices

of the little kids, out in the hall. 

A strange expression creeps

across his face.  I wonder

what he's thinking,

but my intuition whispers

it's one of those things

he'd rather not talk about. 

At least not yet. 

So I make small talk

about Todd. " It's sad how

people give their lives

to meth.  I mean, if you're

going to kill yourself,

there are faster ways

than letting something

chew up your brain

one lobe at a time." 

Tony shrugs.  Do enough

crank, your heart will give

up before your brain does. 

Most people don't

do enough to die, though. 

They just do enough

to keep getting more

and more stupid. 

"Like stupid enough

to smuggle meth into

a place like this?" 

Exactly.  What was

the guy thinking? 

Now he'll do serious

lockup, and that

ain't pretty.  Trust me. 

## The Funny Thing Is

I do trust Tony.  But why? 

A gay guy, from the wrong

side of town, who I only

met a few weeks ago? 

Why do I feel like

I've known him forever? 

Were we friends

in another lifetime? 

I've read about reincarnation. 

(Had to hide the books so

Mama wouldn't find them—

she'd have skinned me alive!) 

It doesn't sound so unreasonable. 

So I ask, "Do you believe

in reincarnation?" 

Tony shivers.  I'm not

sure what I believe in,

Vanessa, other than there

has to be a better reason

for living than what I've

seen so far. 

Such an incredible waste

of energy, to work your ass

off for sixty years,

then shrivel up, die,

and be nothing more

than a memory—if you're

lucky enough to leave someone

behind who will remember you. 

There must be more. 

Don't you think? 

Well, that conversation

took a sudden sharp turn. 

I look him in the eye,

find total sincerity and a need

for someone to share his

universal questioning. 

"Sure, Tony.  I think

there's more. 

I just wonder if

it's 'here'

or 'out there.' " 

## Speaking of Out There

Stanley has cornered

a short, zitty guy, who

he keeps calling "Flea." 

Paul moves in, yelling

for Stanley to shut the hell up

and go sit this one out. 

Flea retreats to a corner

to smirk in Stanley's

direction, which stirs

everything up again. 

Stanley stands, heads

in Flea's direction. 

Paul goes after Stanley,

warning, You're going to

be sorry, shithead. 

Kate moves toward

Flea, warning, If he

goes down, you go down. 

Tony pushes me back

toward the wall. 

This is going to be ugly. 

Stay behind me. 

He's right, as Paul

wrestles Stanley down,

leveraging one fat body

with his own not-so-svelte one. 

The room dissolves into howls

as Flea moves forward,

Ha-ha, asshole. 

And Kate takes him

down, easy as pie. 

What did I tell you? 

I start to cry because

this place is insane, and if

I'm here, I must be insane too. 

Tony turns, wraps his arms

around me.  Don't cry,

Vanessa.  Everything's okay. 

I'll always be here

for you. 

## Conner

## Now I Could Tell

A sordid tale of one

twin envying another,

of relentless competition,

even money on the win

until we were old enough

to learn the finer points

of cheating.  You'd think

getting caught might concern

us.  Not!  Both of us had one

real goal in mind: attention,

especially from Dad, who seemed

to think his familial role

was demanding respect. 

It's hard to respect someone

who outlines expectations

without regard to feasibility. 

But I'm not going there,

so I'll try to placate

the bulldog. " Cara is bright,

I won't deny that.  What I

don't understand is why

she feels the need to one-up

me, from clothes to stereos

to the finest wheels good

old Dad's money can buy. . . ." 

Just as I decide maybe

there's more to the story

I'd like to confide after all,

Dr. Starr's telephone rings. 

One minute . . .  uh-huh . . .  oh! 

On my way.  Sorry, Conner. 

Looks like we're done for the day. 

## Dr. Starr Jumps Up

Almost overturns her big

armchair, moves swiftly

across to the door.  Something

major has happened somewhere

in the building, that's for sure. 

Who knew the bulldog could

move so fast?  I wonder what

I should do—stay or follow? 

As if reading my mind, she

demands, Hurry up, Conner. 

She sprints down the hall,

pumping her hands forward

and back.  Stay right behind

me and don't interfere. 

Then, to herself, What were

they thinking?  This isn't TV! 

Dogs, cops, and takedowns—

grandstanding!  And tomorrow

is visiting day.  How many

parents will be understanding? 

Dogs, cops, and takedowns? 

And I missed all that, under

interrogation by Dr. Starr—

our weekly one-on-one tryst? 

She swings a wide right toward

the dining hall, mutters

under her breath, Damn if I'll

take the fall for this one. 

## Not Again

This room is a setting

for lunacy.  Paul and Kate

have a couple of guys down

on the floor.  One is Stanley. 

That dude is a walking

time bomb, always ready

to detonate, even when

his demeanor is calm. 

So there he is, under Paul's

substantial knee.  Little Kate

has proven she's more than

the mouse she appears to be. 

And to my right, just inside

the door, Tony is holding

Vanessa like they're an item. 

There's definitely more

to that relationship than

one might guess.  As Dr. Starr

storms into the room, they pull

apart, press back against the wall. 

I join them. " So, did you guys

get to see any of the action? 

I was stuck in the confessional. 

Can you tell me what happened?" 

We're guessing it was a meth

bust, Tony says.  They hauled

Todd out of here in handcuffs. 

The rest is just Stanley. 

We watch Dr. Bellows

and Dr. Starr extricate

Stanley from Paul's grasp. 

Another bizarre day at

Aspen Springs. 

## Tony

## Rumors Travel past

We hear from Justin,

who heard from Dahlia,

who heard from who

knows who, that Todd's

supplier was his brother,

who stashed the meth

in a hollow-handled

toothbrush.  How this

deception was discovered

will be debated for weeks. 

"Probably a random pee

test, don't you think?" 

That, or his brother

got busted and turned

narc, Conner says. 

Vanessa has another

theory.  Maybe guilt

got the best of him. 

Conner and I just laugh. 

"Cranksters rarely feel

guilty about what they do. 

More likely, he felt proud

of himself—smug, even—

for getting away with it." 

Yeah, until the dog came

through the door, Conner

adds.  Then he probably

felt like a total dumb shit. 

Jeez, he'd already made

Level Three, hadn't he? 

"Yes, and hey, guess what! 

I did too.  Dr. Boston

told me yesterday." 

Me too, says Vanessa. 

I hope that means

a trip out of here soon. 

## I Don't Tell Them

The one condition

of my newly acquired

Level Three status—

a successful interaction

with my father, who's

coming to visit tomorrow. 

To quit stressing over

the thought, I ask,

"Do you have visitors coming?" 

Vanessa answers, My

grandma will be here. 

Can't wait to see her. 

Conner nods, stiff

as a mannequin.  My

mother has finally

agreed to come.  I'd rather

not see her, but have to,

to make Level Three. 

"You haven't seen

her yet?  How long

have you been here?" 

Six weeks, give or take. 

She hasn't even asked

to see me until now. 

Vanessa snorts.  Sounds

like your mom is almost

as wonderful as mine. 

"Neither of them could

be half as screwed

up as mine was," I say. 

We'll have to compare

notes one day, Conner

says.  You in, Vanessa? 

Face the color of death,

she replies, Talking about

Mama makes her real. 

## Major Insight

In only six words. 

"Well, someday

we'll swap stories." 

I offer Vanessa my most

engaging smile, and

she tries to return it. 

Conner plays the game,

plays it well.  No need

to swap, really.  I've

got stories enough for

all of us.  And if I include

my dad, that will keep us

entertained for hours. 

Oh, hey.  Speaking of

entertainment, here

come the fine doctors,

looking rather distressed. 

Suppose dinner will be late? 

I'd say that's a given. 

Drs.  Starr and Bellows

sweep across the room,

faces red and chests

puffing.  Bodies move

to let them by, a wave

of agitation.  All right,

everyone, back to your

rooms, commands Dr. Starr. 

Dinner will be a little

late tonight, but I promise

you won't go hungry. 

She's a regular sweetheart! 

People begin to shuffle

past, and as Vanessa

moves to join them, I

reach for her hand. 

"Remember—you're not

alone." 

## Just Another Day

Trying to keep my head

above water—the azure water

I'm sliding down into now. 

Too much confusion. 

Too much upset. 

Too much time

without a mood adjuster. 

I'm sure I'm not

the only one, either. 

The Pill Patrol better

put it in high gear. 

Conner says he's been

here for six weeks,

which means I've been here

at least seven, maybe

closer to eight. 

And I don't feel better. 

Don't feel healed. 

Don't feel clearer. 

I could stay in a place

like this forever

and never get well. 

You're not alone, Tony says,

and I believe

he believes that. 

I'm here for you. 

And I want to

believe that, too. 

Don't cry, Vanessa. 

But I can't

help crying now. 

## I Will Admit

Through flowing tears

that Tony has become

more than a friend to me. 

He's a bright planet

in the dark morning

sky of my existence. 

Somehow seeing him,

even with his varied flaws,

buoys me with hope. 

I am better for knowing him. 

Conner, too, although he's more

like a faraway star, brilliant,

but cold in his distance;

beautiful in his perfection,

but likely to burn too brightly,

snuff himself out. 

I wonder where he came

from, what random joining

of energies created

such complexity. 

My mother finally asked

to see me, Conner said,

and I wonder

what kind of

mother she is. 

I'd rather not see her at

all, but have to. . . . 

Now that I

can relate to

completely. 

If I include stories about

my dad, we'll be entertained . . . 

Stories about

Daddy are the stuff

movies are made of. 

## One Time He Came Home

For Christmas—an unusual

event in itself.  We probably

saw him on holidays

two or three times over the years. 

We worked and worked

to make the house beautiful

with paper chains, tinsel,

dollar-store candles, candy canes,

and a homemade gingerbread village. 

Daddy arrived on Christmas Eve,

arms laden with presents—wrapped

in newspaper, cheered by colorful bows. 

We wanted to open them right

then and there, but he made

us wait until morning,

because the best things

are worth waiting for. 

We woke, filled with anticipation,

ran to the Christmas tree. 

Daddy turned us around,

made us march down the hall

with respect for the meaning

of the day. 

We sat on the floor, newspaper-

wrapped presents in our laps,

imagining all the wonderful

things inside.  We opened them carefully,

peeling back layers of newsprint

until we reached the boxes,

sliced the Scotch tape with our fingernails,

lifted the flaps, and each of us found . . . 

One MRE (Meal, Ready to Eat—

turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce,

in foil pouches); one Hershey bar;

and a handful of bullet casings,

because this is what

my men are getting today. 

And one more thing: a scrap of paper

with a hand-scrawled

I love you,

Dad. 

## Conner

## Tossing and Turning

Every lump in this mattress

a boulder against my back,

every wrinkle in the sheets

a two-by-four in my shoulder,

sleep denied by the fear

of what tomorrow's visit

will bring.  I squeeze my eyes

shut, try to focus instead

on the events of today,

find some relief, conjuring

Vanessa's face.  But then

visions of another face come,

black-and-white, frame by

frame, like in an old film noir. 

Dark, my love for her was very

dark, a source of secret shame. 

I get out of bed, go to

the window, look out on

a surreal scene—moonlight,

and in its muted glow, hints

of lacy flakes.  Late March,

and snowing.  Spring skiers

will be happy, but for me

it means a growing sense

of claustrophobia.  To

sleep, I swallow Ativan. 

Dr. B prescribed it when I

told her how nightmares keep

me awake.  Every evening,

they bring me two.  Usually,

I take one, stash the other. 

Tonight I pray three will do. 

## A Voice Rouses Me

It's Kate, rattling my bars. 

Wake up, Sykes.  It's almost

eight and you missed breakfast. 

Dr. Starr will give you a break

this time, mostly because

your parents are coming

today.  Usually, missing

a meal will score you a

level drop.  I know you

don't want that, so haul

your ass out of bed.  Her

arrogant tone is a taunt. 

I rouse myself, try to

clear the Ativan fog,

lifting inside my head,

leaving fear in its place. 

Dreams I cannot remember

have stirred another part of

me.  I decide to let Kate see. 

Without a word, I toss back

the blankets and climb from

bed, pajamas pointing stiffly

in Kate's direction.  She just

smiles.  Was it something I said? 

Your parents arrive at nine. 

I suggest you get rid of that,

one way or another, then get

dressed in something decent. 

No problem.  I need neither

palm nor cold shower to

shrivel me instantly. 

My mom is on her way. 

## Nine A.M. Exactly

I knock on Dr. Starr's door. 

Voices inside fade to black. 

Despite the rumpled Lauren,

I reach for some semblance of pride. 

Come in, Conner, calls Dr.

Starr, but my slippery hand

fumbles the knob and it's

Dad, on the far side of the door,

who opens it, pulling me

through and right up against

him.  It's the closest we've ever

been, two strangers touching. 

Immediately, he comes to

his senses, jerks backward. 

H-hello, son.  Good to see you. 

Every muscle tenses, as if

I might try to hug him or

something perverse like that. 

"Hello, Dad," I answer, also

shifting into a quick reverse. 

Will you please come inside and

close the door?  Mom gives me

a cold once-over.  I see you haven't

learned to care for your clothes. 

My face ignites and words

steam from my mouth before

I can stop them. " And I see

you're still a supreme bitch." 

She doesn't even blink.  Even

a female dog wants her puppies

clean and wrinkle-free—unless,

of course, she's a Shar Pei. 

Touché. 

## Tony

## Breakfast Is Cold

Well, okay, the eggs

are almost lukewarm,

but the butterlike

substance won't melt

on the toast.  Everything

gags me, trying to go down. 

The mood is cool, too. 

Too much excitement

yesterday plus a late

med delivery.  If everyone

else feels like me, we

all want to go back to bed. 

And then, of course,

we have visiting day

to deal with.  I guess

a few of these freakazoids

might like seeing their

families come Saturday. 

But my hunch is most

of them find themselves

here because of the scene

back home.  Someone

had to check them in—

like who would volunteer? 

Across the room, Vanessa

picks at her eggs, like she's

looking for bugs.  She's

sitting alone, like she always

does.  Funny, 'cause most

of the girls buddy up like hens. 

I wonder what pain she's

got bottled up inside, what

secrets she refuses to tell. 

I wonder if making her

mother "real" is the only

thing she's afraid of. 

## I've Got My Own

Fears to face in a few

minutes, the main one

being I'll blow it again. 

I didn't even realize how

pissed I was at my dad

until we were three feet apart. 

Anthony, boy, you got

the Ceccarelli temper,

Ma always used to say. 

Be careful, or it will

burn you out early,

just like your father. 

One of the few things

I do remember about

him, in fact, was his

temper.  He'd come

home to Ma's less-than-

mediocre housekeeping,

throw down his briefcase. 

Emma?  Turn off the TV

and get your ass out

here.  What exactly

do you do all day,

besides soap operas? 

That was when he thought

soap operas was all she did. 

I knew about her playing

around years before he did. 

Came home from school

more than once to hear

bedsprings squeaking,

disgusting human noises. 

Once or twice I got brave

enough to crack the door

and peek inside to see

what no kid ever should. 

## But That's a Different Story

Than the one I'm going

to tell now, with Dr. Boston

mediating this time. 

Please come in, Tony,

she says.  Sit right over

there, next to your father. 

He doesn't stand this

time, the "no hug" rule

in effect. " Hello, Dad." 

Hello, Anthony.  First,

I want to apologize

for

the last time I was here. 

I shrug. " No worries. 

We both have some

things to work through." 

That's why we're here,

chirps the Widow.  Let's

start with you, Tony. 

Can you tell us, in one

sentence, why you're so

angry at your father? 

One sentence, to sum

up years of resentment? 

I will not cry!  Will not! 

"Because he chose not

to be part of my life, not even

when I needed him the most." 

Fair enough.  Can you

respond to that in one

sentence, Mr. Ceccarelli? 

Dad thinks a second. 

I stayed away

because I

couldn't stomach the guilt. 

Communication. 

## Vanessa

## Breakfast Is Lousy

But even if it were perfect,

I couldn't taste a thing. 

I'm neither up nor down

today, just cruising in shades

of gray—a cold, colorless

place, something like

being dead, I guess. 

Maybe I am dead

and just don't know it yet. 

Some people say ghosts

don't know they're dead,

so they keep moving

through the same old

buildings, the same old

streets, trying to talk

to people there, to find

out why they can waltz

through plaster walls

like they're water. 

I think that would give

me a pretty good clue. 

Far as I know, I can't

pass through a wall. 

Think I should try? 

Enough, already.  I add

my plate to the "scrape

and rinse" stack, almost

wishing they would give

me kitchen duty—unlikely,

considering my passion

for sharp instruments. 

But it would give me something

to concentrate on besides

seeing Grandma in an hour

or so.  It makes her so sad

to visit me here. 

And that makes me sad. 

Sad, and cruising gray. 

## I Go Back to My Room

Think about trying

to walk through the wall,

opt for the door instead;

dig through my drawers

for my favorite denim

skirt and a light blue cotton

blouse, long-sleeved;

lay them out on the bed,

as if I were in them. 

Before I change, there's

something I have to do. 

The bandage is long gone

from my left hand, and my fingers

almost work right again. 

There's a pretty scar,

like little knots, joining

hand to arm.  If I cut there,

I'll ruin the artwork. 

I look at my right wrist,

wearing a bracelet

of little scabs.  Can't cut

there.  Someone will see. 

Through the gray haze,

a cloud of frustration rises. 

But I've got a new secret

weapon.  Yesterday, when

all was in chaos, I noticed

an empty Coke can in a wastepaper

basket.  No one

observed as I reached

down, extracted the pull top. 

I remove it from its hiding

place beneath my dresser. 

Run one finger lightly

over its lovely saw-

toothed edge.  Place

it on the fold line inside

my left elbow.  Close my

eyes and let it bite.  Easy

now, a shallow cut is all

I need to slice through the gray. 

## Five After Eleven

I walk into Dr. Starr's office,

dressed in the clean denim skirt

and blue cotton blouse,

smiling at the deception,

wrapped in toilet paper,

hidden beneath long sleeves. 

Grandma comes over,

gives me a hug, and I

hope she doesn't wonder

why I don't hug back

with much enthusiasm. 

You look so pretty today,

Vanessa.  Blue suits you. 

Dr. Starr interrupts the syrupy

stuff.  Your grandmother

and I have been talking,

Vanessa.  Please have a seat. 

Now, why haven't you

told me about your mother? 

I feel the smile slip from

my face but don't know

exactly how to respond. 

"Wh-what about her,

exactly?"  I bend my left

arm, squeeze tightly, wince

at the beautiful pain. 

You never mentioned

her BPD.  Bipolar disorder

happens to be genetic. 

Did you know that? 

She waits for me to nod. 

It's also very treatable. 

So why haven't you

said anything? 

I smile at the throb

in the crook of my

left arm. " You never

asked." 

## Conner

## Postcards from Home

That's what my parents' visit

reminded me of.  Dad talked

about my straight-A status,

my goal of a law degree. 

He must maintain his GPA,

agreed Mom.  I expect you'll

see to it, Dr. Starr.  I feel

the need to underline that. 

That was funny—Mom

made the bulldog blink. 

That will be up to Conner,

I'm afraid, Mrs. Sykes. 

Dad talked about sports. 

He's a star running back. 

I hope this experience

won't bar him from playing. 

Conner will have to remain

on medication for some

time.  His coach will drug-

test—

that's a foregone conclu

sion. 

And that made Mom blink. 

Medication?  What do you

mean?  Surely you have no

expectation we'll allow

him to use drugs?  That

goes against everything

we stand for as parents. 

Who knows how he'd end up? 

Dr. Starr cleared her throat. 

Conner is suffering from

severe depression. 

Prescription

medication is his best

hope. 

## Did They Even Know

I was in the room?  Did

they care? " Hello, everyone. 

Conner to Earth.  Are any

of you even aware

that I'm sitting right here? 

Quit talking about me like

I don't belong in this

conversation.  Don't you get

that in the space of just

a few months I'll be all

by myself, out on my own,

and none of you will matter?" 

Well spoken, if maybe

a bit blunt.  But it wasn't

a touchdown.  More like

an ineffectual punt. 

Mom picked up the ball at

a hard sprint.  I just don't

understand how you could

treat us with so little regard. 

We have standing in this

community, a reputation

to protect.  Did you expect

to act with impunity? 

"I'm sure you can't understand

this, Mom, but everything

isn't about you."  I looked her

in the eye, willed myself calm. 

"What I did had nothing to do

with you.  It was about letting

myself feel—desire, pain, fear. 

Emotions you don't permit." 

## Totally Straightforward

In fact, maybe as honest

as I've ever been, but did

they get it?  No frigging way. 

They'll never understand. 

At least the bulldog was cool. 

Let's all relax, shall we? 

Assigning blame and laying

guilt won't change the facts. 

Conner seems to be doing

well.  He has opened up

in therapy and I believe

he will excel in the classroom. 

What we need to work on

now is the family dynamic. 

But without your cooperation,

I don't see how that's possible. 

Mom reacted about as

expected.  We're here, aren't

we?  Don't you dare say that we have

neglected to cooperate. 

What I mean, Mrs. Sykes,

is that we must tone down

the rhetoric.  It's the only

way to mitigate confrontation. 

No more, no less, time was up. 

Dad reached for my hand, shook

it good-bye, just like a client. 

I'm glad you're making progress. 

Mom refused to look at me,

so I took the high road. " Bye,

Mom."  And as I turned to

go, Dr. Starr said, "Conner?  Level

Three." 

## Tony

## Guess My Level Three Status

Is safe for now.  It

was good to hear

from Dad's lips that he

took some blame

for the things that have

happened in my life. 

God knows there's

enough blame to go

around, Anthony,

he said.  But it breaks

my heart to know

that maybe I could

have made things

easier, saved you

pain.  I had it all

wrong last time,

Anthony, when I said

I could forgive you. 

See, I asked the Man

Upstairs for forgiveness. 

He told me I had to

ask you first.  Forgive

me, son, for not

being a father to you. 

It was like he dropped

a half ton of bricks,

straight into my belly. 

If God really had something

to do with this, how

could I say no?  On the other

hand, how could I be

sure, 1.  God did have

something to do with

it and, 2.  Dad really

meant what he said? 

"I need to think it over." 

## We Left It at That

Better than how we

left things last time,

for sure.  I even let

him give me a hug

good-bye.  It felt really

weird, uncomfortable

for both of us.  I think

I even held my breath,

and when he let go, I

felt numb, like he'd squeezed

me too hard.  Three

hours later I'm still numb. 

I don't know if I can

step forward, let go

of a decade of hard

feelings, even if God

does want me to. 

It's a damn hard test. 

Part of me says, What

the hell, give him a chance. 

It's not so much to ask. 

Another part screams,

Another chance to what? 

Screw you over again? 

This totally sucks.  I mean

I've been given something

I dreamed about for too

many years—the chance

to know my father again. 

So why can't I embrace him? 

Things were so much

easier when I was just

Tony, who nobody

cared about.  Maybe

not better, but for real—

a whole lot simpler. 

## Think I'll Wander

Down to the rec room. 

See who else has been

shredded today. 

Carmella waves as I

walk through the door. 

Hey, Tony.  What's shaking? 

"Nothing can shake

quite like you, dear. 

Love your blouse." 

She glances down at

the flawless turquoise

silk.  This ol' thing?  Thanks! 

Carmella is great—a

part-time house mother

at age twenty-three. 

My hunch is she won't

last long.  She cares

much too much about us. 

In fact, from what

I've heard, the burnout

rate for staff at places

like this is exactly

three years.  Seems

optimistic to me. 

I can't even imagine

dealing with a bunch

of emotional cripples,

not to mention a few

total wackos, day in,

day out, for three years. 

And so, Tony, calls sweet

Carmella, come here,

tell me about your day. 

Why not?  Who knows? 

Maybe she's got a

personal line to the Man

Upstairs. 

## Vanessa

## The Cat's Out of the Bag

Grandma told Dr. Starr

all about Mama's gear

shifting, and how she

ended up—minus my

relatively major part

in the soap opera, of course. 

Glad Grandma doesn't

know all my secrets. 

Vanessa is very protective

of her mother, Grandma

said.  She doesn't often

share information of

such a sensitive nature. 

None of us do, in fact. 

Her father would have

a conniption fit. 

I can understand wanting

to protect her privacy,

said Dr. Starr.  And I can

understand your wanting

to protect your grand-

daughter. 

However, we cannot make

real progress unless we

put

everything out in the

open,

so we know exactly what

we're dealing with. 

So now I will start a new

regimen of treatment. 

Lithium, here I come,

weight gain, runs, and all. 

But hey, I didn't break

down and confess. 

Grandma turned

traitor, not me. 

God love her. 

## And Through It All

No one noticed how

I kept my arm bent tight. 

Good thing, too. 

A thin, red line stains

my pretty blue blouse,

right at the crease

in the elbow.  Guess

I cut a little deeper

than I meant to. 

Better be careful. 

I'd hate for my arm

to drop off at dinner

or something.  Ha. 

A cold-water rinse

is called for, but I'd better

wait until later tonight,

when everyone's back

in their rooms and the bathroom

offers more privacy. 

Meanwhile, I change

back into my sweats,

Saturday red, same

as all the other Aspen

Springs residents.  Identity

isn't something they

encourage here. 

My shirt is barely over

my head, pants still

on the bed, when the door

opens suddenly. 

It's Paul, with goodies. 

His eyes immediately fall

to the V between my legs. 

Sorry for barging in, but

Dr. Starr wants you to start

on the lithium right away. 

Take this, then finish getting

dressed. 

## Conner

## Nothing's Different

Level Three.  Awesome,

movies, mall trips, maybe

a barbecue in the park—

small perks for facing up

to Mom.  Holy crap.  I'd

almost forgotten just what

a bitch that woman can

be, a rotten example

of humanity.  Wonder

if she has any, stashed

inside.  And Dad?  He was

only civil to free himself

of the nagging thought

that he might somehow be

responsible for the things

I've done.  Quite likely, Dad. 

His parting remark as I

closed the door was so

Dad-like.  Be sure to keep

an eye on your GPA. 

Still carping about my

grades, hoping I'll land

a scholarship so he won't

have to worry about coping

with an Ivy League tuition. 

A state university won't

do for dear old Dad.  No,

that's a fate worse than death. 

Wonder how he would have

felt if I'd done the deed

correctly.  I wonder if he

or Mom would even have cried. 

## Another Level Three Perk

Is holidays at home, but

I don't care about going

home for Easter or Fourth

of July.  It was a rare

occasion for us to

celebrate holidays

together, and certainly

not without debate over

stupid things like turkey

or ham; fireworks in Reno,

Tahoe, or Virginia City. 

Damn if I'll miss any of that. 

July.  Will I still be in this

place then?  Would I rather

be home, biding time in

a state of total disgrace? 

Would they leave me alone

long enough to call Emily? 

Would she take my call?  Could

I be strong if she didn't? 

Would she even be home? 

Or maybe she's moved away

from her husband, her students,

the hound dog press.  And me. 

How much does everyone

at school know?  Stupid question. 

The best-rehearsed denials

can't fool inquiring minds. 

My first day back will be hell—

the debris of my many

failures.  I wonder how

a GED affects GPA. 

## None of It

Has much affected my

appetite.  Dinner, I hear,

is served, and I plan to eat

every carb and fat-laden bite. 

Why worry about calories,

spare tires, lethargy?  Living

medicated allows me

not to care.  Anyway,

Level Three also affords

me the chance to exercise. 

Lifting until I ache or

jogging myself into a trance

are the best ways I can

think of to forget about

the big picture.  Straddling

the brink of exhaustion,

blood thumping in my ears. 

Clawing air, the only thing

worth worrying about,

drawing another breath. 

The very idea makes me high. 

God, I sound like a bipolar

lunatic.  Pack 'em on, pound

'em off.  I could cry, because

either way, it doesn't matter. 

Dinner table, here I come,

salivating at the spaghetti

and meatball perfume. 

Tony waves me over.  Hell,

why not?  We can trade tales. 

Hope his are as juicy as

the ones I've got.  Downright

messy. 

## Tony

## Spaghetti and Meat Blobs

Not even sure about

the "meat" part,

although they kind

of taste like dog

food.  Okay, like

dog food smells. 

I won't admit to

eating it, not out

loud.  Surprising,

the crap you'll eat

if you get hungry

enough.  Worse crap

than this, even, and this

is pretty damn bad—

Meatball-like Crap

in a Can.  Served

lukewarm over half-

cooked spaghetti. 

Jeez, Conner is sure

loading up his plate. 

I can't believe anyone

would want a double

helping of this. " Hey

Conner, come here." 

He sits across from me,

grinning like Alice's

goofball cat.  What's up? 

I point to his plate. " Not

much.  I just thought you

might want mine, too." 

Not sure I want this. 

I was starving until I

got an up-close look. 

## We Decide

All the parents must

have finished their

visiting early and

gone home long before

the kitchen got busy

reinventing dog food. 

I don't know if my

parents would have

been more horrified

or satisfied.  Conner

laughs.  My mom would

probably have puked. 

"We all may puke before

the evening is over.  Damn,

can you see it?  Marinara

and meat by-products,

splashed across stalls

and walls.  Yeah, man!" 

Conner wrinkles his nose. 

Well, I'm gonna chance

it.  My stomach is turning

cartwheels.  Catharsis

makes for a healthy

appetite, I guess. 

"Catharsis, eh?  Sounds

like you had an interesting

day.  Want to cough up

a few details?"  Of

course, turnabout's

fair play.  I don't mind. 

Sure, he says, around

a big, smooshy bite. 

Just give me a few

minutes to choke

down this delicious

Chef Boyar-Don't meal. 

## I Knew He Had

A wicked sense

of sarcasm—Conner's

brand of humor.  Mine

too, tell the truth. 

Maybe that's why I

like the guy.  No one

could be as straight-

arrow as the person

he lets the world see. 

Totally plugged up. 

That's how most people

would describe him. 

But there's a kernel

there . . .  something

worth trying to grow. 

Don't ask me what. 

Might be worth trying

to figure it out. 

He's giving the rundown

on visiting day. 

Dr. Starr gave me Level

Three, mostly I think

because I held my tongue

but still held my ground. 

Dad, at least, tried to

pretend he gave half

a damn.  Yeah, right. 

Mom will always

be the total uptight

c-u-you know what. 

Interesting, that he

doesn't just say

the word.  Some sort

of psychology there. 

Sheesh, who's the therapist

around here,

anyway? 

## Vanessa

## It's the first time I've

I've faced this situation. 

I feel violated.  Raped

by Paul's eyes.  I hold out

my hand and he drops

my new salvation into my

outstretched palm, eyes

barely lifting as he says,

It will take a few weeks

to really feel the effects,

so don't panic if your mood

swings intensify for a while. 

We'll keep you on the Prozac,

too, just in case. 

Oh, great.  Fixed and ruined

at the same time.  Oh, well. 

They're the experts. 

Like I really believe that. 

Dinner is everyone's favorite,

spaghetti à la Aspen Springs. 

Hurry up.  Wouldn't want

to miss out, would you? 

He backs away, eyes still

on a point somewhere around

three feet off the ground. 

"Thanks, Paul," I say,

turning my back to him. 

Not that I'm not positive

he's scoping out my butt

in exactly the same way. 

The door closes and I rush

to slide on my pants before

he decides he's forgotten

to tell me something. 

Then I take aim

at the dining room. 

## I Guess You Could

Call this mess of red starch

spaghetti.  Most of the girls

around me don't seem to care,

gulping it down like chocolate. 

Or maybe like something else. 

Check out my face, says

Dahlia.  What does it look

like I've been scarfing? 

Her grin is ringed a messy,

wet scarlet. 

You probably would,

too, answers Devon. 

Personally, I'd wait

at least a week. 

Gack!  Disgusting.  What

is it with these people? 

Thank goodness they don't

seem inclined to include

me in their sick banter. 

Just to prove me wrong,

Dahlia asks loudly,

What about you, Vanessa? 

You ever munch carpet? 

I consider the best way

to answer such a loaded,

leading question.  My usual

way of dealing with such

things is withdrawal.  Tonight,

something wicked comes

over me. " Never have, dear. 

Maybe because the first one

I ever saw looked so much

like yours.  Scared me to death." 

## The Table Busts Up

Dahlia's face flares. 

You sucking bitch. 

This is kind of fun. 

"No, sweetie, I just told

you I don't lean your

direction.  Of course, from

what I hear, you teeter-

totter.  Is that true?" 

Her mouth drops and she

stares at my face, no doubt

trying to figure out just what

has come over me.  Confusion

ping-pongs in her eyes. 

Wh-who told you that? 

This is really fun.  Can

it be the lithium, despite

Paul's prediction?  I don't

think so, so it must be

a bloom of mania.  I'm a long,

long way above blue. 

"Why, everyone.  Don't

you know about the room-

to-room gossip chain? 

'Trade you two mediocre

rumors for one really

good one about Dahlia.' " 

She could go either way. 

Perhaps thankfully, she chooses

the easy way.  Ha!  Who turned

you on, anyway, Vanessa? 

You're pretty funny

once you get going. 

Who knew you even

had a sense of

humor? 

## Conner

## The Girls' Side of the Room

Jacks up with laughter, and

it looks like lovely Vanessa

is involved.  Dahlia resembles

a cobra, ready to strike,

given just a bit more

provocation.  I wonder

what Vanessa said, and

what was her motivation

to poke a verbal stick

at such a reactive serpent. 

Her willingness to parry

makes her even more attractive. 

How fun, comments Tony. 

I think we're seeing a whole

other side of Vanessa.  Who'd

have guessed she could cause a stink? 

"All women have an evil

side.  One minute they've got

their tongue down your throat,

the next they slice you wide open." 

I don't have much experience

with the fair sex, but the ones

I have known have never given

me much trouble.  I swear, they

are much better friends than men. 

Of course, most men either

avoid me like the plague, or

swear their undying love. 

I smile. " Don't look at me. 

Love is for children and

dimwads."  Most of me felt

that way long before Emily. 

## But I Am Curious

"So . . .  have you ever slept

with a woman—tried a walk

on the 'other side'?  I mean,

have you always been gay?" 

I expect him to tell me what

most gay guys say—that it's

not a matter of choice,

that they were born that way. 

But he doesn't say anything,

not right away.  His face goes

blank while he thinks about

the right way to answer. 

I've never slept with a girl,

but I never really had

the chance.  I've spent a lot

of time in lockup.  I try

to believe that I was born

gay.  But I'm not really

sure that's true.  When I was

eight, this piece-of-slime boyfriend

of my ma's asked me to come

back into the bedroom to see

"something special."  You can

guess what he wanted to do. 

The only thing I knew about

sex before that was it made my

ma scream.  That day I screamed

too.  Ma chose to ignore it. 

Later she said it was all

my fault because I—no doubt

something genetic from my

dad's side—was a little faggot. 

Not long after, I was confined

with boys, looking to act like

men.  And there were a few guards

who used us for their sex toys. 

## Way Too Much Information

But hey, I asked, didn't I? 

I don't know what to say,

what to do.  Instinct tells me

to reach out and touch him, but no

way.  The other guys might get

the wrong impression.  Tony

might get the wrong impression. 

Suddenly I have a strong

urge to move to another

table.  What I don't understand

is how, despite the lurid tales

he recited, Tony seems so stable. 

Hey, sorry, man.  Didn't

mean to unload.  Not looking

for sympathy.  Hope what I

just told you stays between

you and me.  I haven't

even owned up to all that

in therapy.  Guess I've never

been quite stoned enough. 

"No problem, bro.  Who

would I tell, even if it was

important?"  And it's not. 

What the hell?  The best thing

about our conversation

is the realization that others

have problems as big as—or bigger

than—my own.  Mine are huge.  His

are insurmountable. 

## Tony

## What Got into Me? 

Like Conner needed—

or wanted—to know

any of that garbage. 

Jeez, fire me up, it's

hard to put me out. 

At least he didn't look

too put off by what

I said.  Wonder what

he'd think if I confessed

the rest.  I haven't

told anyone since

I spilled to Phillip. 

Conner almost gives

me no choice.  So what

did you do, man? 

I mean, why did they

lock you up?  And how

long were you in for? 

Should I go ahead

and tell him?  It

might make him

freak out completely. 

And I kind of like

having his company. 

I'm sick of holding it

inside, sick of it escaping

my head every night when

I dream.  Thank God for

Aspen Springs sleeping aids. 

I don't remember my dreams. 

I decide to compromise. 

"I was in for aggravated

assault on my ma's jerk-off

boyfriend.  I spent six

mother-humping years,

beating meat in juvie." 

## Conner's Sympathetic

Six years?  For that? 

he asks, eyes flashing

anger.  The asshole

deserved it.  Did you

happen to get your mom,

too?  She deserved more. 

"Why didn't I think

of that?"  It's a joke. 

I definitely thought

about it—I had lots

of spare time to create

great revenge fantasies. 

Still, "But she got hers

anyway.  It wasn't the next

boyfriend, or the one

after, or the one after that. 

But one of them nailed

her, first with his fists,

then with a hammer. 

It wasn't too long

after they let me out,

maybe a year.  By

then, I'd emancipated

myself.  No one missed me." 

Shit, man, you were

right.  Your mom

may have been even

more screwed up

than mine.  Hard to

believe that's possible. 

Maybe I will tell him

the rest after all.  But

not tonight.  I've tested

the water—calm water. 

Telling the rest will be

like testing a tsunami. 

## Think I'll Skip

"Recreating" tonight. 

My head is too full

of too many bad

memories.  On my

way back to my

room, I find Paul,

letting spaghetti

junk clog in my

throat.  I manufacture

a loogie, hawk

it into a napkin. 

"Hey, dude," I say,

"I think I'm coming

down with a cold. 

Can you bring me

something for it?" 

Sudafed and Halcyon

(my regular sleep helper

in this place) should

put me far beyond

the reach of nightmares. 

Have to clear it first,

Paul says.  Give me

a couple of minutes. 

It doesn't take long. 

In fact, I doubt he

cleared it with anyone,

but who cares?  He

pretended to do his

duty anyway. 

I gag down a big

spoon of the sticky

red syrup, chase it

with a little white pill,

lay down on the bed,

and wait for my head

to drift. 

## Vanessa

## TV Tonight

Was a rerun of Fear Factor. 

Every juvenile space cadet

really should watch six

adult space cadets, jumping

off buildings and eating

mouse entrails.  Mmmm. 

Looked just like the spaghetti. 

What was Carmella thinking? 

She's such a ditz, but at

least she bothers to relate,

unlike the other house

mothers—Linda, a hard

little woman of forty or so,

and Arlene, who must

be pushing seventy. 

Linda is all business—yes,

no, shut the hell up—and

totally capable of a takedown. 

Arlene lives in her own

oddball world, one she

dreamed up before my

parents were born. 

Guess she can't make

it on Social Security. 

But working here? 

She must be as crazy

as the rest of us. 

I sit at the window,

staring into the darkness,

waiting for everything

to fall completely quiet

before making a bathroom

run.  The inside of my

head feels like a blender,

whirling a strange

concoction of this

morning's Prozac

and this evening's lithium. 

## Enough Already

I really do need

to use the bathroom—

a likely side effect

from the blended mess

in my brain.  And how

will I ever sleep tonight? 

One problem at a time. 

I reach under my mattress,

extract the blouse,

stained red at the elbow,

stash it under my sweats. 

Then I open the door,

poke my head into

the hall. " May I go to

the bathroom, please?" 

No answer.  Unusual. 

Someone is always

monitoring the cameras

in the corridors.  I decide

to go anyway, plead

diarrhea if I'm caught. 

The girls' bathroom

is five doors down,

on the left.  You have

to ask for permission

to go because once you're

inside, they kind of have

to give you some privacy,

at least in the stalls. 

I go on in, turn on the cold

water, and as I start

to rinse my sleeve,

I notice I'm

not alone. 

## One Stall, Four Feet

That's what the mirror

reveals, and a volley

of shushes at the sound

of water in the sink. 

One pair of feet quickly

lifts, and as I watch,

it comes to me the shoes

look awfully large

to belong to a girl. 

That, and the soles

are facing out, heels up. 

I make a big deal of

drying my hands, loudly

wadding the paper towels

and tossing them in the trash. 

Then I go to the door, open

and shut it without exiting. 

Quick!  You're squashing

me.  Dahlia's voice. 

Just a minute.  I'm

not finished.  Paul's. 

Well, hurry up.  We're

gonna get busted. 

Whoever that was

shouldn't have been

here.  She didn't

get permission. 

So what are you going

to do?  Bust her? 

No wonder no one

was manning the cameras. 

Paul was manning Dahlia. 

Ugh.  I make a quick escape

before he does finish. 

And only when I'm back

in my room do I remember

that I really do have to go

to the bathroom.  Like, right

now. 

## Conner

## Today We Have a Visitor

In the classroom.  I get there

a few minutes before nine,

overhear her conversing with

Mr. Hidalgo, who whispers

behind the half-closed door.  These

kids are the best of the worst—

bright, capable underachievers. 

It's truly bizarre

that they end up here.  For

some it's addiction, for

others, abuse.  A few simply

succumb to depression. 

The others arrive.  We push

inside.  It's the perfect chance

to rub up against Vanessa, one

I decide to take advantage of. 

Nice, how the top of her head

nests perfectly under my chin. 

I want to let my hands circle

her waist, lift to her small breasts. 

Something stirs, for the first

time in weeks, and it has

nothing to do with Emily—

or a taste for expert sin. 

Vanessa can't help but

react.  Unusual way

to say hello, Conner. 

Rather overt, in fact. 

But she doesn't pull away,

or move my hand from the curve

of her back.  And both of us

understand the meaning of that. 

## Flushed to My Core

I walk stiffly to my seat. 

Stiff, yeah, that's it, okay. 

Three rows over, Vanessa

smiles, and I wonder if

she's feeling a little "stiff"

too.  No time to think about

it now.  Mr. Hidalgo clears

his throat, ready to do his thing. 

We have someone special

here today.  Ms. Littell is

an artist-in-residence,

and we're going to hear

from her all about how to

write great poetry.  No groans. 

I'm sure you all have what it

takes to create a poem. 

Ms. Littell draws herself

up real straight.  Teaching

us posture, too?  Or trying

to feel more in control? 

She talks about herself

for ten minutes—who she is,

what she does, how well

published she is.  Then she

rambles on for another

half hour about what makes

a poem good—word choice,

the power of metaphor. 

Finally she instructs,

Write a poem about your

happiest memory. 

Excite me with your words. 

## Excite Her? 

Was she talking to me? 

Not if she expects that to

happen over my happiest

memory, whatever that

might be.  I sit, dissecting

my childhood, think about

holidays and vacations,

most of them good enough

if you measure by toys,

clothes, cool things to do, but

can things really make you

happy?  I suppose some

people think so.  I remember

one time spending a week

with a friend.  His family

didn't have much.  Except fun. 

The concept stunned me.  Fun, with

his mom and dad?  Fun, with

his sister?  He even had fun

with his grandparents.  Mine bore

me to death—the two that are

still alive, anyway.  Dad's

parents died before I was born,

left him a mint in their will. 

Ms. Littell stands, hands on

hips, waiting for me to write

something.  I'm sure that she's

anticipating something else. 

I put my pen to paper,

begin: My happiest memories

are sun-streaked afternoons

in the cinnamon arms of

my Emily. . . . 

## Tony

## What Is It

With these artsy types? 

Happy memories?  Excite

her with my words? 

Does she have half

a clue what kind of

kids she's dealing with? 

If we were wallowing

in happy memories,

would we be here at all? 

I can't remember a single

group session dedicated

to happiness; not one

conversation about

the Magic Kingdom

called Home.  Now

Nathan might believe

there's a Magic Kingdom

in some distant galaxy,

and maybe he's happy,

letting his mind—what

there is of it—wander

to that place.  And no

doubt Justin smiles when

he goes to bed at night,

chants a mantra to his

Lord, prays for quick

deliverance.  I guess

he might be happy

in his dreams, rocking

in the arms of seraphim. 

But then I look at

Conner, frustrated

with his memories,

and Vanessa, who

stares at the table,

longing for her knife. 

## I'm Pretty Sure

She knows that Conner

and I know.  What I

don't get at all is that

no one else seems to

have noticed the way

she hides the blood. 

Maybe she'll write

her poem about how

happy it makes her

feel to ease her skin

open, drown herself

in the ebb of tide

within her veins.  Damn

if that's not poetic. 

Maybe I should write

that, here on this

blank, white piece

of paper.  Blank

as the slate in my

brain that is supposed

to have happy

memories etched

on its clean, shiny

surface.  All I find is black. 

I close my eyes, assess

my life, search for

a scene worth reliving. 

The first thing that comes

to mind is the day I

got out of lockup, free

to walk wherever I chose,

talk to whoever happened

by, without having to ask

permission.  And then

it came to me that I had

only one place to go. 

## My Ma Picked Me Up

Apparently, like it or

not, it was a parent's

duty to sign a kid out. 

Ready to go?  Ha-ha! 

Stupid question.  Would

you get a move on? 

Apparently, she had

better things to do

than catch up with me. 

You sure are scrawny. 

Didn't they feed you three

squares in that place? 

Apparently, she was

worried that she might

have to fatten me up. 

I'm living in a new

place—a studio. 

Have a new man, too. 

Apparently, she thought

I gave a fuck about who

she was sleeping with. 

Watch out for Pete.  He's

got a temper, 'specially

when he's drinking. 

Apparently she believed

I would let another one

of her lousy boyfriends

abuse me—in whatever

ways.  Wasn't going

to happen.  Not ever again. 

I followed her up two

flights of stairs at a fleabag

weekly motel.  Took

one look at the "studio" I

was supposed to share

with Ma and Pete.  Hit

the streets. 

## Vanessa

## Prozac, Lithium, and Conner

One, two, or all of them

have put me in a completely

happy space.  Can I write

about now—this instant? 

Pencil to paper, in perfect

round cursive, I begin:

Memory is a tenuous thing. . . . 

(I know, I've lately

said that, but it's true.) 

flickering glimpses, blue

and white, like ancient,

decomposing 16mm film. 

Happiness escapes

me there, where faces

are vague and yesterday

seems to come tied

up in ribbons of pain. 

(There must be

happiness there

somewhere, but

I can't find it.) 

Happiness?  I look for it instead

in today, where memory

is something I can still

touch, still rely on. 

I find it in the smiles

of new friends, the hope

blossoming inside. 

(Scary, but accurate.) 

My happiest memories

have no place in the

past; they are those

I have yet to create. 

## Those I Have Yet to Create

That must mean I plan

to create them.  Funny,

when I got here, coasting

through life was the best

I figured I'd ever do—

managing the seesaw

with substances

or the slice of a blade. 

So much blue

in my days, a spattering

of white, an abstract of

emotions, painting every

choice I ever made, hope

rarely represented

on that deviant canvas. 

But here it is, a hint

of bronze, a shimmer

of gold frost. 

Can my world fill

with color?  Will I ever

live shades of red? 

Yellow?  Green? 

When I think of Mama,

it all goes blue; memories

of Trevor are rooted in white. 

Conner's hand at my back,

and the surge of his masculinity

at the tip of my tailbone,

made me shiver copper. 

I don't know what

that means. 

I only know

I liked it. 

## Suddenly, My Hands

Begin to shake, just a little

at first, then building,

building, tremoring,

an earthquake. 

My pencil falls to the floor

with a loud clatter

and everyone turns to stare. 

I bend to retrieve it,

but my hand refuses

to go where my brain

tries to point it. 

Vanessa?  Are you

all right?  Mr. Hidalgo

jumps from his chair,

reaches my side almost

as quickly as Tony. 

Vanessa?  What's wrong? 

Tony's eyes, frightened,

tell me I look even

worse than I feel. 

Vanessa?  Conner

joins the party. 

Let me help you. 

The three of them, all

talking at once, make

my brain hurt, trying

to keep up, churn it

into dizziness.  And that

makes me want to throw

up.  I feel the blood rush

from my face and jump

to my feet. " I have to go

to the bathroom." 

No one tries to stop me,

which is a very good thing. 

I burst through the door,

into a stall, lean over the bowl,

let fly. 

## Conner

## Ms. Littell Looks Horrified

Oh, the poor thing, she says. 

Hope it wasn't my assignment. 

She leans over Vanessa's

desk, decides to sit, reads

the neatly scripted words. 

This is beautiful, she tells

the entire room.  I wonder

if Ms. O'Reilly would mind

if I shared her poem.  So

she does, and it is more

than beautiful—it lets us

see the inside of Vanessa. 

She's looking for happiness

in today, and some unknown

part of me—some stranger—

wants to give some joy away. 

I wonder if Vanessa would

take it from me.  When I look

into her eyes, I find surprise. 

Suspicion.  Fear.  Curiosity. 

I wonder which of those

brought her to this place,

what monsters—internal or

external—she has fought. 

I wonder what drives her

to give in to the goddess

of lust and sharp edges,

open her skin and bleed,

to purposely walk where most

digress, lost in the moment. 

I wonder how it feels

to possess such courage. 

## I Also Wonder

Why Vanessa got sick. 

She looked fine just a few

seconds earlier.  Of course,

she's not one to whine about

an upset stomach.  Still,

the way her hands shook was

scary—kind of like how my

grandfather's used to betray him. 

They say Parkinson's isn't

genetic, so it probably

won't ever affect my

athletic abilities,

or hinder my GPA. 

But hey, knowing my luck,

I'll beat the odds and shimmy

my way into an early grave. 

Mr. Sykes, exhales Ms. Littell,

would you please share your words? 

She sighs, and I try not to

notice the view of her neckline. 

I look down at what I've

written, smile. " I'm not sure

this is appropriate for

the rank and file.  It's more

than a little suggestive." 

I wait for her to read over

my shoulder, expect a

swift, negative reply. 

Instead she says, You are

a skilled poet, gifted with

an ear for metaphor.  This

is filled with passion.  Read! 

## Guess I'll Excite Everyone

With my words.  Oh, well, she

asked for it.  I glance around

the room, face-to-face, find

unmasked inquisitiveness. 

"My happiest memories

are sun-streaked afternoons

in the cinnamon arms of my

Emily—the evening star

glowing in a dusk-choked

sky.  She wraps me in pleasure,

silent except for her

occasional sigh, and I

whisper, 'Keep me here,

beside you, where I can

breathe you in.  Keep me

here, inside you, Emily.' 

She makes no promises,

only tells me I can stay

for now. ' Sometimes it's good

to be lonely, good to feel

pain.  But not now, my love. 

Now I want you here beside

me, where you can breathe me in. 

And I need you inside me. 

You make me young again.' 

Pressed against the curve

of her back, my fingers trace

the contours of one breast,

and then the other.  Such

perfection in the texture

of her skin, sublime petals,

pressed into recollection. 

My Emily." 

## Tony

## Whoa, Baby! 

Who the hell is Emily? 

If I were straight, I'd

have to get to know her. 

Think she has a brother? 

Wonder why I haven't

heard about her before. 

The classroom breaks

out in applause. " Damn,

Conner, could you make

my poem look any

worse?  Here I write about

getting out of lockup

and you go and write

about sex.  Why didn't

I think about that?" 

Maybe I would have,

if sex for me had ever

come close to that. 

Conner's face flushes. 

It was the best thing

that ever happened to me. 

"So tell us more.  Who

is she?  What does she

look like?  Blond, I bet." 

An odd smile creeps

across his face.  Yes,

she's blond.  Everywhere. 

Things could get out

of control, but Mr.

Hidalgo reins it in. 

Okay, everyone.  I

think we've heard

enough about Emily. 

Now the room breaks

out in a chorus of

boos.  Mine is loudest. 

## Mr. Hidalgo Takes Control

Enough, already.  Mr.

Ceccarelli, since

you seem to be so

communicative today,

I'm sure you've penned

a masterpiece.  Please read. 

I quit booing, clear

my throat. " I can't

write poetry, not like

Conner and Vanessa

can.  All I have is some

words.  Scrambled thoughts." 

Ms. Littell comes over,

stands behind me, reads. 

You have a lot more

here than scrambled

thoughts, and it's most

definitely poetry.  Please share. 

Here goes nothing. 

"Six years they took

away.  Six years not

allowed to say much

but 'Yes, sir; no, sir.' 

Today, I breathe a free

man's air, walk without

sacrifice anywhere I

choose.  A woman passes

by.  Without hesitation,

I say, 'Hello.  Beautiful

day, isn't it?'  She turns

my way, smiles, a bright

hint of hope that all

might one day be right

in whatever world

tomorrow brings me." 

Still waiting for that. 

## No Applause

But I do get a couple

Way to go's.  Better

than total silence,

anyway.  And I guess

it was good to hustle

up a halfway decent

memory.  I had one

or two others, but

they involved Phillip. 

These voyeurs might

like hearing about

Conner's romantic

adventures, but I seriously

doubt they'd want to hear

about Phillip and me. 

Anyway, that is a very

private part of my life,

something I keep stashed

away and only withdraw

in moments of weakness. 

I'd rather share tales

of Ma, the ol' dead ho',

or Larry the pervert,

who got what he deserved. 

Thank you for working

with me, says Ms. Littell. 

I hope you'll all keep

writing.  There's a lot

of talent in this room. 

Please don't waste it. 

Ms. Littell takes her leave,

and it's on to algebra,

or in Conner's case,

calculus.  I think he knows

more about it than Mr.

Hidalgo, but that's just my

uneducated opinion. 

## Vanessa

## Kate Finds Me

In the bathroom. 

The heaves are gone,

and I've blown my

insides out the other end. 

My hands still shake

and I try to comfort

them with cool water. 

Dr. Starr heard you

weren't feeling well. 

Kate's tone is almost

apologetic.  She wanted

me to let you know it's

probably a side effect

of the lithium. 

I knew there were

side effects but didn't

realize they could be

so intense.  Depression

is bad.  This is worse. 

My brain feels like it's

squishing through mud. 

"Can I quit the lith?" 

You have to give it

a chance.  We'll reduce

the dosage until your

body adjusts.  It might

take a few weeks. 

Nausea.  Diarrhea. 

Tremors.  Thick head. 

Mouth like cotton balls. 

"I need water.  And I need

to lie down." 

## No Wonder

Mama refused to stay

on the lithium.  Yes, she

was diagnosed bipolar,

with a tendency toward

schizophrenia.  They tried

to correct her brain's mad

zigzag with medication. 

But she was stubborn—swore

the only thing wrong

with her was her damnable

sidekick, the angel. 

When they locked her up,

force-fed her pills,

she cleared up.  Sooner

or later, they always let

her out, and she'd be

the mama we always

hoped she'd be. 

For a few days. 

That last day, she'd only

been out of the hospital

for a few hours. 

Still had the bottle

of Xanax in her pocket. 

The only problem

was she swallowed

a few too many. 

One extra is one too

many.  She yacked

down a half dozen. 

Her doctors said

she wanted to die. 

I thought so too. 

And who was I

to argue? 

## My Own Overdose

Or whatever the problem is,

is making me sick again. 

I don't want to go

to the bathroom, chance

prying eyes or questions. 

So I lay very still

on my bed, give myself

to the thrashing

surf inside my body,

my brain. 

Quick, Vanessa, think

of something still,

something serene. 

Sand.  I think of sand. 

Lying on a thick carpet

of sand, somebody warm

beside me.  My memory

holds Trevor.  I replace

his face with Conner's. 

Drowsy.  I am drowsy

in his arms, feel his bloom

against the small of my back. 

Like today.  It is bright

in the desert sun—beneath

magic clouds of white. 

Sucked into the white,

I give myself to Conner. 

"Make love to me," I tell him. 

And he answers,

I can't deal with your

freaky mood swings,

Vanessa.  One minute

you're solid, the next

you're like water. 

Boiling water . . . 

It's Trevor's voice, and

I scream. 

## Conner

## Thursday P.M.

Dr. Starr calls me to her

office, points me into a chair,

laces her fingers under

her chin.  Where is this going? 

Conner, I'm pleased with your

progress, the bulldog says. 

But I really think we need

to address the issue

of your not wanting to go

home for a visit this weekend. 

The Easter holiday provides

connection with your family. 

I know that frightens you,

but I don't know why.  There's

no history of abuse. 

Why shut yourself off from them? 

"You've got it all wrong.  I'm

not afraid of going home. 

It's just that I'm happier here,

where I don't have to evade

questions no one wants the

answers to.  At least when you

ask me something, it's because

you want to know what I've

got to say.  Mom and Dad

expect only what they want

to hear, and only then if

it's said with total respect. 

Going home can only

lead to confrontation.  Why

would I want that when I've

finally freed myself of it?" 

## As I Wait for Her

I study her face, find an

odd blend of amusement

and understanding.  But she

doesn't pretend sympathy. 

You have to face them sometime,

Conner.  No parent is

perfect, no child always right. 

Climb into their shoes, take

an honest look at yourself. 

Do you like what you see? 

Can you try just a little to

understand their point of view? 

Their son tried to kill himself—

a parent's worst nightmare

because they must accept blame. 

They want to forgive you, but first

they have to forgive themselves. 

That's tough for anyone to do;

for some, nearly impossible. 

Do you think they're strong enough? 

I just stare.  How can she

be so dense?  She's only met

them a time or two, but can't

she see through the pretense? 

"You really don't get them at

all, Dr. Starr.  Blame themselves? 

Forgive themselves?  For my

fall from grace?  Not even! 

My father can't be to blame. 

He's never home long enough

to be an influence on me. 

And Mom?  If she ever took

responsibility for this,

what would her bridge club

think?  Nope, the only person

they could blame at all is me." 

## We're Not Through Yet

Okay, Conner.  And who do

you blame?  Who do you think

is responsible for you? 

She's made it a whole new game. 

I've had plenty of time,

alone in my room, to

consider that very thing,

hours and hours to hone

my reply. " I blame Dad for

my drive for perfection. 

He's always demanded

that Cara and I strive

to attain the highest grade,

highest score, to bring home

gold.  A silver medal

meant losing, nothing more. 

Mom I blame for making

me cold.  What kind of

mother flat-out refuses

to hold her children, make

them feel wanted, warm, safe? 

Emily made me feel all

those things and more.  Is that

really so hard to understand?" 

The bulldog's growl softens. 

No, of course it's not.  But

surely you knew your affair

couldn't go on forever. 

"Forever has no meaning

when you're living in the

moment.  I wasn't ready

for that moment to end." 

Amen. 

## Tony

## Easter Weekend

And the place has mostly

cleared out.  Aspen Springs,

graveyard.  Kind of fitting,

I guess.  My dad asked

if I wanted to go visit

him.  Not ready for that. 

Apparently, Conner wasn't

ready to go home either. 

He's sitting, staring

at mindless television. 

But I can tell he's not

concentrating on the screen. 

Unusual, considering

this sitcom features

big-breasted women,

with a minimum

amount of clothing

covering their silicone. 

"Hey, man.  Damn quiet

in here, huh?"  I say. 

"Kind of spooky." 

Not as spooky as home,

he answers.  Besides,

I don't mind the quiet. 

"Uh.  Oh, sorry.  Didn't

mean to crowd your

space or anything." 

No problem.  Crowd

my space.  I'm done

brooding, anyway. 

Brooding?  Good word,

one I've never once

used. " About what?" 

Just thinking about

home.  Will I ever

want to go back there? 

## Carmella Bustles In

Hey, you two.  Want

some company?  Looks

kind of lonely in here. 

She plops down on the

couch, very close to

Conner, who doesn't move. 

"You stuck here with

us this weekend, Car?" 

I measure her proximity

to Conner, wonder if

she's flirting on purpose. 

"No place better to go?" 

She giggles.  What could

be better than spending

time with two gorgeous

guys?  And, if you want,

I've got permission to

take you out of here tomorrow. 

Conner stirs, moves

his leg even closer

to hers, just a fraction

of an inch from brushing. 

Out of here, where?  Like

maybe to San Francisco? 

Carmella laughs again. 

I don't think we could

get away with that. 

But we can take in

a movie.  There are

some good ones playing. 

"I'm in.  But aren't they

afraid we might overpower

you and hit the road?" 

Don't even talk like

that.  Someone might

take you seriously. 

## Someone Probably Should

But right now, I really

have nowhere better

to go.  And I wouldn't

want to get Carmella

in trouble.  Of course,

I can't speak for Conner. 

But he seems cool

with the plan.  Okay,

count me in too.  A

movie would be great. 

Unless you can figure

a way to San Francisco. 

I'll work on that for

next time. 

Meanwhile,

can we please change

the channel? 

Nothing

worse than women

with tits for brains. 

Conner laughs.  Oh yeah,

there are definitely worse

things than that.  But I

wasn't watching this

show anyway.  Here's

the remote.  You choose. 

It's really kind of scary,

sitting here watching

TV with two people

I like.  Almost like

having a real family—

not that I'd have a clue

what that was like. 

The closest I ever

came was Phillip. 

And he was so sick,

our time together

so short, it almost

doesn't count. 

## Vanessa

## Grandma's House

Feels completely

foreign, completely like home. 

It's easier to breathe

here, where the walls

don't gather me in,

smother me in their arms. 

Hey, Nessa, shouts Bryan,

come in the kitchen. 

We're ready to color

Easter eggs.  If we mix

blue and red, we'll get

purple.  Blue and yellow

make green.  Come here. 

I'll show you how. 

He's so excited to have

me back, he hasn't calmed

down for twenty seconds

since they picked me up,

yakking nonstop about

school and his new buddy,

Dean; about Cub Scouts

and popcorn fund-raisers. 

"Be right there," I promise. 

But first I need to take

a little detour.  I've been

pocketing the lithium,

so I don't spend all three

days in the bathroom. 

I'm not sick this afternoon,

but I feel a mad rush

of blue coming on. 

And here I don't have

to use paper clips

or pop-tops.  My trusty

razor blade is in its

cubby, calling

out to me.  Just a little

slice, for old time's sake. 

## I Go into the Bedroom

Close the door,

remove my steel lover

from its place of honor

on the closet shelf. 

I touch its stainless

tip to my index finger. 

Sharp!  Without pressure,

it draws a crimson bead. 

Peel back my sleeve—

the one that covers

the barbed-wire scar,

affectionately place

the blade beneath

my left thumb.  This

is the best rush

of all—the moment

right before the cut. 

It's my decision now,

I'm in charge. 

And just as I think

I'll give in to temptation,

reopen the old wound,

Bryan calls, C'mon,

Nessa, please?  I'm

waiting for you. 

I could still do it,

but I see my brother's

face, scream frozen

in place, and I put

the blade back

in its velvet sleeve. 

"I'm coming right

now, Bryan.  Save

some purple

dye for me." 

## The Kitchen

Is a Norman Rockwell painting—

Grandma, at the sink, draining

eggs; Bryan, at the table, drawing

wax pictures on cooled shells,

waiting for me to come help

with the dye.  It's all so . . . 

normal, something I rarely

feel.  And I'm expected

to blend in, head

backstroking through blue. 

I'm determined to do it too. 

Look, Nessa.  I put

your name on this one. 

And I drew a train on it too. 

Bryan always did love

trains.  Once Grandma took

us on the Amtrak, from Reno

to Sacramento.  I was pretty

well bored out of my tree—

except for the cute guy

sitting across from me in

the observation car.  And Bryan

loved it so much, how could

I possibly complain? 

I saved lots of purple

for you.  And all the other

colors too.  I know!  Let's

make a rainbow. 

We go to work, dying

bands of blue, red,

and yellow.  They bleed

a little, but so do rainbows. 

Just as we're dipping the eggs

into the green,

the front door opens. 

Grandma turns. 

Bryan jumps up. 

I can't believe my eyes. 

"Daddy!" 

## Conner

## Talk About Jumping

Through hoops!  To get to go

to the movie, Tony and I

had to put in writing that

we know our privileges

will be suspended if we

so much as sneeze wrong. 

And just to make sure, Dr.

Boston is coming along. 

I suspect that's because she

has nowhere better to go—

no spring break for her, I guess. 

Anyway, I'm happy to share

a bag of popcorn with

the delectable Dr. B.

I hope the movie's an R-

rated romp—something sexy

to fire up her pistons. " What

are we going to see?"  I ask. 

"A taste of Tarantino?  Tim

Burton?  Don't tell me Disney!" 

Carmella laughs.  Heather

and I were thinking more

along the lines of Spielberg's

new sci-fi flick.  Work for you? 

Dr. Boston is a Heather. 

Sounds about right.  And

as for Spielberg, well, we

just might catch sight of

someone curvaceous and

yummy, if not exactly

slutty. " Sure, works fine for

me.  I'm easy to please." 

## We Take the Aspen Springs Limo

A minivan that must be

at least ten years old.  It

wheezes along the icy road,

a decrepit old beast, and I

hope we make it the eight

miles to the theater. 

Spring or no, it's much too

cold to walk it from here. 

Dahlia is with us too—

another won't-go-home. 

Da-hamn, it's cold out here,

like a whole other planet. 

Weird, says Tony, how you

disconnect from what's outside

when you spend your life inside. 

I never know what to expect

when I walk out the door.  April,

and snow on the ground.  Do kids

hunt Easter eggs in the snow?  I

was never a kid, so I don't know. 

"I only ever went to one

egg hunt," I answer. " Our

nanny took us because,

to be blunt, our parents

considered such frivolity

a total waste of time.  Once

was more than enough for

me—that six-foot, pimply-faced

rabbit, leering like a lech,

wrecked me for weeks.  Poor

Leona thought the experience

just might affect me for life." 

## Enough About Giant Bunnies

We reach the theater, all

in one piece, buy tickets, go

inside.  Just as I think

this could turn into fun,

a familiar voice scratches

my eardrums.  Hey, Conner. 

What a surprise.  I heard

you tried to die.  That right? 

"Hello, Kendra."  Stiffly,

I turn around to face the

pretty blond cheerleader who

drowned in Emily's wake. 

I consider the accident

excuse, but why even

go there? " Guess I did.  Next

time I'll have to try harder." 

Her face goes white.  Don't say

that.  Believe it or not, a few

people care about you.  One

or two of us even love you. 

Holy shit.  How could she

love me?  I dropped her like

a hot piece of tin. " I'm

sorry.  I didn't mean it." 

There's Sean.  Gotta go.  Hope

to see you again soon, Conner. 

Give me a call, if you want

to.  I'm a good listener. 

I shuffle off to Screen

Three, settle beside Dr.

Boston, try to concentrate on

the black-humored movie, mind

on Kendra. 

## Tony

## The Greatest Thing

About today is how

normal I feel—like

totally mainstream.  Okay,

so I'm at the movies

with two crazy people,

one lonely psychologist,

and one totally demented

"house mother."  At least

I'm at the movies, a place

I've only been twice

before.  And these freaky

people feel like family. 

Hey, Tony, says Dahlia,

check it out.  That girl

has the hots for Conner. 

The girl in question,

a too-skinny blonde,

definitely knows

Conner.  He tells her

something and she

looks ready to cry. 

Jeez, man, what's up

with that guy?  Does

he have a magic wand? 

"I suppose you could

call it a wand," I answer,

and we both bust up. 

Carmella shimmies

up, arms loaded with

buckets of popcorn and

oversize sodas.  Hurry

up!  I hate missing

the start of a

movie. 

## I Sit in Between

Carmella and Dahlia,

passing popcorn and

laughing at how the girls

hold their ears every

time the gunplay gets

real loud.  Too funny. 

Every now and then

I glance at Conner,

who's way too quiet

to be enjoying himself. 

Dr. Boston notices

too.  Even in the dark

of the theater, I see

concern in the set of

her jaw.  She leans over and

whispers something, and

he shakes his head. 

Then it seems to me,

and I could be wrong,

that she moves her knee

so it just touches Conner's. 

Now I don't know which

scene intrigues me more:

the one on the screen,

or the one two seats away. 

I divide my attention

between the two and

make a mental note

to ask Conner about

the twig-thin blonde,

Dr. Boston, and Emily. 

Dahlia's right.  His wand

must hold magic.  For

the first time in a long

time, I feel a tug in my

own magic-free wand. 

## I Know I Should Wait

To ask Conner about

any of that, but on

the way back to Aspen

Springs, my mouth springs

open. " Hey, Conner. 

"Who was the cute blonde

at the movie theater? 

Someone you know?" 

Everyone else stops

babbling, waits for the

answer we all want to

hear.  It's slow coming. 

Finally, he says simply,

Kendra is an old girlfriend. 

We broke up a few months ago. 

Which should be good

enough, but not for Dahlia. 

Why?  What happened? 

I know Dr. B wants to

know.  But she says, That's

Conner's business, Dahlia. 

I'm guessing, thinking

back to his poem, it had

something to do with

Emily.  But Dr. Boston

is right.  It's Conner's

business, and he doesn't

seem inclined to share. 

Not that I won't ask

him again later.  In

private.  When I try

to pry information

about Dr. Boston and

Emily. 

## Vanessa

## Bryan and I Rush

Into Daddy's arms—

tan and more muscled

than I remember.  We kiss

him, all over his face,

from the apex of his buzz cut

to the scrub on his chin. 

Finally, he pushes us away. 

Okay, okay.  I'm happy

to see you, too.  And I've

missed my crew.  Stand

back and let me get

a good look at you. 

His eyes measure us,

head to toe, as Grandma

goes to him, gently

touches his shoulder. 

Good to have you home,

Ron.  Good to have you,

all in one piece. 

Daddy stands, pulls

Grandma to him. 

No need to worry about

that, Mama.  No need

at all.  I still got all my

limbs, and all my wits. 

But, my God, how

these children have

grown, and grown up. 

Grown up?  Me?  I

suppose I have.  Killing

things, and almost

killing myself, must

have changed me

some, after all. 

## I'm Glad

I put away my blade,

untested.  Daddy would have

noticed, of that I'm sure. 

He and blood are buddies. 

Grandma's right.  It's good

to see him, all in one piece. 

When your father's always

knee-deep in a conflict

somewhere, you can never

be certain if—or how—

you'll see him again. 

C'mon, Daddy, we're

coloring Easter eggs. 

There's no Easter Bunny,

you know, so we've got

to hide them ourselves. 

Bryan gave up on the Easter

Bunny last year.  This year

he'll probably give up

on Santa, too.  Lost faith. 

Makes me sad. 

Be right there, son,

soon as I put my things

in my room.  Dad pauses,

looks me square in the eye. 

You and I need to talk.  Later. 

Apprehension grips my

throat. " S-sure." 

I watch my daddy stride

down the hall, one burly

arm swinging his heavy

knapsack, and, despite

a healthy dose of fear

about what he has to say

to me, I inflate with pride. 

## Later

After a scrumptious

Grandma-style three-course

dinner, Daddy sends Bryan

and me to our rooms. 

So I can think about

stashing Easter eggs,

he tells Bryan. 

But I know he wants to

talk to Grandma in private. 

I leave my door cracked,

hoping to hear snatches

of their conversation.  I do. 

Why didn't you tell me

about this . . .  cutting thing? 

asks Daddy. 

What could you have

done, Ron?  I didn't know

myself, until it was almost . . . 

Grandma's voice cracks. 

And I left you to deal with

Margaret, too.  I'm sorry, Mama,

I didn't think . . .  didn't realize . . . 

I mean, I knew she was sick. 

But I had no idea she would

do such a terrible thing. 

None of us guessed she

was so far over the edge. 

I'm just glad I was the one

who found her. 

Have the kids gone to visit her? 

I can almost hear

Grandma shake her head. 

We all will, then. 

Tomorrow. 

## Conner

## Dinner Tonight

Was McDonald's, on the way

back from the movie.  Quarter

Pounders and fries—way to

pack on empty calories. 

Now Tony, Dahlia, Carmella,

and I are sitting around,

cutting major farts.  Dahlia

doesn't even try to stifle hers. 

Ugh!  says Tony.  Girl, you'll

never catch a man like that. 

And by the way, didn't your ma

ever tell you to say, " 'Scuse me"? 

You oughta know 'bout

catching

men, freak.  And I did say

excuse

me, with my butt. 

Apparently

you don't speak "rectum." 

Everyone cracks up, except

me.  Nothing is funny

tonight.  My mood wants to

swing between reflective

and halfway terrified. 

I'm afraid—a strange thing

to say, but true—that despite

whatever progress I've made,

when I get out of this place,

everything will be exactly

the same as before—even me. 

I'll still live in my parents'

shadow; I'll still drive myself to

achieve impossible perfection. 

And I'll never let myself

believe someone really loves me. 

## Two Ativans Toward Sleep

I lie in bed, listen to

the grind of wind against

cinder-block walls.  I'm not

sure how to unwind this coil

of images flashing inside

my brain.  Some are "borrowed"

from the flick we saw today:

good people, slain by evil

automatons; the slightly

effeminate hero (and why

does he come to mind?); 

the geeky alien zero—

apparently, advanced

civilizations send them

off in their latest spacecraft

to defend home and planet. 

The meds kick in and here

comes the princess—all curves,

in a tight blue dress.  Blue . . .  tight . . . 

Heather.  Pretty name.  Sums

her up completely.  Oops . . . 

transformation, titian hair

bleaching blond, gray eyes tinting

blue—Kendra, sweet temptation. 

Some of us love you, she whispers,

tossing her long, golden hair. 

Why can't you love back, Conner? 

What the hell's wrong with you? 

I want to blame Mom, Dad,

Emily, and I do.  But

there's someone else, too,

in a sliver of memory. 

## Easter Sunday Morning

I wake, not exactly refreshed. 

Despite the meds, I tossed

and tumbled, caught in the claws

of a dream-disturbed night. 

Beyond the window glass,

a silver glint stabs my eyes. 

I turn on my side, refuse

to budge, no hint of sound

outside my room.  All this

silence, wrapped around Sunday

morning, reminds me of home. 

Now I feel trapped beneath

my blankets.  I throw them off,

stomp to the door, stick my head

out in the hall. " I have to pee." 

Nothing.  I don't know what's in store

for me if I go without

permission.  But I really have

no choice.  I pad to the bathroom,

hope my morning "condition"

will allow me to pee after all. 

I'm still waiting for "deflation"

when Tony walks through the door. 

He gives me a prime once-over. 

Hey man.  Nice firewood.  He grins,

then looks away and changes

the subject.  Kind of creepy

today, with nobody here. 

Totally shriveled, I finish

my business. " Must be somebody

here, somewhere."  I wash

my hands, splash the crust from

my eyes. 

## Tony

## Holy Crap

It's the first time I've

seen Conner exposed,

and boy, what exposure! 

The guy is built like

a mule.  No wonder

women lust after him. 

I'm lusting a little,

myself, but manage to

keep it in check, except

one comment about

his wood.  A guy likes

to know he's appreciated. 

I watch him splash

his face.  Cold water, I bet,

proving himself macho. 

Damn, that's cold!  He

catches my smile in the

mirror.  What's so funny? 

"Nothing.  Just thinking

about yesterday.  Carmella

was funnier than shit." 

Conner drops his defensive

stance.  Yeah, she was.  Too bad

I wasn't in the mood to laugh. 

He opens the door. 

"We noticed.  What was

up with you, anyway?" 

Up comes the wall again. 

I don't know.  Maybe they

need to up my meds again. 

## I Doubt That

But know better than

to say so. " Well, I'm

catching a shower. 

Carmella said we can

go to church in Reno

this morning.  Going?" 

I don't know.  Maybe. 

Guess it's better than

sticking around here,

playing with . . .  uh . . . 

Something close to

panic fills his eyes. 

"Your firewood?"  I laugh

and Conner has to, too,

or look like a total fool. 

I'd better get dressed. 

See you at breakfast.  It

smells pretty good today. 

I turn the faucet to

steamy, step under,

and let its hot fingers

touch me all over,

trying not to think

about the last time

hot fingers (real ones)

touched me all over. 

It's Easter, the holiest

of holy days, and at

the moment I'm feeling

like a world-class sinner. 

My brain tells me it's

all wrong, the way

my body's responding

to thinking about sex,

the last time I had it, and

when I might have it again. 

## Not Quite Free

But out from behind

locked doors, for

the second day in a

row, it doesn't

even matter that it's

snowing—on Easter. 

Dahlia's pissed.  We get

enough of this Jesus junk

every other Sunday. 

But Paul had to drive

'cause Carmella freaks

when it snows.  So it

was all of us, or none

of us.  And Conner and I

voted, two to one, to go. 

Carmella chose the church. 

I don't do Catholic any

more,

not since I got divorced. 

Twenty-three and divorced

already!  At least she doesn't

have kids. ( I don't think.) 

We turn into a crowded

parking lot, and I notice

Conner begin to squirm. 

Here?  he says.  Do we

have to go to this one? 

His eyes scan the cars,

settle on a black Lexus. 

They're here, he says. 

I can't go in.  No way. 

"Who's here?"  I ask,

but I suspect the answer,

and it's quick to come. 

My family. 

## Vanessa

## All Dressed Up

In the best of our best

Sunday clothes, Bryan,

Grandma, and I pile

into the rented SUV, wait

for Daddy.  Finally, he comes

out the door, in full-dress

uniform, boots spit-polished

until they shine like satin. 

He doesn't wear a smile. 

I'd forgotten it snows

here in April.  I thought

I'd left that behind,

in that godforsaken

place.  Hell, I bet even

Allah doesn't go there. 

Oh, well, we'll make the best

of it, I guess.  Ready? 

No!  I'm not ready.  I want

to go back to Aspen Springs,

where it's safe, predictable. 

Where my secrets and I

can hang out, undisturbed. 

I don't want to go see her,

not there.  No one belongs

there, just like no one

belongs in Afghanistan,

if Daddy's word can be

trusted.  And I have to

trust it.  Don't I? 

All right, then.  Here we

go.  The O'Reilly family,

all together again. 

Almost all together,

he means. 

## Giant Flakes

Of heavy, wet snow splat

against the windows. 

Daddy cruises slowly,

and I understand he doesn't

want to go where

we're going either. 

It's a duty thing. 

Thank God for the lithium. 

It really seems to have

kicked into gear the last

couple of days.  My hands

still shake sometimes,

and my mouth is dry

most of the time,

but it is easier to hover

up out of the blue. 

Dad took me aside earlier,

while Grandma helped

Bryan get dressed. 

Nessa, girl, I know it's

been tough, trying to take

your mother's place,

'specially seeing her at

her worst and all.  I want

you to know that she was

a real good woman, when

she wasn't in a bad space. 

"I know, Daddy." 

You'll be a fine woman

too.  We'll get you the help

you need, hear me?  I don't

want to lose you, too. 

I'd never seen him so soft

before.  It wasn't what

I'd expected, and it grabbed

my breath away. 

He pulled me into him,

where I couldn't see him cry. 

But I could feel him tremble. 

## He's Hard Again Now

And I wonder how soft

he'd be if I confessed

how I left Mama, blank

eyed, in a pool of overdose-

induced peace. 

My arm twitches and, lithium

or no, I want to open a vein,

bleed out the guilt. 

Your grandmother tells me

you'll go into a wilderness

survival program soon,

says Daddy. 

Really?  says Bryan.  Cool! 

"I guess so," I answer, not

sure what "soon" means. 

"That's Level Four, the last

step before I come home." 

You've never done anything

like that, have you? 

The closest I've come is

a hike in the woods with

Grandma and Bryan. " No." 

When the time comes, you

cowboy up.  You're tough,

just like your father. 

"No one's as tough as you,

Daddy.  But I'll try." 

Oh.  Here we are. 

He slows to a crawl and we

turn into a snow-covered parking

lot.  Everything around us is gray

stone, frosted white.  Spooky.  My

heart falls into my tummy.  Tough? 

Not me. 

## Conner

## Almost May

The weather warms, the hills

start to thaw, and I can run

the perimeter of the big

fenced compound.  My heart pumps

against the scar on my chest,

bare beneath the afternoon sun. 

Tony catches up, and I push

harder, dare him to keep up. 

Surprise.  He can.  Not only

that, but he's a lot more buff

than I would have expected, and

completely at ease with my pace. 

Mind if I run with you?  It's

good to be challenged.  I used

to run every day in lockup. 

I should have kept at it. 

"You're still in decent shape. 

Did you lift in lockup too?" 

Yeah, and at the gym when I got

out.  For a few months, anyway. 

At the gym?  I had the idea

Tony was a basic street kid. 

But after Phillip died, it was

all I could do just to eat. 

"Phillip?  Who was Phillip?" 

Boyfriend?  Brother?  Uncle? 

He was half foster father,

half my best friend in the world. 

We run in silence for another

three laps.  Hard.  Harder.  Side

by side in friendly rivalry,

till we're ready to collapse. 

## We Hit the Shower

To wash off some well-deserved

sweat.  Tony makes a point of

looking the other way, but I

haven't felt uncomfortable yet,

being naked around him. 

Stanley is much creepier. 

That boy should not be allowed

to touch himself with soapy hands. 

"So, Tony.  How was your visit

to your dad's?"  Dr. Boston

talked him into it—it's a

prerequisite for wilderness camp,

one I have to face myself,

before long.  After my gutless

performance on Easter, I wonder

if I can score the balls. 

It went okay, I guess.  He's got

a sweet house at Tahoe—not huge,

but more than I'm used to, on a

street with its own private beach. 

His wife, Talia, is nice, not real

bright, but what could you expect

from someone who fell in love

with my dad?  She was polite,

and a real good cook.  No wonder

Pa married her! ' Course, if she

doesn't quit cooking pasta, he'll

end up buried before his time. 

"Pasta, till death do us part. 

A slice of Italian-American

life."  We laugh, but I think

that price isn't so dear for

a few good years together,

well fed and otherwise

satisfied.  Nothing at all

to dread about that scenario. 

## It's Better Than What I've Got

To face at home.  Two cold people,

who can't remember why they

fell in love in the first place.  If

they were ever in love.  I chew

on that as we dry off, get dressed. 

"Did your dad ever really love

your mom?"  I ask.  But I'm

betting he'll go to bat for love. 

Well, yeah.  At least I think so. 

Hell, maybe not.  Fuck, Conner. 

Maybe there's no such thing.  Lots

of people rot, waiting for it. 

Okay, I was wrong.  It's weird,

how Tony and I are on

the same page, with some

regularity. " You don't

by some remote chance happen

to be a Republican?" 

Uh.  No.  I'm not into politics. 

Why?  Are you—a Republican? 

I stop and think—really think. 

"My parents are steadfast

conservatives.  So maybe I'm

a Dem after all." ( Probably not.) 

Good to know.  Because any

"party" that shuts its doors

on the poor, gay, or otherwise

"useless" gets my hearty F.U.

Right on.  If I ever actually

grow big enough huevos to chance

a visit home, I'll consider

letting them know I've become

a Democrat. 

## Tony

## I Don't Tell Conner Everything

About last weekend. 

Like how, despite all

Pa did to make me feel

at home, I was a complete

stranger under his roof,

and I doubt that will change. 

How the big bed in

the spotless wine red

bedroom made me feel

lonelier than ever.  I've

never, not even once

in my life, slept in a bed

like that—so much room,

such heavy, warm covers,

deep, fluffy pillows.  I felt

like I was drowning in

comfort, choking on the idea

I could ever belong there. 

How even though I

had plenty of meds,

supplied by Aspen

Springs, I sneaked into

Talia's bathroom,

borrowed a Valium or three. 

Pop a Valium with a

Prozac, you don't care

where you are, or who's

talking in the other

room, not even if you

know they're talking

about you.  At least

the combination put

me in a place where

it was easy to keep

my big mouth shut. 

Who needs confrontation? 

## Apparently, Stanley Does

He's in a mood at group

this afternoon, and it's

going to be hella

interesting because

the person he's set on

taking on is Dr. Starr. 

Life is all about choices,

the bulldog says.  Let's

talk about the choices

you'll make when you

leave Aspen Springs.  Where

will you go from here? 

Stanley leans his chair

back on two legs, sticks

a finger up his nose.  I'm

gonna go find me a cute

little girl and show her

the business end of

Stanley. 

First, I suggest you sit

that chair back down

on four legs.  Now tell

us what you meant. 

Usually, "the business

end" refers to a weapon. 

Stanley stands, smiling

as his right hand falls

toward his zipper. 

That's right.  And

this right here is my

weapon of choice. 

Damn if he doesn't

yank his ugly little

thing right out of his

pants.  The girls scream,

Dr. Starr's eyes go huge,

and Stanley starts to laugh. 

## No One Dares Come Between

Stanley and his target,

except for Vanessa,

sitting smack in his path. 

Come on, Stanley, she says. 

You don't really want to

mess with Dr. Starr, do you? 

Is she crazy?  That fat

fuck will go right

over the top of her. 

Stay out of this, bitch,

or I'll take you out

too, promises Stanley. 

Everyone pushes back

into the wall as I start

toward Vanessa.  But before

I can get close, Conner

plants himself right in front

of Stanley.  Far enough. 

Stanley stops, but only

for a second.  He raises

his hands, fists tight. 

I'm not afraid of you,

preppie.  Get the hell

out of my way. 

Dr. Starr moves toward

the door, knowing help

lies not far beyond. 

But Conner takes control,

warning, Just give me an

excuse to kick your ass. 

Believe it or not, Stanley

does, moving straight

into Conner, swinging. 

Conner lifts a defensive

arm, knocks Stanley off

balance, takes a swing of

his own. 

## Vanessa

## OMG! 

Conner is so incredible. 

In one movement, he drops

Stanley to the floor

like a swatted fly. 

Paul and Stephanie rush

through the door,

but the whole ugly

confrontation is over. 

They drag Stanley,

sobbing and slobbering,

to his feet, shriveled

penis still exposed. 

Put him in isolation,

says Dr. Starr.  I'll call

juvenile detention. 

The rest of you can go

back to your rooms. 

We're finished for today. 

Conner, may I speak

with you for a minute? 

I hold back while

the others start toward

the door.  I want to take

in Conner, barely breathing

hard after playing hero. 

I watch Dr. Starr's fingertips

rest lightly on his shoulder,

and I fight a jealous shiver. 

He's fine, isn't he? 

"Tony!  You scared

the bejesus out of me!" 

Sorry.  But he is fine,

isn't he? 

"Yes, he is."  Suddenly,

I notice I'm floating

in a cloud of white. 

## It's Weird

Because since I've been

on the lithium, I haven't

gone manic at all, although

I have fallen back into the blue

zone several times. 

Dr. Starr says

lithium works faster

against the white. 

Yet here I am, feeling

fearless (which explains

my earlier lunacy—Stanley

could have knocked me

senseless); feeling stimulated

(by the hysteria and close

call, but more by Conner,

standing up for me, standing

close to me); feeling alive

(straddling the razor wire). 

You're blushing,

whispers Tony. 

What have you got

on your mind, Vanessa? 

"Like you can't guess." 

Oh yes, it's on my mind—

Conner, lying with me

in a bed of tall, cool

grass.  Conner, leaning

over me, his long,

lean body exposed. 

Conner, kissing me

with his luscious mouth . . . 

Here he comes.  You

might want to close

your mouth. 

You're drooling. 

## A Slight Exaggeration

At least I think so. 

I circle my lips with

my tongue, hoping

to catch any stray drool,

as Conner comes very close. 

He reaches out, touches

my cheek.  You okay? 

My heart threatens

implosion, but I manage

to fake cool. " Just fine. 

Thank you, Conner." 

He shrugs.  No problem. 

He had it coming. 

What did the bulldog

want?  asks Tony.  You

in any trouble? 

Nah.  She thought

he had it coming too. 

Hey, who knew Stanley

had the balls? 

Balls?  You mean you

could see them, too? 

We all crack up and Dr. Starr

clears her throat. " I think that's

a hint.  We'd better go." 

Tony leads the way. 

Conner falls in, very close behind me. 

You have to be more careful,

he whispers.  I won't always

be around to protect you. 

His voice is chocolate—

sweet, smooth, rich . . . 

. . .  foreboding. 

## Conner

## Actually, Dr. Starr

Wanted to strongly suggest

I go home this weekend. 

You're ready, Conner.  You

are stronger than you know. 

"Why do you say that?  Because I

took care of Stanley?  He's nothing

but mouth.  But home?  I'm afraid

of there.  Too many judgments." 

You want to get out of here

sometime, don't you?  Our next

Challenge program starts in two

weeks.  Chew on that for a while. 

So I'm chewing.  I do want

to get out, but where, oh where,

will I go from here?  I've always

looked forward to senior year,

varsity football, cheerleaders'

panties.  But I can't go back

to school now.  Everyone thinks

I'm some kind of nut, and fuck,

they're right.  I am.  I've been

here, trying to get a handle

on my craziness, for months. 

But, despite all their prying,

Drs.  Starr and Boston are

not even close to fixing me. 

If I told them every secret,

an overdose of stinking truth,

would they break down and

admit I'm damn near as warped

as Stanley?  That's an eye-

opener and, shit, it's true. 

## But Hey, Guess What

Crazy means I'm not liable

for my actions.  So screw it,

I'll go home, propped up on

Prozac against distractions

like my mom and dad bitching

at me, Cara, and each other;

like Mom and Dad quizzing me

about school, my future and Emily,

certainly not in that order. 

Meanwhile, I'm going to catch

up with Vanessa.  Someday

I want more than her smile. 

Does that mean there's hope

for me after all?  She doesn't

have a single crow's-foot, no

cigarette taint to her laughter. 

A wedge of crazies shuffles

along the corridor, and

Vanessa and Tony walk

slowly, at the rear of the throng. 

I watch Vanessa sway her hips

and a sudden urge comes over

me.  Not liable for my

actions, I surge straight ahead,

push my body against hers. 

She slows even more, letting

me nest against her, as if she

knows what I've got in mind. 

I lift her hair, bend, and drop

my lips to her neck, kiss

the soft pulse behind her ear. 

She slips her hand into mine. 

Mmm.  She sighs, and I know

she wants to kiss me back. 

But this is not the place. " Soon,"

I promise her.  Very soon. 

## Tony Tosses a Jealous Look

Over his shoulder.  Weird, but

I get the feeling he isn't

jealous of Vanessa.  Somehow,

he seems jealous of me. 

"Hey, Tony," I test. " I'll give you

a kiss too, if you say please." 

You wish, he jabs.  But I prefer

a man who likes to be on top. 

"Ouch, little brother!  I like

it on top.  And on the bottom. 

And standing up.  And . . .  Oh, man,

I gotta stop or go jerk off!" 

Oh, yech, says Vanessa, but

she says it with a laugh.  Guys

are just the nastiest creatures. 

Don't the two of you agree? 

Tony slips right into "gay." 

Of course, you luscious girl. 

And that's how I love 'em—

nasty, sweaty, meaty and coarse. 

"That's how I like my women,

too."  Too brave.  Vanessa's

scowl could cut me in half. 

I backpedal, fast. " Except you!" 

We reach the gender T—

boys go right, girls straight ahead,

past the rec room.  Vanessa

stops to blow two kisses—one

toward Tony, the other to me,

and I think maybe I could learn

to love someone, after all. 

I drink the thought, try hard

to swallow it. 

## Tony

## Three Days

Since they hauled Stanley

away and now, I hear,

he'll be back this afternoon. 

His parents must have way

deep pockets.  That dude

should be locked up like

Hannibal Lecter—behind

shatterproof glass, so

science might have a

chance to discover some

unidentified mental defect. 

Stanphrenia.  Yeah, that's it. 

Oh well, he'll be Level

One again, so I may not

have to see him, long

as I go to the Challenge. 

Some people here are

afraid to go.  Not me. 

A few weeks climbing

obstacles, sleeping outside,

building fires without

matches, and eating out

of cans?  Sounds about

like living on the street. 

Six of us are eligible

for the Challenge now—

Lori, Dahlia, Justin,

Vanessa, Conner, and me. 

Well, Conner will be,

if he makes it through

this weekend.  I don't

know exactly what's

waiting for him at home. 

I just know he's a lot

more scared of there than

he is of obstacle courses. 

## I Wish I Could Be a Mirror

On one of those walls, but

I can't, so I'll head on

over, see if I can talk

to Vanessa, who's reading

in the rec room.  The other

girls are yakking nearby. 

They never ask Vanessa

to sit with them.  Or if they

do, she always says no

thanks.  She's a worse

loner than I am.  Not as

bad as Conner, though. 

Loner or no, I plop

down beside her. " Hey,

you.  Whatcha reading?" 

Even before she looks up,

I can see her smile, in

the corners of her eyes. 

Finally she lifts her

gaze from her book,

and her smile is worth

a thousand words. 

Hey, Tony.  Thanks

for saying hi.  It was

feeling lonely in this

noisy room.  You always

seem to know when I

could use a friend.  Sit

down, okay?  Her warm

hand finds mine, pulls. 

I sit very close to her,

and I'm glad when she

doesn't take away her hand. 

It's warm.  Soft.  Girly. 

Like in the movies,

I lift it, kiss softly. 

## A Strange Light

Fills Vanessa's eyes. 

Confusion?  Clarity? 

Disgust? " What?  You

never had a guy kiss

you before?  Oh, yeah.  You

did.  I saw, remember?" 

She smiles.  I'm not

quite senile yet,

dear.  To answer your

question, yes, I've had

lots of guys kiss me.  Just

none quite like you. 

"Quite like me, meaning

gay?"  I pretend hurt. 

"And what do you mean,

'lots of guys'?  Can you

quantify that for me?" 

My turn to smile. 

"Lots of guys," meaning

too many—I didn't

even like all of them. 

Now she brings my

hand to her kiss. " Quite

like you," meaning special. 

Tony, no one in here,

including Conner, treats

me with the kind of respect

and friendship that you

do.  Anyway, all "gay"

means to me is happy. 

"It doesn't mean that

to me, Vanessa.  My

lifestyle has caused

a lot of pain.  I hope

to change that when

I get out of here." 

I do? 

## Vanessa

## Tony Is So Different

From what I thought

him to be, the first few times

I was around him. 

Initial impression: funny,

not particularly intelligent,

homosexual to the point

of caricature. 

Current impression:

funny, way smart, and not

just street smart;

sensitive but strong.  Gay? 

Maybe, but there is a definite

attraction between us. 

And gay, straight, or somewhere

in-between, I love him. 

Suddenly, I want to tell him. 

"I love you, Tony." 

I expect a smart-ass reply,

or at least surprise.  But

I'm the one who's surprised. 

I love you, too, Vanessa,

and in my life, love is rare. 

You are rare—someone who

bothered to scratch under

my skin and find the person

beneath.  No one else ever

did that, except for Phillip. 

But I don't have him to

fall back on anymore. 

"Tell me about Phillip,"

I say, "and I want to know

everything.  How did you meet? 

Were you a couple? 

Did you love him, too?" 

He spends the next half hour

telling me all about Phillip. 

I'm glad he was Tony's friend. 

I wish I had a friend like that. 

Or maybe I do. 

## After a While

The conversation veers

toward Conner.  Why is he

always on both of our minds? 

"You and Conner seem

pretty tight lately," I say. 

"I think I'm jealous." 

Of me or him?  Tony jokes. 

Either way, no worries. 

We haven't made out yet. 

I have seen him in the shower,

though.  Mm, mm, mm. 

"Now I know I'm jealous." 

We laugh, but the picture

of Conner in the shower,

water streaming down

over his muscular body,

lodges in my brain. 

You like him a lot, huh? 

I do too, but not in the way

you think.  And I'm not

really sure why.  He's

not easy to get close to,

not easy to understand. 

"It's not easy to get

close to anyone in here,

Tony.  Everyone's afraid

of everybody else . . .  maybe

because we're all afraid

of ourselves." 

Tony mulls that over, nods. 

You know, I think

you've got a great future

ahead of you—as a psychologist. 

But I'm not afraid of one

person—you.  I hope we can

stay friends when we get

out of here. 

## I Hope So Too

And I tell him so, but then

admit, "My grandma will

be good with it, but my dad

probably won't understand. 

He thinks gay people are freaks." 

But you don't think

that way.  Why not? 

I shrug. " I take people

at face value.  Besides, you

don't have to be gay to be

a freak.  Just look at me." 

Being bipolar doesn't

make you a freak. 

"Sometimes it does, Tony. 

Sometimes it does." 

I think you're just

about perfect, Vanessa. 

I glance down, notice

we've been holding

hands this entire time. 

"I've been pretty screwed

up for a while.  But I feel

a little less freaky, now the lithium

is starting to work, and the side

effects aren't as bad." 

I'm feeling better too. 

Like maybe there's a place

for me—a place I might even

want to be.  Phillip told me

there was, but after he died,

I didn't want to look for it. 

"I understand."  And I do. 

Death can do that

to you. 

## Conner

## Home Sweet Home

I've never really thought

about how it looked before—

it was just the place I ate

and slept.  But now, sitting

in Mom's Lexus, parked in

the wide, curved driveway, I

stare at the oversized Tudor,

decide it's truly obnoxious. 

Maybe it's because I've lived

in a tidy, cell-like room

for the past dozen weeks, but

"home" looks more like a hotel

than a house—sprawling, coiffed

and manicured, impersonal

as hell.  Four people, living

in five thousand square feet?  Absurd! 

Mom chauffeured, assaulting

me with regulations: No phone

calls; no unsupervised jaunts;

no meds.  My expectations

are high that you can return

to a normal life.  That won't

happen if you're constantly

stoned.  Are you strong enough

to make it through a weekend

without propping yourself up

on antidepressants?  Her eyes

reflected a boatload of doubt. 

I shrugged, kept my mouth shut. 

Nothing I could have said—at

least, nothing totally true—

would have made her feel better. 

## She's Standing

Just inside the front door,

waving for me to come on. 

I guess I'd better, before she

turns into a raving bitch. 

The lawn is greening, and in

the flower beds, bevies

of tulips and daffodils nod

colorful heads.  It's all so

cheerful I want to heave.  On

the step, I turn, hoping to

catch a glimpse of someone

familiar, jogging by.  Nothing. 

I stare hard down the block,

don't find her car in her driveway. 

Would you please come inside?  hisses

Mom.  Are you out of your mind? 

That woman doesn't live there

anymore.  Did you think she would? 

Anger flares. " Why wouldn't she,

Mother?  What the hell did you do?" 

What did I do?  The real blame

lies with you.  Your father and I

simply suggested to her it

might be wise to move elsewhere. 

"Emily wouldn't cave in and go

because of a simple suggestion. 

Threat is more like it, huh, Mom? 

Must you always use your claws?" 

Call it what you will, Conner. 

With that temptation gone,

it's safe for you to come home. 

End of explanation. 

Of course.  It's her favorite

expression.  I feel the serious

need for Prozac before

depression overwhelms me. 

## Not Exactly a Warm, Fuzzy Welcome

Although I didn't really

expect hugs, kisses, and a

surprise welcome home

party.  Still, such direct

affirmation of my parent's

power wielding is scary. 

Two "beautiful people" who

devour opponents like bread. 

Mom disappears and I start

down the long hall, lined with

photos and trophies.  Suddenly

I'm a small child, looking up at

my parents' accomplishments,

knowing I'm expected to hang

my own on the wall, knowing

I can never climb high enough. 

Upstairs, I hear Cara's music. 

Won't she come say hello? 

I veer left, into the sunken

living room, expecting to see

white Berber carpet, perhaps

with a hint of a rust-colored

stain.  The carpet is a pale

shade of mint—totally new. 

Pretty, isn't it?  Mom, come

to check up on me.  I decided

I didn't want white, after all.  Will

you please put away your things? 

I pick up the overnight bag,

start toward the kitchen.  Part of me

wants to confront Mom.  The bigger

part just wants water, to push

the Prozac down. 

## Tony

## Orientation for the Challenge

Begins today.  Mr. Hidalgo

says we have to finish up

for-credit work before we

can "go climb rocks and

swing from ropes."  Sounds

like Boy Scouts to me. 

It's not exactly Boy Scouts,

says Sean, a Challenge

counselor.  More like Swiss

Family Robinson, in the

high desert.  You'll have

limited water (just enough

to drink—you'll stink

before you're through,

believe me.)  Food is MREs—

Meals, Ready to Eat, military

style.  Think chicken, potato,

and vegetable mush.  Mmm! 

Vanessa shoots a "gag me"

finger and a huge smile. 

Can't wait!  she mouths,

glancing at Conner, who

sits off by himself.  He's

been lost in himself since

his visit home last weekend. 

Vanessa and I have both

grilled him about it, but

all he'll say is, Nothing

has changed.  It's exactly

the same and always will be. 

At least my dad's home is

something all new.  I might

even stay awhile, until

one of us decides we've

made a major mistake—

or my birth certificate has. 

## Meanwhile, Sean and Raven

Tell us all about how to

prepare for the Challenge. 

They say to toughen up

mentally; that if we do,

the physical part will

take care of itself.  Uh-huh. 

Wilderness survival is mind

over matter, says Raven,

who's probably the strongest

woman I've ever seen. 

Thirst.  Hunger.  Fatigue. 

All originate in the brain. 

More accurately, the body's

reaction to them originates

in the brain.  But I'll just

keep quiet.  They've already

warned us about thinking

we know more than they do. 

We won't put you in harm's

way, adds Sean, although

it may seem like it from time

to time.  And we do expect

you to push yourselves

almost to the point of

pain. 

No pain, no gain—an old,

very warped philosophy. 

But after weeks and weeks

of listening to people

gripe about their phobias,

complexes, and manic episodes,

not to mention abuse, neglect,

and molestation by relatives,

priests, neighbors, and stepparents,

one-on-one with

the wilderness sounds like

a vacation to sanity. 

## Sean and Raven Leave

Manuals and study guides,

to read in our spare time. 

"Hey, Conner," I try, hoping

to pull him into the moment. 

"Ever seen a rattlesnake,

up close and personal?" 

He looks up from his lap. 

Only my mother, the nasty,

sidewinding bitch.  You? 

"Yeah, I saw one once. 

Poor, stupid snake crawled

out on the freeway.  Ugly!" 

We won't see any snakes,

guesses Vanessa.  Or, if we

do, they'll be moving slow. 

"How do you know?  Are

you some kind of a herp . . . 

herpe . . .  snake expert?" 

Not an expert, but I did

have an interest in school. 

Maybe I'll take up herpetology

if I ever make it to college. 

All I know is it's still pretty

cold at night for reptiles. 

"It's still pretty cold at night

for people, too, at least if

you have to sleep outside. 

I slept outside in a blizzard

once.  Wouldn't go

looking to do that again." 

I did that once, too, admits

Vanessa, because my

boyfriend

wanted to.  Stupid, huh? 

"The things we do for love . . . 

well, sweetie, I'd sleep

outside naked in a blizzard,

for you." 

## Vanessa

## We're Up to Our Elbows

In schoolwork, Challenge study,

red tape, counseling sessions,

and visits from home—all

to make sure we're prepared

for the "experience of our lives,"

not to mention what will follow:

going home, back to our families,

friends, schools, and hangouts. 

The very things that put us here

to begin with.  Am I ready? 

Dr. Starr wants to know. 

Are you ready to leave

Aspen Springs, Vanessa? 

Even beyond that, you'll be

eighteen in a few months. 

Can you take responsibility

for yourself, live on your own,

and deal with your BPD? 

"I don't know," I admit. 

"But I've got to take care

of myself sooner or later. 

I know the lithium is working,

at least most of the time. 

I hardly ever swing manic

anymore.  Sometimes I do

feel depressed, but not near

as much as I used to." 

What about your mother? 

Are you ready to deal with

what happened to her? 

Okay, now I feel depressed. 

"I don't know if I can ever

deal with what happened." 

You have no choice, if you

want to get well and stay

that way.  Can we talk

about her now? 

## Fifteen Minutes Later

I've said all I'm going to

say about Mama, except,

"I can't remember her being

happy after Bryan was born. 

I thought she should be happy—

he was such a beautiful little

baby, no trouble at all, really. 

But she was seriously depressed,

almost psychotic." 

That's not unusual for someone

with bipolar disorder, Vanessa. 

Especially if that someone

was not being treated for

the condition.  Had she been

diagnosed yet? 

"No.  Not until Bryan started

kindergarten.  It was actually

his teacher who pointed

out the symptoms to Grandma. 

Gives you some idea of how

parent/teacher conferences went." 

Dr. Starr smiles.  Yes, I can see that. 

You know, Vanessa, the stress

of pregnancy and the postpartum

period triggers depression

in a lot of women.  If they have a

history of mental illness, they can

become dangerous.  Was your mother

a danger to your brother or you? 

What the hey?  I've got

nothing to lose by telling

her and it might be good

to get it off my chest,

now that I don't have to worry

about Mama's fierce

brand of retribution. 

## I Said Mama Wasn't Happy

"But the truth is, she was

a total psycho some of the time. 

When Bryan was a baby,

I was afraid to leave him

alone with Mama.  One

time I came home from

school and he was screaming. 

Mama had him in the kitchen

sink, giving him a bath. 

The water was way too hot. 

I yanked him from her hands,

his baby skin all red and steaming. 

I have to scrub away his sin,

Mama said.  Jesus expects it. 

"A baby has no sin, Mama,"

I tried to tell her. 

We are born into sin and must

be cleansed.  Damian says so. 

Dr. Starr interrupts,

Who is Damian? 

"Mama's personal 'angel,'

who followed her everywhere. 

I didn't think he was very

nice, for an angel." 

I see.  Well, it was a good

thing you came in when

you did.  Was that why you

asked

your grandmother to step in? 

I nod. " That, and the fact

that Mama beat me

for 'arguing with the will

of the Lord.'  I didn't think

much of the Lord for a very

long time." 

## Conner

## Tomorrow We're Off

To the far distant side of

the Black Rock Desert, where the

mountains tumble down to crash-

land on the playa.  Talk about

wilderness—rabbits, and

the coyotes who love them, that's

all we'll have for company except

each other and a watchdog or two. 

Dr. Boston is worried

about me.  The Challenge is

not the place for heroics,

Conner.  You'll be physically

tired and mentally drained

by the end of Day Five, no

matter how good the shape

you're in.  You tend to want

to play savior.  Promise me

you won't.  Not out there, okay? 

"I appreciate that you're

worried, Dr. B. Don't be. 

In fact, you've got me all

wrong.  No savior complex

here.  All I want is the key to

the front door.  Adios.  So long." 

Her smile fades.  What then, Conner? 

How will you deal with the kind

of pressure that brought you to

us?  You cannot allow everyday

stress to make you put a gun

to your chest and pull the trigger. 

I don't want to read in the paper

that my best patient has died. 

## Best? 

"What do you mean by 'best'? 

Least trouble?  Cutest?  Most

likely to succeed after he's

released?  'Cause I'm not that." 

Why not, Conner?  You were on

a fast track to success.  No

reason to derail, is there? 

You've no lack of ambition. 

She gives me this great smile

and I wonder, for maybe

the thousandth time, what's

under her short little skirt. 

I decide on the direct route. 

"My main ambition, once

I leave here, is getting laid

by some gorgeous older woman. . . ." 

I see, says Dr. B (Heather?). 

You know, we've never resolved

this older woman thing.  Can we

possibly do that before you go? 

"Since I'm leaving tomorrow,

I suppose that means right now?" 

It does.  Sometimes a feeling

of attraction grows because

a specific incident spurs it. 

You said your mother rarely

touched you.  Remember when you

were small?  Who did touch you? 

I gasp beneath the weight

of memory, recollection

so evocative it dwarfs

all thought of Emily. 

Eyes closed, I find her there

in the dark, hands like silk,

the kind you want to wear close

to your most private places. 

## Hands to Guide

Little boys to exactly those

places they want to see, to touch,

to taste.  Perfect hands, that

flaunt her beauty. " Leona." 

Your governess, the one who . . . 

Heather halts midsentence,

changes direction.  Can

you talk about the assaults? 

I shake my head. " I never

thought about it that way. 

Leona never assaulted me,

and the things she taught me

didn't hurt.  I was always

expected to act all grown up. 

She made me a man for real,

and no one suspected a thing." 

No adult has the right to

turn a child into a man,

nor to teach him things

he's too immature to learn. 

Leona was a predator, and

you were a willing victim—

a child in need of human warmth

can easily blur the line between

affection and perversion. 

Your trust in Leona was not

deserved.  She did assault you. 

It just didn't hurt until now. 

Too much to take in, too

much to purge.  Why must

every memory, once sweet,

dead-end in such ugliness? 

Too much . . . 

## Tony

## Off We Go

On our grand adventure—

most likely the only grand

adventure I'll ever have. 

Better make the most of

it—grab life by the scrotum

and squeeze real hard. 

We pile into a big Suburban,

Sean behind the wheel and Raven

taking shotgun.  Dahlia, Lori,

and Justin grab the middle

seat, leaving the back to

Conner, Vanessa, and me. 

Just the way I like it.  We head

east from Reno, drive for miles

across vast, high desert. 

Vanessa's knee rests against

mine.  You can see forever! 

It's beautiful, isn't it? 

"Not as beautiful as you,"

I say, loving the way

it makes her blush. 

God, Tony, says Lori, if

I didn't know better, I'd

say you were playing her. 

Subtle as dreams, I reach

for Vanessa's hand. " Nope,

not playing.  Not at all." 

Vanessa snakes her fingers

around mine, comfortable

with them there.  I know. 

I would expect Conner

to say something, or at

least notice.  But he just

stares out the window, silent

as death.  I wonder where he

is right now, 'cause it's not here. 

## Eventually, We Turn

North off the interstate,

onto a backwater highway. 

To the east, the Black

Rock Desert stretches

emptiness as far as the eye

can take in.  I've heard

it's an inferno come summer. 

But spring has softened it

with wildflowers and little

creeks that fill big cracks

in the playa.  I've never been

here before, but I'll be back. 

"Hey, Conner, you ever been

to the Black Rock before? 

Ever done Burning Man?" 

I have, interrupts Dahlia. 

I went with my boyfriend

last year.  It was awesome. 

Finally, Conner turns from

the window.  You crazy? 

Getting naked, scarfing tofu,

and chanting mantra for three

days with a bunch of dope-

smoking pyromaniacs? 

Dahlia laughs.  That about

covers it, okay.  It was

a total, out and out gas. 

Conner notices Vanessa

and me holding hands. 

He scowls.  Whatever. 

"I always meant to check

it out but never managed

to find a way out here," I

say. " Hey, Vanessa, if I can

get us a ride, want to

come with me this year?" 

## Before She Can Answer

Raven launches into

a whole discussion

about the Burning Man

Festival—how it started

as a fun Labor Day party,

with campouts and bonfires. 

How it has segued into

a major assault on the

landscape, despite the best

efforts of BLM officials

and every good intention of

the partiers in question. 

This desert may not look

like it deserves respect,

she says.  But it is unique. 

Fragile.  And it is up to

us to protect it.  I hope

your time out here will

convince you of that. 

We are going to take

you places few people

ever see.  The journey

will not be easy.  It will,

as the name implies,

challenge you, in mind

and body.  But once

you complete it, I

guarantee you will

come away with new

respect for yourselves. 

Respect for myself? 

The concept is totally

foreign.  Improbable. 

If Challenge by Choice

can do that for me,

I will always be

grateful. 

## Vanessa

## We Stop for Lunch

In Gerlach, the last town

(if you could call it that)

before leaving civilization

completely.  There's one gas

station, one post office, and

one restaurant—Bruno's. 

We always stop here, says

Sean.  After this, it's MREs,

except for what we might

catch to eat fresh. 

"Catch?  You mean like

bugs?"  Images of gross-out

TV shows come to mind. 

No, says Raven.  He means

like fish.  Or maybe craw-

dads. 

Ever try crayfish, fresh

from a mountain reser-

voir? 

"Eeeeuuuuu!  Those little

lobster-looking things? 

You actually eat those?" 

Ask anyone in the Deep South,

they'll tell you they're heaven

ly,

Raven says.  And this time of

year,

they're hungry—easy to catch. 

I decide I'd better eat every

crumb of this giant cheeseburger

and fries.  It may be the last thing

I'll feel like eating for a while. 

Sounds like we'll have some

serious choices to make. 

Miniature shellfish. ( You don't

eat the antennae, do you?) 

Or just-add-water-to-refortify

meat, potatoes, and gravy. 

Mmmm.  I can hardly wait! 

## Back on the Road

And now it's a gravel road,

rutted and scarred by winter,

slow going in this old four-by. 

Everyone seems subdued, lost

in daydreams, anxiousness,

or the hypnotic lull of the sameness

outside the windows.  This is high

desert at its most monotonous—

the cracked, white playa, giving

way to miles and miles of sage,

greasewood, and cheatgrass. 

And yet it's riveting, beautiful

in its starkness. 

"Look."  I point at deep impressions,

stamped in the playa. 

"Wagon tracks.  Can you believe

you can still see them?  They're

more than a century old!" 

Beside me, Conner rouses. 

My great-great grandmother

came to Nevada in one of those wagons. 

He pauses, then finishes. 

If she had stayed in Pennsylvania,

I wouldn't be here now. 

It sounds more like a wish

than an observation, and it makes

me sad. " I'm glad you're here,

Conner.  I don't know what

happened when you went home,

but you're not the same person

now.  I miss the Conner who left." 

He slides his arm around my

shoulder, pulls me close, whispers,

I'm sorry, Vanessa.  You are

the most incredible girl I've ever

known, and you deserve much

better than me. 

## Okay, That Worries Me

Conner has always acted

completely self-assured,

in control.  It's part of what

makes him so damn attractive. 

I let my hand settle on his thigh,

wish we were somewhere

I could kiss him.  Really

kiss him. " What's wrong,

Conner?  Talk to me." 

He sags slightly, weighting

the arm around my shoulder. 

Do you know how great

it would be to live a simple

existence, like the pioneers

did?  Okay, I know they died

from diseases we now kill

with little pills.  And I know

life was tough without electricity

and running water. 

But think, just think, how

awesome it was not to worry

about college, or an upwardly

mobile career.  No pressure,

no expectations beyond staying

alive and keeping your family safe. 

He covers my hand with his. 

Think how people must have

loved each other when all

they had was each other. 

That does sound nice, but life

wasn't really easy back then, not

that it's easier now.  I'm still

not sure what's going on

in Conner's head.  All I know

is I want to be inside there too. 

So I tell him, very softly,

"We may have more than just

each other.  But that doesn't

diminish what I feel

for you." 

## Conner

## I Thought I Was Ready

To graduate Aspen Springs,

move ahead with my life. 

I even quit taking the Prozac,

to prove to myself that I could. 

I figured the Challenge would

provide enough stimulation

to let me go cold turkey. 

Four days later I can't decide

if that's why I feel like I'm

fresh out of hope, or if it's

the big, ugly picture.  Never

before did I doubt my ability

to one day leave Mom and Dad

in my dust, carve a niche, climb

inside and stay there, satisfied

with my personal pit of lust. 

But my visit home only served

to implode all perception

of independence.  The thing

with Emily showed how focused

my parents are on exerting

control indefinitely.  Forever

is too long to spend, forced

into the "submissive" role. 

And then Dr. Boston had to

dredge up all that stuff about

Leona.  Talk about your

psychological sledgehammers. 

She confronted me with a demon

I had buried a long time ago,

exhumed suppressed guilt

I had carried far too long. 

## And Now, Here's Vanessa

Offering abstract confessions

of affection.  If I were

normal, how would I describe

our definite connection? 

I love the way she feels in

the curve of my arm.  I love

her unpretentious beauty,

her intelligence, her nerve. 

But could I ever love her? 

The concept of falling in love

is completely foreign, something

I can't bring myself to accept. 

Her hair pillows my cheek and

her hand on my leg is warm. 

I care about you, Conner,

and I hate to see you hurting. 

I want to respond but can't

find the pretty words I need. 

Tony comes to my rescue. 

Do you two mind?  I'm try

ing

to meditate here.  Ohm. 

Ohm. 

Damn!  Now I'm distracted. 

Once again I'm amazed at

how he can jump right in

and lighten even the heaviest

situation.  Tony is gold. 

More than probably anyone,

he has earned my admiration. 

I know Vanessa loves him too. 

"Why don't you join us?"  I kid. 

"I can't speak for Vanessa, but

I've always wanted to try

a threesome.  Hetero only,

though.  You up for that, Tony?" 

I'll try anything once.  And

you know, I just might like it. 

## We Stop to Stretch Our Legs

And take a piss in the desert. 

Not difficult for the guys,

but embarrassing for the ladies. 

The result is a lecture on

wilderness hygiene, delivered

with great panache by Raven. 

Please spread out to urinate,

and if you must defecate,

grab this little shovel and be

sure to dig at least a foot

deep.  You do not want to leave

your shit where lions can find it. 

Dahlia is impressed.  Lions? 

What do you mean, lions? 

Raven clarifies.  Mountain lions—

plentiful here, but rarely seen,

because generally they would

rather not mess with people. 

Still, the odd cat can have a taste

for humans, so let me stress

the importance of knowing how

to deal with a cat if you happen

on one.  Don't run.  Make noise.  Fight

back.  Don't look like an easy meal. 

Dahlia looks like cougar fast

food—a no-brain meal.  I can't

believe I might have to fight

a lion.  That's totally screwed. 

Tony jabs, No worries, dear. 

A cat would take one bite and spit

you back out.  You're tasteless.  Now,

if you'll excuse me, I have to make

a pit stop. 

## Tony

## Almost Dark

We bump up beside a rock

outcropping, get ready

to camp for the night. 

How many of you have

camped in the wilderness

before?  asks Sean. 

"Define wilderness," I say. 

"Does it include the parks

and alleys in Reno?" 

Sean cracks half a smile. 

That's a different kind

of wilderness, Tony. 

"Tell me about it.  It smells

a whole lot better out

here in the boonies." 

We want to leave it that

way.  You already know about

how to relieve yourselves. . . . 

Sean launches into a whole

"leave no tracks" routine,

even though we've already

been over it in our orientation:

Carry in, carry out; don't

disturb wildlife or vegetation. . . . 

Bored immediately, I turn

my attention to Raven, who's

unloading gear.  Some of it

looks pretty heavy.  Hope

we don't have to carry that

stuff in or out, but something

tells me we do.  I spy a

steep trail, leading up

into the mountains. 

No way a vehicle would

manage that.  Looks like

we'll be walking from here. 

## Raven Shows Us

How to build a portable

shelter—four poles and

a canvas roof, no walls. 

Then she gives each of us

a backpack, a thin sleeping

bag, and barely enough

clothes to get us through

three reeking weeks. 

We arrange our sleeping

bags, boys on one side

of the newly built fire pit,

girls on the other, and

suddenly I notice how

cold it becomes, once

the sun takes a dive. 

Better gather some fire-

wood, Sean says, before

it gets much darker. 

We all spread out, looking

for something that qualifies. 

Mostly, it's sage twigs. 

Sage burns hot and fast. 

Better get plenty, Raven warns. 

It's going to be a cold one. 

Raven lights the fire, and

just about then I notice

there are no lanterns. 

No cook stoves, either, she

says.  Did you expect

a Coleman display? 

All that stuff is heavy,

not what you'll want

to be carrying in your

packs over miles of

rough territory, let

alone up a rock cliff. 

## Things Swim into Focus

For some stupid reason

I had it in mind that we'd

do a little hiking, a little

climbing, then return

to our neat little camp for

dinner and bedtime stories. 

Looks like tonight is

the closest we'll get,

and we're already miles

from anything I pictured. 

The others look nervous

too.  Except for Conner. 

Since we had a big lunch,

says Raven, we'll skip

MREs tonight, and stick

with fresh veggies and fruit. 

Even if you don't really like

them, you'll miss them soon. 

She breaks out apples,

bananas, grapes, raw

carrots, and broccoli,

plus an assortment of

crackers and cheeses. 

You'll miss cheese, too. 

I already miss hot food,

which is strange.  I've

gone for days with nothing

more than stale bread and

peanut butter.  Spoiled

by Aspen Springs? 

Groans and crunching

noises fill the cool air

inside our temporary

shelter.  We all gather

around the fire, not quite

getting warm.  Everyone,

except Conner. 

## Vanessa

## Okay, This Is Less

Than I bargained for—primitive,

not to mention cold. 

Even around the campfire,

our breath puffs

into the evening air, mixing

with smoke as if we're all

indulging a nicotine habit. 

No bad habits out here,

except for our meds,

dutifully distributed

by Raven the Taskmistress. 

We sit shoulder-to-shoulder

in silence, trying to snatch

a little body warmth, as

the meds kick in. 

Only Conner sits off to one

side, not affected by

temperature, but surely bothered

by something.  Despite all

the ice-breaking on the way

here, he's frozen solid. 

One thing I notice, since I can

hardly keep my eyes off him,

is how he waits for Raven

to turn her back before spitting

out the pill she hands him. 

Softly, he digs a little hole

in the sand with one hiking

boot, slips the med inside,

smoothes it over, buried treasure. 

My eyes travel to Tony,

and I see he is watching

Conner too.  Finally he glances

at me, and we offer a mutual shrug. 

He scoots closer.  Don't worry,

Vanessa.  Everything will be okay. 

Conner knows what he's doing. 

## I Wander into the Sage

For a pre-bed pee, notice how

the stars have assaulted the black

of night sky.  The moon is on slow

rise, and I'm sure I have never

witnessed anything so stunning. 

My flashlight illuminates

a path, worn through the vegetation,

and I choose it as the easy way

before wondering about what

made the trail to begin with. 

As I squat down behind a taller

bush, hoping my silhouette won't

be seen from the campfire,

movement in the brush startles

me into rising, pants dropped. 

I wave my flashlight, left

to right, and I find myself

eyeball-to-eyeball with a deer,

not four feet away.  I see no

antlers, so it must be a doe,

as scared of me as I was

of her just a few seconds ago. 

"It's okay, pretty thing," I say,

real quiet so I don't make her

even more scared. 

But with a flick of her tail,

she dashes away, into

the safety of the night. 

Vanessa?  Where are you? 

calls Raven, traipsing through

the sage, hot on my trail, as

if taking off, sixty-some miles

to the nearest approximation

of civilization, were an option. 

I yank up my pants. " Over

here."  Trading heartbeats

with a deer. " I'm coming. 

It's freezing out here." 

## Scrunched Down Into

The relative warmth of our

sleeping bags, we listen to Sean,

outlining tomorrow's goals:

We leave the truck here, head

up into the hills.  The higher we

go, the more likely it is we'll

run into snow, so the going

may get muddy.  Try to avoid

slushy puddles.  If your feet

get wet, you're going to blister,

and we won't slow down for

that—or anything that can

be avoided, with a little

common sense. 

Raven adds, This isn't

TV.  You may have watched

Survivor or that show called

Brat Camp.  Hard as those

may look, the camera guys

following everyone around

mitigate real hardship. 

We're not here to hurt you,

but we're not going to help

in situations you create,

or those you can dig

yourselves out of. 

Back to Sean.  There will be

times when you'll have to

resort to teamwork to accomplish

a leg of the program.  Working

together is how you'll get

through the Challenge, and how

you'll get through life. 

Trying to find sleep, I look

out at the stars, and just as I

start to settle down, a coyote

starts to sing. 

## Conner

## Coyote Booty Calls

Crack the night's smooth silence,

raising quiet alarm among

the ranks. " Relax, everyone. 

A coyote's diet is pretty

much rabbits, mice, and the

occasional cat.  And if you're

concerned about rabies, worry

more about the stray bat who

happens into our shelter." 

God, it's great to watch them

squirm, every eye straining

to find an odd winged creature,

flapping beneath the canopy. 

Yip, yip, yip invites one scruffy

excuse for a canine.  I hear

a sleeping bag zip tighter. 

At my right, Tony laughs. 

Relax, Justin.  You know

Jesus won't let those coyot's

make midnight snacks out of us. 

Justin answers, Jesus helps

those who help themselves, but I

wouldn't expect someone like

you to know things like that. 

What do you mean, "someone like

me?"  I hope that's not an attack

on my character.  Because that is

not a Christian philosophy. 

Wisely, Justin crawls back into

his pit of surly silence. 

Quiet down now, orders Sean. 

You'll be getting up early. 

## All's Quiet

Except for the chorus of

medicated snores, and I

half-regret not joining

them in sedated limbo. 

Instead I'm lying here, on

a hard crust of playa sand,

listening to the desert night,

inhaling sage-scented dust,

blown up by a bone-chilling

wind.  Seems you don't notice

the cold, cradled by downers,

mired in Valium dreams. 

Cold or no, I will stick to

my decision to rid my body

of drugs while I'm out here—

supervision-free detox. 

No more a.m. stimulants, p.m.

depressants, which might appeal

to a very large crowd of loser

adolescents.  But not me. 

Mom and Dad would be proud—

Yeah, right.  Who am I kidding? 

After all the trauma, all

the drama, I'll never quite

make their greatest achievements

list.  Something cheerful to think about,

brain fighting my body's request

for sleep.  Through a heavy mist

of exhaustion comes a blitz

of memories—Dr. Boston,

Leona, Emily, all women

I tried my best to please

in whatever ways they asked. 

And I see that it was all just

a warped bid for attention

from one woman—Mommy. 

## Pale Light

Filters through my closed

eyelids, pierces my pupils,

rouses me into morning,

forbids any hope of sleep. 

Rise and shine, happy campers! 

croaks Sean.  Coffee's brewing. 

What the fuck, asshole?  responds

Dahlia.  What time is it?  Like dawn? 

It's time to haul your lazy

butt out of the sack!  says Raven. 

Dahlia groans.  Fine.  I'm hauling. 

But don't expect peak performance. 

No worries.  No one would ever

expect peak performance from

you.  Tony's jab draws tired laughter. 

Not that we don't all respect you. 

Sean orders, Okay, everyone

pay attention.  The morning

routine goes like this: up at

daybreak, sleeping bags rolled

up and stashed in your backpacks,

ten minutes for bodily functions

(please go in separate directions),

breakfast, teeth, and then off we go. 

I drag myself out of my cocoon,

roll it up tightly as I can manage,

then reach for a cup of coffee to

fight the black hole of sleeplessness

I have pushed myself into. 

I hope Sean and Raven will

take it easy on us the first

day.  I doubt I can cope with

a marathon. 

## Tony

## After a Scrumptious Breakfast

(Egg McMuffin–flavored

substance, in a foil pouch),

Raven and Sean start

handing us things to stow

in our packs, on top of

our already wrinkled clothes. 

Rope.  More foil pouches. 

(Guess we have to carry

our own gourmet goop.) 

One roll of toilet paper

each. ( Guess MREs don't

make for megadumps. 

Hope they've got laxatives

along!)  Antibacterial

soap. ( For hair and skin,

safe for the environment.) 

Flint and steel.  Fire-starter

tinder. ( We're trusting this?) 

Featherlight thermal

blankets. ( Thank you,

NASA.)  Pocket hand

warmers. ( Where are

we going, anyway?  To

the Antarctic?)  Lip ice. 

Mosquito repellent.  Sunglasses. 

(Awesome idea. 

The glare out here is

killer.  Sure glad someone's

got the system down.) 

A minifishing kit, with one

hook, one bobber, one sinker,

and a small reel of line. 

(Hope Phillip's watching

this.  If so, he's smiling.) 

"Hey, Phillip," I whisper. 

"Are you there, somewhere?" 

## Finally, Sean Gives Each of Us

A whistle on a long red

cord, just right to go

around our necks and

hang in easy reach. 

Three short blasts

means you're in trouble. 

Everyone has to give

theirs a try.  The noise

scatters a warren of jackrabbits,

out on a scouting

expedition.  What do rabbits

eat out here, anyway?  Sand? 

Before we head out,

we're going to buddy

up, Raven says.  Always

keep your buddy in sight,

or at least know where

he or she is at all times. 

Raven assigns partners,

choosing Lori for hers. 

Vanessa and Dahlia. 

Justin and Sean.  Which

leaves Conner and me. 

A week ago I would

have been fine with that,

ecstatic, in fact.  But this

thing with Conner eighty-sixing

his meds has me worried. 

He buried his Prozac again

this morning.  I know

quitting cold isn't always

a problem, but it can be. 

What if he drops off

the deep end? " How

responsible for our

partners are we?"  I ask. 

## Conner Shoots a Curious Look

In my direction.  Hell,

maybe he's worried

about looking out for me. 

Good question, replies

Sean.  And the answer

is: ninety-nine percent. 

"What about the one

percent?  Can you be

more specific, please?" 

I can.  If your buddy

decides to run off into

the night, don't go too. 

Everyone takes a minute

or two to digest the buddy

system thing.  Now, Q & A:

Q: What if my buddy breaks a leg? 

A: Blow your whistle.  We'll

triage on site, call for help. 

Q: What if she won't participate? 

A: Encourage her.  Get in her

face if you have to. 

Q: What if that doesn't work? 

A: Blow one long blast on

your whistle; leave it to us. 

My turn. " And what

if your buddy flips

out completely?" 

Sean looks at Conner,

looks back at me.  Is

that really a concern? 

I turn toward Conner,

assess the dark circles

around his sleep-deprived

eyes.  He smiles a very

strange smile and gives a

little shrug, and I say,

"Guess not." 

## Vanessa

## Buddies with Dahlia

Wonderful.  She and I have

probably exchanged

a hundred words in

the last fifteen weeks. 

But hey, I guess

that's the point. 

Challenge by Choice—

the way to form lasting (?) 

friendships.  I decide to break

the ice. " Are you into hiking?" 

You kidding?  Most hiking

I've ever done is from

my house down to

the corner 7-Eleven. 

What about you? 

"I've been a few times,

with my grandma.  She's in

pretty good shape for her age. 

She likes to hike Mt. Rose

Meadows, and we did part

of the Rim Trail, too." 

Holy crap!  She must be

in pretty good shape. 

Is she old, or what?  'Cause

my grandma is older than dirt. 

I shrug. " Almost sixty. 

But she always seemed

younger to me than

my mom did.  My mom

was born ancient." 

Your mom is the crazy

one, right?  Straight

to the point. 

So I'll give a direct

answer. " She was." 

## Before I Have to Offer Details

Raven rounds us up. 

Okay, everyone ready? 

Today's leg isn't really

difficult.  It's more to assess

what shape you're in

than to really challenge you. 

Our goal is ten miles

before nightfall. 

Ten miles isn't difficult? 

I've never walked more

than five at any one time

with Grandma.  But I guess

I'm up to the task. 

Raven and Lori take the lead

as we start up a gradual grade

on a wide, well-maintained trail. 

Keep a nice, steady pace

and watch your posture,

or your backs will curse

you.  Don't overcompensate

for the weight of your packs,

Raven instructs. 

Right about now, I start

to feel the weight of my

pack.  Immediately, I want

to compensate—a major

trick of the mind? 

I glance to my right,

see Dahlia is fighting

the same urge. " Wonder

how long it takes before

our backs start swearing." 

I woke up this morning and my

back was already cussing big-time,

Dahlia replies.  If you can't hear

it, you need a hearing aid! 

## Two Hours Later

My back is cussing too. 

In fact, with all the spinal

swearing going on, you almost

can't hear the moans

and groans of our feet. 

Finally Raven directs

us off the trail, into a little

clearing in the sage.  We'll

take a breather here. 

Everyone drink water,

even if you don't think

you're thirsty.  Believe

me, you are, and staying

hydrated is vital. 

Water never tasted near

this good before.  I polish

off a bottle, realize I can't

just toss the empty. 

Hang on to those bottles,

says Sean.  We'll refill them

when we get to the creek. 

Anyone hungry?  Tough! 

Lunch isn't for an hour. 

Backpacks up.  Let's go. 

Sean and Justin trade

places with Raven and Lori. 

Conner and Tony move

behind them, in front

of Dahlia and me. 

As Tony passes, he touches

my arm.  You okay?  'Cause

I'm one sore puppy already. 

"Woof, woof," I joke. 

But right now it doesn't seem

too funny. 

## Conner

## We've Been Walking

For three days, uphill, loaded

with heavy packs.  Oxen. 

That's what we are, just like

those whose time-smoothed tracks

we follow.  I keep wondering

if we're going somewhere, or

just wandering at random, not

even Sean knowing our final

destination.  The weather

is typical spring in northern

Nevada—tepid during the day,

and that's a very good thing. 

Hiking these hills in the heat

of July would be insane. 

So far the grade isn't bad,

the trail well marked and dry. 

But we haven't covered near

the distance Sean and Raven

expected to, mostly due to

Lori's insistence that she

"can't take another step."  That's

bull, of course, but her less-than-

adequate speed has kept us from

taking full advantage of

the relatively easy terrain. 

Things only get harder from

here—steeper, more slippery—

so unless the bitch grows wings

our progress will slow even

more.  Not sure why it matters,

especially if wandering at

random actually is the score. 

## I Decide It Isn't

Because as we set up camp for

the night, I hear Raven and Sean

discussing tomorrow.  Seems

our first real test is in sight. 

So what do you think?  Are they

all up to the gorge?  asks Raven. 

Guess we'll find out, answers Sean. 

Anyway, we haven't had a fall yet. 

I'm a little worried about

Lori.  She's not exactly fit. 

She will pose a challenge,

but hey, no guts, no glory. 

"Glory" is not in her dictionary. 

I hope "vertigo" isn't either. 

She's your buddy, sweetheart. 

Just show her the rope-a-dope. 

Should be an interesting

day.  I'll be sure to let Lori

and Raven go first.  That

way I won't miss a thing. 

I unroll my sleeping bag,

smoothing the sand beneath

best I can, wishing the stone-

free surface was soothing

enough to actually let me

sleep.  Four nights without

drifting all the way off into

deep REM refreshment

has left me disoriented. 

So far only Tony has

a clue, but with my thought

processes bordering on bizarre,

that's likely to change any

time.  Maybe exhaustion will

conquer my brain tonight, beat

it into sublime submission. 

## With a Nod

Toward early homo erectus,

Tony lights this evening's

fire, using only flint and steel. 

Around bites of pepperoni paste

he asks, How did humans

ever survive?  I mean,

people consider themselves

so clever, but really,

learning to light a fire like

this had to be an accident,

or a direct communication

from our Great Dad Above. 

Sitting close to the blossoming

fire, Justin squirms visibly. 

I wish you wouldn't use

terms like "Great Dad Above." 

Tony smiles.  Why not?  Do

you really think He cares

about terminology?  I bet He

worries more about how few

of His greatest experiments

believe He exists.  With just

that mustard seed of faith, think

what people might achieve. 

"Faith is for little children

and giant fools.  Don't tell

me you believe in Santa, too!" 

Defiant, I hardly slur at all. 

Tony grins.  Of course, and

the Tooth Fairy, too.  All fairies,

in fact.  Then he grows serious. 

I'm sorry you're afraid of truth. 

Me too. 

## Tony

## I Am Firestarter

And I feel powerful. 

Strange, because I

never felt that way

lighting a match,

which really is an

awesome invention. 

But conquering flint and

steel gives me a kind

of primal satisfaction. 

So far only Conner,

Dahlia, and I have

figured out how to do it. 

Vanessa comes over,

gives me a high five. 

Way to go, Tony.  If

I ever decide to go

camping again, I'll

invite you to come. 

"Promise?  Maybe we

could bring along

a sleeping bag for two. 

It would have to be

a whole lot warmer than

these half-ass units." 

No doubt about that. 

She sits beside me,

real close, and for about

the thousandth time,

I'm amazed at how

she makes me feel. 

As inconspicuously

as possible, I slide

my arm around her

waist, put my mouth

against her ear. " I don't

ever want to lose you." 

## Losing Her

Would snuff the light

out of my life—a light

I never believed I

could find again after

Phillip died.  Yet here it

is, sitting right next to me. 

Shit.  Damn.  Fuck. 

On the far side of

the flames, Dahlia

is working her hiking

boots off swollen feet. 

Check out this blister! 

Raven moves into

paramedic mode,

rushing to Dahlia's

side as if she's having

a baby or something. 

She pokes and prods. 

It's ugly, all right. 

Vanessa, get the first

aid kit.  First, we need

some rubbing alcohol. 

Okay, this is going

to hurt a little. . . . 

Quit screaming.  It

can't hurt that bad! 

Now, use this

ointment.  Dab it

all over the blister,

then leave it exposed. 

Dahlia keeps yelling. 

You want me to go

barefoot?  I'll freeze. 

A blister like that needs

air.  Later we'll fix you

up with a moleskin. 

## Dahlia Bitches Until Bedtime

I could kick her ass,

but not because she's

causing a major scene

over a minor problem,

making a mountain (ha-

ha) out of a moleskin. 

No, I'd like to wring

her scrawny neck for

taking Vanessa from

my side to go play

nurse's aide.  I can still

feel the warmth of her. 

I settle into my sleeping

bag, wondering at this

change that has come

over me.  Not only do

I love Vanessa, I think

I want to make love to her. 

Next to me, as if reading

my mind, Conner says,

You're really in love with

her, aren't you?  Do you

want to be with her . . .  I

mean . . .  you know? 

I keep my voice very

low. " I'm really in

love with her, yes. 

She makes me feel

like no one ever has. 

As for the rest, maybe." 

I think you should.  You

told me once you weren't

really sure who you are. 

Being with Vanessa

might answer that

question for you. 

It just might. 

## Vanessa

## It's All So Weird

How things are turning out. 

A month ago I was hot

after Conner.  And he wanted

me, I know he did. 

But that has all grown

very cool, and it's not

because of the weather. 

I mean, I still love him. 

But it's not the "hot for his bod"

love I felt before, and now

I want to save him. 

Why do I think

Mr. Exceptional needs saving? 

A month ago I thought Tony

needed saving.  But I don't think

so now.  And now, God help

me, I'm pretty sure

I'm in love with Tony. 

Not only that, but I'm very sure

he's in love with me. 

Grandma once told me

it's easy to overthink love,

to dissect and question it

until it is no more. 

I'm trying very hard not

to do that at this moment. 

But the night holds

many questions. 

On the far side of the shelter,

Conner and Tony are

whispering, and I get

the definite feeling

they're whispering

about me.  I'd like to

crawl over, burrow

between them, fall asleep

listening to them

whisper about me. 

## Up at Dawn

I grab the little shovel

and my roll of biodegradable

t.p.  and head out into the brush,

hoping for some private

time before everyone else

gets up and notices

where I've gone.  Talk

about embarrassing!  Privacy

is hard to come by, with

everyone in such close

proximity to everyone else. 

As the sun creeps higher,

the sky goes from gray

to vicious blue.  Cold. 

Clear.  Perfect blue. 

And it hits me that blue has never

seemed so beautiful. 

And it hits me even harder

that I have not felt so good—so

well—in a long, long time. 

I've only thought about steel—

sharp and real—once or twice

in the last few days. 

When I get back to camp,

Tony finds me.  Morning. 

Conner says we're facing

some major challenge today. 

"Other than Dahlia

griping about her feet?" 

Much bigger than that,

although the blister may

make it even more

challenging for her, I guess. 

"So what is this major

challenge?  Walking a tight-

rope across the Grand Canyon?" 

The Grand Canyon is in

Arizona.  But you're close. 

## Before Long

Sean lays out all the details

of our first real test. 

Today we're going to have

some fun, crossing this little

ol' canyon on a rope bridge. 

It's not so difficult, unless

you happen to have

a problem with heights. 

I don't think I have

a problem with heights. 

Still, "How high is 'high'?" 

Around a hundred

and fifty feet, says Raven. 

Think of a fifteen-story

building, and you're close. 

"And how far across

do we have to go?" 

Thirty yards.  Not

so far, really.  But you

do need to understand

the technique. 

Fifteen minutes later

we have a basic idea

of how to cross a gorge

on a network of ropes,

strung at least a decade

ago by a bunch of Boy Scouts. 

I sure hope they earned

their merit badges that day! 

(You do have to do things

right to get a merit badge,

don't you?)  I also hope they

used rope with a minimum

ten-year warranty. 

As we pack up and head

out, a sensuous shiver

of fear works its way

up my spine. 

## Conner

## Four Miles

To the gorge, we hike single

file.  The buzz is constant. 

Dahlia: My blister is killing

me.  I have to sit down awhile. 

Tony: I wish that damn blister

would hurry and finish you off. 

Justin: If I were you, Dahlia,

I'd worry about infection. 

Lori: Jeez, Justin, don't tell her

that.  She'll bitch and moan all day. 

Vanessa: Ain't that the truth? 

Guess we'll just have to ditch her. 

Just after lunch, we crest

a small rise, and there in

the scrub is a band of mustangs. 

The stallion snorts in surprise,

but for a short moment we

all freeze, humans checking

out horses and vice versa. 

Then Lori happens to sneeze. 

With a flick of his black tail,

the stallion raises an alarm

and charges off to the east,

trailed by a battalion of mares. 

Dahlia forgets her blister. 

Oh!  My!  God!  Did you see that? 

Tony delivers his usual

banter.  No, D, we're all blind. 

Vanessa scoots up beside him. 

Weren't they just gorgeous? 

Not nearly as gorgeous as you,

Tony answers.  But close, okay. 

## We Reach a Place

Where winter runoff has carved

a fast stream through the rock. 

It plunges down the mountain

with a huge blast of noise. 

Over the creek, not very high,

is a rope contraption, maybe

ten feet across and flimsy. 

Do they really call this a "bridge?" 

It consists of a single thick

cable to walk on and two chest

high "sides" made of crisscrossed

ropes.  It looks totally unstable! 

Sean doesn't give us a chance

to think about it too long. 

The trick to crossing is keeping

your hands and feet in sync. 

Point your toes to the side,

walk on the arches of your

feet.  Reach with your hands,

move your feet, try not to rock

from side to side or you'll

lose your balance.  If you keep

your eyes straight ahead and

use common sense, you'll be fine. 

Sean demonstrates the proper

technique, crossing easily. 

Okay, who's going first?  Come

on.  We don't have all week. 

We glance back and forth

among us, no one especially

wanting to step up to the plate. 

I'm not real keen on it myself,

but what the hell? " I'm game." 

Safety first, Raven decks me

out with a harness and helmet. 

What's the worst that could happen? 

## Feet Pointed Sideways

Walking on my arches, eyes

straight ahead, I find a good

hand/foot rhythm.  Even so,

once or twice I shift my weight

too quickly, making the ropes

creak and sway.  A wave of

vertigo descends.  I feel

nauseous.  Weary.  Weak. 

Keep going, Conner.  You're

doing great, encourages Sean. 

Water rushes beneath me,

spewing foam.  I want to

spew too, but that would

necessitate moving. " I can't." 

Sure you can.  You're almost

there now.  It's a straight shot. 

A gush of anger engulfs

my brain.  For some reason,

I want to grab the guy by

the throat, squeeze, cause him pain. 

Not sure why I feel that way,

but for whatever reason,

it puts my feet in motion—slow

motion, over the water's roar. 

Everyone cheers, including

Sean, so I guess I won't choke

him just yet.  Anyway, with my

success, the anger has vanished. 

One by one, the others cross

without serious incident. 

No one says a word about

my moment of doubt, except

Tony. 

## Tony

## Never Thought I'd See

Conner look so scared. 

He's always completely

in control—of himself

and everyone else.  But he

just about lost it back

there.  I swear, he looked

like death.  No one wants

to talk to him about it,

but someone really should,

and seeing as how I'm

his designated buddy, I

guess that someone is me. 

"Hey, man.  You okay? 

Jeez, I thought I was

going to have to rescue

you, and I'm pretty

damn sure that was

not a rope for two." 

I expect a witty comeback. 

Instead, he says, I'm not

sure what happened. 

It isn't like I've ever been

bothered by heights. 

But I got really dizzy. 

I've got a pretty good

idea what's to blame. 

Just don't know if I

should say something. 

On the other hand, we

have a more daunting

challenge, just ahead. 

"You haven't really

slept so well lately,

have you?  I mean,

since you've been

off your meds." 

## Now I Expect Denial

But I don't get that,

either.  I had to quit

them, Tony.  They made

me feel like a total

loser geek. " Up" all day,

drop down at night,

until I wasn't sure just

where I was supposed

to be anymore.  How

can I ever feel normal,

propped up (or down)

by pharmaceuticals? 

In a way, I have to

agree. " I know what

you mean.  Someday

I'll have to quit them

too.  But was this really

the best time to do it?" 

In hindsight, probably

not.  But I made my

decision, and I plan

to stick to it.  It will

either kill me or heal me. 

Let's hope for the latter. 

As we start off again, I'm

more worried than ever

about Conner.  Part of me

screams that I should tell

Sean or Raven, rat him

out for his own good. 

Another part insists I

should keep my big

mouth shut.  It should

be Conner's decision,

as long as he isn't in

danger.  He isn't, is he? 

## We Hike for Another Hour

And now we're facing

the gorge—a huge chasm

between two stone walls,

over a hundred feet high,

and we're standing

at the top of one of them. 

To get to the top of the

other one, we'll have

to cross via a rope bridge. 

It's a lot more substantial

than the macrame across the

creek.  This one has two

narrow boards for our

feet.  But if it happens

to swing, I suspect

we'll all feel about like

Conner did, stuck out in

the middle, nothing

but air beneath our

feet.  Speaking of

Conner, he looks okay

for the moment, stable,

if just a little pale. 

"You cool, Conner?" 

I'll be okay.  And hey,

if I get stuck halfway,

refuse to go farther,

do me a favor and give

me a push, okay?  Not

forward.  Over the side. 

At least his sense

of humor is back. 

"You got it, buddy. 

Over the side it is." 

Still worried, I barely

listen to Raven, giving

us instructions. 

## Vanessa

## I Never Knew

I was tentative about heights. 

Of course, I've never really

put myself to this kind of test

before.  Hiking the Rim Trail,

we were up high, but there

was plenty of ground

beneath our feet. 

Nothing under us here

but a long way down. 

No way you can fall,

Raven tells us.  You'll be

in safety harnesses, tied

off to Sean or me.  The main

thing to remember is to keep

moving.  Stop in the middle

and look down, things

might get dicey.  Okay,

once again, who's first? 

This time it isn't Conner

who volunteers. ( And what

was up with him, anyway?) 

This time, Lori steps

to the front of the line. 

I'll go.  Always good to get

these things over with. 

Raven helps her shrug

into a harness as Sean

crosses to the other side. 

Slowly.  One foot in front

of the next.  No problem. 

Do it just like that, Raven

says.  Ready?  Go for it. 

Cautiously, head high,

eyes straight ahead,

Lori does exactly like

Sean did, crossing

without hesitation. 

Across the gorge, she

turns and yells, Awesome! 

## Justin Goes Second

And as we watch, Tony

comes up to me.  You good

with this?  Doesn't look

too awful.  Of course,

Conner would tell me my

false sense of security is

due to too many drugs. 

"Could be.  So can I have

some?  Oops.  Slip of the tongue. 

What I meant was, can

I have some drugs?" 

Tony laughs.  Feel free to

slip your tongue any time,

long as you slip it my way. 

But seriously, you feel

okay about doing this? 

Justin has reached the other

side.  He turns, grinning,

and waves. " If he can do it,

I can do it."  I lower my voice. 

"But what about Conner?" 

He says he's fine, that he

just felt a little queasy

for a second or two.  He also

said if he stops halfway

one of us should push

him over the side. 

He was at least half joking. 

A crack in his rock

solid armor? " I figured

he'd be the first one to

master every challenge

out here.  Do you really

think he's okay?" 

Tony turns to look at Conner,

standing off alone—his new MO. 

No, Vanessa, he says. 

I don't think so at all. 

## As If to Prove Him Wrong

Conner strides over to Raven,

climbs into a harness

and, without a single misstep,

handles the gorge

like it was nothing

more than a drainage ditch. 

"Okay then.  Guess

I'll go next." 

Tony lays a hand on

my shoulder.  Vanessa? 

Just in case you or I don't

make it . . .  He grins, then

leans his face toward mine,

. . .  please remember this. 

His lips, chapped and cold,

find mine.  His kiss is sweet,

filled with emotion.  Love you. 

I expect repercussions—

a warning from Raven,

a catcall from Dahlia. 

But either no one noticed

or no one cared. 

"I love you, too, Tony. 

Now wish me luck." 

The harness is heavier

than I thought it would be—

it makes me feel fairly

secure.  At least I'm pretty

sure I won't end up at

the bottom of the gorge,

no matter what the bridge does. 

As she helps me into it,

Raven says, You and Tony

getting serious?  I had

a different idea about

him, you know. 

"Yeah, I know.  So did I,

once." 

## Conner

## Feeling Pumped Tonight

All of us are.  Conquering

the gorge was exhilarating. 

For me, it was necessary. 

Proving I could forge across

without flinching means just

about everything at the moment. 

Tonight, I really believe

I can make it without meds. 

After a delicious meal of pot

roast mush, we break into little

groups.  Justin and Sean go off

to talk about life, post-Challenge. 

Raven joins Dahlia and Lori's

conversation about safe sex,

and if there's any such thing

(other than masturbation). 

Interesting, I guess, but not

the right group for me.  For

once on this trip, I don't want

to spend the night sitting alone. 

Which leaves Tony and Vanessa. 

"Mind if I sit with you two?" 

Thought you'd never ask, says Tony. 

You've been kind of antisocial. 

Vanessa chides, Leave him

alone or he'll go away! 

"I guess I have been sulky. 

I'm prone to that, you know." 

If we didn't know it before,

we sure do now.  Tony smiles. 

Anyway, we were just discussing

your poor cure for acrophobia. 

## It Takes a Minute

To catch his drift. " Oh, you mean

heaving me over the side? 

It was a much better option

than leaving me hanging there." 

Probably right, agrees Tony. 

Think how nasty you would have

been by the time we headed

back.  Bet you'd really stink. 

"In case you haven't noticed,

I don't smell very damn good

right now."  The whole truth, and

nothing but.  Oh frigging well. 

I think you smell like roses,

Tony jokes.  Decomposing

roses, that is, like a perfumed

bathroom at an old folks' home. 

G-ross!  Vanessa wrinkles up

her nose.  And anyway, just how

would you know how that smells? 

You ever been in one of those? 

Not exactly.  Tony grows serious. 

But I've spent time with someone

fading toward death—held his

hand, inhaled the scent of living

flesh as it rots away.  An old

folks' home must smell the same,

and no air freshener could

disguise that odor.  It chokes

you, gags you, but you have

to pretend that you're doing

just fine, not trembling with

fear because the end is close. 

You can feel death hovering,

waiting for his very last

breath, his final shudder;

anticipating taking him away. 

## He's Talking About Phillip

Vanessa and I remain silent

until Tony stops talking,

quiets completely.  A sudden

chill massages my spine.  Ghosts? 

Ghosts, spirits, or just unfocused

me, suddenly I want to know

more about Phillip—what,

exactly, he meant to Tony. 

"I'm sorry you lost Phillip,"

I try. " Tell me more about

him.  Were the two of you

in love?"  Tony wants to cry. 

But he doesn't.  I loved

Phillip, yes, and he loved

me.  But we weren't in love,

not the way you might guess. 

We met in the park.  He was

out for a walk and I was

panhandling strangers, bumming

change, hoping for a score,

even if that meant offering up

my body.  Phillip rescued me,

took me home, took me in, but

never tried to have sex with me. 

He treated me like a son—

his own son wouldn't talk to

his old gay dad—and I let him

be the father I'd never known. 

Phillip had AIDS and didn't want

to die alone.  You might think

that's selfish, but he gave the world

to me and I will always

cherish him. 

## Tony

## No Sex with Phillip

Is that what Conner

wanted to hear?  How

about Vanessa?  Did she

wonder about that too? 

Probably, and I guess

it might have been

a fair assumption,

considering everyone

(except maybe Vanessa)

thinks I'm totally gay. 

"So are you surprised that

I didn't sleep with Phillip?" 

Conner is slow to answer,

but Vanessa speaks

right up.  Not really. 

I guess the thought

might have crossed my

mind, but it didn't matter. 

I admire your friendship

with Phillip.  I never had

a friend that I cared so

much about.  Not, at least,

until I met you.  I wish

I could have met him. 

"I wish you could have

too.  He would have

loved you, almost as

much as I do."  At this

moment, my love for her

is almost overwhelming. 

Finally Conner says,

pointedly, I'm confused. 

Are you gay?  Bi?  In

between?  Do you want to

have sex with Vanessa

or just be her friend? 

## I Have to Admit

I'm pretty confused

myself.  I look at

Conner, remember

the attraction I felt

the first time I saw

him.  Where did that

come from, if I'm

not gay, or at least

bi?  I did ask Dr. Starr

once if molestation

could cause homosexual

feelings later in life. 

Some studies suggest

a certain correlation,

she said, but there is no

scientific proof to

support that.  Truth is,

we really don't know

exactly what influences

sexual preference. 

Environment?  Genetics? 

Perhaps a combination

of the two?  Does it

really even matter? 

Only when you're as

messed up as me,

I guess.  Meanwhile,

both Conner and

Vanessa are staring,

waiting for an answer. 

"Do I need a label?  I

told you once I've

never had the chance

to be with a girl, so

how will I know for sure

until I get that chance?" 

## I Don't Know What I Am

But suddenly, certainly,

I want the chance to find

out.  And suddenly, certainly,

I need to know, "Do I

need a label, Vanessa? 

Is it important to you?" 

She moves even closer,

so close, we're attached. 

If it were, would I be

here, next to you?  I love

you for the person I've

discovered under your skin. 

I don't feel cold anymore. 

Not outside, not

inside.  That space,

frozen and dead for as

long as I can remember,

has thawed, come alive. 

Another part of me comes

alive, and it strikes me

that I might not know

what to do with it, if

Vanessa—or any girl—

offers me the chance. 

I've never "given," only

been forced to "take." 

I've never had sex,

gift-wrapped with love. 

"What's it like?"  I ask. 

"Making love to someone?" 

Vanessa takes my hand. 

I thought I knew, once

or twice before, but now

I see there was no love

at all between us.  I won't

know until I make love

to you. 

## Vanessa

## Did I Just Say That? 

With Conner there? 

Conner, who not so very

long ago I thought I wanted

to hook up with? 

Instead, I find myself

head over heels in love with—

and desperately wanting

to make love to—"no labels" Tony. 

My palms break out

in a nervous sweat and I

whisper, "You don't have

a razor blade on you, do you?" 

You don't mean that,

do you?  Tony almost pleads. 

Vanessa, you've stopped

the cutting, haven't you? 

Please tell me you've stopped. 

"No worries.  I was only

kidding."  But I realize

that isn't the truth. 

For the last three or four

years, I've dealt with every

nervous moment in my

life by slipping away to

a quiet place and opening

my skin.  It's been a ritual,

and for some insane reason,

I want to go there now. 

Tony seems to intuit

my thoughts.  You sure

you were only kidding? 

Because if you want

to cut because of me, I'll

step out of your life so fast! 

"If you do that," I say,

meaning every word to follow,

"I'll never stop cutting,

lithium or no lithium. 

Only love can make me quit." 

## Do I Really Mean That? 

Only time will tell,

I suppose.  Anyway, who

knows what will happen

between Tony and me? 

For now, I'll make myself

satisfied to sit beside him,

believing he really loves me. 

I glance over at Conner,

handsome, self-assured

Conner, who tonight looks

like a lost little boy. 

"Hey.  You okay?" 

He smiles a sad, strange

smile.  Yeah, I'm fine. 

Just thinking about love

and the strange places

you sometimes find it—

or at least think you do. 

You mean like with Emily? 

Tony asks.  Who was she,

anyway?  And what happened

between the two of you? 

Conner hesitates, then

launches a lurid tale

of loving his English

teacher and the inevitable

consequences of being

in love with an older woman. 

What about you and Dr. B? 

queries Tony.  The two of you

looked pretty tight.  Was there

any love there, or just lust? 

No love, plenty of lust,

at least as far as I was

concerned.  I thought for a while

she might feel the same way. 

But nothing sexual happened

between Heather and me. 

## How Did Tony

Pick up on that?  I swear,

I never noticed a thing

between Conner and Dr.

Boston—or should I call

her Heather?  Holy moley! 

I wonder if Conner's attraction

to older women is why

he cooled so completely

toward me.  Not much

I could do about that. 

Anyway, I don't think

he's "relationship"

material, and I'm really

not in the market for

another one-sided fling. 

Still, I'm curious. " So

have you ever fallen

in love with someone

your own age?" 

Conner looks me directly

in the eye.  One or two,

he says.  But I'm poison. 

As the old saying goes,

"sometimes loving someone

means letting them go." 

Bullshit!  says Tony. 

His grip on my hand

tightens, and I sense

impatience in my ever-

patient best friend. 

Love means holding on to

someone just as hard as

you can because if you

don't, one blink and

they might disappear

forever. 

## Conner

## What Tony Doesn't Get

Is that love and I are like

water and oil.  Put the two

together, blend well, and you

get Quaker State quicksand. 

The truth is, I don't have a real

clue what love is—how to

find it, how to give it.  Once

upon a time I thought I knew. 

But all I really understood

was sex.  Sex and love, I've

discovered, are not the same

thing.  Life is so complex! 

Sex.  Love.  Athletics.  Academics. 

My belief in all of those things

is completely shaken.  I consider

controlled substance relief,

think better of it.  I'm so tired,

I know I'll sleep tonight, wake

up feeling energized, ready to

go ahead, conquer the Challenge,

get out of this place, move ahead

with some sort of a life.  Right? 

My head is all jumbled.  I feel

spent.  Dizzy.  Nauseous.  Numb. 

Hey, Con, says Tony.  Do you

feel okay?  Your face is white

as milk.  His goofy grin does

not conceal his concern. 

Which irritates me somehow. 

Guess I'll change the subject. 

"So what deep, dark secret did

you not break down and confess?" 

## Secrets

Yeah, I've still got one or two

that none of the good doctors

managed to pry out. " What's the

worst thing you've ever done?" 

Vanessa's eyes glaze, like

she's slipped into a trance. 

She considers something,

shakes her head, tight-lipped. 

Finally, she settles on this:

I killed someone.  I didn't know

him, but I loved him.  She shivers,

chilled from the inside out. 

I don't understand. " How

can you love someone you

don't even know?"  And please,

please, Vanessa, tell me who. 

She thinks a minute, then admits,

I should have known better

than to get pregnant, but I

thought maybe it would bring

the father and me closer.  When

I told Trevor, he said to get

an abortion.  He wouldn't help

pay for it, wouldn't even hold

my hand while I waited to do

that god-awful thing.  I went

alone, except for the baby

inside me.  It may sound odd,

but I did love that little blob. 

Still, I made it die.  And when

I think too hard about it, my

insides hurt.  Trying not to cry,

Vanessa trembles, and Tony

wraps her with his arms.  Go ahead

and cry, right here.  She lets her

face collapse against his chest. 

## I Never Expected

Such total, painful honesty. 

Can I be as forthright?  I've

never told this story to

anyone, not even Dr. B.

"I killed someone too.  She

was our au pair, and her name

was Leona. . . ."  I know I should

stop there, but somehow I can't. 

"I was twelve when she first

came to my bed.  She taught me

all I ever needed to know,

fed my hunger for touch,

my need for love.  Leona was

my night, my day.  I thought

I'd go crazy if she was out

of my sight for more than a few

hours.  When I found out she

had another boyfriend—a real,

grown-up boyfriend—I threatened

to tell my mother everything. 

Please don't tell, she begged.  I'll

never find another position. 

Like I was going to let her go. 

I made up my mind to tell

her boyfriend instead.  He caused

an intense scene in our kitchen. 

As Leona stormed off, she said,

One day you'll have the sense

to know what you've done.  She

sped away, and into a brick wall. 

I didn't cry when I heard she

was dead."  I'd like to cry now. 

Don't know how. 

## Tony

## I've Heard Confession

Is good for the soul. 

Not sure that's so,

but what the hell? 

It might not make me

feel better, but it should

make Vanessa and Conner

feel better about their

own guilt trips. " I killed

someone too.  But I didn't

love him.  I hated him

with a passion.  You were

twelve when you lost

your virginity?  I was eight,

and I lost it to Larry.  I

already told you that,

and I told you I hurt him

pretty bad.  Truth is, I

killed his sorry ass. 

He kept a gun in a lockbox

inside his car.  Dumb

shit never bothered to

lock the lockbox.  I knew

that because a couple

of times, he pulled out

the gun to threaten my

ma.  One day, after a

particularly bad night

with Larry, I walked

out to his car, found

the gun under the seat. 

Ma had fixed him

pancakes for breakfast. 

I walked into the kitchen,

took dead aim at his

Aunt Jemima mouth,

and pulled the trigger." 

## The Whole Rotten Truth

Right out in the open. 

And only now it occurs

to me that it might mean

Vanessa turning her

back on me.  I hold her

even tighter, look into

her eyes, hoping to find

compassion. " Please tell

me you don't hate me." 

Oh, Tony, she says, I could

never hate you.  I understand

why you did what you did. 

Okay, everyone, break it

up, calls Sean.  We've got

another big day tomorrow. 

I wish I could sit here all

night, holding Vanessa,

kissing her.  More. 

But she pulls away.  Guess

that's my cue.  No worries,

Tony.  I still love you. 

"Love you, too."  I watch

her slow retreat, filled

to the brim with loving her. 

Conner taps my shoulder. 

Hey, Tony.  Guess what. 

I don't think you're gay. 

It's an amazing concept,

and so new. " You know,

you just might be right." 

We both crawl into our

sleeping bags, and into

our own little worlds. 

I bet Conner's thinking

about Leona.  But there's

only one person on my mind. 

## Actually, There Are Two

As everyone else falls

into Snorezone, I'm

still thinking about

Vanessa and what she

means to me.  As I do,

Phillip creeps into

my thoughts. " You'd

like her," I tell him,

very, very quietly,

so no one hears me

talking to the dead. 

"She's incredible, not

that she's perfect.  But you

once said imperfections

create character.  She's got

character, all right.  And,

as you know, I lean way

toward imperfection myself. 

I was really confused

about this for a while. 

Genetics versus learned

(or forced) behavior

and all.  But it sure feels

real.  Sure feels right. 

I've never felt so right

before.  Never felt so

in love before.  In fact,

except for you, Phillip,

I can't remember ever

feeling love for anyone." 

Now an old memory

of Phillip floats into

foggy view.  Tony, I've

never known anyone

as deserving of love

as you.  When it finds you,

don't question it. 

## Vanessa

## I'm Lying Here Shivering

But not because of the weather. 

I'm shivering in a frigid indigo

sea.  Lithium won't help

this slice of depression. 

Thinking about the baby

always drops me here. 

It would be a real baby now,

a perfect piece of defective me. 

Still, all that was completely

my own fault.  I think of Conner,

whose nanny decided to make

him a man.  Who knows

what sort of damage

she did to his psyche. 

And then there's Tony,

who spent his childhood

locked up because of some

pervert.  He should be

a terrible person.  Instead,

he's the sweetest, least

selfish guy I've ever known. 

How can that be? 

And how can it be he's so

in love with me?  To grow

up without love, and still

have so much inside? 

Just think who he might

have been, had everything

been different for him. 

Of course, then I wouldn't

know him now.  Love him now. 

As everything falls very quiet,

something silent calls to me. 

Will the damnable steel

never leave me alone,

never quit whispering

sweet nothings to me? 

## I Wake, Thankful

I didn't give in to

temptation, hunt for a knife

in the dark of camp, even

though I wanted to so badly. 

Will I ever completely

lose the urge to mutilate myself? 

Everyone up and at 'em, urges

Raven.  Are we gonna have

fun today!  Today, we learn

to climb.  You all up for that? 

A chorus of halfhearted

"sures" and "okays" answers

her.  But personally, I'm ready. 

"Come on, you guys.  Rock

climbing is awesome." 

Like I have a clue. 

Not just climbing, but

spelunking, too.  There's an

outrageous cave not far

from here.  But first, you

have to master the fine art

called rappelling. 

Like all art, it takes a certain touch

to do it well.  And before

we're through, you will

all do it well.  Won't you? 

This time she mostly

gets groans for answers. 

Only Tony seems almost

as enthusiastic as I am. 

He stands, salutes her. 

Yes, ma'am, we will all

do it well.  He grins in my

direction.  You really want

to do this, don't you? 

I nod. " Don't ask me why. 

Maybe a little of my dad

has rubbed off on me, after all." 

## Raven Guides Us

To the base of a semishort

rock outcropping.  First

we go up, then we rappel

down, I assume. 

First you go up, then

you rappel down.  But

the very first thing you

need to learn is how

to belay your climbing

partner.  This simple

technique can save a life. 

Everyone buddy up. 

For the next two hours,

we learn how about ropes,

carabiners, and ATCs; crotch

loops, leg loops, and slider

buckles.  Most important,

we learn about the guide hand,

the brake hand, and how

the two interact.  Finally

Raven asks for volunteers. 

My (guide) hand shoots up. 

Dahlia has little choice but

to go along.  You bitch. 

If I die, I'm coming back

to get you, too.  Don't think

I won't be up for it.  I'm

half-thinking about it now. 

"Fine.  You want to be

leader or stay down here?" 

She chooses the latter,

and I start to climb, looking

for hand and footholds.  It's

not so difficult, and I feel

relatively safe in my harness,

with Dahlia hopefully keeping

the line slack-free and controlled. 

"This is easy," I call.  And it is. 

So far. 

## Conner

## We Spend All Day

Feeding rope to our buddies,

then taking our own turns,

scraping and scrapping up rocks. 

Right now, winded and aching,

I'm taking a breather, high

above the blossoming playa. 

I swear I can take in a thousand

square miles of view.  Too bad

it just looks like a sea of nothing. 

I should feel accomplishment. 

But all I feel is numb.  Numb

and weary, to a surreal degree. 

Hey, Conner, calls Tony. 

Ready?  It's our turn to rappel. 

"Coming."  Ready or not, I

stand and make myself steady

my trembling legs.  I can't

believe how weak I am. 

Hey, man, observes my buddy. 

You look like you're gonna heave. 

I feel like it too, but I can't

admit it. " No worries.  I'm fine." 

You sure?  You don't want to be

dangling midair, feeling like shit. 

Anger flashes like lightning. 

"I said I'm fucking fine." 

Tony stays cool.  Okay, man. 

It's all yours.  Go ahead. 

I climb into the harness, fix my

ropes just how Raven showed us. 

Then I lower myself over the edge,

thrust myself toward the ground. 

## It's a Shaky Ride

But I manage it without

puking.  One by one, the others

follow, whooping like they're

actually having fun.  Jerks. 

Vanessa comes up to me,

grinning, softly kisses my

cheek.  Wasn't that amazing? 

My head's kind of spinning,

but the rest of me feels great. 

She lays one gentle hand on

my shoulder, and I notice how

sunlight plays, gold, on her skin. 

Suddenly I want her to

pull me in, hold me close,

absorb me like oxygen. 

Suddenly I feel lost.  Alone. 

What's wrong with me?  This girl

is an angel, and I had every

chance to love her.  Why must I

rebel against the idea of love? 

Now here comes Tony, so in

love with her it's all over

his face.  He gives me an easy

shove.  Putting the moves on my girl? 

A green wave of envy washes

over me.  Ludicrous!  I might

want her, but he deserves her. 

"Save it, Ceccarelli.  I tried

to steal her from you, but

the best she'd do was give me

a rain check.  I strongly

suggest you take good care of her." 

Sean interrupts our banter. 

Great job, everyone.  Now we'd

better get moving.  Surprises

await you all at camp. 

## The First Surprise

Is the two-mile walk to reach

our new campsite.  We hike

up a narrow canyon, between

two hulking granite walls. 

The grade is relatively

steep and I was tired before

we began.  No matter how hard

I try, I just can't keep up. 

Tony falls back and walks

beside me.  Long day, huh? 

His presence persuades

me to lengthen my stride. 

"Pretty damn long, all right. 

I think I need a vacation." 

He grins.  This is your vacation. 

What I need is a shower.  I stink. 

He does.  We all do. " Water and

soap?  What a civilized concept." 

Me?  Civilized?  He sniffs his armpits. 

Nope.  Not even close. 

Finally Sean signals us to stop

and make camp.  We repeat our

well-practiced routine, then

I tramp out in the brush to piss. 

I return to surprise number

two—candy bars, nuts, and beef

jerky, to supplement our roast

turkey, stuffing, and gravy goo. 

After dinner, Raven offers

yet a third surprise.  Letters

from home.  She passes them out

like treasure, in the absurd belief

that everyone wants theirs. 

## Tony

## The First Letter

I've ever gotten (except

for a couple from the state

of Nevada) is from my pa. 

He never even wrote me

when I was in lockup. 

What can he have to say now? 

The others withdraw into

neutral corners.  But I need

moral support.  I go over

to Vanessa. " May I sit

next to you?  I promise not

to read over your shoulder." 

She pats the ground beside

her.  Of course you can sit

here.  I don't really want

to be alone right now either. 

Besides . . .  she puffs into

the cold air.  You're warm. 

Somehow she doesn't

notice the smell of

today's exertions. 

Maybe she's olfactory

challenged.  Or maybe

she just doesn't care. 

And somehow, her own

earthy scent turns me

on.  I move my leg so it

touches hers, ankle to

thigh.  Her body heat

turns me on even more. 

Completely turned on,

by a girl.  The strangest

thing about feeling this

way is thinking I've

never really been turned

on before—by anyone. 

## It's So New

My body telling me

it really, truly wants

sex.  It's so new, knowing

initiating sex can and

will be up to me.  I will

never be forced to again. 

It's so new, this woman

thing, yet it doesn't feel

foreign.  It feels like where

I've always belonged. 

It's so new, equating sex

with emotion.  With love. 

Again, I think of Phillip,

the only person I've ever

felt anything like love for. 

And I'm sure he's smiling. 

About Vanessa.  About

my being able to love her. 

About the letter in my

hand.  More than once,

he encouraged me to try

and contact my pa, but

I always refused.  Stubborn

as tar, Phillip called me. 

Are you going to open

that or what?  Vanessa

says, rattling the envelope

in her own hand.  I'll open

mine if you open yours,

okay?  Ready?  One, two . . . 

As we slit the seals, I

wonder why she has

hesitated this long. 

What secrets of her own

is she still hiding?  Will

she ever share them with me? 

## I Start to Read

Dear Anthony,

Not long ago you

told me you'd have

to think about forgiving

me.  I hope you have

found it in your heart

to do so.  I won't repeat

the reasons why I kept

silent for so long.  But

I will reiterate my deep

remorse for not being

a better father to you. 

You may not believe

this, but I'm proud of

you.  After all you've

been through, you've

risen to every challenge,

including the ones you're

facing out there in

the wilderness.  I know

you've risen to them,

because in our few short

times together, I've come

to see what a truly strong

man you are.  Stronger

than me.  Please allow me

the time to get to know

you.  Please allow me

the time to grow to love

you, and for you to grow

to love me. 

## Vanessa

## I Thought My Letter

Would be from Grandma. 

It's not:

Dearest Nessa,

As you know, I'm not much

of a letter writer.  But for once

the words seem to becoming

easier, here on paper.  When I

saw you at Easter, I couldn't

believe how grown-up you were. 

It got me thinking how much

we've lost, with me away all the time. 

I wish I could change what has

happened in the past.  I can't,

so all that's left is to look to the future. 

I had hoped your mother would

get well one day.  But when we visited

her at the hospital, they told me

her catatonia is likely permanent. 

She will never come home.  So I will. 

My request for a Stateside transfer

has been granted.  I'll be home

for good once I finish this tour of duty. 

I also know how much you hated

moving all the time.  Don't worry. 

We'll stay with my mother, at least

until you go off to college.  We can

talk about that later, though. 

Right now, I just want you to know

that I will be there for you from now on. 

I can't wait to hear about your

experiences, bivouacking

in the Black Rock.  Will you show

me around the place,

one day soon? 

Love, Daddy

## Tony Sighs

Echoing my own feelings. 

He reaches for my hand,

and I gratefully slide mine

into the warmth of his. 

"You okay?" 

Yeah, I think so.  It's just . . . 

kind of confusing. 

"What is?" 

He lifts my hand to his full,

soft lips.  Everything. 

Three months ago

I didn't have a father. 

Didn't have you. 

Didn't even have a clear

idea of me.  All that has

changed, and I'm scared. 

"Why, Tony?" 

Because before I had

nothing to lose.  Now

I've got everything to lose

if I somehow fuck this up. 

"Life is all about change. 

If it were static, think

about how boring it would

be.  You can't be afraid

of it, and you can't worry

that you'll mess things up. 

You deserve good things,

and I want to be one them." 

I glance around.  Everyone

seems lost in their own

little universe, so I take a big

chance, turning my face

up toward Tony's.  My eyes

tell him what I'm too nervous

to say out loud:

Kiss me. 

## Tony's Kiss

Is like no other kiss, ever. 

It wants, but does not demand. 

It asks, but doesn't take. 

It gives, and pleads for more. 

It is filled with desire,

but also curiosity, and it

teaches me that a kiss

should come gift wrapped,

not stripped naked. 

Most of all, it makes me

want another kiss

exactly like this one. 

It will not be tonight. 

Okay, you two, break

it up, commands Sean. 

Six pairs of eyes have

turned in our direction,

and we are rewarded with

a couple of catcalls. 

We slide a little apart,

but not that far. 

And now, there is so

much more between us. 

Complete connection,

in one innocent kiss. 

Okay, maybe not

totally innocent. 

Desire stings my body,

in places I've half-

forgotten exist. 

But I have to play cool. 

Five pairs of eyes

continue to chaperone

us.  One pair studies

us, digests what it has

seen, then quickly

returns to the letter,

grasped tightly, tensely,

in muscular hands. 

Conner's hands. 

## Conner

## Unbelievable

When I heard we had letters

from home, an insane little part

of me hoped mine might bring

some sliver of affection.  Instead:

Conner: Hope all is going

well for you, and that your

time in the outback has kept

you fit.  You must excel at your

football tryouts.  They expect

you to fail.  I'm sure, however,

you'll prove them very wrong. 

One small detail, which I'll mention

here: You have some makeup work

to do to keep you on track

for your graduation.  If you

pursue it diligently this summer,

you won't have to play catch-up

in the fall.  By the way, your father

and I have sent applications

to all the colleges on our list. 

All you have to do is maintain

your GPA and, of course, score

well on your entrance exams. 

Not really much more to say

except to let you know Cara

has already been accepted

at Stanford.  You can do as well. 

After all, you're her twin.  Mom. 

## Same Old Mom

Same ugly comparisons

between Cara and me. 

Same expectations, and what

did she mean, "on our list"? 

Sean interrupts my reverie. 

Okay, you two, break it up. 

He means Vanessa and Tony,

and when I glance their way

I catch the end of a kiss. 

Another slap of jealousy

catches me off guard, jerks

my head in the other direction. 

My eyes fall to the paper

clutched in my hands.  I can't

remember one time my mom's

lips touched a part of my face. 

Surely not my own lips—shades

of incest.  But neither did she

ever kiss my cheek or even

my forehead.  Oh, to be blessed

by a kiss like the one I just

witnessed.  I'd trade every kiss

I've stolen for one, given

like that.  Who could have guessed

such a thing would happen

between Vanessa and Tony—

two fractured people, healed

(perhaps) by unforeseen,

not to mention unlikely,

love.  I'm more than jealous. 

I'm downright covetous. 

I can't think about it anymore. 

Can't think about Cara, Stanford,

football.  Can't think about my

parents, grades, test scores.  Can't

think about any of that at all. 

## I Fold the Letter

Into a perfect paper

airplane, take a walk under

sequined night sky, try to

silence the chatter in my brain. 

The sound of cheerful voices

drifts toward me from camp. 

Their letters are tucked into

pockets and sleeping bags, gifts. 

Rewards for accomplishments

and, with any luck at all, change. 

But nothing has changed for me. 

I'll go home to the same grand

house in the same manicured

neighborhood. ( Except for the new

neighbors at the end of the block. 

Exorcism, "for my own good.") 

I'll go home to expectations

no way I can live up to, no

longer want to.  But I've never

had a say about my future. 

I close my eyes, and all

I can see is my mother's

face.  Sculpted.  Beautiful. 

Angry.  So often angry. 

And I am so much like her. 

A grenade of my own anger

explodes inside my head. 

I am damaged.  Decayed. 

A gust of wind roughs up

my hair.  The paper airplane

sits heavy in my hand.  I cock

back my arm, release, let it fly

straight to hell. 

## Tony

## I Swim Up into Morning

And thoughts of Vanessa,

reaching up to kiss me. 

I sit up, look for her,

but she's nowhere in

sight, and a strange

jolt of worry strikes. 

"Come on, Tony," I tell

myself. " She's just off

for her morning . . ." 

Finishing the thought

seems voyeuristic. 

What's up with me? 

Hey, you.  Vanessa's voice

sneaks over my shoulder,

settles softly in my ear. 

Did you know you snore? 

She moves around in front

of me, eyes lifting to mine. 

"Me?  Snore?  You must

have me confused with

someone else!"  I answer

the shake of her head

with a smile. " Well, why

were you listening, anyway?" 

I couldn't sleep.  I kept

thinking about this guy

and how good a kisser

he was and how much

I wanted to kiss him again. 

Even if he did snore. 

God, I love her.  She is

just the most incredible

person I've ever known. 

Funny.  Smart.  Pretty. 

One day, very soon, I want

to do more than kiss her. 

## But Right Now

Everyone's staring, like

they're reading my mind

or something.  I excuse

myself for my own a.m.

stroll.  I return to gossip

and breakfast, in that order. 

Lori's mom and dad are

getting back together,

Dahlia informs us all. 

It was my fault they broke

up in the first place, Lori

explains.  No pressure there! 

Justin launches a sermon. 

Just give it to the Lord. 

He'll see you through. 

Hey, Raven, calls Dahlia. 

Any candy bars left?  I love

chocolate for breakfast! 

Blah, blah, blah.  Only

Conner is quiet.  Sulky. 

Pissed, even.  The look on

his face is hard to decipher. 

But I'm guessing his letter

was less than inspirational. 

"Hey, Conner," I call. 

"Don't tell me my

snoring kept you awake

too!"  I expect a grin. 

A finger.  Something. 

But he just sits there. 

Half of me wants

to go over and hug

him.  The other half

wants to shake him. 

Both halves agree he

wants to be left alone. 

## Both Halves Decide

To leave Conner alone. 

Anyway, it's time

to start off the day

with a delicious MRE

and a cup of black coffee. 

The breakfast of warriors. 

Okay, listen up, Raven

barks.  You all did a

fantastic job yesterday. 

I think you've all got

the hang of climbing,

so to speak.  Tomorrow

we'll explore the cave

I told you about.  You'll

have to rappel a long way

down into a very dark

cavern.  Then you'll have

to climb back up out. 

Before we can trust

you to do that, we

want to test your skills. 

Today we'll practice

on some very tall, very

steep granite walls. 

It is imperative that

you double-check your

equipment and knots

before you begin your

ascent.  I'll take lead

today.  Sean will hang

out below.  Be sure

to have him inspect

your ropes before you

start to climb.  We don't

want to have to scrape

what's left of you off

the rocks. 

## Vanessa

## Watching Raven

Climb gives me the chills. 

She works and works for holds

in the megalithic wall, fixes

protection at strategic points

along the way.  Up.  Up.  Up. 

Makes me dizzy, just looking

up that high.  So why

am I so excited, knowing

my turn is coming? 

If you smile any wider,

you're going to crack

your face right in half. 

Tony drapes an arm

around my shoulder. 

You really like this stuff,

don't you? 

"Yeah.  And it definitely

surprises me.  I've never

been much of a thrill seeker . . ." 

Except in my manic phases. 

And the thrills I sought

were nothing like this. 

". . .  I like to ski—wide, groomed

runs.  Not trees.  Not bumps. 

I like to mountain bike—ride

a chair lift up, coast down. 

I'm not an athlete.  Not

even close.  This is really

hard.  But I love it." 

I just hope it isn't mania

talking.  But it doesn't feel

that way.  In fact, for the first

time in a very long time,

I feel completely grounded. 

Except, of course,

when I'm climbing. 

## Since Sean's Going Last

He buddies Tony with Justin. 

Tony takes lead, and I watch

him climb, confident and strong. 

Funny, I never noticed

how fit he was until the Challenge. 

He never complains,

never makes excuses. 

He just accomplishes. 

Sean calls, Come on, Vanessa. 

You and Dahlia go next. 

Let's go over your

equipment.  He tests

my harness, helmet, ropes. 

Hold on a minute.  Check

this out.  See how you've

got your rope over the gate

of the carabiner?  That's

called back clipping.  Put

any stress at all on the 'biner,

it's liable to pop open

and let the rope slide out. 

Could be ugly. 

With everything adjusted

correctly, it's my turn

to climb. " Do you want

lead?"  I ask Dahlia. 

You crazy, man?  Lead is

dangerous, and this wall

is insane.  You go first. 

If you can make it, so can I.

I follow Raven's route,

clipping onto the anchors

she has already placed

in the rocks.  Looking up,

I see Tony, measuring my

every move, nodding to let

me know I'm looking good. 

And feeling great. 

## I Reach the Top

Swing a leg over, and here

I am, thousands of feet

above the playa floor. 

I can see forever up here,

and it makes me feel

just about invincible. 

Tony runs over, picks

me up, swings me in circles. 

Isn't this awesome?  No

wonder you like this sport. 

We'll have to do it again

once we're out of here. 

He slows, puts me down. 

Gets very serious. 

I will still see you once

we're out of here, won't I? 

Everything has been day-

to-day, and I haven't really,

truly thought about what

it will be like once we put

Aspen Springs behind us. 

But one thing's for sure. 

"Of course you'll see me. 

Maybe even more

of me than you'll want to. 

I'm the tiniest bit obsessive

about the people I love." 

Good.  We're on the same

page.  I don't really know

where I'll go or what I'll

do when I'm "free." 

All I know is my life would

be empty without you in it. 

I look into his eyes, and what

I find there fills me with hope. 

He knows all my secrets,

even the worst of them. 

Despite everything, he still

loves me. 

## Conner

## God, I'm Tired

I can barely pull myself

to my feet, let alone up

a hundred-foot rock wall.  Sleep—

deep sleep—would be so sweet. 

I'm the last to go, and Sean

wants me to take lead.  You

can do it.  Just clip onto

the anchors before you pull

yourself up.  If those petite

girls can handle it, you can

handle it better.  It's all up

to you, man.  Get climbin'. 

I stand at the bottom, looking

up at where the others wait. 

I feel like the idiot kid

who can't say no to a dare. 

Fuck it.  What do I have to

lose?  The first anchor is

maybe eight feet up.  I study

the rock face, choose the best

way to reach the anchor, clip

on, and pull.  My fingers ache

and I think my knuckles will

swell later.  This is bullshit. 

But then, my entire life

is bullshit.  The best things

in it have vanished, ghosts. 

Ghosts I'll admit I created. 

The rope holding me in place

creaks, stressed by my weight. 

Keep going, buddy, yells Sean. 

You can rest when you get to the top. 

## Keep Going

That's exactly what I tell

myself. " Keep going, loser." 

I'll never be anything else. 

I step on a narrow rock shelf

and it crumbles, making

me scramble for a foothold. 

I find one, push up, smash my

knee into a jut of granite. 

Way to go, faggot.  The voice

I hear belongs to my father. 

Get hold of yourself.  You'll never

make first string like that.  Fear

of failure impels me toward

the top, as it pushed me toward

the goal line so many times

before.  I don't dare stop. 

Don't dare drop the ball.  Don't

dare finish second.  We only

want what's best for you, so

spare me your whining.  Why

can't you be like Cara?  She

never loses.  Cara is smarter. 

Cuter.  More talented.  I will

forever ride in her backseat. 

Well, they're fraternal twins, you

see.  Now the voice is my mom's. 

I want to shut her up, but I

know she won't be silenced. 

I reach up for a handhold,

find I'm almost to the top. 

And still the home movies

rewind . . .  replay . . .  rewind. 

Of course I'm proud of Conner. 

It's just . . .  he's not his sister. 

With a burst of energy, I

thrust myself up and over. 

## Standing Here

My entire world far beneath

my feet, I should be filled

with pride.  Instead, I feel

overwhelmed by a sense of defeat. 

Suddenly it comes to me,

toes tempted to test the ledge,

that there is a way out of this. 

Calm surety flows through

my veins, and as I turn to wave

good-bye, I wonder if it will

hurt or if a single person

will cry at my funeral. 

I take a deep breath, a final

taste of sweet mountain air. 

I conjure Leona, Emily. 

Move my feet closer.  Closer. 

There's Grandma One, Grandma

Two, and their spouses, waiting

for me.  I see Dad.  Cara.  Mommy. 

I screw up my courage, step over . . . 

## Tony

## Raven Screams

Conner, no!  Mary,

holy mother of God. 

And then she runs. 

Conner?  What happened

to Conner?  We follow

Raven to the cliff's edge. 

One glance over the side

tells a simple story,

one I refuse to believe. 

"Quick!  Someone belay

me.  I'll go get him.  Call

911.  Maybe there's still

time to save him.  Will

somebody please help me? 

I've got to get down to him!" 

Raven just stands, two-way

in hand.  Sean's almost

up to him.  But no one,

no one could survive

that fall.  Within seconds,

her radio spits the expected news. 

Guilt balloons inside me,

shoves me to my knees. 

"Oh God, no.  It's not true!" 

Gentle arms tuck me in. 

Stop, Tony.  He's gone. 

Vanessa's tear-dampened

kisses cover my face. 

Oh!  I can't believe he'd

do such a horrible thing. 

"I can.  And I could have

prevented it.  It's all my

fault, Vanessa.  I knew." 

I push her away, turn

my head to one side. 

My vomit tastes like death. 

## Raven Calls for Rescue

Care Flight isn't far

away, at least not as

the crow (or 'copter) flies. 

But rather than wait,

we opt to climb down. 

We have to go past Conner. 

Part of me doesn't want

to look.  Most of me has

to.  He's splayed on a big

boulder.  His spirit, or

whatever was inside,

is definitely somewhere

else.  All that's left is his

broken shell.  His eyes

are open, as if he couldn't

let go of the very last

thing he saw.  I wonder

what it was.  Heaven? 

He's smiling, and one

hand is extended.  Did

someone come for him,

take his hand, and walk him

across that border, into

the ultimate frontier? 

Some churches say

suicide denies him

that comfort.  But could

a true and loving God

turn His back on such

a tortured soul?  Wouldn't

the Ultimate Tribunal

consider extenuating

circumstances?  Will

it consider them for me? 

"Please, Father.  Please,

Conner.  Forgive me." 

## The "Rescue"

Isn't much of a rescue,

of course.  They can

take their time, and

they do.  We gather

at the base of the hill,

watch the crew's efforts. 

Another time, another

body, it might be

interesting, how they

lower a sled from the top,

gentle the remains into

a polyurethane bag, zip. . . . 

But those remains belong

to my friend.  I haven't

had many of those.  Now

this one is gone.  Forever. 

I should cry, want to cry. 

All I can do is feel ice cold. 

Vanessa and I huddle

together, searching

for comfort in each

other's touch. " Why

couldn't he just talk

to me, Vanessa?" 

He did talk to you, Tony. 

I think you were the only

person he could talk to

at all.  In the long run,

maybe that wasn't enough. 

But this wasn't your fault. 

"I knew he'd quit taking

his meds, knew how

depressed he seemed. 

I never said a word. 

And that will haunt

me for the rest of my life." 

Maybe even longer. 

## Vanessa

## Care Flight Lifts Off

And in its wake, seven

people seem unable to move,

stunned into silent shock. 

Finally Sean decides,

Let's go back to camp. 

Aspen Springs will send

transport, but it will take

a while to get here. 

We walk slowly, trying

to absorb what has happened. 

Everyone deals with the loss

in different, personalized ways. 

Sean and Raven discuss

the possible fallout.  I knew

he was struggling, Sean

says.  But when I talked

to him, he seemed okay. 

He said he was just tired. 

Did I push him too hard? 

Damn, what a waste! 

Dahlia tells Lori, who agrees,

That boy was fine. 

Justin just prays. 

Tony holds on to my hand

like if he let go, I might dash

over a cliff too.  I know he needs

me more than ever.  The responsibility

is daunting, and I think about

a kiss from my steel lover,

knowing I have to find a way

to leave it far behind me. 

Do you think Conner's parents

know yet?  asks Tony. 

"I'm sure they must." 

Do you think they care? 

## The Question

Takes me by surprise. 

"Of course they care." 

They have to, don't they? 

"Why would you ask

such a question?" 

I was just thinking

about who would care

if I killed myself.  I never

thought about anyone else

when I tried before. 

Of course, I didn't really

have anyone to think

about then.  Ma was gone,

not that she would have

given a fraction of a damn. 

Phillip was gone, and Pa

was just a memory. 

He stops walking, pulls

me tight against his chest. 

And I didn't know you. 

Would you care, really care? 

I reach my arms up around

his neck, pull his face down,

lock his eyes with mine. 

"Yes, Tony.  I would really care. 

Losing you would kill

a part of me—the part

that has learned what

love really is." 

And what is that? 

"You."  This time

when we kiss, I feel

it in the pit of my stomach,

I feel it in my heart. 

And I realize love isn't about sex. 

It's about connection. 

## Camp Feels Empty

While we wait for transportation

to carry us out of this place,

Tony and I take a walk. 

It's a perfect spring day

on a hill above the Black Rock

Desert. " This was an island

once, you know, when the playa

was underwater.  Can you believe

all that desert was once a giant lake?" 

Tony stares out at the ocean

of sage and bitterbrush. 

It is hard to believe

that something that seems

so permanent was once

so different.  Change. 

I guess that really is one

thing you can count on. . . . 

He is quiet for several

minutes.  Finally he says,

I just can't figure out why. 

I mean, I can understand

why someone like me

would think suicide was

the only way out.  But

Conner had it all—he

was great looking,

smart, rich.  He had

everything to live for. 

So, why . . . 

A breeze blows up,

touching my cheek

like a little child's kiss. 

It flutters a piece of paper,

lodged in the sage. 

"Trash, out here?  Must

belong to one of us." 

We move closer,

and when I reach

for it, I find . . . 

. . .  a perfect paper airplane. 

## About the Author

Ellen Hopkins is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Crank, Burned, Impulse, Glass, Identical, Tricks, Fallout, Perfect, Tilt, and Smoke, as well as the adult novels Triangles and Collateral.  She lives with her family in Carson City, Nevada, where she has founded Ventana Sierra, a nonprofit youth housing and resource initiative.  Visit her at EllenHopkins.com and on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter: @EllenHopkinslit.  For more information on Ventana Sierra, go to VentanaSierra.org. 
Learn Cara's story in PERFECT. 

# Cara Sierra Sykes

# Perfect? 

How

do you define a word without

concrete meaning?  To each

his own, the saying goes, so

why

push to attain an ideal

state of being that no two

random people will agree is

where

you want to be?  Faultless. 

Finished.  Incomparable.  People

can never be these, and anyway,

when

did creating a flawless facade

become a more vital goal

than learning to love the person

who

lives inside your skin? 

The outside belongs to others. 

Only you should decide for you—

what

is perfect. 

## Perfection

I've lived with the pretense

of perfection for seventeen

years.  Give my room a cursory

inspection, you'd think I have OCD. 

But it's only habit and not

obsession that keeps it all orderly. 

Of course, I don't want to give

the impression that it's all up to me. 

Most of the heavy labor is done by

our housekeeper, Gwen.  She's an

imposing woman, not at all the type

that most men would find attractive. 

Not even Conner, which is the point. 

My twin has a taste for older

women.  Before he got himself

locked away, he chased after more

than one.  I should have told sooner

about the one he caught, the one

I happened to overhear him with,

having a little afternoon fun. 

Okay, I know a psychologist

would say, strictly speaking,

he was prey, not predator. 

And in a way, I can't really

blame him.  Emily is simply

stunning.  Conner wasn't the only

one who used to watch her go

running by our house every

morning.  But, hello, she was

his teacher.  That fact alone

should have been enough warning

that things would not turn out well. 

I never would have expected

Conner to attempt the coward's way

out, though.  Some consider suicide

an act of honor.  I seriously don't agree. 

But even if it were, you'd have to

actually die.  All Conner did was

stain Mom's new white Berber

carpet.  They're replacing it now. 

## Mom Stands There Watching

The men work, laying mint

green carpeting over clean beige

padding.  Thick.  Lush.  Camouflage. 

I sit on the top stair, unseen. 

Invisible.  Silent.  I might as well

not even be here at all.  And

that's all right.  At least I don't

have to worry that she will focus

her anger on me.  Instead she blasts

it toward the carpet guys.  Idiots! 

You're scratching the patina! 

Her hiss is like a cobra's spit. 

I might want to expose that wood

one day.  I can't if it's marred. 

But she never will.  That oak

has been irreparably scarred

by gunpowder-tainted

blood.  And even more by

the intent behind the bullet. 

Sprawled on the floor,

Conner wanted to die. 

Mom and Dad don't think

so.  In fact, for once they agree

on something besides how bad

their stock portfolios looked

last year.  Both of them believe

Conner only wanted attention. 

But he was way past hoping

for that, at least the positive

kind.  No, Conner was tired

of the pressure.  Sick of trying

to find the equation that would

lighten the weight of expectations

not his own.  Listening to Mom

tell skilled laborers how to do

their job is almost enough to make

me empathize.  The more she goes

on, the more I'm sure the carpet

guys understand.  There is no

possible way to satisfy our mother. 

## I Guess In A Way

I have to give Conner a little

credit.  I mean, by putting the gun

to his chest, he made an overt,

if obscene, statement—

I will no longer force myself

inside your prefab boxes.  I'd much

rather check out of here than let

you decide the rest of my life. 

"You," meaning Mom and Dad. 

The pressure they exert individually

is immense.  As a team, it's almost

impossible to measure up

to their elevated criteria.  I have done

my best, pushed myself to the limit. 

To get into Stanford, I have had to

ace every test, stand out as a leader

(junior class pres, student council),

excel in sports, serve as a mentor,

take command of extracurricular

pursuits—cheerleading, honor choir,

theater.  All around dating Sean. 

Sometimes I just want a solo vacation. 

Hanging out on a beach, submitting

to the temptation of sand, sun, salt

water, sans UV protection.  Who

cares what damage they might

inflict on my skin?  Nice dream. 

But what would my mother say? 

I can hear her now.  Don't be

ridiculous.  Who in their right

mind would invite melanoma

and premature aging? 

When I look at her, I have

to admit her beauty regime

is working.  It's as if by sheer

force of will she won't permit

wrinkles to etch her suede

complexion.  But I know, deep

down, she is afraid of time.  Once

in a while, I see fear in her eyes. 

## That Fear Isn't Something

Most people notice.  Not Dad,

who's hardly ever home, and even

when he is, doesn't really look

at Mom.  Or me.  Not Conner,

because if he had even once seen

that chink in her fourteen-carat

armor, he'd have capitalized on it. 

Not her friends. ( I think the term

misrepresents the relationship,

at least if loyalty figures into

what it means to be a friend.) 

Book club.  Bridge club.  Gym

spinners.  She maintains a flock

of them.  That's what they remind

me of.  Beautiful, pampered birds,

plumage-proud, but blind

to what they drop their shit on. 

And the scary thing is, I'm

on a fast track to that same

aviary.  Unless I find my wings. 

## I Won't Fly Today

Too much to do, despite the snow,

which made all local schools close

their doors.  What a winter!  Usually,

I love watching the white stuff fall. 

But after a month with only short

respites, I keep hoping for a critical

blue sky.  Instead, amazing waves

of silvery clouds sweep over the crest

of the Sierra, open their obese

bellies, and release foot upon foot

of crisp new powder.  The ski

resorts would be happy, except

the roads are so hard to travel

that people are staying home. 

So it kind of boggles the mind

that three guys are laying carpet

in the living room.  Just goes to

show the power of money.  In less

than an hour, the stain Conner left

on the hardwood will be a ghost. 

## The Stain

That Conner left on our lives will

not vanish as easily.  I don't care

about Mom and her birds. 

Their estimation of my brother

doesn't bother me at all.  Neither

do I worry about Dad and

what his lobbyist buddies think. 

His political clout has not diminished. 

As twins go, Conner and I don't share

a deep affection, but we do have

a nine-months-in-the-same-womb

connection.  Not to mention

a crowd of mutual friends.  God,

I'll never forget going to school

the day after that ugly scene. 

The plan was to sever the gossip

grapevine from the start with

an obvious explanation—

accident.  Mom's orders were

clear.  Conner's reputation

was to be protected at all costs. 

When I arrived, the rumors

had already started, thanks

to our neighbor, Bobby Duvall. 

Conner Sykes got hurt. 

Conner Sykes was shot. 

Conner Sykes is in the hospital. 

Is Conner Sykes, like, dead? 

I fielded every single question

with the agreed fabrication. 

But eventually, I was forced to

concede that, though his wounds

would heal, he was not coming

back to school right away. 

Conner Sykes wasn't dead. 

But he wasn't exactly "okay." 

## When People Ask

How he's doing now, I have

no idea what to say except for,

"Better."  I don't know if that's

true, or what goes on in a place

like Aspen Springs, not that any-

one knows he's there, thank God. 

He has dropped off most people's

radar, although that's kind of odd. 

Before he took this unbelievable

turn, Conner was top rung on our

social ladder.  But with his crash

and burn no longer news of the day,

all but a gossipy few have quit

trying to fill in the blanks. 

One exception is Kendra, who

for some idiotic reason still

loves him and keeps asking about

him, despite the horrible way he

dumped her.  Kendra may be pretty,

but she's not especially bright. 
What would you give up to be Perfect? 

Buy Perfect Now

Perfect

* * *

ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY! 

Turn the page for a first look at Ellen Hopkins's riveting novel Rumble

## In the Narrow Pewter Space

Between the gray of consciousness

and the obsidian where dreams

ebb and flow, there is a wishbone

window.  And trapped in its glass,

a single silver shard of enlightenment. 

It is this mystics search for.  The truth

of the Holy Grail.  It is this believers

pray for.  The spark, alpha and omega. 

It is this the gilded claim to hold

in the cups of their hands.  But what

of those who plunge into slumber,

who snap from sleep's embrace? 

What of those who measure their

tomorrows with finite numbers, cross

them off their calendars one by

one?  Some say death is a doorway,

belief the key.  Others claim you only

have to stumble across the threshold

to glimpse a hundred billion universes

in the blink of single silver shard. 

## Have Faith

That's what people keep telling me. 

Faith that things will get better.  Faith

that bad things happen for a reason. 

Implicit in that ridiculous statement

is the hand of some extraterrestrial

magician.  Some all-powerful creator,

which, if his faithful want to be totally

frank about it, would also make him/her/it

an omnipotent destroyer.  Because if

some God carefully sows each seed

of life, he is also flint for the relentless

sun beating down upon his crops until

they wither into dust.  Zygotes to ashes

or some other poignant phrase.  And why

would any of that make someone feel

better about snuffing out?  The end

result is the same.  You get a few

years on this sad, devolving planet. 

If you're lucky, you experience love,

someone or two or three to gentle

your time, fill the hollow spaces. 

If you're really fortunate, the good

outweighs the bad.  In my eighteen years

all I've seen is shit tipping the scales. 

## Case in Point

I've been abruptly summoned to

the front of the classroom at the urgent

request of my English teacher, the oh-so-

disturbed, Savannah-belle-wannabe

Ms. Hannity, emphasis on the Mizz. 

She pretends sympathy, for what,

I've no clue, and like she gives half

a damn about anything but clinging,

ironfisted, to her job.  Mr. Turnahhhh. 

Fake "South" taints her voice and

her eyes—no doubt she'd describe

them as "cornflower"—are wide

with mock concern.  Would you

please come he-ah for a minute? 

I think she thinks she's whispering,

but twenty-seven pairs of eyes home

in on me.  I straight-on laser every one

until they drop like dead fly duos. 

"Yes, ma'am?"  The feigned respect

isn't lost on her, and she doesn't bother

to lower her voice.  Mistah Carpentah

wishes a word with you.  Please see

him now.  And the rest of y'all, get back

to work.  This doesn't concern you. 

## Why, Then

Did she make it exactly everyone's

concern?  The ends of my fingers tingle

and my jaw keeps working itself

forward.  Backward.  Forward.  I force

it sideways and audibly, painfully, it pops. 

For some messed-up reason she smiles

at that.  I really want to slap that stinking

grin off her face.  But then I'd get expelled,

and that would humiliate my father,

everyone's favorite science teacher, not to

mention the coach of the best basketball

team this school has seen in a dozen years. 

Then Mom would bitch at him for not kicking

my ass and at me for turning him into such a wuss,

until I had no choice but to flee from our miserable

termite-ridden shack.  And I'd have to live in

my fume-sucking truck, eating pilfered ramen,

drinking Mosby Creek water until I got the runs

so bad I'd wind up in the ER, hoping Dad

hadn't had time to dump me from his insurance. 

And, despite all that, Mizz nose-up-my-ass

Hannity would still be a rip-roaring bitch. 

## As I Wind Up

That extended interior monologue,

I notice everyone is once again staring at me,

waiting for some overt exterior reaction. 

Expecting, I'm sure, one of my infamous

blowups.  More fun to keep 'em guessing. 

"Can you tell me why he wants to see me? 

Have I done something I'm not aware of?" 

I'm pulling off As in every class.  Maintaining

the pretense that all is well, despite everything

being completely messed up.  It would be nice

to have some idea of what I'm walking into. 

But Hannity gives nothing away.  Just go. 

Don't flip her off.  Don't flip her off.  Don't . . . 

I flip her off mentally, sharp turn on one heel,

head toward the door.  Laser.  Laser.  Laser. 

Pairs of dead flies drop as I pass, anger obviously

obvious in the death beam of my eyes.  What now? 

All I want is to be left alone.  All I want

is to cruise in radar-free space.  Scratch that. 

What I really want is to disappear.  Except,

if this in-your-face place is all I'll ever

get to experience, I'm not quite finished

here. " Live large, go out with a huge bang,"

that's my motto.  Too bad so many minuscule

moments make up the biggest part of every

day.  Moments like these.  A familiar curtain

of fury threatens to drop and smother me. 

I push it away with a smile, hope no one

takes a candid photo right now, because

I'm as certain as I can be that I resemble

some serial killer.  Tall.  Good-looking. 

The boy next door, with near-zero affect. 

Totally fine by me.  Keep 'em guessing. 

I swear, I can hear the collective breath-

holding, all those goddamn flies hovering

silently at my back.  I plaster a grin.  Spin. 

"Boo!"  Audible gasps.  Yes!  Okay, screw it. 

I flip off the lot of them, dig down deep

for something resembling courage, and skip

from the room, a not-close-to-good-enough

tribute to my little brother, Luke, deceased

now one hundred sixty-eight days.  Exactly. 

## A Tribute

So why do I stop just beyond

the door, assess the scene . . . 

what am I waiting for?  A sign? 

The hallway is vacant.  Silent. 

No one to bear witness to . . . 

what?  Some ill-conceived

testimony? " Fuck you, Luke." 

Another pointless statement,

echoing.  Echoing.  Echoing

down the corridor.  Luke.  Luke. 

Luke.  You selfish little prick. 

My eyes burn.  No, damn it! 

If the vultures see me cry,

they'll swoop in, try to finish

me off.  And I'm just so tired

of fighting, they might actually

manage it this time.  Screw that. 

They already got my brother. 

It will be a cold day in hell

before I give up, give in, allow

them to claim another victory. 

## I'm Not Quite

To Mr. Carpenter's office when the bell

rings.  Okay, technically it's a blare, not

a bell.  Some new-wave administrator

decided to replace the old buuurrrriing

with a blast of music so we don't feel

so much like we're in school, despite

the off-white cement walls and even

offer-white linoleum, lined with

not-quite-khaki lockers.  Doors slam

open and out spills noise.  Lots of it. 

Laughter and curses and screeches

echoing down the corridor.  I scan

the crowd, as I always do, hoping

for even just a glimpse of her.  There,

on the far side of the counselors' offices. 

She's hard to miss, my amazing girl—

a whole head taller than her pack

of loser friends, with perfect slender curves

and thick ropes of honey-colored hair. 

"Hayden!"  I yell, though it's impossible

to hear in this obnoxious swell.  Yet

she turns, and when those suede chocolate

eyes settle on me, her diamond smile lifts

my mood.  She gestures for me to come there. 

I shake my head, tip it in the direction

of the counseling offices.  Even from here,

I can see the way concern crinkles her eyes

at the edges.  I shrug a silent, "No worries." 

That's one thing I love about Hayden—how

we can communicate without words.  It's not

the only thing I love about her, or even close

to the most important.  But it's really special,

sort of like Heath bar sprinkles over the vanilla

cream cheese frosting on top of the very rich

red velvet cupcake.  Ultra extra deliciousness. 

Sometimes it's hard to believe she's mine. 

But knowing that—trusting it—helps

me tilt my chin upward, straighten

my shoulders, and put one foot in front

of the other, toward Mr. Carpenter's lair. 

## As Is Usual

Whenever you're called, posthaste,

to the counselor's office, it becomes

a game of Hurry Up and Wait.  I sit

on a hard plastic chair, pretty much

the color of a rotting pumpkin, just

outside the inner sanctum.  Not a whole

lot to do but try and discern words

in the muffled exchange behind

the closed fiberglass door.  This

school is barely ten years old and

the builders had some new tricks

up their sleeves—things that might

thwart punches, kicks, and other

assaults that damage painted wood. 

Eventually, the door clicks open,

and Alexa Clarke emerges, thin

tracks of mascara trailing down her

cheeks.  Guess it didn't go so well. 

Hayden and Alexa used to be best

friends, until Alexa veered off

the straight and narrow, or whatever. 

Personally, I have no problem with

detours. " Hey, Lex."  I grin. " Thanks

for warming Carpenter up for me." 

## The Defiance

So obvious only seconds ago melts

from her eyes, and she manages a smile. 

Warm.  Yeah, right.  But it's all good. 

He's only on you 'cause he cares. 

"I'll remember that."  I've barely spit

the words from my mouth when

Mr. Carpenter's hulking form appears

in the doorway.  Come on in, Mr. Turner. 

"So formal?  I thought we were on

a first-name basis."  I pretend hurt,

and he pretends to be hard of hearing. 

Please go on back to class, Miss Clarke. 

Alexa and I do a mutual eye roll

thing and as she leaves I call, "Always

important to understand motives. 

Thanks for letting me know he cares." 

Without turning around, she flips a hand

up over her shoulder.  To slaughter I will go. 

## Hi-Ho-the-Merry-O

That's what I'm humming as I take

the seat on the far side of Carpenter's

desk.  He looks at me like I've lost

my mind, or lost it even worse than

he figured I'd lost it, or whatever. 

I could ask what's up, I guess.  But this

is his party.  It's up to him to kick it off. 

I suppose you're wondering why

you're here.  He looks at me like

I really should know.  But I seriously

don't. " Uh, yeah.  I mean, I hear I have

a twin, and people see him smoking

sometimes.  Personally, cancer scares

the crap out of me, and—"

His head rocks side to side.  Don't mess

with me, Mr. Turner.  This isn't funny. 

Damn.  He really looks concerned. 

"Mr. Carpenter, my grades are jake,

I'm not abusing drugs, I don't beat

my girlfriend.  I have absolutely no

idea why I'm here.  Please enlighten me." 

## The Weight of His Sigh

Could crush an elephant. 

I mean, really, what could

I have done to rate that? 

He moves a folder from atop

a stack of papers, pushes a thin

sheaf across his desk.  Oh.  Duh. 

Ms. Hannity thought maybe this

was worthy of some discussion. 

It's my senior essay: Take

Your God and Shove It. 

I thought the title was a nice

play on words. " I'm sorry, but

what, exactly, is the problem? 

Looks like she gave me an A."

It's not the grade, obviously.  But

the content raises a red flag or two. 

My first reaction is a wholly

inappropriate snort, courtesy

of the picture that popped up

in my head—paragraph two,

page four, hit the last word and

"Taps" plays as a scarlet banner

lifts off the page.  But as that vision

fades, and I consider why I wrote

what I did, every crumb of humor

disappears, smashed into powder

by a huge fist of anger.  Adrenaline

thumps in the veins at my temples. 

I summon every ounce of will. 

Detonating will accomplish

exactly nothing. " I'm afraid

you'll have to be a little more

specific, Mr. [Carpentah] uh,

Carpenter.  What worries you?" 

He clears his throat.  Let's start

with your thesis statement. . . . 

## Which Would Be

There is no God, no benevolent ruler of the earth, no omnipotent Grand Poobah of countless universes.  Because if there was, there would be no warring or genocide in his name; those created "in his image" would be born enlightened, no genuflecting or tithing required; and my little brother would still be fishing or playing basketball instead of fertilizing cemetery vegetation.  And since there is no God, this nonentity has no place in government or education and certainly not in constitutional law.  The separation of church and state must remain sacrosanct. 

No bonus points for using the word

sacrosanct? " I'm sorry, but was I not

clear enough?  Or was it the 'Grand Poobah'

thing?  Because if that's offensive,

I don't mind changing it.  Although—"

That's enough.  You know, Matthew,

some people might find your biting

sarcasm humorous.  But I have to

wonder what lies beneath it.  Tell me. 

Just what are you trying to hide? 

## Fucking Great

The last thing I need is more therapy

courtesy of some armchair shrink. 

"Surely the school district isn't paying

you to attempt psychoanalysis?" 

I summon my best pretend smile. 

His shoulders stiffen like drying

concrete.  Ahem.  See . . .  uh . . . 

Ms. Hannity thinks I should

mention our concerns to your par—

"You mean Mizzzzz Hannity, right?" 

I interrupt.  A change of subject

matter is probably wise. " You know,

if you've got nothing more important

to worry about than my essay,

maybe you don't have enough to do. 

So, here's what I think.  You should

petition the Lane County School

District to verify the authenticity

of Ms. Hannity's birth certificate." 

Consternated.  That's the only way

to describe the look on his face. 

Wha—wha—what do you mean? 

"Well, it's obviously fictitious,

don't you think?  Jeez, man, my brother

talked me into watching Gone

with the Wind once and Mizz Hannity

is sooooo not Scarlett O'Hara." 

His jaw literally drops, exposing

a mouth full of fillings.  Old silver

mercury-laden ones.  When I stare,

he snaps his mouth closed.  Shut up. 

I mean it.  This is really not funny. 

"Okay.  Look, I'm sorry.  Didn't

mean to offend you, let alone

question the veracity of Ms. Hannity's

Southernness.  I just think this is all

much ado about nothing, to quote

the Bard.  An essay should express

an opinion, correct?  My opinion is that

it's inappropriate to allow religion—any

religion—to influence the laws that

govern this country.  That's a valid

viewpoint, right?  And even if it's not

somehow, it's mine, and I'm allowed

to hold it, not to mention argue it." 

## He Tries Another Tack

I watch as his whole demeanor softens,

like gelatin on a hot plate.  Matthew,

the truth is, I'm worried about you. 

I'm not sure you've really processed

Luke's death.  It's been almost six months. 

Don't you think it's time to move on? 

That fist of pissed again, only this time

it smashes me square in the face. 

"Dude, I have fucking moved on. 

I don't call him to dinner anymore. 

I don't think I hear him coming in

the back door.  I hardly ever dream

about how he looked when . . . 

when I found him.  But if you mean

I should accept what happened,

you're out of your mind!"  Winded,

I catch a breath, realize I've been

yelling, lower my voice. " I never will." 

Mr. Carpenter studies my face, and

what he finds there—truth, that's all

he can possibly see—seems to make

him sad.  I'm sorry you feel that way,

Matthew.  But what happened to Luke

wasn't God's fault.  Why blame him? 

## For a Counselor

This guy is awfully dense. " I'm not sure

how you draw the conclusion that I blame

God when I clearly state I'm one hundred

percent certain no such creature exists." 

I don't understand.  His eyes hold

genuine confusion.  Maybe even shock. 

"I'm an atheist.  You know, a nonbeliever. 

Considering Lane County demographics,

you must have run into another one before. 

I can't be the only sane person in this school." 

He yanks himself together.  That may

be.  But the others don't brag about it. 

Blah, blah, blah.  The game grows old. 

"All I did was state my opinion.  Do you

actually see that as bragging?  Because

seriously, Mr. Carpenter, I don't." 

But there's more.  He loses steam. 

It's . . .  it's the tone of your writing. 

The tone?  Angry?  Yeah, but more. 

Bitter?  Closer, but not quite.  Acerbic? 

Almost.  Caustic.  That's it.  Still. 

"Everything's fine.  Totally fine." 

## It's a Total Lie

Not sure there's been a single day of my life

when everything was totally fine.  And now? 

The best I can say is once in a while I'm not

somersaulting in chaos.  I sink into my well-

practiced bullshit-the-shrink tone of voice. 

"Look, Mr. Carpenter.  It has been a rough

few months.  Losing Luke did throw me

off balance for a while, but day by day

it gets a little better.  I appreciate your concern. 

Ms. Hannity's, too, and I understand where

it comes from.  The truth is, you're right. 

I will never forgive the people who are

ultimately responsible for Luke's demise. 

But I don't really see why I have to." 

Maintaining your sanity?  He gives a tiny

smile.  Anyway, be very careful of the blame

game.  It can get you into all kinds of trouble. 

And it's always possible that you're wrong. 

## Doesn't Matter

If I'm wrong or right (not that I'm wrong). 

All I want is out of here, so I agree, keeping

a perfectly straight face. " I know.  And thanks." 

Unbelievably, he lets me leave without another

comment, not even another warning to play a less

provocative game.  He's not stupid, and neither

am I. We both understand what's at stake,

and it's more than my sanity.  It's my freedom. 

Lockup's the only thing that frightens me. 

The one insistent whisper of fear has kept

my temper mostly in check these past few months. 

More than once, I thought about taking a dead-

of-night slow cruise through certain neighborhoods,

drawing a long bead on designated silhouettes

shadowing their bedroom windows.  One squeeze

of my Glock's trigger, and BLAM!  Eye-for-an-eye justice,

just like their Good Book calls for.  But then that

niggling little voice would ask me to consider life

walled in by concrete and metal bars.  That would

do me in, and I'm not quite ready to check on out

of here yet.  I've got some living to do.  Hard living. 
What if you lost faith in everything? 

Buy Rumble Now

Rumble

* * *

ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY! 

Also by Ellen Hopkins

Crank

Burned

Impulse

Glass

Identical

Tricks

Fallout

Perfect

Tilt

Smoke

Rumble

* * *

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* * *
MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction.  Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.  Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

Copyright © 2007 by Ellen Hopkins

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. 

MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event.  For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. 

Also available in a Margaret K. McElderry Books hardcover edition

Book design by Sammy Yuen Jr.

The text for this book is set in Janson Text. 

First paperback edition May 2008

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Hopkins, Ellen. 

Impulse / Ellen Hopkins.—1st ed. 

p. cm. 

Summary: Three teens who meet at Reno, Nevada's Aspen Springs mental hospital after each has attempted suicide connect with each other in a way they never have with their parents or anyone else in their lives. 

ISBN 978-1-4169-0356-7 (hardcover)

[1.  Suicide—Fiction.  2.  Mental illness—Fiction.  3.  Psychiatric hospitals—Fiction.  4.  Interpersonal relations—Fiction.  5.  Novels in verse.]  I. Title. 

PZ7.H7747Imp 2007

[Fic]—dc22

2006007854

ISBN 978-1-4169-0357-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-4169-7487-1 (eBook)

## Contents

Without Warning

Triad

The Thread

Arrival

At Least

I Don't Remember

Just Saw

I Lost My Mind

I Wasn't Worried

Cloistered

I Hate This Feeling

The First Cut

Pain Isn't the Worst Thing

It Doesn't Seem

I Reach

When You Try

They Kept Me

The Worst Liars

I Heard My Brother's Scream

Which Is How I Wound Up Here

The Door Opens

Suitcase Emptied

Dr. Starr Isn't Like Dr. Boston

Play the Game

I'm Glad I'm an Only Child

The Clock Reminds Me

We Gather

Seven Pairs of Eyes

So Why Are His Eyes

Forty-five Minutes Later

Brain Poked and Prodded

Dismissed by the Bulldog

Back in My Room

I Keep Watching

One Cut or More? 

The Grim Reapers

Brain Swimming

Drowning in Blue

I Swallow the Capsule

I Haven't Let Myself

Now That I've Opened

I Knew None of That Then

Dinner's a Little Late Tonight

But Bloody Cuts and Bruises

Mostly Because

Thank God

I Didn't Realize It Myself

When It Fell

Ten Days Now

It Was Our Second Session

She Wanted to Know

Today, They Tell Me

I Learned a Lot

Enough Fond Memories

Saturday, Visiting Day

She's Waiting Just Inside

Grandma's Face Drains

Trading Secrets

My Escort Arrives

No Time to Figure Her Out Now

Hands Sweating

Crossed Fingers

I Draw the Line

Seeing Grandma

Mania Blossoming

I Hurried Home That Day

Dr. B Is Psychic? 

She Set Herself Up

I Can't Believe

I Want to Jump Up

A New Problem Pops Up

Until I Said It

Prozac Can't Help

The Dinner Crowd

Tony's Fists Clench

I Melted Dr. Boston

I Just Hope

That Explains a Lot

Cardboard Chicken

The New Dude

Funny How Much

It's Good to Feel Bad

Enough Introspection

Breakthrough Moment

Ten Minutes to Finish

Still Another Part of Me

Homophobia Stashed

Amazing

I Don't Doubt That at All

An Excellent Observation

Credit Where It's Due

I Play It Cool

In the Refuge of My Room

Walled in Again

Life Isn't Fair

The Memory Stirs Sadness

Sunday Morning

Okay, It Sounds

I Also Hope

I'm Told Level One

A Long Flowing Skirt

I Sit at the Back

Mandatory Church Services

I Sit Beside Vanessa

After the Last Amen

Vanessa's Cutting

Level Three Privileges

Time to Vacate

All This Talk

Monday Morning

They're Both in Class

Okay, I Should Have

Duplicating Effort

Especially in Here

An Odd Thing Happened

Anyway, I Don't Worry

Mr. Hidalgo Clears His Throat

Writing Essays

The Third Reason Is Mama

Mr. Hidalgo Comes Over

Six Weeks in Aspen Springs

The Only Way

So I'm Pushing Hard

Commotion in the Hall

As Todd Is Marched Away

Which Takes Me Back

I Watch Tony

The Funny Thing Is

Speaking of Out There

Now I Could Tell

Dr. Starr Jumps Up

Not Again

Rumors Travel past

I Don't Tell Them

Major Insight

Just Another Day

I Will Admit

One Time He Came Home

Tossing and Turning

A Voice Rouses Me

Nine A.M. Exactly

Breakfast Is Cold

I've Got My Own

But That's a Different Story

Breakfast Is Lousy

I Go Back to My Room

Five After Eleven

Postcards from Home

Did They Even Know

Totally Straightforward

Guess My Level Three Status

We Left It at That

Think I'll Wander

The Cat's Out of the Bag

And Through It All

Nothing's Different

Another Level Three Perk

None of It

Spaghetti and Meat Blobs

We Decide

I Knew He Had

It's the first time I've

I Guess You Could

The Table Busts Up

The Girls' Side of the Room

But I Am Curious

Way Too Much Information

What Got into Me? 

Conner's Sympathetic

Think I'll Skip

TV Tonight

Enough Already

One Stall, Four Feet

Today We Have a Visitor

Flushed to My Core

Excite Her? 

What Is It

I'm Pretty Sure

My Ma Picked Me Up

Prozac, Lithium, and Conner

Those I Have Yet to Create

Suddenly, My Hands

Ms. Littell Looks Horrified

I Also Wonder

Guess I'll Excite Everyone

Whoa, Baby! 

Mr. Hidalgo Takes Control

No Applause

Kate Finds Me

No Wonder

My Own Overdose

Thursday P.M.

As I Wait for Her

We're Not Through Yet

Easter Weekend

Carmella Bustles In

Someone Probably Should

Grandma's House

I Go into the Bedroom

The Kitchen

Talk About Jumping

We Take the Aspen Springs Limo

Enough About Giant Bunnies

The Greatest Thing

I Sit in Between

I Know I Should Wait

Bryan and I Rush

I'm Glad

Later

Dinner Tonight

Two Ativans Toward Sleep

Easter Sunday Morning

Holy Crap

I Doubt That

Not Quite Free

All Dressed Up

Giant Flakes

He's Hard Again Now

Almost May

We Hit the Shower

It's Better Than What I've Got

I Don't Tell Conner Everything

Apparently, Stanley Does

No One Dares Come Between

OMG! 

It's Weird

A Slight Exaggeration

Actually, Dr. Starr

But Hey, Guess What

Tony Tosses a Jealous Look

Three Days

I Wish I Could Be a Mirror

A Strange Light

Tony Is So Different

After a While

I Hope So Too

Home Sweet Home

She's Standing

Not Exactly a Warm, Fuzzy Welcome

Orientation for the Challenge

Meanwhile, Sean and Raven

Sean and Raven Leave

We're Up to Our Elbows

Fifteen Minutes Later

I Said Mama Wasn't Happy

Tomorrow We're Off

Best? 

Hands to Guide

Off We Go

Eventually, We Turn

Before She Can Answer

Vanessa

Back on the Road

Okay, That Worries Me

I Thought I Was Ready

And Now, Here's Vanessa

We Stop to Stretch Our Legs

Almost Dark

Raven Shows Us

Things Swim into Focus

Okay, This Is Less

I Wander into the Sage

Scrunched Down Into

Coyote Booty Calls

All's Quiet

Pale Light

After a Scrumptious Breakfast

Finally, Sean Gives Each of Us

Conner Shoots a Curious Look

Buddies with Dahlia

Before I Have to Offer Details

Two Hours Later

We've Been Walking

I Decide It Isn't

With a Nod

I Am Firestarter

Losing Her

Dahlia Bitches Until Bedtime

It's All So Weird

Up at Dawn

Before Long

Four Miles

We Reach a Place

Feet Pointed Sideways

Never Thought I'd See

Now I Expect Denial

We Hike for Another Hour

I Never Knew

Justin Goes Second

As If to Prove Him Wrong

Feeling Pumped Tonight

It Takes a Minute

He's Talking About Phillip

No Sex with Phillip

I Have to Admit

I Don't Know What I Am

Did I Just Say That? 

Do I Really Mean That? 

How Did Tony

What Tony Doesn't Get

Secrets

I Never Expected

I've Heard Confession

The Whole Rotten Truth

Actually, There Are Two

I'm Lying Here Shivering

I Wake, Thankful

Raven Guides Us

We Spend All Day

It's a Shaky Ride

The First Surprise

The First Letter

It's So New

I Start to Read

I Thought My Letter

Tony Sighs

Tony's Kiss

Unbelievable

Same Old Mom

I Fold the Letter

I Swim Up into Morning

But Right Now

Both Halves Decide

Watching Raven

Since Sean's Going Last

I Reach the Top

God, I'm Tired

Keep Going

Standing Here

Raven Screams

Raven Calls for Rescue

The "Rescue"

Care Flight Lifts Off

The Question

Camp Feels Empty

About the Author

Perfect Excerpt

Cara Sierra Sykes: Perfect? 

Perfection

Mom Stands There Watching

I Guess In A Way

That Fear Isn't Something

I Won't Fly Today

The Stain

When People Ask

Rumble Excerpt

In the Narrow Pewter Space

Have Faith

Case in Point

Why, Then

As I Wind Up

A Tribute

I'm Not Quite

As Is Usual

The Defiance

Hi-Ho-the-Merry-O

The Weight of His Sigh

Which Would Be

Fucking Great

He Tries Another Tack

For a Counselor

It's a Total Lie

Doesn't Matter
