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  “Talk about a disappointment,” Jason’s dad says. “My kid told me he didn’t want to try out for the football team. Tell me, what kind of kid doesn’t want to be on the football team? Either a faggot or a fucking loser, that’s who.”

  Jason flinches, and Shirley says, “Your language, Mr. Ford.” He apologizes and continues with the same story probably everyone has—the grades slipping, the breaking curfew, the fighting and getting in trouble at school. Shirley says, “Raise your hand if you identify,” and everyone except my mom raises their hand, and Jason’s dad looks very pleased with himself. When everyone puts their hands down is when Mom decides to raise hers, and I would like to die right now, thank you very much.

  “My son didn’t do those things,” she says. “Christopher’s just been an angel his whole life.” A few people chuckle, and Jason’s dad goes, “Yeah, right, lady.”

  “Let’s stay with Jason’s family for right now, Mrs. Morganson,” says Shirley, and I kind of want to hug her.

  “He must have told you what he did to his sister,” Mr. Ford says. Mrs. Ford starts fanning her face, and I can see the tears collecting in her eyes. Eva’s dad hands Mrs. Ford a tissue. She thanks him and dabs at her eyes, but her husband keeps talking like he doesn’t even know she’s there. “Piece of shit got drunk and forgot he was watching her. Then she fell down the stairs headfirst, and now she’s a retard and the doctors don’t know if she’ll ever talk again.”

  Parents mutter their condolences and pierce Jason with their dagger eyes, and Mr. Ford basks in the encouragement. “I should have just kicked him out of the goddamned house, pressed charges on his sorry ass, but his mother’s soft, you know? Says he’s her only son and we gotta give him another chance, send him here, send him to military school, maybe he can change. But I wanna know, when’s the last chance? What if he fucks up at military school? He’s not coming back home, I can tell you that much.”

  “That’s definitely your choice, Mr. Ford,” Shirley says.

  “Damn right it is,” he says.

  “How do you feel about all of this, Mrs. Ford?” Shirley asks, and the woman practically jumps when she hears her name, like no one’s ever bothered to ask her that before.

  “Oh, she’s too upset to say anything that makes sense,” Mr. Ford says.

  Shirley looks at him, hard. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what she has to say.” Shirley looks at Mrs. Ford and tries to look encouraging.

  “Well,” Mrs. Ford says, wringing her hands. “I don’t know what to say, really.”

  “Do you feel that the consequences for Jason’s behavior have been appropriate?” Shirley asks.

  “Oh, well, I don’t know,” she says, looking at her husband for some kind of instruction.

  “Do you support the decision to send him to military school when he graduates from here?”

  Mr. Ford turns and looks at her with a look that I could only describe as disgust, and I think about what happened between Jason and Kelly in the showers, and how it’s pretty amazing really that Jason felt so bad about the way it turned out. It would be easy for him to be just like his father, to think of Kelly as something pathetic and unimportant, but Jason doesn’t want to be like that. Everyone sees this big guy, and maybe they see someone like his dad, and maybe they assume he thinks and feels just like him. What they don’t see is how hard he’s trying to be someone else, someone bigger. They don’t see how hard that is, don’t recognize how much he’s changed, and maybe the fact that he’s still trying despite all that makes him bigger than all of us.

  Mrs. Ford clears her throat and says in a voice like a little bird’s, “I hope military school is good for him. I hope he learns things there. I hope he stops drinking.”

  “Jason,” Shirley says. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I hope the same things too,” he says, and takes his mother’s hand in his. She looks up at him, and something changes in her face.

  “Well, hell,” Mr. Ford says. “Isn’t that cute?” But I can tell he doesn’t think there’s anything cute about it, and all of a sudden Eva’s dad goes, “For Pete’s sake, shut the hell up.” Everyone pretty much stops breathing, like we’re all expecting Mr. Ford to go ballistic and start beating everybody up.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Ford says, and Mrs. Ford shrinks into a little pink ball, and Jason straightens up like he’s about to go to war, and Eva’s got this look on her face like, What the hell happened while I was busy not paying attention? Even though her dad’s balding and his clothes look wrinkled, there’s something cool about him, like he’s not scared of Jason’s dad at all.

  “You think you’re some kind of tough guy?” he says, and everybody’s looking at one another like they can’t believe how dumb he is. “You think it’s tough to be a fifty-year-old bully and belittle your wife in public and humiliate your son? You think that’s what we’re supposed to be doing here?”

  “I’d watch your mouth if I were you, little man,” Mr. Ford says. Mrs. Ford has her hands in front of her face, like she believes everything will go away if she just doesn’t look at it.

  “Little man?” Eva’s dad says. “For your information I have two PhDs and I’m head of the sociology department at the University of Washington. Guys like you empty out my wastebasket.”

  “Oh my God, Dad. Stop!” Eva says, and women start grabbing their purses like they’re getting ready to flee.

  “Everyone, calm down!” Shirley says. And, amazingly, they do. She’s the only person I ever met who could get a room to settle down like this. Everyone sits up straight and looks right at her, and for a second everyone, the kids and the parents, are all the same size.

  “I know we’re all a little tense,” she says. “You are all dealing with years of built-up feelings. You’re scared and you are angry, justifiably so. No one said this was going to be easy. But as hard as this is, and as much as I sympathize with each and every one of you, there will be no tolerance for disrespect in this room. Do you understand me?” Parents and kids both nod their heads. Mrs. Ford takes her hands away from her face. My mom says a little prayer under her breath.

  “Mr. Jacoby? Is that your name?” Shirley says to Eva’s dad.

  “Dr. Jacoby. Yes,” he says, and Eva rolls her eyes.

  “Would you care to share how you feel about Eva’s drug use?”

  “Yes, I would, thank you,” he says. Eva could be the poster girl for angry teenagers right now. She’s slouching down, with her arms crossed over her chest and a big old scowl on her face. “Well, I’m disappointed,” he says. “That’s the main thing. Her mother and I didn’t raise her to be some dropout. She’s smart. She has a future. This is just childish, really. I mean, I understand it’s fun to smoke a joint once in a while, but at a certain point you have to get serious and start thinking about what’s important, like getting into a good college. She’s sixteen already. She should have already figured out where she wants to apply for early decision.”

  “Eva, how do you feel about what your father just said?” Shirley asks.

  “Yeah, I know all that,” she says. “It’s not like I want to be a loser either. I have ambitions. I have dreams. Maybe he would know that if he was paying any attention.”

  “Mr. Jacoby—I’m sorry, Dr. Jacoby—are you hearing what Eva’s saying?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s gotten so addicted to prescription drugs that she has to be here and taking detox medications. Her mother and I didn’t raise her like this.”

  “Well, maybe it wouldn’t have gotten this bad if you would have noticed something was wrong a long time ago,” Eva says. “It’s not like I ever wanted to be a drug addict. It’s not like I wanted to end up in rehab at age sixteen addicted to fucking pain pills. Who would want that? I’m not fucking stupid.”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady,” says her dad.

  “Dr. Jacoby,” Shirley says. “Do you think you were paying attention?”

  “I can’t watch
her every second. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “And a lot of drinking to do,” Eva says under her breath, but you can tell she wanted everyone to hear, and you can tell that they did, because the room gets very quiet. Her dad looks at her with his eyes wide, almost like he’s never seen her before and now, all of a sudden, there she is right in front of him and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

  “See, Dad,” Eva says. “Even if you weren’t paying attention, I was.” And just like that, Eva’s no longer the tough girl she tries to be all the time. All of a sudden she’s crying like nothing can ever make her stop, and her body is shaking with big sobs, one after another after another. I want to do something. The New Guy looks like he wants to run over there and hug her. But that’s not our job right now. Neither of us is the one who’s supposed to be doing that.

  “Eva,” her father says softly. “Oh, Eva, I’m sorry.” He puts his arm awkwardly around her, and you can tell he hasn’t done that in a very long time.

  “Dr. Jacoby,” Shirley says more gently than I’ve ever heard her. “I can’t help but notice that you’ve referred to your deceased wife twice in the last few minutes.”

  He looks up but says nothing.

  “Dr. Jacoby,” Shirley says, “do you think you have a drinking problem?”

  Eva looks at him with something that looks like hope.

  “It’s been hard,” he says.

  “What’s been hard?” says Shirley.

  “Since my wife died.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dad?” Eva says. He looks at her, and maybe it’s that simple, really. Maybe that’s all she ever wanted. “It’s been hard on me, too.” That’s when he starts crying, and let me tell you, I don’t think there’s anything sadder than watching a grown man cry.

  “I just can’t believe she’s gone,” he says, weeping.

  “I know. Me neither,” Eva says. “But I’m still here.”

  Then they hug, and probably half the people here have tears in their eyes, and I know I’m supposed to be happy for them. Eva’s my friend and she deserves to have a father who cares about her and supports her. She deserves to go home after this place and share a home with someone who will at least try to understand who she is and maybe take some responsibility for it. And I am happy for her. I really am. But I can’t help but hate her too. And I know how bad that is, and I know I’m going to hell for feeling that way. But I cannot take the high road this time. I’m tired of always taking the high road. Because the truth is I’m jealous of Eva and everyone in here. I’m even jealous of Jason, because at least he gets to go to military school and get away from his crazy family until he turns eighteen and gets set free. I’m jealous and I’m angry that I have none of what they have. After this place I’m going to go right back where I started, trapped inside that house to wait on my giant crazy mother all day long, back to that life where I’m the homeschooled church kid and nothing else. Even if I want to change, I can’t. I’m going back to a world that only wants me if I stay exactly the same. I should just be honest and give up right now. Even though I want to change, even though I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything, the truth is, I need help and I can’t do it alone and my mother is never going to change the way I need her to.

  DRUG & ALCOHOL HISTORY QUESTIONNAIRE

  QUESTION #5:

  What are your plans for staying sober?

  stop hanging out with old friends

  keep busy change schools

  do volunteer work

  develop a sober support network

  find a hobby start painting

  write in a journal

  continue with outpatient treatment

  go to recovery meetings

  see a therapist

  follow my relapse prevention plan

  avoid triggering places and people

  avoid situations and places where drugs and alcohol will be available

  be honest about my feelings

  exercise take responsibility for my actions

  eat healthy

  get plenty of sleep make sober friends

  meditate spend more time with my family

  pray ask for help

  laugh only hang out with people

  who support my recovery

  forgive the people who have hurt me

  forgive myself

  get a job

  set goals

  focus on going to college

  think about the person I want to be and the life I’d like to have

  remind myself how bad it was

  change everything

  KELLY

  Olivia isn’t the only one

  not eating this morning. Everyone seems to be poking at their food, staring off into space, not talking. I guess we’re all a little traumatized by Family Day. No one wants to talk about it. No one’s looking each other in the eye. Even Eva and the New Guy are barely acknowledging each other’s existence. It’s like we all got drunk last night and woke up naked and in bed together and don’t want to acknowledge what must have happened. Talking about it just makes it real.

  The five of us are some of the people who have been here the longest. Almost everyone who was here on my first day is gone, and a new crop has taken their place. What a strange thing this is—I’m going to be forty years old some day and telling people I went to rehab when I was seventeen. It is a permanent chapter in my story, something I cannot undo, a page I cannot rip out. There is no pretending that things will ever be normal, that I will ever be the daughter my perfect parents should have had. Even if I heal, even if I recover, this will always be my past and it will always be a part of me.

  I think before I ever became an alcoholic, before I even tasted alcohol or tried drugs, I was already programmed to be this way. Before there was cocaine or vodka or sex or any of that, there was fantasy. There was escape. That was my first addiction. I remember being a little kid and imagining everything different, myself different. How did I get the idea in my head at age eight that everything was better somewhere else? Why would a child have a hole inside that can’t get full no matter what she does? The real world could never make me happy, so I retreated to the world inside my head. And as I grew, as the real world proved itself more and more painful, the fantasy world expanded.

  I look around at the newer kids here and realize that they look like a different species from us. They look so tired, so angry, and even the black kid looks pale. There’s something missing in their eyes. It may sound like a cliché, but I see it—something is definitely dead inside. And how does that make any kind of sense? We’re fucking children. This is the most alive we should ever be. Kids with cancer, with AIDS, with terminal diseases—my sisters—they have an excuse. But not us. We did this to ourselves.

  The boy over there has the shakes. He arrived late last night. He can barely keep a spoon in his hand. He’s only fifteen.

  The new girl with the neck tattoo looks like a ghost because she’s been puking all morning.

  The guy in the corner is fast asleep and snoring because he’d been up for four days before coming here.

  I remember that feeling. The first day. The second day. When the world is as small as the thin layer of air touching your skin. When all that exists is your almost-dead body and the pain inside your head. There is no tomorrow or a few days from now. There is no college or love or children or career. There is only now and the burning synapses in your head, the ache in your chest, the molten lava in your stomach. The emptiness. The need. The desperation. And the fear.

  The fear.

  That this pain is all you’ll feel for the rest of your life.

  The Pregnant Girl is leaving today. She just started crying uncontrollably and her Group is trying to comfort her. She keeps saying, “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” over and over again. And no one has an answer for her. No one could possibly know what a pregnant sixteen-year-old girl should do. All her friends can do is hold her hand and be with her until
her mom comes to take her away, to take her back to the life that got her in here.

  The new kids look at her like she’s a nuisance. They want her to shut up. There is only enough room in the world for them right now, each of them in their little pocket of space. Their world is so small that their only option is to be selfish.

  The first week is the hardest. Then little by little the world opens up, and you realize there are all these people around you with their own needs that have nothing to do with you. Then you forget, and everything’s about you again. And maybe that cycle continues for the rest of your life. Maybe the world keeps expanding and contracting. Maybe you know you’re well when it finally stays the same size.

  Olivia looks sicker than usual this morning. Family Day must have been hard on her. She hasn’t even bothered to get a plate of food to pretend to eat.

  “Hey, Olivia,” I say. “You okay?”

  She nods her head weakly, not even looking up.

  “You don’t look okay,” says Eva.

  Olivia makes an attempt at a smile. “I just have a headache.”

  I wonder what her life is going to be like after this. How can she look her mother in the eye? How could they possibly live in the same house pretending nothing happened? I don’t think I could keep a secret like that. My anger wouldn’t let me. But it’s like Olivia has shoved hers down so deep she doesn’t even know where to find it. She’s programmed herself so thoroughly that messy feelings like anger don’t fit anywhere. But it must be somewhere in there, simmering, gaining strength. This is the kind of thing you see on TV—the quiet person who just loses it one day. It is the thing of police dramas. Just like that, the character cracks and wreaks havoc, and a police psychologist has a monologue about how the trauma of their past created a hibernating monster. Then the monster wakes up and nothing is ever the same again.