Counting Backwards (23 page)

And A.J. . . . we’re just getting started.

“You look upset.”

“I’m not upset,” I say, struggling to maintain my composure. “Just . . . surprised.”

“You knew this day would come, though.”

I glance up at her. Of course I knew this day would come, but not so soon, not now, when life was just starting to go right for once. What about the garden? What about my mental health?

“Take a few days to digest this,” she says. “We’ll touch base again next week.”

For the rest of the day I can’t think about anything else: the possibility that in a few weeks, I might have to say goodbye to the people I know and love and trust. To A.J.

The next day in the garden A.J. and I are alone. We’ve constructed a trellis out of bamboo sticks for the cucumber plants to climb up, and as I place a thin green vine on the bottom rung, I realize with sudden sadness that I might not be here to see the cucumbers flower and fruit.

I stop and look around at our garden—at the tomato plants beginning to bear little green balls, the flowering squashes, the hot peppers that we’re planning to make
pepper jelly with. I think about everything we still have to plant—sweet peas, eggplant, another variety of tomato that’s striped yellow and orange. We argued about that. A.J. wanted beefsteaks and I wanted the tiger stripes, and he said he’d let me have my way if we could pickle the cucumbers when they’re ripe. But now he’ll have to do it without me.

I watch A.J. setting the vines with careful, tender precision, like an artist. He glances up and catches my eye, starts to smile, then stops.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “What are we doing?”

“We’re training the vines,” he says, then stands up straighter. “Aren’t we?”

“What happens when we don’t have this anymore?” I motion to the plants around us. He lays down the vine and comes to my side of the cucumber frame.

“Do you mean the garden?”

“Yes,” I say, even though it’s more than that. It’s the space we’ve created, where we go to get away from everyone else and just be . . . together. It’s every inside joke we share and every kindness that passes between us. It’s our little arguments and make-ups. It’s my calm and it’s our . . . home.

“Dr. Deb said garden therapy is going well,” he says carefully. “She wants to expand the program.” He has no idea what’s going on with me, and I’m suddenly angry at Dr. Deb
for forcing me into this garden therapy and encouraging me to be open with my feelings. Why? Just so she could take it all away?

“Come here,” he says, and pulls me to him. He tilts my chin to study my face, and I remember the time we were dancing and he lifted my chin, all the times he’s had to lift my chin, because I’m always looking down and never up.

“What’s this about?” he says.

I open my mouth to tell him what Dr. Deb said, how I’m nearing the end of my program, but there in his arms, I don’t want to think about it.

“Nothing,” I say. “I had a moment. But it’s over.”

I reach my arms around his neck and pull his face toward mine, kissing him long and deeply, trying to erase the worry lines on his face and my own desperate thoughts.

I’m not leaving. Not yet. Somehow I’ll make Dr. Deb understand.

“I had the
feeling last night.”

It’s my next therapy session, and I’ve resolved to buy more time. I’m not fully rehabilitated yet. I just need to show that to Dr. Deb.

“Really?” Dr. Deb says. “It’s been a while. What do you think triggered it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s my anxiety over my mom. Because I haven’t talked to her in so long.”

“Maybe,” she says. She’s nodding her head in agreement, but she doesn’t seem too concerned about it.

“I don’t think the breathing is enough anymore. Maybe you should teach me another exercise. Just in case.”

Dr. Deb seems to consider this. “Perhaps your anxiety is a result of you nearing the end of your program. Maybe, you’re . . . apprehensive about leaving?”

“Why would I be apprehensive?”

“Well, it’s another unknown for you. And you have friends here. Dear friends. And you know that I’m here to listen and help you process your emotions. Maybe you don’t think you’re strong enough yet.”

“Well, if you think I need more time . . .”

She smiles. “You’re ready, Taylor. Pushing back your release date won’t make it any easier. But of course we can talk about any feelings you might be having between now and then.”

I run my fingers over the grooved wood of the tabletop. She’s seen through me, predicted it even. Dr. Deb always seems to know what I’m going to do or say before I do.

“No, I’m fine,” I say. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to process these emotions on my own.”

She nods and leaves me at the picnic bench, where I stare at the garden and sow the seeds of a new plan. Even if Dr.
Deb thinks I’m ready, she’s just one member of my rehabilitative team, and there are others who might disagree.

There’s no time
to waste, so the next morning I put my plan in action. I start by stashing a pair of sharps into my backpack in first period. Sulli and Brandi watch me do it, and both stare at me like I’ve lost my marbles.

“You can tell on me,” I say, which is a mistake, because it only confuses them more. Class seems to take forever to get through. Finally Mr. Chris collects the sharps and counts them up. But he must not remember how many he began with, because he doesn’t realize one pair is gone.

“I think there’s one missing,” I offer, one step away from waving the scissors in front of his face.

Mr. Chris shakes his head. “Nope. All here.”

I roll my eyes and drop them into the box on my way out. My next opportunity for rule breaking doesn’t come until after lunch in the pen, where I ask McKenzie for a cigarette.

“Not here,” she says, glancing both ways to where safeties are standing on either side of us.

“It’s fine. I won’t tell them you gave it to me.”

“You don’t even smoke.”

“It’s part of therapy,” I say, completely lying. “It’s a new method Dr. Deb and I are trying out.”

She shrugs and pulls one out of her bra. It’s slightly damp and smells like perfume, but I stick it in my mouth like I know what I’m doing. I’ve watched my mother, Margo, and McKenzie smoke cigarettes a million times. How hard can it be?

McKenzie’s fishing in her bra for her matches when A.J. walks out of the lunchroom. It’s too late to hide it. He sees me and immediately makes his way over.

“What are you doing?” he says to me.

“Trying new things.” I strike up the match and hold it to the end of the cigarette, but nothing really happens. Then I remember I have to suck while lighting, so I purse my lips and take a tremendous breath. Smoke fills my lungs instantaneously; tears run down my cheeks, my throat is on fire, and I can’t stop coughing. My lungs feel like they’re being rubbed against a cheese grater. How can people stand it?

McKenzie retrieves the cigarette and takes a few quick puffs before putting it out under her boot—she’s a frugal girl—while A.J. smacks my back harder than necessary.

Finally the smoke clears and I’m able to stand straight again.

“How’d you like it?” he asks me.

“Not much.”

For the rest of the day, I plot. I need to skip the small stuff and do something explosive, something that will send me right to the first floor. That always gets their attention. It
seemed so easy before, when I wasn’t faking it. I wish Margo were here—she was the expert at this sort of thing. If this is going to convince anyone, it has to be an inside job, which means I need help.

“You want me to do what?” McKenzie says to me later that day after I’ve outlined my plan to her.

“Just act like you’re really scared of me. Maybe we got into a fight or something. Maybe I think you’re messing around with A.J.”

“Eww, gross. That’d be like kissing my dad.”

I shake my head. “Focus, McKenzie. Just use it for motivation. You have to make it look real. Can you fake cry?”

She tilts her head, and her lower lip droops a little. After a few more seconds, her eyes get watery and sad.

“Great,” I say. “You ready?”

She sniffles a little and nods her head. “Wait, why are you doing this again?”

“Because they’re trying to release me and I’m not ready to go yet.”

She looks at me strangely. “You really are crazy.”

I mess up her hair a little bit and then grab my comb dagger. I tell her to take a couple of laps around the room so it looks like she’s under duress. “Enough,” I say when she’s breathing heavy, which doesn’t take very long, maybe because she’s a smoker. “Let’s go.”

She runs screaming down the hall. The screaming is a nice touch and really sets the tone. The girls all rush to their doorways, which is crucial, Margo would say, since the audience is a necessary component of performance art. I stalk down the hallway after her, holding the comb high in the air like I’m going to stab her with it.

“She’s insane!” McKenzie screams. Rhonda comes out of her office and blocks my path. I decide to do something drastic—I push her off me and continue on down the hall. Her massive hand grabs the back of my shirt and drops me on my butt on the hallway floor. Ouch. I’d forgotten how painful resistance can be.

“Taylor, what’s going on?” Tabitha asks as McKenzie hides behind her, using her as a human shield. Tabitha shakes her head and holds up her hands like I must have some rational explanation for all this. I muster up my crazy face.

“I want to see your blood,” I snarl at McKenzie, and make a few jabbing motions with the comb to really bring it home.

Tabitha looks helplessly to Rhonda, who hauls me to my feet. The nice thing about safeties is they’re not swayed by motives. They see misbehavior, they take you down and ask questions later. “Let’s go,” Rhonda says.

“This isn’t over!” I shout over my shoulder at McKenzie. Only I can see her strange little smile.

“Can you please
explain to me what happened yesterday on the second floor?”

We’re sitting at the therapy bench, and I’ve decided to take this thing all the way. If I can convince Dr. Deb that I’m mad with jealousy, then maybe she’ll allow me enough time to work through it. Even though it’s off-limits, she knows about A.J. and my relationship, supports it even, as a way for me to “express my feelings.”

“McKenzie and A.J. are messing around,” I say to her. It’s a total lie, but imagining it gets me angry enough to fake it.

“Are you sure of that?” Dr. Deb asks.

“I saw them kissing in the garden.”

She sits back and considers this piece of information, which can’t possibly be denied, if I saw it myself.

“That doesn’t sound like A.J.”

She’s right. It doesn’t sound like him. But I have to make her believe it, if I want us to be together.

“He’s just another guy, right?”

“Have you confronted him about it?”

“No.”

“I think you should.”

“Whatever. It’s just more of the same. As soon as you let people in, they stomp all over you.” I slouch forward and
cross my arms while Dr. Deb studies me. I know if I sit there much longer, I’ll confess everything.

“Would you mind if we cut it short today?” I ask.

“No, I don’t mind,” she says.

Then I decide to drop one last line, one that I know will affect her. A little bit of reverse psychology.

“I really can’t wait to get out of here,” I say, and walk off before she has time to reply.

The next afternoon
I head down to the garden, even though it might look suspicious, if A.J.’s supposed to be cheating on me and I still choose to be around him. But maybe not too suspicious, since daytime talk shows abound with cheaters and the women who forgive them.

When I get there, he’s pulling weeds while McKenzie sketches nearby. Seeing them together like that, so innocently going about their own business, makes me feel guilty about the lies I’ve told. But I did it for a reason. I did it for us.

A.J. stands tall, drops his pile of weeds to the ground, and looks at me with simmering anger. I’ve got a very bad feeling about this as I look to McKenzie for a sign.

“He didn’t hear it from me,” she says, standing and snapping shut her sketchbook. “Besides, this is your crazy town. I’m just visiting.”

She leaves to walk up the hill, and I glance back at A.J. His face appears to be made of rock, his lips pressed so tightly together, they’ve lost their color. I know why—he’s so angry he can’t speak.

“How’s it going?” I say, trying to keep it light.

“Guess who brought me into their office after school today?”

“I don’t know,” I say cautiously. “Who?”

“Dr. Deb.”

Oh, crap.

“She told me your little story,” he continues. “About how you caught McKenzie and me kissing in the garden.”

Crap, crap, crap.

“Why would you say that?” he asks with pain in his eyes. “Are you trying to break up with me or something?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not that at all.”

“I don’t understand you.” He rakes his hand through his hair, getting crumbs of dirt all in it. “Stealing sharps, smoking cigarettes, lying to your therapist.” He stops and looks at me as the realization dawns on his face. “You’re getting released, aren’t you?”

“How’d you know about the sharps?”

“Sulli told me. He said you
told him
to tell on you.”

“Oh.” I lock my knees because I suddenly feel like I might collapse. I feel so stupid and childish. I shouldn’t
have lied, but I did it for a good reason. Can’t he see that?

“So that’s it, then?”

I nod and stare at the ground. I can’t look at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to, but . . . I thought maybe I could get it changed.”

“What? By lying?”

I glare up at him, mad that he’s judging me, when all I’m trying to do is keep us together.

“Yes, A.J. By lying. Because I’m a
liar
.”

“I never said that.”

“But that’s what you’re thinking. First I lie to leave. Then I lie to stay. Everything I say is a lie.”

I feel the tears coming, and I don’t want to cry in front of him and confirm just how weak and crazy I am. I turn to walk away, and he grabs my arm.