Sisters in Sanity (6 page)

As Christmas approached, none of us was feeling too merry. First we had the Sisters crackdown. And then it was like, instead of the holidays infusing the staff with some good cheer, it made them more surly. Maybe they thought a little Christmas joy would undo all the tough love they’d been smothering us with. They paid lip service to the holidays by making us decorate the halls, but that was about it. We didn’t get any break in our schedule. No party, no tree.

The anti-Christmas got me thinking about last year. Clod had played a sold-out day-after show at the X-Ray. When we’d finished our set, we walked down to the riverfront to exchange our presents: I’d found
Erik a Ramones-emblazoned cigarette lighter, Denise a beaded handbag, and Jed a pulp edition of the Jim Thompson book
Pop 1280
. My gift made Jed so happy that he gave me a kiss, somewhere between the mouth and the cheek. That had me buzzing for hours. And later on, when I started shivering from the cold, he pulled me close to warm me up. It was probably more a friendly thing than anything romantic, but I still felt all oozy inside and wanted to stay there forever.

There’d be none of that this year. Only Level Five and Six girls were allowed to receive presents from home. The rest of us could only get cards. Exchanging presents among ourselves? Not allowed either. Not that we had anything to give: The staff had refused our request for a Christmas-shopping field trip.

It was V’s idea to exchange presents anyhow. “We obviously can’t give traditional presents,” she said the week before Christmas. She’d managed to sneak up to Bebe and me on the cafeteria line. “Clearly that’s not an option here, or I’d give you all cashmere socks. But let’s all try to come up with something. I’ll tell Cassie; you let Martha know. Then if the coast is clear, we can sneak away to our usual place on Christmas Eve
for a private party.”

Right when V said that, I knew what my present to her would be, and thanks to Clayton, I’d already started it. During all those empty hours in the Naughty Hut, I’d worked on it and the time had slipped by. I was excited about sharing my project with the Sisters, but nervous, too, that they wouldn’t like it. I was also pretty curious to see what they’d “get” me. Nervous, eager, and curious—kind of like a kid the night before Christmas.

“Well, darlings, it’s not quite a day at the Peninsula, but it will have to do,” Bebe said, spreading out a bunch of fancy moisturizers, bath salts, makeup, and hair-product samples. V had worried that Christmas Eve would be a risky time to sneak out, but half the staff was away, and the rest, we figured, were getting hammered.

“Martha, you strike me as a Kiehl’s girl,” she said, giving her some cucumber lotion. “Brit, you are so M.A.C,” she said, presenting me with a tube of Lipglass. “You’ll love it—it feels like liquid sexiness.
V, your hair’s getting a little unchunky, so this ought to help,” she said, handing over some Bed Head samples. “And finally, Cassie, some lavender oil for you. It’s nice-smelling, but not too much like perfume. I know you don’t do the girlie thing.”

“Wow,” Martha said. “Where’d you get all this stuff?”

“You forget that Mother is a spa whore. Day spas and salons are practically her hobby. She’s been sending me this crap ever since I got to Level Four. So Merry Christmas, my dears. Be beautiful. Who’s next?”

“Gee, I feel like mine’s a lump of coal compared to Bebe’s beauty bounty,” Cassie said.

“Oh please, this was nothing,” Bebe said. “Just my mother’s sloppy seconds. What do you have for us, as it seems Santa has forsaken us this year?”

“Christmas chocolate,” Cassie exclaimed, pulling out a giant Hershey bar. We all started drooling.

“Cass, how did you score that?” V asked.

“My folks brought it for me.”

“But that visit was months ago.”

“In September, but I’m sure it’s still good. Chocolate lasts forever, don’t it?”

“Even antique chocolate would do,” I said. “But how could you hang on to a Hershey Bar for three months? I’d have decimated it ages ago.”

“I wanted to save it…for somethin’ special…like this.”

“Darling, how touching,” Bebe said.

“Can we eat it now?” Martha begged.

“Do pigs like dirt?” Cassie asked.

“God, I’ve no idea,” Bebe admitted. We all laughed.

“Just a sayin’, Bebe. Dig in, girls.” Cassie peeled off the brown wrapper, and we were instantly intoxicated by the smell of sweet, chocolatey goodness.

“Now this is bliss,” V said, biting into a piece. “Okay, Martha, you’re next.”

“Mine is sort of silly. I didn’t really know what to give.”

“Martha darling, your self-deprecation is getting old.”

“Huh?”

“Bebe means stop worrying about it,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll love it.”

“Okay, but they’re not very good. I didn’t have charcoals or anything. I had to use pencil. But here.”
Martha pulled four postcard-sized pieces of cardboard out of her pocket. They were drawings of each of us, really good drawings that made us look like the girls we once were. Except in Martha’s rendition, we were superheroes. She drew me with a mane of wildly colored hair, wielding a flaming guitar like a weapon. She’d conjured Bebe like an old thirties movie star, holding a magic wand in her hand. She’d made V an Amazonian giant, towering over the world, with one high-heeled boot about to smash an ugly building that looked not unlike Red Rock. Cassie had bulging muscles under a
DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS
T-shirt and was juggling bricks. We all had capes, and on the bottom of each card Martha had written, “Sisters in Sanity: Superhero Series.”

“Because you guys are—you’re like my heroes,” Martha said.

Nobody said anything for a second, and we all got a little misty.

“Darling,” Bebe said. “Who knew you were such an artist?”

“These are great,” Cassie said.

“Really?” Martha asked, her eyes shining.

“Let’s raise our chocolate to Martha,” V said.

“Thanks, Martha.” I gave her a hug.

“You three outdid yourselves. And now I’m the one feeling a little silly. I’m afraid my present will be a little anticlimactic,” V said.

“Come on, V. We don’t even need a gift from you.
You’re
the reason we’re all here,” I reminded her. “That’s the biggest gift.”

V’s eyebrows arched up. “Wrong, Brit. We’re all here because of one another. We’re in this together.”

“Now who’s full of false modesty?” I asked. “You’re the one who gives all the good advice, teaches us how to get around, and makes this place bearable!”

“That’s sweet of you to say, Cinders, and it falls in line with my gift. On my last field trip into town, I met these women at the movies. They cornered me in the bathroom, actually. Turns out they used to be counselors here, but unlike the rest of the ghouls, these two had a conscience. One got fired for complaining about how we were treated, and then the other quit in protest. They live in St. George and they share our hatred of Red Rock. They told me that if I ever needed help escaping for the night, or getting ahold of someone on the outside, they’d try to arrange
it. So, my gift to you is an IOU. I promise to arrange a prison break for each one of you. I’m totally serious. This is a real IOU, not one of those fake coupons good for doing dishes that you used to give your parents on their anniversary.”

“V, it’s too dangerous,” Martha said.

V shrugged her shoulders. “I like to live on the edge.”

“I’ll say one thing, sister,” Cassie added. “You got balls.”

“Cassie darling, don’t you mean she has eggs?” Bebe asked. “You of all people should know better.”

“Oh, shut your trap,” Cassie said affectionately.

Then they turned to me, and I was suddenly more nervous than I’d been onstage at my first gig. I took a deep breath.

“All right. First you have to imagine this with guitars, two of them, both acoustic, kind of echoey, like Nirvana unplugged. And then it goes from G to D to A minor, kind of like this.” I hummed the chords.

“You wrote us a song?” V asked. I nodded, and she flashed her completely disarming smile my way.

“So, as I was saying, it kind of goes like this, and then it’ll have a low bass and a really soft drumbeat.
Very Beck-in-his-quiet-phase-sounding.”

“Brit, just sing,” V said.

And so I did.

We ended the first annual Divinely Fabulous Ultra-Exclusive Club of the Cuckoos Christmas party hugging each other with misty eyes. Then we clinked imaginary glasses of eggnog and sang “I’ve got your back.” V declared it was our new theme song.

The next morning, when it was Christmas for real, the counselors distributed our holiday cards from home. I got three, one from my grandma and two from my dad. One had a bunch of reindeer sitting around a giant candy cane and it was from the whole family; the other was of Santa on a Harley-Davidson
in a biker outfit and just said, “Be merry, Firefly.” When the day was over, I couldn’t help thinking that while this definitely ranked as one of the worst Christmases of my life, in a weird way, it was also one of the best.

“Why do you think your father sent you here, Brit?” Clayton asked me. It was the middle of January, and the skies had turned white with clouds and the wind howled icy drafts up and down the building. It was truly dreary.

“Because my stepmother wanted me out of the way.”

“Don’t you think that excuse is a little too convenient? Life’s not a fairy tale.” She droned on. Of course, this is also what the Sisters had been saying, but I wasn’t about to discuss that with Clayton. That was the maddening thing about her. I mean, Sheriff
could be gruff and harsh, but like most people at Red Rock, he didn’t have the patience to stick with it. But with Clayton it was like my refusal to get with her program was some kind of personal affront. Whenever I came to her dank little office, she made a big show of going through my file and pursing her lips to show me how much she disapproved. Then she’d say something like, “You might think your defiant attitude is something to be proud of, but truly, it’s not. It’s just a sign of your denial.” Blah blah-blah blah. And you couldn’t just tune Clayton out. She wasn’t dumb, and she knew how to find your sore spots. After a few months with no great breakthrough for me, she started hitting mine big-time.

“Your father would not have sent you here had he not wanted you to get some help.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Why won’t you talk to me about your mother?”

“You know, Dr. Clayton. I’m sure my dad has told you the whole story. And besides, it’s not like I haven’t thought about my mom before. I’ve had three years to work through the situation with my mom, and talking to you isn’t going to change anything.”

She sighed again and shook her head. “Are you angry at your father for sending you here?”

“No, I’m grateful. I love it.”

She scribbled some notes. Clayton was no fan of sarcasm. “You don’t trust me much, do you?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“Why not?”

This question always slayed me. In spite of their nasty tactics, Red Rock’s counselors were always asking why we didn’t trust them. For once, I decided to tell the truth. I looked into Clayton’s pinched-up face and let loose: “Because this is not the after-school-special version of life, in which I open up to you and you calm my fears and I leave here fixed. What you want, what Red Rock wants, is to turn me into some obedient automaton, who’ll never disagree with my stepmother, talk out of line to Dad, or do ‘rebellious’ stuff like play music or dye my hair. What you don’t get, what my Dad doesn’t seem to get anymore, is that I’m not rebellious at all. I was raised this way. ‘Always march to your own drummer,’ my mom used to tell me. Those were her words to live by. So
it’s not like
I
switched course.
Everyone else
did. That’s why I’m here.”

When I stopped talking, I was breathing hard. I expected Clayton to be moved, pissed off at least, but judging by her blasé expression, I may as well have been speaking Swahili.

“Are you angry at your father for divorcing your mother?”

I slumped back in my seat, suddenly exhausted by her questions. I understood why Dad divorced Mom, because even though she was still out there somewhere, she was gone, and the doctors said that she wasn’t coming back—not the way she used to be anyhow. If Mom had died, I would’ve wanted Dad to get on with his life, not to spend his days moping for her, and I guess it was kind of like she
had
died. But another part of me wondered how he could move on without her.

“Why wasn’t your mother committed?” Clayton asked.

I shrugged again. Truth was, Dad was the only one who could legally do it, and he didn’t have the stomach for it. Grandma used to plead with him, crying,
“Please, please, she’s my little girl.” Dad would cry back, “I can’t.” He’d fallen in love with Mom’s free spirit, and he couldn’t bring himself to clip her wings. And in case anyone thinks I’m in denial, it’s not lost on me that while my Dad couldn’t commit my totally nutso mom—even with everyone begging him to—all it took was a little nudging from Stepmonster for him to lock me up. But I wasn’t about to share
that
with Clayton. We’d had enough “honesty” for one day. In fact, I’d had enough of Clayton for one day too. I needed to get away from her, even if I had to burn a bridge to do it.

“You know, if you’re so interested in my dad, maybe you should shrink his head. Oh, but you’re not really a shrink, are you? Just play one on TV, huh.”

Clayton snapped my file shut and licked her pale, thin lips. We still had fifteen minutes left in the session, but she stood up. My little jibe had worked. It had also cost me a level. “I’m moving you back to down to Level Three. I’m disappointed in you. Very disappointed.” She stared at me with her best look of disapproval, trying to gauge how upset I was. Whatever. Level Four, Level Three—the only difference
was I couldn’t wear makeup, which I didn’t anyway. And I couldn’t talk on the phone, which was just as well because my weekly five minutes with Dad were really awkward. Neither of us knew what to say, and half the time, Dad put a babbling Billy on the line to fill the silence.

Demotion, promotion, it didn’t seem to matter. Now that I’d passed the three-month mark, I knew I wasn’t getting out of Red Rock soon. I got up to leave, but before I was out the door, Clayton went in for the kill. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to talk about your mother, about the ways in which her nature mirrors your own.”

“What are you talking about?” I screamed, unable to control myself any longer. “My mom didn’t just stay out too late because she was playing in a band or because she didn’t like her stepmother! She was sleeping in parks, hiding from imaginary people she thought were trying to kill her. My mom got sick, like with cancer, but in her head. She has a mental illness, not a character defect. And I’ll never talk about her with you.
Never!
”

I ran back to my room and threw myself on the
bed, sobbing uncontrollably for my mom and for everything else I’d lost. I didn’t go to dinner, and none of the counselors forced me to go, either. After all, I was crying. They liked it when you cried.

“Darling, darling, what is it?” Bebe asked. It was after lights-out, and I had my head jammed into my pillow, which was soaked with tears.

“Brit, why are you so upset? You’re scaring me,” Martha said.

“It’s lights-out. Can you all be quiet? Otherwise we’re going to get in trouble,” Tiffany whined.

“Not as much trouble as you’re in if you don’t butt out and shut your trap, Tiffany,” Bebe snarled.

“You guys are so nasty. I swear I’m going to tell Clayton.”

“You do that and you’ll regret the day you were born,” Martha said in an uncharacteristic show of toughness. It would’ve made me smile if I hadn’t felt so awful.

“Whatever,” Tiffany said.

“Brit, tell us what happened,” Martha begged.

I couldn’t talk. Didn’t want to say anything. Bebe and Martha just leaned over my bed, ignoring Tiffany’s dramatic sighs. Martha stroked my arm and Bebe whispered “Don’t cry, sweetie,” until I finally fell asleep.