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 t
he 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
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,”