The Other Girl - Trisha Wolfe Page 0,13

the way you did?”

He huffs a derisive breath. “Everyone else does it. She got in my way.”

I’m still clutched to his arm, my nails digging past the uniform material. My gaze holds his, each of us daring the other to back down first.

This is his response to my abandoning him yesterday. Had it been any other teacher, Carter would be written up, possibly sentenced to detention or worse. He’s pushing me, testing me.

Willfully, I release his arm and step back. “You have my attention,” I say. “Now stop, before the consequences are out of my hands. Go to class.”

With a defiant edge to his words, he says, “Yes, ma’am.”

I release a bated breath as he storms off. The warning bell rings, and I sink against the wall, needing the support. I spot the girl heading down the hallway in a hurry to escape, her chin tucked to her chest, books held high to guard her.

Carter’s words come back to me: Everyone else does it.

“Hey. Wait,” I call out. She doesn’t acknowledge me. I suck in a fortifying breath and start after her.

Her steps pick up pace, but I catch her right before she dips inside a classroom. “Hey, what’s your name?”

Pulling her lip between her teeth, she keeps her gaze aimed at the floor. “Brie,” she says, her voice worn.

Despite not wanting to bring attention to Carter’s behavior, I empathize with this girl. If what Carter said is true, she might be hurting; she might need real help. I know what it’s like to be ridiculed, mocked. Harassed.

I know what it’s like to feel so helpless, you can’t breathe.

“Brie, you should come talk to me soon.”

Her gaze flits around the hallway, as if she’s worried someone will catch her talking to me.

“Hey,” I say, lowering my voice. “No one has to know. Just…come see me. Okay? I promise it will be our secret.”

She nods once before bolting inside the classroom.

I blow out a tense breath. I came to BMA to escape my past, and everywhere I look, that past haunts me.

Judgement

Ellis

How does one know they’re crazy?

This was a question posed in one of my psych classes, a discussion initiated to understand the fundamentals of declaring judgement. Others may think it’s as simple as a psychologist saying: you’re insane. Stamp a label on you. Send you off to a psychiatric hospital.

There are many micro steps between point A and B—and every one of them carries a hefty weight of responsibility for the declarer.

I found it interesting that no one—not one of my peers—was brave enough to tout they’d declare a patient insane. The fear of losing their license, or worse, retribution from a patient, made them question their sample assessments. Honestly, to me, it made them weak.

The only qualifying answer given was: if you’re still able to question whether or not you’re sane, then you haven’t completely lost all sense of reality.

Therefore, the patient must be found of sound mind.

I press the gauze into my palm as I watch the clock above my office door. The secondhand ticks ticks ticks down to the end of the school day. Impossibly slow. My hands burn from where I treated the fresh cuts.

I could clip my nails. Wear gloves. There are ways to condition myself not to inflict pain when my emotions soar. But, it’s part of my reality—a deeply ingrained characteristic of who I am. It’s a way for me to stay grounded to the present.

If we change too much of ourselves, I believe that’s how we start to slip away. Once our foundation is gone, any level of insanity can take root and make us question our reality.

Back in that group therapy…I mean class, I didn’t speak up. Maybe I should have. I didn’t agree with the majority or my mentor. I don’t think it’s as easy as sane or insane. On or off. White or black. And for Carter, the violence inside him might not be as simple as nature versus nurture. Taking a few pills to alter his brain chemistry and boom, he’s fixed.

Like me, that fiend inside him might be just as deeply ingrained. More than a trait, or characteristic. He could be hardwired to experience love and violence on a profound level. So much so that, maybe to him, they’re one and the same.

The part of me that wants to fix him wars with the part that aches to love him—bad parts and all. A strong desire to protect Carter from those who would lock him away or