But then my mom starts to weep. And even the stupid CAS worker’s eyes well up. And so, in the end, I don’t have to go to a group home, because my mother says she’ll enforce a curfew. I sign a bullshit contract stating I’ll obey. And then we all sit and have coffee. And they talk about me, around me, with these grandiose plans. And I stare in disbelief into the newly polished coffee table, watching our morphed reflections—the stretched mouths, the pinched heads, like sci-fi creatures speaking a fantasy language. What just happened?
“Your court date for the B and E is three months away,” my probation officer says. “That gives you time to turn things around. They will be looking for a big change, especially considering your school suspension last week. It doesn’t look good, Melissa, I’ll be frank with you. You’ll need to go to school, stop AWOLing all weekend. And you’ll need to see your counsellor every week.”
“There’s a great school I’ve referred other young women to. You could be in there within two weeks. It’s a small classroom with a nice teacher and youth workers who can help you. It will look good to the judge if you show them you’re getting treatment,” my CAS worker adds.
“Treatment? For what? What treatment?”
“Attending school. Coping skills for stress. Drugs. Harm reduction. They help you with all that.”
“I’ll try to get some time off work to spend some quality time together,” my mother says.
“Ha!” I laugh. “Like that will ever happen.” It takes me a second to realize I must have thought that aloud, ’cause I look up and everyone is staring at me. I can’t help it. I’m pissed off. What a fucking joke. Gimme a break. Who are these people kidding? All their stupid plans. Always plans to fix things when they can’t be fixed. How can adults be so fucking naive? Of course I’m messed up. Look at my mother. Lives off the men she dates. Can’t keep a job. Doesn’t buy food half the time. Of course I need out of here. I feel the red in my face burn, burn, burn. My knees start bouncing up and down, my jaw clenches, and my mouth gets tiny tight. Why can’t someone have the balls to pull the plug when the tub is obviously overflowing? When I’m drowning, getting sucked down into a shit life? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I shake my head at the whole pathetic scene, tightly cross my arms, and fold into myself.
“We know you are trying,” Crystal chimes in with her wishywashy hippie voice. “You’re not a bad girl, Melissa.”
Her words send a rage through me. What the …? What the …? It’s such garbage, trying to make it seem like everything’s perfect just so they can feel perfect. My head feels like it will explode.
“Yes I am!” I snap. “Get it through your thick skulls. I am bad. A shitty person. Okay? I’m wicked …” I try to think of the right word, but as usual the right word never comes. “… a wicked, wicked person.” I push aside the coffee table and storm past. “Why are you pretending? Are you all fuckin’ retards? I’m sick of this crap.”
I slam the door to my room. My mother and her little posse of ladies can sit and plan my life all they want. I won’t fucking do any of it. I just want them all to leave me alone. Let me live my life. Make my own mistakes. Stop trying to make me the good girl I’m not. Never will be. I turn on my music full blast and then fling my body down on the bed like I want to break it. Not the bed, my body.
Turn and run. Turn and run.
I hear the taunting words in my head again. The idea of leaving is so sweet. I could do it. I could leave right now, out my window. Live my own life. Make my own decisions. Drop out of school. Get a full-time job. I’ve met tons of people who’ve done it. And they’re totally happy.
I look around my room. But what would I pack? How would I carry the stuff? I don’t even have a bag. And what about my job? I couldn’t just show up there on Monday, because the cops would be looking for me.
I stare at my cellphone and wish it would ring. Pray for it to ring. Order it to ring.