“Pretty soon, Mrs. J,” Jayla says, “she’ll be back to playing so much, you’ll be sick of it.”
My mom smiles, but her eyes still look sad. I know this has been rough on her too. She’s cheered me on at every competition since the third grade, carted me to every lesson, spent money on my music even when there was barely any money to spend. She’s been almost as much a part of this process as I have.
I know this isn’t the end of the world—it’s one summer program—but I can’t help feeling like it is. I’ve worked toward this for so long. And now—
“Will you please play the Bach? I don’t have it yet.”
Hearing his voice again, even through my computer speakers, cuts deep. I try to play it off but don’t do a very good job.
“I’ll stop it,” Jayla says, rushing to shut my laptop.
“No, leave it,” I say. “I want to hear.”
* * *
? ? ?
Hours later, when Nikki and Jayla are both asleep on an air mattress and my parents have long shut their door, I open an email and I write.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Ridley
THERE ARE TWO kids on boards when I get to the skate park, if you want to call it that—it was maybe slightly oversold in the brochure. It’s more like a small area of concrete with a few rails and some wooden ramps, but it’ll do. Earning board privileges at Greenwild feels like a huge accomplishment, and I’ve been chomping at the bit—pardon the horse pun, but—to finish my journaling work this afternoon and actually get out here.
I push off, picking up speed to slide a rail to shake off the day. It was a tough one, even with the horses serving as a distraction. My therapist met me at the barn for my morning session, and we talked a lot about my relationship with my father while I brushed Westley and Buttercup and cleaned out their stalls. I think she knew that wasn’t a conversation I could handle sitting still.
I didn’t have group today, so afterward I went to my room to do a journaling exercise, which was when my peer counselor surprised me by awarding me my board back and said I was making “exceptional progress.” It was awesome, and now I’m here, the board dipping and swaying as I cut around the course, leaving it all behind.
I don’t know what I expected inpatient therapy would be like, but it’s not awful. Some of that is definitely related to the fact that Gray insisted I go inpatient at a place that feels more like a country club than a hospital, but still. It’s more exhausting than I expected. Like sometimes I feel more tired from journaling and group than I do from spending a day mucking out all the stalls.
I haven’t really made any friends, though. Not that that’s the point, but we talk a lot about support networks and stuff for when we’re back on the outside, and right now that list consists only of Grayson and the people she pays to care about my mental health—like the staff here. I’ve seen some of the other kids hanging out and making connections, but it’s whatever.
I push harder, skating over to the ramps and doing a few kickflips on my way. The two other kids hop off their boards and walk over.
“You’re pretty good,” the first kid says. “You new?”
“Ish? I just got my board back today.”
“Congrats, man, that’s good. That’s big. Where you from?”
“Boston,” I say. “It’s like twenty minutes from here.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of it,” the second kid says, feigning surprise. He flashes me an easy smile, and it feels less like he’s making fun of me and more like he’s having fun.
“Right, yeah,” I say, flipping my board into my hand. “What’s your story?” I ask, wondering where they’ve been hiding. I’d think they just got here, but the fact that they already have skate privileges says otherwise.
“I’m Hector, and this is Quinn,” the first kid says, holding out his hand. “I’m from Boston too, but Quinn’s from here.”