Between the Lines (23 page)

Gabe – 35

My
students are gathered around on blankets and some sit at a picnic table, Isaac
included. They have their notebooks and pens at the ready. Mag is with them.

I’m not
prepared to teach and my gut warns that they aren’t here to learn. At least not
from me. What exactly does Mag have planned? If she intends to put Ellen on the
spot, making her answer questions that are nobody’s business, I’ll take her
from here in a heartbeat. She doesn’t deserve to be interrogated, especially
since she seems to have finally recovered from her anxiety attack. I’m not
about to let these kids bring on another one.

I want
these kids protected just as much as anyone else in the school, but I’m just as
serious about protecting Ellen.

Mag
stands as we approach.

“After
your visit the other day, the students visited your blog.”

They are
nodding their heads.

“They
wanted to know more about you.”

“Okay,”
Ellen says slowly, looking over the class.

“And,
they have a few questions.”

She’s
biting her lip and looks at me. My gut tightens. Then she straightens her
spine, lifts her chin and faces my students. “What do you want to know?”

“Who are
you?” Eric blurts out.

“We
aren’t asking that one,” Tamara warns.

“We said
we wouldn’t make her answer if she didn’t want to, but we could ask, Tamara.”

“I don’t
understand,” Ellen says after a moment, but there’s suspicion in her eyes, as
if she does know exactly what they are asking but wants to make sure.

“We
researched you,” Eric says. “But we can’t find anything before you went to
college.”

She nods.
“That’s because I had to change my name.”

“Do we
get to know what it is?” he ask.

Ellen
looks him dead in the eye. “No.”

“But—”

“—We
aren’t going to make her answer questions she doesn’t want to any more than we
are going to answer what we are not comfortable with,” Tamara says.

The
students turn back to Ellen and Tamara raises her hand. Ellen nods to her.

“We’ve
read your blog and it’s quite thorough, but we can’t understand why you’ve
chosen Baxter.”

I never
did find out why Ellen is set on this place. Of course, I could have pressed
for an answer, but so many other things have happened.

“What do
you mean?” she counters.

“All of
those places and people, are bad. Baxter is awesome. We don’t get it.”

“Is it
really?” Ellen asks after a moment.

“Yeah,
why wouldn’t you think it isn’t?”

Ellen

Well, I
suppose the moment of truth has arrived. I doubt I’ll get anything from them,
unless I tell them my reasons.

“Why?”
another asks me when I don’t answer.

“I find
most of my stories usually because of a short article in a paper, someone sends
me a message, or I overhear a conversation. That’s what happened in this case.”

Mag
straightens and a look of concern flashes through her eyes. I’m not surprised.
She’s so protective of this place I guess she would hate anyone speaking about
it outside the walls of Baxter.

“It all
started when I was sitting in the ER after a minor fender bender.” Then I
proceed to tell them what I overheard. “You’ve read my blog. You know what I
write about. That I investigate any place accused of wrongdoing, or harming
innocent people.”

“Research
into Baxter should have convinced you that nothing bad is happening here,”
Tamara says and I’m beginning to think she is the spokesperson for the group.

Okay,
they want honesty. “It’s hard to find information on Baxter. The more I
couldn’t find, the more I was convinced that girl was right.”

Mag is
just shaking her head, as if everything is suddenly clear to her. “I can assure
you, Miss West, what that former student said, is the furthest thing from the
truth.”

“I’m
beginning to believe that now, but things still don’t add up.”

“And they
probably won’t,” she admits. “We’re private for a reason. The students are
minors, it’s for their protection. If it was in me, I’d allow a few to speak
with you and assure you that what that girls said is untrue, but my hands are
tied in this.”

Once
again she is giving me the same lines and story to keep me from delving
further.

“I
disagree,” Tamara says, coming to her feet.

The other
students are nodding their heads.

“Umm, you
know the rules,” Mag reminds them.

“I’m
eighteen. An adult.”

“But you
are a Baxter student,” Mag says with an edge of warning.

“Then,
I’ll just talk about me.”

Mag
studies her. Their eyes are locked, almost in a silent battle of wills going on
between them. Finally Mag speaks. “Only about you and what you’re comfortable
telling Miss West.”

This is
really weird, but at least I’m finally getting some answers.

“The rest
of you, stay with Mr. Gabe. Tamara and I will talk with Miss West privately.”

I really
wish Gabe was with me and I glance over at him. He gives me a reassuring nod
and I allow Tamara and Mag to pull me away from the group.

“Okay
then, let’s start with how I came to be here.”

“In a
minute.” Mag turns toward me. “If I had it my way, none of the students would
tell you a thing, but Tamara is an adult. Please don’t ask any questions about
anyone else and please, think long and hard before you publish an article.”

At least
she didn’t make me promise not to write one, which is odd in the first place.
“I promise to give everything I learn a lot of consideration before doing
anything.” It’s not hard to make that assurance. I do that with every
investigation and every post.

“Well,
now that that is settled, let’s begin,” Tamara says brightly. “I was being
groomed to be a model. My mother was a model and my father, a photographer.
They were in love and I was the result.”

It sounds
more like a fairytale, but I don’t ask anything, yet.

“That’s
the good part,” she says and the smile slips from her face. Tamara takes a deep
breath. “The rest of what I am going to tell you I have not shared with anyone
who was not a therapist. I’ve been told that I need to learn to trust
eventually.”

Her
therapist?

“I am
choosing to trust you. Consider this the first risk I’m taking as an adult and
I hope you don’t reinforce my belief that most people can’t be trusted.”

What is
she going to tell me? “I promise.” And I know, in my heart, that no matter what
she says, I will not tell a soul.

“My
father died when I was four. A year later, my mother, despondent and lonely,
married another photographer.” She wanders over and sits on the bench
underneath a shade tree. “He had hoped that he could make it big, using my mom
to get there, but it never happened.” She looks away from us. “So, he found a
more lucrative way to make money with his photography. Secret pictures that pay
well.”

My
stomach churns.

“While
mom was at work, he was taking pictures of me. Not nice pictures.”

It hits
me what she’s referring to. “Oh, God.”

“Yep,”
she says a little too brightly. “Mom found out, had his ass arrested and we
went on. Then, when I was about twelve, a classmate found one of them in a
stash of his dad’s photographs. He brought it to school. He was in a world of
trouble, and his dad, but not before the entire school knew.”

“I’m so
sorry.”

“I
switched schools, but I always feared another friend would get a picture. Mom
told me not to worry about it but think of my future and my career.”

All I can
do is stare at her.

“She had
me focusing on becoming a model. Put the past behind me, and all that crap. So,
that’s what I did. I dieted, faked the smile and walked the runway, waiting to
make it big. Instead, I got offers for other kinds of modeling, from guys that
knew my stepdad. Guys who had pictures of me as a child. They are still out
there and there isn’t any way to have them all destroyed.”

I sit
next to her, afraid I was going to be sick. But I force down the bile and keep
listening.

“By this
time, I’d developed an eating disorder because my mother was always harping on
my weight, I hated myself, and started cutting. At first, it was because I
thought if my body was scarred, nobody would want me to model, but then it
became an addiction.”

“I’m so
sorry.” I know I’m saying the same thing, but I have no idea what to say.

“I cut
too deep and ended up in the ER. That’s when I finally got help. Mom didn’t
have a clue until then.”

She
straightens and looks at me. “I began journaling, and found I really liked to
write. My therapist thought I was good and got me enrolled in Baxter.”

“You like
it here?”

“I love
it here.”

“Why?”

“Because
they’ve helped me. Or, have helped me help myself.”

“Okay,” I
finally say. “But that girl had a different take on it. And, to be honest, the
students I’ve observed at this school are better behaved than on any campus I
visited. It does make me wonder.”

She
smiles and rolls her eyes. “Because we know this is our chance for an
incredible future. I wanted to die, even after coming here. I know those photos
are out there and they haunt me. But, now I can face it. Or, I hope I have the
strength to face it if they show up. But, I can’t let the past rule my life. If
I do that, I might as well end it now because I’ll be fucking miserable.”

Mag
clears her throat.

Tamara
colors. “I apologize for my language.”

I want to
assure her that there is no need, but I’m sure cussing is one thing Mag wants
to keep at a minimum.

“Let’s
address her comments one by one.”

“Okay.”

“This
girl, who was kicked out, I think I know who she is.”

“No
names,” Mag warns.

“I know.”
Tamara rolls her eyes. “She probably didn’t get with the program because
certain things are expected of us. We are to study hard, maintain a “C”
average, and participate in our field of art. In my case, I need to meet with a
therapist weekly and monitor my meds.”

I still.
“Meds?”

“Besides the
eating disorder I developed because of my mother always harping on my weight
for modeling, I suffer from depression and anxiety. I haven’t puked in well
over a year, but it’s something that’s not far from the surface and something I
need to control. The depression and anxiety might always be a part of me, but
the meds help. I’ve accepted it, whether I like it or not, and will continue to
take them so I can remain as healthy as I can.”

With each
word this girls speaks, my admiration for her rises. She’s come through a hell
of a lot and is taking responsibility for her health-mental, emotional and
physical.

The words
of the girl in the ER come back to me.

“What
happened?”

“I was
the best fucking artist they had. The rest, are just little robots playing at
art.”

“Okay.”

“Taking
their drugs like good little kids.”

“And
you didn’t?”

“Hell
no. I’m not going to become one of their robots to be controlled.”

“So, it’s
not about being a robot and falling in to line of a perfect student.”

She
snorts. “Hardly.”

“What
about the punishment?”

Tamara is
shaking her head. “There is very little punishment at Baxter. If you misbehave,
you’re confined to your room, simple as that. Sometimes you’re monitored, but
that’s rare, and therapy sessions are always increased.”

“The
drugs, the meals, if that’s that you want to call it, rooms that are no more
than cells. It’s like being in prison.”

“What are
the rooms like?”

“It’s a
dorm room. Probably no different than you see on any college campus.”

I glance
back at the buildings, with their tiny windows.

“Come
on.” Tamara gets to her feet. “I’ll show you mine.”

“That’s
no necessary,” Mag warns. “It’s your room and should remain private.”

“It’s a
room,” Tamara dismisses.

I follow
after Tamara. After she’s punched in a code to get in the building, she turns
and goes up a flight of stairs and then down a long hallway, stopping about
halfway. This looks more like a hotel than a dorm, with plush carpet, frosted
shades of hall lights, paintings along the wall.