The Bitch Posse (17 page)

Cherry doesn’t like Susan, who herself is an instigator, sliding subtle disapproval into conversations, stirring the pot. But she feels bad for her, this is obviously a wrenching decision, and she reaches for Susan’s fingers, which are tap-tapping in front of her on the desk.

“Cherry, would you please ex-tin-guish”—Leigh draws out the word like taffy—“your cigarette.”

And there’s not even an acknowledgment of Susan’s divorce, just the needle, poking into flesh and pulling out again, again, again. Cherry breaks the rule about evaluating what others say and makes the effort to move words across her lips. “I’m sorry, Susan.”

Leigh ratchets her nails across the desk. “We need to bring the conversation back into the room. Susan, bring it back to Freemont. How are you feeling about others in this room, here, now?”

What she means by this is that the patients need to discuss their relationships with each other, because that’s what this meeting is about,
not Susan’s divorce or Cherry’s memories of Sam or any of that. So stupid. What’s the point?

Susan’s already talking. “I’m feeling very upset that Cherry’s still got her cigarette lit. I’m allergic, and she knows it’s against the rules. There’s a smoking lounge. Or she can smoke outside.”

Leigh’s face settles into a thin smile, and Cherry stubs out the cigarette. She’s going to lie her way out of here; these bureaucrats, these idiots, these needlers like Leigh, they can all just stuff it because Cherry’s not going to take the bait. “I’m sorry, Susan,” she says again, and this time it’s an acceptable response. Leigh smiles at what she must think is Cherry’s shame.

It’s Cherry’s turn, and all she can think of is Michael. “I’m feeling very confused by Michael because he continually screams at me and cusses me and yesterday he kissed me. I don’t feel it’s appropriate, and it made me feel threatened.” She’s spewed out a mouthful, thrown up what’s been bothering her all day, and Josie tosses her a glance. After the Hattie Gibson-Smythe and
Echo
incident, Josie slid Cherry’s “Disoriented” out of the trash, smoothed it, left it on Cherry’s pillow. She’s a good friend, reminds Cherry a little of Amy and Rennie, only she doesn’t think of them anymore. Sure, Josie’s a bit of a brownnoser with the staff, but that’s Cherry’s game too these days.

Of course, Cherry’s comment is against the rules too. They’re not to talk about someone who isn’t here, and Leigh reminds her of this, click-clacking those nails again. “Let’s take it back to the room.” Cherry just stares at the long whitish nail tips. She hasn’t felt like cutting for a while, but Leigh sure makes it tempting.

She can’t think of anyone in the room she’d like to talk or complain about other than Leigh herself, and that wouldn’t go over real well, so she says, “I’m so happy Josie’s my roommate. We’re really getting along.”

That’s just what Leigh doesn’t want to hear. She rugs at a strand of
brown hair that’s escaped the bun at the nape of her neck and turns to Josie. “How does that make you feel, Josie? The same?”

But Josie kind of scuffs her feet under her desk and says, “I’m trying to keep thoughts out of my head these days. All I can think about is hurting myself.”

At this Cherry’s blood freezes, chunks of ice floating down the rivers of her veins. Last night Josie said, “I can’t imagine being outside, on my own. Not without you.” Cherry thought it was a pass of some kind; she’s used to that. It must be the red bob or her name or something, but women tend to be attracted to her, it’s certainly not the first time. All Cherry said last night was “Don’t worry about that now, Josie. Just think about getting through tomorrow, going to Group, seeing Dr. Bowker, going to painting class, checking a book out of the library. You’re safe here. That’s why you’re here.”

Soon after that Josie fell asleep, finally, the trembling girl who never sleeps, her hand extended across the space between their beds, their fingers laced together. Cherry feels good when she’s taking care of someone, when she can help.

In an interview a little while before she died, her Diana said something that really stuck in Cherry’s head. That the worst problem in the world was
the disease of people feeling unloved.
Like Diana, she’ll do whatever she can to change that. Like she helped Amy Linnet and especially Rennie Taylor, so long ago. But thinking of Rennie, “Wren” Taylor, shoots a realization into her. The Bitch Posse swore their allegiance for
as long as the stars are fixed in the heavens.
But Cherry doesn’t get to see stars anymore, so that means it’s all over and Rennie Taylor and Amy Linnet are just a dream. And of course Diana’s a dream too, let Cherry down by dying. It was a lie, no one ever finds her way out of a fairy tale gone wrong, not even the strongest and most beautiful Princess of all, Queen of Hearts, Queen of Blood.

The only one who matters is Josie, her friend, who’s here and now.

This morning as they were brushing their hair, she told Josie, “You think you’re fucked up. Just look at me. You can get out of here anytime your mom decides to sign you out. I have to convince the shrinks here, then the shrinks from the county board, and finally a judge, that I’m okay. I’ve been through this whole routine before. What I did was unspeakable.” She was trying to make Josie feel better, feel normal or something. Josie just looked at her, deer eyes wide open, scared, and Cherry shouldn’t have told her because it changed things. “I wasn’t the only one,” she said, to temper it somehow, but it only made the confession worse, more disturbing. Josie turned away, finished her cigarette in silence, terrified again, scared of her own shadow, scared of her impulses, and she must think she can’t trust Cherry anymore, that Cherry’s dangerous. It was the wrong thing to tell her. She couldn’t handle it.

Josie takes a breath and stares at the surface of her desk. “It’s not that I want to hurt myself. It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t imagine what my life would be like outside of here, and I can’t imagine living it. I don’t want to deal with my mom. I’m getting better in here, but she’s still a flaming, untreated bipolar victim, and I can’t live with her, ever again. Yesterday I stood near the window in our room trying to figure out how the locks worked, so I could jump.”

Cherry’s heart pounds. Josie sounds so serious, but she’s spilling stuff and that’s usually good. Right now is when Leigh should get her into Dr. Bowker’s office, and maybe Josie can contract with him not to hurt herself. Maybe they can adjust her meds, even give her some Thorazine if that’d help, although Cherry hates Thorazine. They gave her some when she was here the first time, but it made her sleepy and fat. Still, Thorazine can send you on an even keel for a while, just to get you through. And if Josie’s really planning to kill herself, or even if she just wants attention, obviously she’s asking for help. But instead Leigh says, “Bring it back to the room, please. How much of this has to do with your relationship with Cherry?”

And that’s just so cold, so fucking heartless, and in all likelihood completely unprofessional and against hospital guidelines. Shouldn’t someone who talks about committing suicide be immediately sent to her doctor or at least a therapist or fellow or the psychopharmacologist? Josie’s lip trembles, and Cherry stands up and puts her arms around her friend, this girl who could be her little sister, who’s dealt with so much, a mom who gave her her first needleful of heroin, her own addictions, her mom’s mental illness. It’s all so familiar to Cherry, and the worst is that Josie bristles, shrinks away from her touch.

Cherry backs off and tightens her fingers into a fist. So she won’t be permitted to help Josie after all. And now she knows she has to cut, to go back to her room and find the watch crystal inside her pillowcase, pull slices across her arm, the welts that make her sane, that keep her on an even tow, keep her from sinking into the depths. Maladaptive or not, it works, and she’s lost Josie, her only friend in here. If Josie’d let her in she could help, but she’s shut Cherry out completely.

Cherry unballs her fist, stares at Leigh.
Everyone needs to be valued. Everyone has the potential to give something back.
That’s her Princess talking. Maybe, just maybe, late tonight in their room, she can get Josie to open up, like the petals of a flower again.

April 1988
Holland High School

I stand on the sidewalk outside the high school watching jocks and band kids and math brains get into their cars and drive away into their lives. Me, I’m the crazy girl, the cheerleader who lost her mind. Everyone’s staring at Amy Linnet, the lesbian suicidal drug-addicted witch. May as well smoke dope right outside the school, make a porno movie with Rennie and Cherry, throw some spells in Pammie’s direction, run my car into a tree. Everyone seems to expect it of me.

I just can’t believe it, is all; me, Amy Linnet, in therapy like some sort of mental loser who can’t take it. The worst of it is I can’t even skip; I have to drive myself to Mary Sue Gallagher’s office every Tuesday and Thursday after school, and she wants to hear about my friends, why I cut, what my relationship with Mom and Dad is, and she’s especially curious about Callie, nosy bitch. I tell a bunch of lies usually. Yesterday I told a whole big long story about me and Pammie
in New Orleans over Mardi Gras last year, taking off our tops for beads and how traumatized I was. She was very interested, kept saying,
Oh, go on, go
on! Probably, she went home and masturbated thinking about it. Of course the whole thing never happened, me and Pammie never went to New Orleans at all. Mary Sue is kind of stupid. She asked me how I got the latest set of cuts on my arm and I told her a cat scratched me and she believed me!

So today’s the day after my jolly happy therapy session and we’re on our pilgrimage to Hemmler. Oh, she gave me drugs too, a bunch of them. One is called Xanax, and it’s a little white pill that’s a miracle. One of them and all the panicky squashy feelings go away, but even better is two, you feel like nothing matters in the whole fucking world. That’s why I took a couple right before sixth period today, so they’d kick in for the car ride and the trip to Hemmler, the endless horrible awful prison of the station wagon. The bottle says one as needed, so I figured I needed one, then I needed another one right after.

I’m feeling a little silly-giddy as the dentist-mobile pulls up, the green Volvo station wagon that’s supposed to make us look like a nice normal family. Cherry disappears onto the school bus. She’s been grounded from the truck, and her mom remembers to enforce the rule about half the time. It’s humiliating for a senior to ride the bus, but what’s she gonna do? After the Coldwell meeting I slipped her a note in French class, and of course no one can break up the Bitch Posse. We already snuck out for coffee together once, and this weekend we’re gonna raise our usual hell, count on it.

The plan is that Rennie gets Abby Green to say she’s inviting her over, I kiss ass with Pammie so she’ll lie for me, or maybe I’ll have to blackmail her about sex or drinking, or oh, I’ll think of something or else make something up. Cherry’ll just say she’s at Sam’s. There’s something going on with her and Sam, by the way, because the last couple times I’ve mentioned him she’s given me this look. Whatever.

We’re going to meet up at the college like usual even if we all have to take fucking taxis.

I clatter open the door of the Good Ship Volvo-pop and slide into the seat behind Mom, who’s staring stonily at the dashboard. Apparently she got strong-armed into coming after last night’s fight. I’ve been hungover before, and I have no clue how they can drink like they do every night and not spend every fucking day in bed. Yet here they are, stone-cold sober. They stay sober for Callie, why can’t they for me? But I push the thought away, tossing my backpack in the back and putting on my seat belt.

“How was school, sweetie?” asks Mom like she’s suddenly the nicest, most normal parent in the universe.

“Great. Me and Pammie made up, it’s all fine now.” Just a preview of the lies to come later tonight, when I say I’m going out with her.

“Oh, that’s so wonderful!” breathes Mom. “I like Pammie, I really do.”

The two Xanax have made me a little sleepy, and I rub my eyes. “Long day at school, think I’ll snooze on the drive up if it’s all right.”

They give each other a relieved look like, oh, marvels of modern medicine have made our little girl all right again. Fuck them. I can’t help a yawn, and I lean against the car window and think about Rennie, because her, I really am worried about. How the hell did she get wrapped up with Mr. Schafer? And how the hell’s she going to get out of it? Because she has to. It’s so risky. He could go to jail for sleeping with her—yeah, she’s eighteen now, but she wasn’t when he started fucking her. And what the hell is
he
thinking I’ll never know. What does a married thirty-five-year-old want with a high school girl? Well, of course the answer is sex, but it must be more than that.

I’ll admit the naughtiness of it all is kind of exciting. Hell, he is the sexiest teacher in school. I’ll bet more than one girl goes to sleep thinking about him at night. I even have a few times. Freshman year I
had his class right before P.E., so fortunately I could run off some of the energy he pulled up in me. One night I got out of bed after playing with my fantasy Mr. Schafer and pressed my wet fingers to the essay I was turning in the next day. I don’t know if he noticed, but I got an A.