Alone is where it’s good.
Alone is where it’s safe.
Drishti, one of the counsellors, has her “active listening” face on as Liam regales the group about the time he was so high, he broke into a mom-and-pop store to beat up a mannequin because he thought it was an alien.
Aaron speaks next, talking faster than I can comprehend and answering more than Drishti was asking him.
Their voices echo through the room, bouncing against the vaulted ceiling, making each word sound ominous and foreboding. Centuries-old paintings hang on the walls between posters of bumper-sticker-type quotes like “Be the person you want to be.” The heating has been cranked up to full blast to stave off the perpetual chill of the stone structure, but it does nothing to warm my frozen bones and chattering teeth.
Kohen shifts in his seat and I glare at him. Seriously, what the fuck is Kohen doing in this school?
There are two fancy reform schools in this country where all the rich people send their kids: Seraphic Hills and Westwood Grove, a couple states away. Word on the street is desperate parents and the state sends the real crazies to Seraphic, and the students at Westwood get hand massages instead of a slap on the wrist. I hear they alsohave this wild concept that isn’t practiced here. It’s calledfree time. The pretentious kids at Westwood don’t have to attend group therapy sessions or wake up at five in the morning to do military drills either—which went wonderfully yesterday morning when I “accidentally” threw up on Sarah’s $4,000 backpack. Such a shame, really, because I hear stomach acid doesn’t mix well with dyed leather.
Fuck Face keeps crashing these group sessions. I’m really not sure which part of Kohen screamed “I’m an addict” to Drishti. They never said as much, but this is the addicts’ group. Every person who frequents the back of the church is here, either feeling as hungover as I did yesterday or keyed up like I do now. Ergo, Kohen doesn’t belong here since the only thing he is addicted to is being a prick and lighting things on fire—and for the love of God, why would I talk about my problems when the reason I’m in this place is sitting right in front of me?
“Blaze.” Drishti, the only semifriendly staff member in this entire school, drags my attention away from Kohen.
At the same time I look at her, Charlie starts sputtering on a cough from beside me, choking on her hair. I reach over, yank her hair out of her mouth, grab her single-use drink bottle, and shove it in her hand. Might as well empty it now before she turns it into a bong later. The simple movement makes me wince as my muscles scream in protest like they do after every comedown.
Kohen is right about one thing; I’m turning more and more into my mother, and I hate it. No wonder my grandfather couldn’t care less if I live or die. He’s probably rubbing his hands together, cackling menacingly, waiting for the day Mom and I eventually kill ourselves off so he can stop bleeding money for us. That’s why he refused to pay to fix anything around our house.
I bet my cousins know what his smile looks like and what my grandma’s baking tastes like—if she even bakes. They all hate my mother because of what she does. They hate me because I’m my mother’s daughter.
“Blaze,” Drishti repeats, setting her scrupulous attention on me. “Why don’t you tell us how your week has gone?”
“Not interested.”
She purses her lips. “There was a lot on your mind last week, and your answer was the same. These sessions enable open discussion and mediation, free of judgment. It benefits you and the rest of your peers so that they can better understand you. If you feel this sort of structure is not suited to you, I and Dr. Van der Merwe can look into how we might be able to support you in being the best young woman you can be.”
Translation: You used yourget out of jail cardlast week, and you’re going to start talking or else you’re in with the doc doing whatever treatment he recommends.
Aka, they’re either shoving CDC-approved drugs down my throat while forcing me to talk to old bones Van der Merwe for an hour, or they’ll give me a lobotomy. I’m doubtful about the last option, but you hear rumors. Who knows what happens in the basement near Dr. Van der Merwe’s room—or, as the students call it, the Dungeons.
“Good to know,” I gripe.
Charlie chokes again. I whip my attention to her and roll my eyes. Drishti runs over to pat her back like it might do something.
Honestly, it’s probably a hairball. She’ll cough it up eventually.
Come to think of it, maybe if Charlie starts choking for real, I’ll suggest she requires the Heimlich maneuver, and then we can all leave on account of being traumatized by her near-death experience.
Unfortunately, she recovers too soon, so I have no choice but to settle back in my seat and cross my arms.
Drishti resumes her position within the circle. “Blaze, how about you tell us how you’ve been feeling lately? I hear you’ve been having more trouble staying focused in class.” Oh great. What’s next? Is she going to start sharing my grades too? “What do you think is the cause of the change?”
“Hmm, I wonder.” This chick is either daft or the biggest snake at this zoo. She’s read my file. “Couldn’t be… oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that the asshole who burned my house down is sitting right there?” I point to Kohen and raise my voice at the last sentence.
He just watches me. He doesn’t flinch or smirk. He doesn’t hold his breath or show even a shred of remorse over what he’s done. Nothing. He looks at me like I’m not worth a single thought in that screwed-up head of his.
“Blaze, please sit down and lower your voice,” Drishti says. I didn’t even realize I was standing. “We’ve been over this; Kohen had no part in what happened that night.”
“I’m not making it up!” I scream.
It doesn’t matter how often I tell them what Kohen said; not a single person believes me. He’s as guilty as they come, and doesn’t have the decency to say it to my face.
“That motherfucker right there destroyed my childhood home, and you’re asking me why I’m distracted in class? Are you kidding me? He tookeverythingfrom me.” All I had was the uniform I was wearing, my coat, and my backpack. Everything else perished in the flames because ofhim.
Nothing is waiting for me once I’m out of here. My mother hasn’t checked on me once, and my father probably doesn’t even know thatI’m alive. Grandpa will be glad that he doesn’t need to try to keep me alive. I have no money for food, let alone college. Nowhere to sleep that isn’t a shelter in the bad part of town. No job prospects. I have nothing going for me, and it’s too late to do anything about it.
