Deanna places her hand over mine and squeezes gently before moving it away. Just a light touch to let me know she’s here, that she sees me.
The gesture is so kind, so touching, I feel like I could cry. Even though I tried to stick as close to the truth as I could, I’m still telling a huge lie by omission. And while I’ve said a version of this same thing dozens of times now, something is different this time.
Because Deanna might be the first person in so long—the first person since Amari, really—who I want to get to know, and who I want to know me.
Then
I hate this place. A month in, I can say with confidence it’s not getting better.
I’m in a Spanish class that I’m too advanced for, an art class that might as well be nap time, and a science class taught by a teacher who clearly hates teaching. Since classes are the only time that girls from other units mix, they’re hectic and not really productive. It almost feels like the teachers know that beforehand, and so the lessons are made to be interrupted or ignored. The only part of school here I like is my creative writing class, which I actually love. I’ve been writing down all my thoughts, and it feels good to get everything out.
When the bell rings at the end of science, my teacher shoves a folded piece of paper at me. “There’s been a change to your schedule today,” she says without even looking.
I unfold the note when I get out into the hallway, dodging girls on their way to next period.
Send Jasmine to therapist.
I crumple the paper. I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything. Someone bumps me and the ball of paper rolls across the floor.
“A love note for me?” Amari asks. A few weeks ago, she started waiting for me after science. It’s become our little ritualand I kind of like it. She picks up the paper and looks over for permission to open it.
“You’re going to do it anyway,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She reads it quickly and crumples it back up. “You know where to go, right?” she asks.
“Director Brewster’s office?”
My case manager’s office is there too, but the one time I was supposed to meet her, she canceled, and I haven’t heard anything since.
“No, you’ll get tackled walking over there without staff and I’ll have to go into crisis,” she says.
“For little ole me?”
It’s called “throwing a crisis” whenever a girl is defiant for more than five minutes, and most times, there is nothing funny about it. The worst part and a hopeful deterrent is that a staff member gets to decide when you’re “out of crisis.” If you’ve pissed them off badly enough, it can take forever.
The hallway clears out as the bell rings again. We’re both late.
“I’m already risking it all to help you right now,” she says, “so you know it’s real.”
“Just come on, Amari,” I say, “where am I going?”
She points to a perfectly painted yellow arrow on the wall a few feet away. “Follow it,” she says.
A staff member yells out. “Class now, ladies!!”
Amari starts walking backward in the opposite direction. “You can’t miss it but I’ll miss you,” she calls out.
I laugh. “Me too,” I say, and get on my way.
I’m sure the therapist is used to new girls being late—this place is a maze. The usually locked double doors are wide open and no one is around, but I still won’t chance it by running. Amari was right though; I couldn’t miss it.
There’s a bright mural of wildflowers painted over the peeling gray walls with the wordsTHERAPEUTIC INTERVENTIONSin bubble letters. A big wooden door opens and an older white woman with long silver hair steps out.
“I thought you might be standing me up,” she says, looking me up and down.
“Sorry, I didn’t know how to get here,” I say.
“They sent you alone?” she asks, leading me into a waiting room surrounded by smaller wooden doors.
