Sisters in Sanity
Page 11
“Me at a girlie spa,” Cassie said. “My parents are gonna faint from joy.”
“Yeah, all I have to do is tell my parents that I’m getting an anti-cellulite treatment,” Martha said.
“Even if they did let me go, how am I gonna get permission? I’m demoted, remember. Level Three. No phone calls. Besides, my dad’s probably pissed that I’m not progressing fast enough.”
“She’s coming in ten days. Write a letter today. And make it a good one, full of introspection. At the end, tug on his heartstrings and ask if you can go. If you mail the letter right away, your dad will have time to call in with permission.”
“Unless Stepmonster reads the letter first. But even if Dad says yes, I can’t see Clayton agreeing.”
“Clayton doesn’t make the final decisions on such things, my dear. The Sheriff does. And he’s gaga for Mother.”
“Okay, I’ll write to him. Maybe as an added incentive, I’ll tell him I really want to cut out my streaks.” This wasn’t entirely untrue. In the months since I’d been at Red Rock, the magenta had faded to a rather putrid shade of orange and my roots were coming in under the black.
“Speaking of which, I’m in desperate need of a cut,” V said. Her once-choppy locks were also looking a little tired.
“That reminds me. I’ve always wondered where you got such a cool haircut out here. Did they let you go to a salon in town or something?”
V and Bebe laughed.
“You’re sweet, Brit. But if my hair turned out cool, it was purely accidental. I had really long hair when I got here, but I shaved it all off.”
“What?”
“I used the electric razors they give us.”
“Wow, that’s so punk rock.”
“You don’t have the lock on rebellion, you know.” V grinned at me in that snarky way of hers, which by now I’d learned was totally affectionate.
“Ladies, can we get back to the subject at hand? A day out. A day of beauty. It’s going to be divine. You know what they say. ‘Look good, feel good.’”
You wouldn’t guess it to look at me, but I’m a sucker for pampering and stuff. Mom and I used to have do-it-yourself beauty days at home. But I’d never been to a real spa. And the thought of a day out gave me a burst of energy. All of us were really excited. Every time we passed one another in the hall, we’d call out, “Look good, feel good,” and laugh. Even the staff let us have our joke. Everyone was looking forward to the pending arrival of Marguerite Howarth, aka Ellis Hardaway, the resident villain on Lovers and Strangers for fifteen years before she was murdered by her half sister. No one even dared call Bebe “Rodeo Drive” anymore, for fear of offending her, I guess, and being excluded from meeting her mom. And Bebe herself seemed the most excited of all.
“I can’t wait for you to meet Mother,” she gushed. “She’s a major diva and a bit of a head case, don’t get me wrong. All actors are. But she’s a lot of fun, and she will simply adore you all.”
As it turned out, we would all have to wait a bit longer to meet Marguerite. Two days before our big spa trip, she called Bebe to say she had just gotten a small role in a made-for-TV movie about figure skaters and wouldn’t be coming to Utah after all.
“She wanted me to tell you how sorry she was. And she’ll send some samples,” Bebe said, practically spitting out her words.
“I’m so bummed. I wanted to meet her,” Martha lamented. V shot Martha her harshest arched eyebrow, shutting Martha up.
“I’m so sorry, Bebe,” I said. “Parents. They are clueless.”
“Unbelievable,” added V. “And they wonder why we’re a little out of whack.”
“Yeah,” I said, “maybe they should send all our parents to boot camp.”
“I can just see fancy Ellis Hardaway workin’ the brick pile,” Cassie said.
Even Bebe had to chuckle at the thought of that.
A couple days later, V sidled up next to me while I was building a wall. Though Clayton kept trying to separate us, V bristled at being told what to do, so every now and then she’d wend her way over to visit me. “It’s tragic that Bebe’s mom bailed, but she should have known better. We all should’ve,” she said. “Parental visits are a rarity here. There’s even something in the brochure about how the therapy works best when the troubled girl is removed from her familiar context completely.”
“The better to make you miserable. But I thought your mom came,” I said.
“She swung by once when I hit Level Five for the first time. She was at some conference in Vegas, so she had to come.”
“What about your dad?”
“He works for the United Nations. As a diplomat. He travels a lot. Anyhow, Mom did visit, but she couldn’t do that now. Not since Alex.”
“Who’s Alex?”
“Where would you get your gossip if it weren’t for me?”
“Dunno. I’d be lost, I guess.”
“Right. Alex was just some girl here. She hated it as much as we all do. And she wrote her parents all these letters about how awful it was, how dirty it was, how the therapists were all bogus. The only difference was that Alex’s parents believed her. Can you imagine?”
“Crazy concept. Trusting your child.”
“I know. Insane. Anyhow, her parents came by for a surprise visit. It was summer and blazing out, and we were all in the quarry in the middle of the day. The place was a dump as usual. Her father freaked out right there. He was screaming about suing this place for malpractice. They took Alex home that day.”
“I wish that would happen to me.”
“It’s the ultimate fantasy. But now drop-in visits are pretty much banned. Parents have to sign a contract when they enroll you, promising to abide by the ‘therapeutic guidelines’ and swearing not to sue if you get killed in Red Rock’s care.”
“No way.”
“That’s not the exact wording. But there is a contract, and it says you can’t visit without prior permission.”
“How is it that you know everything?”
V smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways,” she said, and then before I could ask her about those ways, she was on the other side of the quarry.
There were parental visits, of course. I mean most parents did want to see their offspring now and again. And family visits were a good “motivator.” It was amazing how after a few months at Red Rock, even girls who had terrible relationships with their parents were dying to see them. So Red Rock set up pre-arranged visits, called them therapy, and then charged extra for them. “Family Intensives” were held four times a year at a nearby hotel. Parents hardly even saw the school—they came by for an hour-long tour and a meal. The joke of it was, the week before the visits, we were all taken off the quarry and turned into maids, scrubbing the dingy halls, bleaching the skanky bathrooms. And when the parents came for lunch, the meal was catered. Not a very realistic view of life at Red Rock.
Of the five of us, only Cassie’s parents had come to one of the meetings, which Cassie said wasn’t too bad. One perk of Family Intensives was that you got to stay at the hotel where they held the thing, which meant a whole weekend of TV and swimming pools.
“And TGI Friday’s. I had potato skins for dinner every day,” Cassie said.
We had just finished a group therapy session, and the counselors announced which girls would be on the list for the next Family Intensive a few weeks later in March. Naturally, none of us was included, and Cassie was trying to make us feel better.
“The therapy part was the pits. All the parents sittin’ around gettin’ teary about how messed up we are and how glad they are that we’re on the road to recovery.”
“And let me guess, there wasn’t any talk of how your parents might have contributed to any of your problems, and I’ll bet none of you guys had the guts to bring that up anyhow,” Bebe said. She was still pretty bitter about Marguerite’s aborted visit.
“Well now, what was I s’posed to do? Blame my folks? Come on, they’ve darn near sold the farm tryin’ to fix me.”
“You live on a farm?” Bebe asked snidely.
“It’s just an expression,” Cassie said, looking wounded.
Cassie’s parents had gone haywire trying to degayify her. After a family vacation in Corpus Christi, when they caught Cassie kissing a surfer girl, they sent her to some gender dysphoria expert they’d read about online, only she turned out to be a shrink who mostly worked with transsexuals, so then they switched to a therapist who specialized in “fixing” g*y kids, and it was that guy who referred them to Red Rock.
“Why not blame your parents?” Bebe asked. “Mom didn’t give you enough attention. Dad didn’t give you enough love and now you’re a big ole lesbian.”
“That ain’t true,” Cassie said. “I don’t even know that I’m gay. I think I’m bi, but if you think about it, so’s everyone. We’re just tryin’ to figure things out.”
“Not me, darling. I don’t go for girls. And might I remind you that you got caught making out with some surfer girl? I’d say that qualifies you as a dyke.”
“And you got caught doin’ lord knows what with your pool boy, but that doesn’t make you a slut in my book.”
“You’re right. All the other guys I’ve done, that qualifies me as a slut.”
“Bebe, stop it,” I said.
“Oh please, not you too, Cinders. You’re not going to turn yourself into a doormat for these drones.”
“No, I’m not,” I insisted. “And neither is Cassie. And just because you’re pissed off at your mom doesn’t give you the right to dump on everyone else or to tell Cassie that she’s g*y or not gay.”
Bebe gasped as if I’d hit a nerve. “I have the right to say what I think,” she said.
“What are you, ten?” I knew Bebe was bummed, but I couldn’t stand to watch her take it out on Cassie.
“Oh piss off, Miss Bad Girl.” Bebe stared me down as if only she could see the real me. “You think you’re such a rebel,” she said, “but you’re really just a goody-two-shoes.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” I said, fuming.
“That’s all you do—try to prove stuff,” she shot back.
“Spare me the cheap psychobabble,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I get enough of that around here.”
“Well maybe you need some more.”
“No, maybe you do. Look, Bebe, I know you’re angry, but enough with the bitchiness already,” I said. “We are all so over it.”
“Well, I guess my fifteen minutes of sympathy are up,” she said sarcastically. “Fine. Whatever. Just you wait until it’s your dad that cancels on you. Oh, but that probably won’t happen because he doesn’t even want to see you in the first place, does he?”
“Yeah, all I have to do is tell my parents that I’m getting an anti-cellulite treatment,” Martha said.
“Even if they did let me go, how am I gonna get permission? I’m demoted, remember. Level Three. No phone calls. Besides, my dad’s probably pissed that I’m not progressing fast enough.”
“She’s coming in ten days. Write a letter today. And make it a good one, full of introspection. At the end, tug on his heartstrings and ask if you can go. If you mail the letter right away, your dad will have time to call in with permission.”
“Unless Stepmonster reads the letter first. But even if Dad says yes, I can’t see Clayton agreeing.”
“Clayton doesn’t make the final decisions on such things, my dear. The Sheriff does. And he’s gaga for Mother.”
“Okay, I’ll write to him. Maybe as an added incentive, I’ll tell him I really want to cut out my streaks.” This wasn’t entirely untrue. In the months since I’d been at Red Rock, the magenta had faded to a rather putrid shade of orange and my roots were coming in under the black.
“Speaking of which, I’m in desperate need of a cut,” V said. Her once-choppy locks were also looking a little tired.
“That reminds me. I’ve always wondered where you got such a cool haircut out here. Did they let you go to a salon in town or something?”
V and Bebe laughed.
“You’re sweet, Brit. But if my hair turned out cool, it was purely accidental. I had really long hair when I got here, but I shaved it all off.”
“What?”
“I used the electric razors they give us.”
“Wow, that’s so punk rock.”
“You don’t have the lock on rebellion, you know.” V grinned at me in that snarky way of hers, which by now I’d learned was totally affectionate.
“Ladies, can we get back to the subject at hand? A day out. A day of beauty. It’s going to be divine. You know what they say. ‘Look good, feel good.’”
You wouldn’t guess it to look at me, but I’m a sucker for pampering and stuff. Mom and I used to have do-it-yourself beauty days at home. But I’d never been to a real spa. And the thought of a day out gave me a burst of energy. All of us were really excited. Every time we passed one another in the hall, we’d call out, “Look good, feel good,” and laugh. Even the staff let us have our joke. Everyone was looking forward to the pending arrival of Marguerite Howarth, aka Ellis Hardaway, the resident villain on Lovers and Strangers for fifteen years before she was murdered by her half sister. No one even dared call Bebe “Rodeo Drive” anymore, for fear of offending her, I guess, and being excluded from meeting her mom. And Bebe herself seemed the most excited of all.
“I can’t wait for you to meet Mother,” she gushed. “She’s a major diva and a bit of a head case, don’t get me wrong. All actors are. But she’s a lot of fun, and she will simply adore you all.”
As it turned out, we would all have to wait a bit longer to meet Marguerite. Two days before our big spa trip, she called Bebe to say she had just gotten a small role in a made-for-TV movie about figure skaters and wouldn’t be coming to Utah after all.
“She wanted me to tell you how sorry she was. And she’ll send some samples,” Bebe said, practically spitting out her words.
“I’m so bummed. I wanted to meet her,” Martha lamented. V shot Martha her harshest arched eyebrow, shutting Martha up.
“I’m so sorry, Bebe,” I said. “Parents. They are clueless.”
“Unbelievable,” added V. “And they wonder why we’re a little out of whack.”
“Yeah,” I said, “maybe they should send all our parents to boot camp.”
“I can just see fancy Ellis Hardaway workin’ the brick pile,” Cassie said.
Even Bebe had to chuckle at the thought of that.
A couple days later, V sidled up next to me while I was building a wall. Though Clayton kept trying to separate us, V bristled at being told what to do, so every now and then she’d wend her way over to visit me. “It’s tragic that Bebe’s mom bailed, but she should have known better. We all should’ve,” she said. “Parental visits are a rarity here. There’s even something in the brochure about how the therapy works best when the troubled girl is removed from her familiar context completely.”
“The better to make you miserable. But I thought your mom came,” I said.
“She swung by once when I hit Level Five for the first time. She was at some conference in Vegas, so she had to come.”
“What about your dad?”
“He works for the United Nations. As a diplomat. He travels a lot. Anyhow, Mom did visit, but she couldn’t do that now. Not since Alex.”
“Who’s Alex?”
“Where would you get your gossip if it weren’t for me?”
“Dunno. I’d be lost, I guess.”
“Right. Alex was just some girl here. She hated it as much as we all do. And she wrote her parents all these letters about how awful it was, how dirty it was, how the therapists were all bogus. The only difference was that Alex’s parents believed her. Can you imagine?”
“Crazy concept. Trusting your child.”
“I know. Insane. Anyhow, her parents came by for a surprise visit. It was summer and blazing out, and we were all in the quarry in the middle of the day. The place was a dump as usual. Her father freaked out right there. He was screaming about suing this place for malpractice. They took Alex home that day.”
“I wish that would happen to me.”
“It’s the ultimate fantasy. But now drop-in visits are pretty much banned. Parents have to sign a contract when they enroll you, promising to abide by the ‘therapeutic guidelines’ and swearing not to sue if you get killed in Red Rock’s care.”
“No way.”
“That’s not the exact wording. But there is a contract, and it says you can’t visit without prior permission.”
“How is it that you know everything?”
V smiled mysteriously. “I have my ways,” she said, and then before I could ask her about those ways, she was on the other side of the quarry.
There were parental visits, of course. I mean most parents did want to see their offspring now and again. And family visits were a good “motivator.” It was amazing how after a few months at Red Rock, even girls who had terrible relationships with their parents were dying to see them. So Red Rock set up pre-arranged visits, called them therapy, and then charged extra for them. “Family Intensives” were held four times a year at a nearby hotel. Parents hardly even saw the school—they came by for an hour-long tour and a meal. The joke of it was, the week before the visits, we were all taken off the quarry and turned into maids, scrubbing the dingy halls, bleaching the skanky bathrooms. And when the parents came for lunch, the meal was catered. Not a very realistic view of life at Red Rock.
Of the five of us, only Cassie’s parents had come to one of the meetings, which Cassie said wasn’t too bad. One perk of Family Intensives was that you got to stay at the hotel where they held the thing, which meant a whole weekend of TV and swimming pools.
“And TGI Friday’s. I had potato skins for dinner every day,” Cassie said.
We had just finished a group therapy session, and the counselors announced which girls would be on the list for the next Family Intensive a few weeks later in March. Naturally, none of us was included, and Cassie was trying to make us feel better.
“The therapy part was the pits. All the parents sittin’ around gettin’ teary about how messed up we are and how glad they are that we’re on the road to recovery.”
“And let me guess, there wasn’t any talk of how your parents might have contributed to any of your problems, and I’ll bet none of you guys had the guts to bring that up anyhow,” Bebe said. She was still pretty bitter about Marguerite’s aborted visit.
“Well now, what was I s’posed to do? Blame my folks? Come on, they’ve darn near sold the farm tryin’ to fix me.”
“You live on a farm?” Bebe asked snidely.
“It’s just an expression,” Cassie said, looking wounded.
Cassie’s parents had gone haywire trying to degayify her. After a family vacation in Corpus Christi, when they caught Cassie kissing a surfer girl, they sent her to some gender dysphoria expert they’d read about online, only she turned out to be a shrink who mostly worked with transsexuals, so then they switched to a therapist who specialized in “fixing” g*y kids, and it was that guy who referred them to Red Rock.
“Why not blame your parents?” Bebe asked. “Mom didn’t give you enough attention. Dad didn’t give you enough love and now you’re a big ole lesbian.”
“That ain’t true,” Cassie said. “I don’t even know that I’m gay. I think I’m bi, but if you think about it, so’s everyone. We’re just tryin’ to figure things out.”
“Not me, darling. I don’t go for girls. And might I remind you that you got caught making out with some surfer girl? I’d say that qualifies you as a dyke.”
“And you got caught doin’ lord knows what with your pool boy, but that doesn’t make you a slut in my book.”
“You’re right. All the other guys I’ve done, that qualifies me as a slut.”
“Bebe, stop it,” I said.
“Oh please, not you too, Cinders. You’re not going to turn yourself into a doormat for these drones.”
“No, I’m not,” I insisted. “And neither is Cassie. And just because you’re pissed off at your mom doesn’t give you the right to dump on everyone else or to tell Cassie that she’s g*y or not gay.”
Bebe gasped as if I’d hit a nerve. “I have the right to say what I think,” she said.
“What are you, ten?” I knew Bebe was bummed, but I couldn’t stand to watch her take it out on Cassie.
“Oh piss off, Miss Bad Girl.” Bebe stared me down as if only she could see the real me. “You think you’re such a rebel,” she said, “but you’re really just a goody-two-shoes.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” I said, fuming.
“That’s all you do—try to prove stuff,” she shot back.
“Spare me the cheap psychobabble,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I get enough of that around here.”
“Well maybe you need some more.”
“No, maybe you do. Look, Bebe, I know you’re angry, but enough with the bitchiness already,” I said. “We are all so over it.”
“Well, I guess my fifteen minutes of sympathy are up,” she said sarcastically. “Fine. Whatever. Just you wait until it’s your dad that cancels on you. Oh, but that probably won’t happen because he doesn’t even want to see you in the first place, does he?”
