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“As I’m sure you’re well aware, we have a new addition to our group this week. Elliot, how about you go ahead and introduce yourself to everybody?”
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
I very much wish I were capable of pressing a button and engaging a cloaking shield like some kind of sci-fi spaceship, but alas.
“Hey. My name is Elliot Bishop. I just turned seventeen last week.” My voice sounds very small and like it's coming from somewhere outside my body. I look around the small circle and try to swallow the lump in my throat.
The church looks much bigger on the inside than it does from without; a domed ceiling rises high enough above our heads that everything sounds a little echo-y and distorted, like we are in a velvet fishbowl. A huge painting of some guy--I’m guessing it’s Jesus, despite my lack of exposure to this kind of thing--hangs high up on the wall above a small platform bearing a plain black pulpit. His skin is pale and stands out like a beacon against a hazy background with dark, luxurious hair flowing past his shoulders. Shoulders which appear to be twisted in agony because he’s nailed to a freakin’ cross. I’m not sure whether to stare at it or keep my eyes away out of some kind of brutal respect. My parents aren’t religious and I can’t think of time I’ve ever been in a church before; maybe for my great-aunt’s funeral in California, but I don’t remember it being anything like this.
I tear my eyes away for what seems like the dozenth time to find six pairs of eyes, including those of the good Dr. Julian Rodriguez, are parked intently on my face. My palms feel like they’ve been plunged into what I imagine swamp water feels like. Dr. Rodruiguez is sitting in the only padded chair; the pews have been carefully stacked against the back wall to make room for our circle of folding chairs. His legs are crossed and he cradles a notepad in the crook of one knee. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap goes his pen against the arm of the chair.
“Anything in particular you’d like to share about yourself? Hobbies? Interests? Fears?” The doctor’s gaze bores into me and I know better than to refuse.
“I like astronomy,” I say automatically with a half-hearted shrug.
“Oh! I’m a Capricorn!” A stocky, muscular Hispanic kid who looks to be the oldest grins over at me and I can’t tell if he’s making a joke or not.
“That’s astrology, Isaiah,” says a dark-haired girl, the only one in the room who isn’t looking at me. Her eyes seem locked on some point on the ceiling and she doesn’t bother removing her gaze to correct him. She brushes a lock of dark hair away from her face and snaps a piece of gum.
“Uh, yeah. Astronomy is the, uh, study of planets and stars and stuff,” I add, giving her a sidelong glance.
“That’s a pretty cool hobby.” Dr. Rodriguez says, but the word cool just seems wrong coming from his mouth. “So, Elliot, why are you with us this evening?” The doctor stops his insufferable tapping long enough to scribble a short note while his eyes jump from one face to the next.
“His other plans must have fallen through.” It took me a moment to realize the voice had come from the dark-haired girl again. The rest of the group chuckles; Rodriguez looks annoyed. Her interjection allows me to study the profile of her face long enough to decide she’s the kind of girl I’d avoid at all costs at my own high school.
Her eyelashes bear a noticeably dark mascara and her fingernails are painted acid green. She wears dark jeans with a rip in the right knee and positively filthy canvas sneaks that look impossibly large. “Disruptive,” is what my parents would probably call her, and I’m sure Dr. Rodriguez would agree wholeheartedly.
“Ms. Langley--Quinn, we’ve talked about interrupting, haven’t we? You should respect Elliot’s time, I’m sure it would help reinforce the idea that this is a safe space.” He purses his lips and I can suddenly see the slightest of cracks in his slicked-back persona.
“My bad, Julian.” The girl--Quinn Langley, I’ve gathered--finally tears her eyes off the ceiling and settles them on me. “I’m sorry, Elliot Bishop, lover of stars and planets and stuff. Please proceed.” She folds her arms across her chest and pushes the same lock of hair out of her eyes once again.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
“I’m sorry, what was the question again?” The sound of my heart thrumming away is distracting to the point of insanity.
“In your own words, I’m asking you why you’re attending our group session this afternoon.”
“Because my parents are making me,” slips out before I can stop it. I’m not sure if I expect another collective chuckle or not but the dead silence that meets my words is pungent. “I, uh, I have depression,” I say finally, trying not to sound too pathetic. “I guess that’s actually why I’m here, I suppose.”
“Excuse me? Dr. Rodriguez?” A dark-skinned girl with short, neat dreadlocks and thin-framed glasses raises her hand abruptly.
“Yes, Alexis?” The doctor does not look pleased for another interruption.
“Thank you, sir.” She turns and points to me. “Elliot should sit on my left, shouldn’t he? ‘E’ is the next letter after ‘A’ in the group and if he’s sitting between Jordan and Maya it screws the whole thing up.” She smiles widely at me but she’s gripping the sides of her chair tightly, as if to stop her from jumping up and forcibly evicting me from my seat.
“Alexis, we've talked about this. Sometimes you need to suppress the urge to include others in your compulsions.” Dr. Rodriguez jots a note down. “It’s not the end of the world if the seating arrangements are askew for one meeting, now, is it?”
“No,” she replies through gritted teeth.
“I can move if I have to,” I add hastily, feeling incredibly uncomfortable at all this attention.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
“Damn, man, you need to settle yourself down.” The boy on my right frowns at me and shakes his head. “You shakin’ like a fuckin’ chihuahua over here and it’s stressin’ me out.”. His long black hair is tucked behind his ears and tied back by an intricate yellow bandana. High cheekbones and dark skin reveal a native heritage--probably Navajo. He looks to be about as tall as I am and cuts an imposing figure amongst the other kids in the circle.
“Language, Jordan.” It seems like Rodriguez might be losing his grip on the group already. “Let’s get back on topic.”
“Depression.” The dark-skinned girl, Alexis, has a notepad of her own and seems to be taking a very detailed account of the session. “Elliot Bishop was just talking about his depression.”
“Julian, Alexis isn’t supposed to be taking notes,” The Hispanic boy, Isaiah, complains loudly, pointing across the room at her.
“I’m not!” She snaps defensively. She immediately crosses something out and snaps the purple cover shut, looking furious.
“Alexis, please be respectful of the privacy we maintain at Group,” Rodriguez sighs. He rubs his temple slowly while looking from face to face, daring anyone else to interject. “Elliot?”
“Depression,” I repeat, feeling like I’ve walked in on a flow-blown circus rehearsal; here, I’m a deer in the headlights and they’re expecting me to jump in the cannon to be fired into the air any moment now.
“Oh, c’mon man. We all have fuckin’ depression.” Jordan rolls his eyes and suddenly my throat tightens up and a stinging sensation inside threatens to well up in my eyes.
“I’m not depressed,” Maya cuts in, tossing her glossy honey-colored hair over one shoulder and glaring at him. “I’ve got anxiety, asshole.” Her voice is surprisingly firm for such a small girl, she can’t be much over five feet tall with strikingly beautiful features.
“Language!” Rodriguez nearly has to shout over the two of them as they begin to lay into each other. “If everyone doesn’t settle down right this minute, I won’t be signing anyone’s sheets after we’re finished, and you’ll earn yourself extra sessions.”
“Sheets?” I look around, confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Court ordered sessions,” Alexis quips while scribbling furiously in her notebook once again. Some people have to come here or they get in trouble.”
“Alexis,” Rodriguez warns solemnly, looking perturbed, as Mom likes to say.
“It’s true,” she shoots back, pursing her lips with a defiant expression. She looks me up and down like I’m an ugly fish trapped behind the glass at a second-rate aquarium. “I bet you don’t have papers, huh?”
“Look at him,” Jordan scoffs, eyes locked on me with a malice I’ve never seen before. “Pale-ass, skinny-ass bilagáana. I saw his daddy drop him off in a nice car, of course he doesn’t have fuckin’ papers.”
I’m more taken aback by whatever it is he just called me than I am by his aggression, but I feel a nervous flush rise in my cheeks nonetheless.
“JESUS CHRIST, give him a fucking break, Jordan!”
Everyone in the circle freezes, suspended in time for just a moment while the raven-haired Quinn-Langley shoots to her feet and rounds on the much bigger boy with a finger aimed right at his nose. She’s breathing like she’s just climbed three flights of stairs and it seems to slowly dawn on her that she’s not sitting in her seat anymore. She drops her finger but doesn't back away.
“Remember your first day? I sure do. I wouldn’t talk so much shit if I were you.”
Jordan has his arms crossed into his leather vest, one clubby boot parked on the opposite knee as if daring her to challenge him. He abruptly uncrosses his feet and I’m afraid he’s about to jump to his feet and attack her. Instead, he drops his gaze to the floor, flipping his braid into his hand and weaving his long fingers into the obsidian strands without further complaint.
The girl turns to the rest of the circle and it hits me: she’s in charge. Julian Rodruiquez might direct this unruly band of misfits, but this girl is the one who maintains order. Everyone is dead silent, including the doctor, who is looking as exhausted as I’ve ever seen an adult look.
“Everyone needs to chill out a little, okay?” First time is hard enough without you guys getting all up in his shit. Sorry, Julian--language, I know.” Quinn looks at each one of those gathered around the circle before her eyes land on me. “Well, at least you got an honest introduction to this madhouse.”
“Hey, you need to apologize,” Isaiah pipes up as soon as she falls quiet.”
“For what?” Quinn rounds on him with a dangerous expression.”
“You said his name in vain,” Isaiah answers, undeterred, pointing high up at the bloody portrait on the wall. “Abuela says that’s a one-way ticket to hell.”
“I…” Quinn seems like she’s at a loss for words all of the sudden. “Sorry, White Jesus,” She says to the portrait, throwing up her hands and slumping back down into her seat.”
“Quinn, I--” Dr. Rodriguez raises his head up and he’s noticeably flushed. He doesn’t seem to know where or whom to look at. “First of all, I’ve told you a thousand times to not call me Julian. Second of all, language. Third, calling group therapy a madhouse is possibly rather triggering to some of us here.” He huffs and shakes his head, snapping his notebook shut. “I apologize, Elliot. The group dynamics are sometimes… fragile. But I promise we usually do a better job of maintaining a safe and welcoming environment. Isn’t that right, Jordan? Quinn?”
“I was defending him!” Quinn looks positively outraged. Jordan looks totally uninterested.
“Can we move on? You guys are making me feel really, really anxious.” Maya, the girl to my right, speaks up again. “Frankly, I had a good day today and you guys are going to ruin it.”
“Aww, Maya,” Quinn’s expression softens immediately. “I’m sorry Jordan is being such an insensitive ass-wart! Let’s talk about something else.”
“Last. Warning.” Dr. Rodriguez’s expression borders on dangerous and Quinn seems to take that seriously. With one final glare at Jordan, she makes a gesture like she’s zipping her mouth shut and goes back to staring at the ceiling.
“Thank you,” Rodriguez says wearily before turning his attention back to me. “You were saying, Elliot?”
Honestly, I can't really remember what I was saying. Everything that has transpired in the last thirty seconds has left my head spinning. I stare at him blankly, six pairs of eyes still locked on me; now, it’s Jordan who is staring at the ceiling.
“Depression. You said you have depression.” Alexis waves her notebook at me.
“Oh, yeah. Depression.”
Tha-thump, tha-thump.
I look around the room, at each face that is examining mine in anticipation. Quinn is leaning forward on her elbows, wide green eyes locked on my own. Something cracks inside me, and the words just spill out:
“Yeah, I saw a guy jump off a bridge when I was eleven. Well, saw is kind of an understatement. He landed on the car, actually, totaled it. He was wearing a blue coat and red sneakers, and when he landed it sounded like… like when you drop a watermelon on concrete, except a thousand times worse.”
The ensuing silence is a lead blanket that stifles even the oxygen in the room. Dr. Rodriguez looks properly horrified, but it’s almost impossible to read anyone else’s expression. Suddenly, I feel like I’ve said far too much, but you can’t just shovel that kind of dirty water back into the bucket it spilled from.
“Dude, that’s fuckin’ metal.” It takes me a moment to realize it’s Jordan who spoke. He leans forward in his chair with the awe etched plainly on his face. “Was there blood?”
“Uh, yeah. Tons.” I can’t believe I’m saying this. It feels like someone has taken over my body, like I’m watching a stranger hijack my brain; I’m just along for the ride.
“Cool.” Jordan leans back, seemingly satisfied.
“What kind of car?” Isaiah, has suddenly become interested.
“I don’t remember, sorry,” I say, shaking my head.
“My primo is an EMT,” Isaiah adds, looking around. “I bet that dude was way fu--messed up.” He glances at Rodriguez to see if he got away with his slip-up.
“I guess.” I push the growing nausea down as best I can.
Quinn seems to sense that I’m struggling and she holds her hands up. “Alright, guys, let him breathe.” She catches my eye. “You good, Elliot Bishop? You’re looking a little pale there.”
All I can do is nod. I’m afraid I might puke, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Elliot, I’m so sorry.” Dr. Rodriguez recovers and scribbles furiously into his notebook, pausing to look up at me with something that seems like genuine sympathy. “I had no idea that this… this event was so serious. My apologies. Your parents gave me the run-down, of course, but to actually hit the car…”
“It’s fine,” I squeak out. “Can we talk about something else, please?”
“Certainly.” Dr. Rodriguez straightens up and looks around the room. “Well, we may as well get right into ‘Ups and Downs.’ Who has an ‘Up’ they’d like to share from this week?”
The rest of group therapy proceeds like this; luckily Rodriguez doesn’t make me participate much. As the hour draws to a close we have to help him put all the pews back and straighten up the room; when we are finally released to the parking lot, Quinn gestures for me to follow her and the others outside. I look at my phone and see we’re out three minutes late but Dad’s SUV is nowhere to be found. I have a text from Sean asking where I am but I ignore that for now.
“Who was driving?”
Quinn turns and stops dead in front of me as soon as we reach the sidewalk. I’m a good head taller than her but I feel very small standing in front of her out here in the light of the real world instead of the gloomy church interior.
“Pardon?” My brain stumbles while trying to figure out what she’s asking me.
“When the guy fell from the overpass and hit your car.” She pauses, studying my expression. “Who was driving?”
“He jumped,” I correct her, shaking my head. “Why does that matter?”
“I’m just curious,” she says innocently. She parks herself on a low concrete wall to the left of the front doors and nods at me like I should sit too, so I do.
“It was my babysitter, actually. Lydia.”
“Damn.” Quinn bobs her head, considering this. “That’s some shit. I bet that ruined her life, too. You smoke?” Quinn digs around in her green backpack for a minute before producing a tattered pack of cigarettes. She flips the lid and holds it out to me; there are only five cigarettes left, one is flipped upside down. I’m nearly at a loss for words--I’ve never been offered a cigarette before.
“I don’t smoke,” is all I manage to say, rather lamely.
“Me neither,” She says, pulling one out and sticking it between her lips. A thin flame jumps from her fingertips as she produces a lighter from seemingly out of nowhere and takes a long drag. “I only smoke after Group,” She says with a smirk at my confused expression. “Gotta get that bad medicine outta my lungs somehow.” She takes another drag and blows a thin stream straight upwards, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “That was some shit, huh, Elliot Bishop?”
“What do you mean?” I feel cold despite the evening sun pounding down on us standing in this unwelcome dirt lot across from a chain bakery and a pilates gym. It’s got to be ninety degrees still, and yet the goosebumps pepper my arms regardless.
“That story. The guy who jumped. I bet that really fucks with your head.”
“Sometimes,” I manage to say honestly. “I’d rather not think about it.”
“I know the feeling.” Quinn takes a deep drag from the cigarette before she parks her cigarette at the corner of her mouth and holds her right hand out. “Congratulations.”
“For what?” Before I can react, Quinn grabs my right hand with her left and forces it into a handshake. Her grip is firm but her hand is surprisingly soft.
“You’re just as, if not more, fucked up than the rest of us. Welcome to the Desert Society of Making a Big Goddamn Mess of Your Destiny!”
“Is that what you call yourselves?” I can’t suppress the grin that spreads over my face. Quinn’s hand is soft and her acid-green nails mesmerize me as they slip from between my fingers.
“That’s what I call us.” She takes a deep drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke forcefully upward into the sky where it wavers for a moment before dissipating into the evening heat. The August sun casts long shadows across the parking lot as it threatens to retire below the low buildings slouching on the avenue across from us.
“Does it help?” I ask suddenly, trying not to look directly into her eyes.
“Group?” Quinn seems to understand me without prompting. “Sometimes,” she replies thoughtfully, staring up at another stream of smoke as it bulges, quivering, and disappears just like the first. “Sometimes it doesn’t but you have to pretend, or you’ll never get better.” One last puff and she grinds the stub of cigarette into the wall beside her before slipping the filter into one of her shoes. “My parents check my pockets,” she says with a wan smile. “But I’m not just gonna leave it there.” She pulls another cigarette from the pack and lights it again, staring unblinkingly into my eyes.
“I’m not a fucking monster.”
178Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFdH65iSuVq
