Full summary: Welcome to the Palm Woods, a center for adolescent behavioral adjustment. What happens when you throw a bunch of teenagers in to group therapy and try to make them talk about their feelings? Friendships and relationships will be made and tested as seven kids navigate life in the midst of trying to overcome their addictions. Will they succeed? Only time will tell.
Warnings: explicit language; references to self-harm.
People are in such agony most of the time. You see human beings outside in the park, or in line at the grocery store, or having their hair done, and unless they are right then weeping or climbing out the window and onto the ledge of a skyscraper, you don't immediately know this about them, how much they are suffering. People know how to put a good face on things most of the time. We're good at that, as a species.- Sandi Kahn Shelton, A Piece of Normal
Chapter 1: Come One, Come All
Come one, come all, you're just in time to witness my first breakdown.
"I can't believe you're making me do this," he mutters. His father says nothing. His mother says nothing, but he's pretty sure he can hear her sniffling. It's funny how even now, they ignore him.
Snow has just started to fall, and Logan presses his forehead against the backseat window, closing his eyes as his father pulls into a parking space. Maybe when he opens them, he'll have woken up from this nightmare.
The car comes to a complete stop and both of his parents exit the vehicle, but he makes no move to follow them.
Mr. Mitchell impatiently rips open the car door and yanks Logan outside. Logan wrenches his arm out of his father's grasp, hastily tugging on his sleeves and cradling the limb against his body. Mr. Mitchell looks remorseful for a brief second, then places his hand on Logan's shoulder to guide him up the path that leads to a tall, nice-looking building. Potted plants and flowers stand outside the glass doors, which automatically slide open as the family of three approaches.
A blond woman greets them with a gentle smile. "Welcome to the Palm Woods."
Logan stops listening after that. His parents talk to the woman and sign some papers, and his father hands over a duffel bag containing Logan's clothes and a couple of books and his iPod. He watches indignantly as a young man begins searching through his things. As if he would be stupid enough to bring anything with him. He isn't labeled a genius for nothing.
In retrospect, though, Logan had been pretty stupid. If he hadn't ignored that one phone call from his mother, he wouldn't be here right now. Literally. But no. He didn't answer her call or listen to the voicemail she had left him stating that she was already on her way home, so he was completely unprepared for her early arrival. It had ruined everything.
It was funny, in a morbid kind of way. He knew all about the common mistakes people made. They didn't hit the right spot, or go deep enough, or they lost their nerve at the last second. But Logan—he knew exactly what he was doing. He should have been successful. Too bad he hadn't been smart enough to remember to lock the fucking door.
He remembers the look on his mother's face when she walked into his bathroom holding a stack of folded towels. He remembers the scream that escaped her throat when she saw what he'd done. But that's all he remembers because that was when he began feeling lightheaded. That was when things went blurry before finally, blissfully, fading to black. They were supposed to stay that way.
He tugs on his sleeves again absentmindedly, realizing that his mother is hugging him and trying to hide the fact that she wants to cry again. She's saying something that he can't focus on, and his father grips his shoulder in what he probably thinks is a supportive way, but Logan can't really bring himself to accept their comforting gestures. He can't remember the last time his mother hugged him. He can't remember the last time his father looked him in the eye and really saw him. He doesn't hug them back, instead shooting them a look that clearly says, Why are you doing this to me?
"We'll be back on Sunday, son," his father says.
He watches his parents leave, a mixture of anger and apprehension filling his chest. He can't believe they're making him stay here. It was bad enough that he'd woken up alone in the hospital—that he'd woken up at all, actually—but now they were just going to stick him in some mental institution, or whatever this place was, instead of deal with him themselves? He shouldn't be surprised. Their solution to any of Logan's problems has always been to throw money at him and let him do things on his own. This is pretty much the same thing: spend a ton of money to put him in therapy and hope he comes out alright.
But it's just a weekend, Logan tries to tell himself. He can survive the weekend here. Then he'll be back home, and while his parents will certainly keep a closer eye on him, they can't be with him 24/7. He'll be okay if he just bides his time. He won't try again right away—patience is key. Being impatient is another common mistake. Everyone wants it to be quick and painless, but being impatient is usually why they fail.
He wonders if it should scare him that he's thinking this way, because he's not even completely sure he wants to try again. Maybe the fact that it didn't work was a sign or something. He has to admit (even if it's only to himself), he was pretty pissed and embarrassed to find that he hadn't accomplished what he set out to do, but now he's had a few days to try to clear his head. There are a lot of conflicting feelings there, and he doesn't yet know which ones are stronger.
To be, or not to be. That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep-no more-and by a sleep to say we end the heartache.
Logan chuckles quietly to himself. Leave it to him to recite Hamlet in his head at a time like this.
The blond woman is speaking to him and Logan tries to tune into what she's saying. She's giving him a keychain with a single key on it and handing him back his duffel bag, full of now-wrinkled clothes after that guy searched it. She's also giving him a schedule for the weekend and offering him this kind smile—kind, but pitying. Logan hates it. He hates being pitied. The guy who searched his bag puts a hand on his shoulder blade, leading him down a hallway lit with bright fluorescents. He's shown a door and then the guy just walks away, leaving him alone.
Sighing, Logan picks up the duffel bag and sticks the key into the lock, but he finds that he doesn't need to turn it—the door isn't bolted. He steps slowly into the room and is surprised to see a guy with dark blond hair lying casually on a bed against the wall farthest from the door. He's wearing a beanie and a blue plaid shirt, and he's writing in a journal, and he doesn't look at all surprised that some random dude has just walked into his room.
"Hey," he says, looking up from the journal. He looks familiar for some reason.
"Hi," Logan returns awkwardly. He hadn't realized he'd be having a roommate. "I'm Logan."
"Kendall," says the blond guy with a tilt of his head. "Welcome to the Palm Woods."
"Thanks," Logan mumbles, setting down his bag and looking around the room. He shrugs his jacket off and tosses it on the bed, being careful to ensure that his arms remain covered by his long sleeved t-shirt. He thinks the room could almost be a college dorm, except that there are no empty beer cans or crumpled food wrappers littering the floor. It has two beds, two desks, and two chairs. He also thinks it's kind of unnerving, how starkly bare the walls are. They're a hideous off-white shade, and there are no posters or pictures or anything to distract him from the harsh glare. Only a ticking clock.
"So, what are you in for, Logan?"
Logan looks up at the sound of Kendall's voice and resists the urge to pull his sleeve down again. "Excuse me?"
"What are you in for?" He asks again. "Ooh, let me guess." Kendall squints shrewdly at Logan for awhile, and Logan feels himself blushing under the inspection. "You're a cutter," Kendall tries.
"Not quite," Logan replies, smirking in spite of the odd situation. He feels like the last thing they should be doing is joking around, but Kendall's flippancy is strangely comforting. "I don't think you can be called that if you only did it once."
"Just once, eh? So you're a slasher then."
"A slasher?"
"You tried to commit," Kendall explains the term. "Slit your wrists." He doesn't seem the least bit fazed.
Logan's both kind of appalled and kind of relieved at the easiness with which Kendall speaks. After days of his parents and the few friends he has walking on eggshells around him, Kendall's boldness is rather refreshing. For the first time in four days, Logan pulls his sleeves up to his elbows and reveals the bandages that cover his wrists and forearms. "Ding ding ding," he says. "We have a winner."
Kendall grins at his success. He doesn't ask why Logan did it, and Logan appreciates that. It was all he'd heard ever since he'd woken up to the beeping of his heart monitor. Why? How could you? What were you thinking? Frankly, he was tired of it. He'd pretty much refused to talk about it, so his parents, in desperation, decided that therapy was the best bet. So every weekend he'd be shipped off to the Palm Woods, 'a center specializing in adolescent behavioral adjustment', or some shit like that. He'd read it in the brochure, but he hadn't bothered to make any of the information stick in his head.
"Why are you in here?" Logan asks. He figures he's entitled to know now, since Kendall knows why he's here.
"Alcohol abuse," Kendall replies immediately. No trace of embarrassment. Logan's not sure how to continue the conversation, so he just nods.
Instead, he takes a seat on the edge of his bed and looks down at the schedule he was given. He glances up at the clock on the wall.
"Do you know where Dr. Wilson's office is?" He asks. "I'm supposed to go see him in twenty minutes." It's his first weekend, so he'll be in his one-on-one session while everyone else is in group therapy.
"Third floor," Kendall tells him. "You want me to show you around real quick?"
"Sure," Logan agrees.
Kendall hops off his bed and stretches his arms up before grabbing his own key off the edge of his desk. He locks the door as they exit and the two boys walk back down the hall in the direction of the lobby. Instead of heading straight for the elevator, Kendall walks past the blond lady at the front desk, over to an area where some couches and chairs are set up around a coffee table. Two other boys are sitting across from each other. One of them, the shorter one, has a journal just like the one Kendall was writing in, and at first Logan thinks the boy is doing the same thing. But in the next second, he realizes that he's only doodling. Logan looks up at the other, taller, boy and suppresses a gasp.
It's James Diamond. He's probably one of the richest and most popular guys at school, and he's sitting here in the lobby of a rehab center like it's no big thing. But it is a big thing, Logan thinks. About two weeks ago, James had gotten into a fight during his gym glass with some guy on the opposing team. The guy had tackled James to the ground and punched him in the eye, and James lost it. It took two other guys and the coach to pull James off his victim, but he was still shaking with rage and yelling bloody murder. Coach Owens had tried to calm him down, but James punched him, too, before stalking off toward the locker room. He hadn't been in school since then.
"'Sup, guys? This is Logan," Kendall announces. "He's my new roommate." The two boys tilt their heads towards Logan in acknowledgment.
"I'm Carlos," says the shorter boy. Logan notices that even though he's sitting down, Carlos never stops moving. His knee bounces up and down, or his toes tap against the ground, or his fingers fly quickly over the page of his journal. He's never still. Logan wonders whether that has something to do with why he's here or if he just has a lot of energy.
"And I'm—"
"James Diamond," Logan blurts accidentally, cringing at himself inwardly.
James falters for a second. "You know who I am?"
"I go to Oakmont," Logan explains.
"Of course you do," James mutters. "Aren't there any other therapists in this town?"
"Don't worry about him," Kendall tells Logan. "He's just a little pissy 'cause we all recognized him as soon as he walked in the door."
"You did? Wait…does that mean-?"
"Me and Carlos go to Oakmont too. See those girls over there?" He gestures to three females sitting in the corner. He recognizes two of them right away. The pretty, blond one is a cheerleader, and the thin brunette is actually in his English class. "They do too."
"I thought you looked familiar," Logan says softly. "You're on the hockey team, aren't you? And Carlos—you won first place in the art contest last year."
"Was," Kendall says. "Got kicked off last semester."
Things are coming back to him, now that he knows these people are his classmates. Random images flit through his brain: A stocky boy walking down the hallway with James shoves Logan into a row of lockers, causing him to drop his books; he and James laugh as Logan bends to scoop up his stuff, but before they walk off, Logan looks up, and James has this apologetic look on his face, almost likes he wants to stop and help, but then he thinks better of it and follows his friend. Kendall and three other boys from the team get detention for playing hockey in the cafeteria during lunch. Carlos' drawing is put on display in the office, along with a picture of him, and Logan stares at it as he waits to speak with someone about adding more AP classes to his schedule.
Logan wonders how it's possible that they've all ended up here, but neither James nor Carlos seem to be as forthcoming as Kendall had been.
"Anyway," Kendall breaks him out of his thoughts. "Through there is the yard, with a basketball court and a volleyball pit. Down that hallway—" He points to another door, "is the kitchen. We're not allowed in there, but Carlos managed to make friends with one of the ladies, so he can sneak us food sometimes. And through that door is the 'leisure room.'" He makes air quotes. "But it's just some crappy fooseball and air hockey and ping pong tables. If you go up the elevator to the third floor and make a right, you'll find Dr. Wilson's office."
"Thanks. Guess I'll catch you guys at dinner."
Logan's heart starts to race as he rides the elevator up. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to face an hour of some guy trying to get into his head, but that may just be because he doesn't want to get into his own head. Recently his head has been a weird place.
He knocks on the door with Dr. Garrett Wilson's name on it, and hears a 'come in' from the inside. Dr. Wilson smiles warmly from behind his desk as Logan approaches. He's a not-quite-middle-aged man with brown hair that's graying at the edges and a few smile lines around his eyes. The room has a couch, two armchairs, and a rocking chair. Logan weighs his seating options, wondering if the furniture he chooses to rest on will be indicative of anything significant. It feels like a test. Then he wonders if he's just being paranoid.
"Have a seat. Hortence Mitchell, right?"
"It's Logan," he says crossly, pulling down his sleeves absentmindedly. He shouldn't have let his mother fill out the paperwork.
"My mistake," says Dr. Wilson easily, making a note of it in his file. He doesn't seem to notice Logan's agitation. "Go ahead and take a seat."
Logan chooses the rocking chair and sits down, trying not to think about what, if anything, that says about him. He's starting to feel even more antsy than before. It's only one hour, he intones mentally, but it doesn't really help to calm him. He doesn't want to talk to Dr. Wilson—why should he tell some stranger all his troubles? He doesn't need a shrink to tell him he's fucked up; he already knows that.
"I'm Dr. Wilson," says the man. "You can call me Dr. Wilson, or Garrett, if you like."
Logan blanches at the thought of addressing an adult—an authority figure—by his first name. "Okay…Dr. Wilson."
Dr. Wilson nods. "You can relax, you know, Logan. I know it seems impossible right now, but there's really nothing for you to be anxious about. We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. I'm not even going to ask you how you're feeling."
"You're not?" Logan is confused. Isn't the whole point of seeing a shrink to talk about your feelings? Why the fuck is he here, then? If he doesn't want to talk about his feelings, and the doctor doesn't want to talk about his feelings, can't he just go home? But it is pretty funny to think about how his parents are spending all this money for him to not talk. Serves them right.
"Don't misunderstand," says Dr. Wilson with a friendly smile. "It's not that I don't care. But I don't believe there's anything to be gained by pressuring my patients to spill their life's story during the first appointment."
"Oh. Okay..."
"Instead, I'll tell you a little about myself. I think it's important we both get to know each other, don't you?" The question seems rhetorical, so Logan doesn't respond. He merely shrugs his shoulders a little, and Dr. Wilson continues. "I've been a licensed psychiatrist for thirteen years; I specialize in adolescent behavior; I've been married for sixteen years; I like to cook in my spare time; and my favorite vacation spot is Aspen."
"Aspen?" Logan asks. "You ski?"
"Oh, yes. When my wife and I both have time off. You ever been?"
"No," Logan replies flatly. "We don't really go on family vacations. I mean, we went to Disney World once, but that was like, ten years ago."
"I bet that was fun," Dr. Wilson remarks.
"It was," says Logan.
It's one of his only memories where he and his parents are just spending time together, laughing, sitting down for meals. His parents let him stay up past his bedtime every night for the whole week, they took him on every ride he wanted to go on, even if they thought he might get too scared, and they bought him all the ice cream and cotton candy he asked for. Logan still has a picture on his desk of the three of them in front of Cinderella's castle. He's grinning broadly, missing his two front teeth, and he has one of those giant, rainbow-colored lollipops in his hand. He's even wearing Mickey Mouse ears on top of his head, and Logan thinks that he's probably never taken a picture where he looks as happy as he does in that one.
"So, what do you like to do in your spare time, Logan?"
"Um…study," he mumbles.
"You like school?"
Logan chews on his lip for a moment before answering. "I guess," he says finally. "I study a lot because I want to be a doctor when I grow up."
"That's very ambitious," Dr. Wilson says kindly. "What kind of doctor?"
"I'm not sure yet," he shrugs. "A pediatrician, maybe. Did you always want to be a doctor?"
"Not at all," the man says with a chuckle. "I wanted to be an accountant."
Logan blinks in surprise. "So what happened?"
"My sophomore year of undergrad, I took a beginner's course in psychology as an elective and fell in love with it. Eventually I changed my major, and the rest is, as they say, history."
Dr. Wilson continues to ask Logan random questions, like whether he has a girlfriend, if he plays any sports, what his favorite color is, what type of music he listens to. Logan answers his questions, gradually opening up more, but still feeling wary of the whole conversation. It doesn't seem like Dr. Wilson is looking for any particular answers; it's as if he's just genuinely curious… But he's a psychiatrist. Isn't it their job to read into all these little things?
Near the end of the hour, Dr. Wilson opens a drawer on his desk and pulls out a journal exactly like the ones he'd seen Kendall and Carlos using. "I do have one formality to discuss with you, even though it's only our first session. I hope that's okay."
"Uh, sure."
"We like to give all our patients these journals to write in. The goal is for you to use it to express any feelings or thoughts—negative or otherwise—you have about yourself or your surroundings. You don't have to do it every day, and there is no length requirement or anything of the sort. In fact, no one will ever even read it but you."
"Really?" Logan asks. "No one?"
"No one," Dr. Wilson assures him. "Unless you hand it to me and clearly state, 'I want you to read this,' only your eyes will ever see the words on the page. On another note, while today's session was fairly informal, I want to prepare you for the inevitability of having to talk about what happened. I know it's going to be difficult, and most likely it will take quite some time before you're ready for that conversation, but I'd like you to know that you should feel safe talking to me about anything. It doesn't necessarily have to be about why you're here."
"It doesn't?" Logan is starting to feel anxious again at the thought of having to discuss what he did. He thinks he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, how everything got so out of control, but as long as he keeps it buried inside, he can keep pretending. That everything's fine, that he's normal, that he has a functional family unit that loves and supports each other.
"Not at all," says the man. "You can always talk to me about whatever you feel like. The weather, your classes, girls, your parents. Anything at all, really. The only things I expect from you are that you actually show up to your one-on-one sessions and your group therapy, that you do actually make an effort to speak with me when you're here, and that you don't hide things from me for fear of how I'll react. I'm pretty much a stranger to you, Logan, so you have nothing to prove to me."
The anxiety pressing on the inside of Logan's chest begins to lessen. Even though he doesn't want to be there, Dr. Wilson's words are still somewhat comforting. "Okay, sir."
"Good. Well, I think that's all for today. I'll just give you your journal, and you go ahead and get to dinner. Have you met any of the other patients yet?"
"My roommate, Kendall," Logan says. "He introduced me to a couple other guys."
"Very good. It's important to get to know your peers here. There's nothing quite like the dynamic of group therapy. See you next week, Logan."
By the time Logan walks into the dining hall, nearly everyone is already seated, and a dull murmur can be heard over the tinkering of plastic forks and spoons hitting the trays. He gets in line behind a red-headed girl to receive his dinner, and is surprised when he is also given a tiny cup containing a single white pill.
"What's this?" He asks, perplexed. No one has said anything about this.
"You're Hortence Mitchell, correct?" The lady questions, looking like she desperately wants to roll her eyes.
"Uh, yeah," Logan decides not to bother correcting her.
"Medication," she replies shortly. "We received your prescription earlier today."
"But I'm not on any medication," he protests.
The lady raises an eyebrow at him before glancing down at his wrists. His sleeves have ridden up a little, and the bandages covering his wounds are peeking out. He quickly pulls his shirt back down into place.
"You are now."
He stares down at the small pill for a moment but the lady is still glaring at him so he decides to get out of her way. He looks around apprehensively, trying to decide if he should just sit alone or try to find Kendall, but luckily he is saved.
"Yo, LOGAN!"
Logan's head snaps up in the direction of the voice, and so do several others. He instantly spots Kendall's beanie and heads toward his roommate, trying not to blush at all the stares he's getting as he makes his way over. Kendall is sitting with Carlos, who is eating enthusiastically, despite how terrible the food looks, and James, who merely looks like some combination of bored and bemused, as if he's trying to figure out exactly how his life has led him to this moment. The three girls Kendall pointed out earlier are also there.
The girls look all look up at him as he approaches, each with a different look. The blonde has a strangely fearful expression, like she thinks Logan might suddenly attack her. The brunette, he can tell, recognizes him from class. The final girl, who has black hair laced with red streaks, simply has an air of indifference at his being brought into the group.
"That's Jo, Camille, and Lucy," Kendall tells Logan as he sets his tray down, gesturing to each of the girls.
Jo doesn't say anything, but Camille and Lucy offer a 'hi' and a 'hey.' Logan notices that while most of the others are halfway or more done with their meals, Camille hasn't touched hers. Her plastic fork lays stuck in what Logan guesses to be canned spinach—he can't be entirely sure—and the other compartments on the tray are undisturbed. The only thing she's consumed is the glass of water she was given. Carlos finishes wolfing down his food and then reaches over and takes Camille's dinner roll without even asking. Lucy does the same with her baked apples, and even Kendall swipes about half of the maybe-spinach.
"How was your one-on-one?" Kendall asks as Logan tries to use his plastic knife to cut into his dry chicken breast.
"Alright, I guess," he replies, giving up on the knife. He stabs the chicken with his fork and lifts the whole thing to his mouth, ripping a bite off with his teeth. "He gave me a journal to write in."
"The doctors here are really into self-expression," Lucy says, rolling her eyes. "They think it'll help us 'release our inner demons' or some shit." James and Carlos both snicker at this.
Logan mostly listens as the group chatters through dinner, observing their interactions. He answers if anyone says something to him directly, but for the most part he's content hanging out on the periphery. He notices that Kendall, Carlos, and Lucy seem to be the most outgoing, while James and Jo are more reserved; in fact, Jo never speaks a single word through the whole dinner period. Camille is somewhere in between; she joins the conversation, but it feels like her attention is elsewhere.
Nurses are starting to walk through the aisles, and Logan realizes that they're checking to make sure the patients take their medication. Camille looks uncomfortable as one stops in front of her—she's cut her whole chicken breast into bite-size pieces, and she puts a single one into her mouth while the nurse watches with an approving smile. Camille chews it slower than Logan thinks is possible, but finally she swallows it and offers the nurse a placating kind of look that says, See? Everything's fine here.
The same nurse glances over the rest of the table, and Jo, Lucy, James, Carlos, and Kendall all reach for their medication and swallow it with some water, so Logan does the same. The nurse moves on to the next table. As soon as they're no longer being watched, Carlos sticks his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and pulls the white pill out—he'd hidden it under his tongue rather than take it. He pockets the pill and takes another sip of water before offering the rest of the glass to Camille, who accepts it and gulps the rest of it down.
After dinner, the gang has free time until they have to be in their rooms for the night, so they all end up back in the lobby. Logan watches as Carlos continues to doodle in his journal, and he thinks that when the doctors say "express yourself," they probably don't mean by drawing. Kendall and Lucy are arguing about some band that Kendall likes, Camille is actually writing in her journal, Jo continues to say nothing at all, and James, like Logan, seems fine just observing everything.
The lights flicker on and off a couple of times, and kids immediately start heading down the hallway or towards the elevator. It must be the signal that it's time for curfew. As he and Kendall go back to their room, it strikes Logan how everything seems so ordinary here. It's like everyone's on a weekend trip or something, not admitted into a treatment facility.
Kendall shrugs off his plaid shirt and pulls off the t-shirt he has on underneath. "Gonna shower," he says as he flips the light switch in the bathroom on. The door closes and the water starts, and Logan is left with no distractions for the first time since he stepped foot inside the Palm Woods.
He doesn't know how he's going to survive the weekend.
My name is Logan Mitchell, and I don't want to be here.
They told me no one was going to read this, so I'm not entirely sure why I'm bothering with it at all.
I guess I just can't resist completing an assignment, no matter how pointless it seems. Nerdy little Logan, always does what he's told. Don't argue. Don't ask questions. Just do it. It's just not in my nature to be defiant. I don't like rocking the boat. (Ha. But I guess if that were really case, none of this would even be happening.)
Seriously though, I don't even know what to write in this thing. I know I'm supposed to express my feelings or whatever, but I kind of just feel like I'm talking to myself. Isn't that one of the first signs you're losing it? Because I'm not crazy. I know all crazy people say that at one point or other, but it's true.
So this is my first night here. It's eerily quiet, and it's really cold in here, and I think the loudest cricket on the face of the plant lives outside our window. I don't know how Kendall can stand it, but he's just snoring away, like all of this is totally normal. And maybe it is, for him. He had no problems admitting why he's here, what he's being treated for. But not me. This is all really weird.
What I really want to know is how long I have to keep coming here. Every weekend, yeah, but for how long? Until I'm better, I guess, but who gets to decide that? Until they 'fix' me? They can try all they want, but they won't succeed.
I'm not broken.