I sat in group trying not to snap my rubber band against my wrist. Across the circle I could see Craig, even when I wasn't looking at him I could see him from the corner of my eye. He had his head down, eyes fixed firmly on his sneakers. So sad, and I got it. I got that kind of sadness. It was the sadness of being fucked up and being unable to hide it. It was like that day Paige saw all the slashed cuts on my arms, and I saw the horror and the wonder in her big blue eyes. Paige of all people, someone I had never liked, someone who lived in a different world than I did, and she's following me into the bathroom because my fucked -upness went beyond the boundaries of the school caste system.
So I got it, and I could see him not talking, and if our group leader asked him a direct question he would answer with one or two words. He wasn't ready to open up yet, because he wasn't used to people knowing how fucked up he was. I was sure he was used to it himself, but he hid it. He hid it better than I ever did. I thought back to how he had acted, popular and sure of himself. He deliberately projected this light hearted aura like nothing could possibly be wrong. What could be wrong? But now I knew his mother died when he was 11 or 12, his father beat him so severely that he became suicidal, and now he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. This was something else entirely. Bad things could happen to you, tragedies, because sooner or later they would happen to everyone. The thing with his mother dying was that it happened so early, but most people would experience that sooner or later. The thing with him being beaten was unfortunate, but it happened to other people. But the thing with being diagnosed as bipolar meant something else. His brain didn't function right, the chemicals that were supposed to regulate things were off, and that made his behavior erratic.
What were my diagnoses? What was wrong with me? I self mutilated, and was that a symptom of depression or some sort of personality disorder? My mother was an alcoholic, and she had been very difficult to put up with. I wasn't bipolar. I wasn't schizophrenic. Who was worse? Who had it worse? If someone wrote up a case study of me and compared it with a case study of Craig who would win, or lose? I couldn't fake things at school like he could, there were many days when I didn't want to talk to anyone at all, and I couldn't be bothered to pretend much of anything for them.
That protective exterior of being unconcerned and popular had all worn away now. There was no wide, flirtatious smile on his face now. He still sat there with his head down, his eyes down, his hair hanging in straight bangs across his forehead. I knew he had just been hospitalized for the bipolar, and I tried to imagine that. All I could think of was when I was sad and I went to my room, and I locked myself in there with music and my misery and my razor.
Ashley was going to bail, I could see that in her eyes. I saw it when she begged me to take him, "bring him to your group," she had pleaded, and her large blue gray eyes made it impossible to refuse her. So I agreed to bring him, to invite him, to go to his house with the lies about guitar strings so I could get him to come, all for her. I would help her with her popular pretty boy boyfriend, but I didn't think I realized what his fucked-upness would do to me. I forgot that that kind of thing made people real for me, that put them on my level.
So here we were, and I could see the sheath of my red hair hanging against my cheek. I tried not to look at Craig anymore but he was right across from me and I couldn't seem to help it. What was the point? Was I really going to fall into some pathetic lust with him? He'd never choose me over Ashley. None of them ever did. She was the package girl. Pretty, smart, creative, not screwed up. Of course he would choose her. I was just the weird red head who cut, who was goth, who could maybe be your weird friend but nothing more. That would be the future of this, and I could feel myself being pulled toward him, I could feel myself liking that sad look in his eyes, the way his head was bent down, how defeated he looked, how vulnerable. Of course I liked that. He had been brought down to the bone with this bipolar thing, all his illusions that he was fine had been shattered once and for all, and I could see it.
I tried to stuff it down. I tried not to notice his large hazel eyes, the long thick lashes, the curl of his hair despite the fact that he blow dried it or tried to straighten it. I wouldn't notice the frayed end of his jeans hanging over the blue canvas of his sneakers, I wouldn't notice the thick gravel of his voice, like he had been screaming and now his vocal chords were raw. I wouldn't notice anything because he was still dating Ashley and she was my friend and I was doing this as a favor for her so really, could I control myself for one single solitary minute?
"Craig?" Our fearless leader was going to try and draw him out, but it wouldn't work yet. He looked up, and it was amazing how you could see everything that was going on with him once he stopped pretending he was fine. You could see the anger that had been dulled by drugs and his recent struggles being hospitalized, you could see sadness, and fear. But he was too polite to ignore him, or to just not respond. I licked my lips and waited.
"Yeah?," Craig said, and now fear won out in his eyes as he waited for a question he wouldn't want to answer.