People call me crazy. It isn't exactly a secret anyways. Not when you're never by yourself in public, always with a chaperone. Not when you spend weekdays in a psychiatric ward.
The ward deals with all kinds of 'issues', like eating disorders, self-mutilation, and much much more. The brochure to 'St. Francis Academy' is laughable, with a picture of the sprawling lawns, pristine gardens, and picture-perfect administrators trying to establish how wonderful it is. No 'in-patients' are shown.
Do I think I'm crazy? No. I have full control over my mental capabilities. Maybe I am crazy in a way. See, no one really thinks they're crazy in psych ward, they think they are normal and no one understands. I for one, think I'm fine.
The alarm clock rings to start the day. I have no idea what would happen in a normal psych ward. (Um, oxymoron much?) The founder, Mr. Francis, tried a new innovative technique of rehabilitation: for it to resemble a school. This 'ward' is more like a private school, but with therapy instead of P.E. and monitors in the classroom. So anyways, unlike the stereotype, I dress in a T-shirt with jeans, not a uniform. Only difference is, once I start to head down the stairs for breakfast, I'm frisked.
My friend Anisha is sitting at a table and I go join her. Well, friend isn't much of a term to describe her. Most of our conversations include me trying to boost her self-esteem and get her to eat something. Sometimes we talk like normal friends; the breakthrough was when she told me about living with an eating disorder. But today, we sit in silence.
Eating a piece of fruit, I notice a stir in the cafeteria. We have a new kid. This isn't rare in itself, but something about him causes the news of a new kid to be spread to our table. Further investigation of the grapevine tells that he is arriving by late afternoon and apparently, he was kind of big news in our little corner of Tulsa. No mention of a name. Being shy by nature, I'm unpopular, even in a ward. Unless I directly ask, which is unlikely, he'll probably just be morning news, nothing more.
Anisha and I head to Advanced Math, which includes about 10 kids and about 5 guards. I hate those guards. Fiddling with their fancy red ties or suit collars, they pretend to be reading a book while staring at you under their tinted glasses. Mr. Fitzgerald, the teacher, is interupted from a lecture on Pythagoras by yet another guard entering the room. Almost hidden from view from the guards, erm, corpulent frame is the new kid. He has reddish-brownish hair, greenish-gray eyes, and an aura of pure embarrassment. Slowly, because I think that guard has never done anything quickly in his life, the guard faces the class and tells us we have a new classmate. His name is Ponyboy Curtis.