Chapter Eight
All cried out, Juliette trudged slowly back to the cabin from Peter's office. He had, mercifully, allowed her this journey alone. She needed a few moments to pull herself together before she dealt with anyone else, before she returned to life. She half-wanted to stay nuzzled in this painful analysis, where at least she didn't have to participate in life, where she could just sit back and be miserable and destructive. That, at least, seemed safe.
She was caught off-guard by footsteps suddenly beside her, Auggie's face tentatively smiling, his eyes shy but inquiring.
"Hey there, Jules. What's up?"
Speak. Speak. Say something.
"Hey," she replied in a barely audible voice.
"What's wrong? Are you okay?"
Juliette's steps slowed to a shuffle.
"Juliette, are you all right?" Auggie's voice grew worried.
She stopped, stared at the wood chips covering the path.
"Juliette," he said, his voice firmer than she had ever heard.
"Um, yeah. I'm okay."
"Where you coming from?"
Moments passed. "Peter's."
"What happened? Did something upset you? Is—are—do you have to leave?"
"No, no, nothing like that. Just, you know, a typical Peter session."
"Rough."
"Yeah." Tears threatened.
Auggie took her hand, gently, and led her over to a pair of trees. She stood away from one, near the path. Peter would be watching.
"Jules, what's eating at you?"
She gave a short, cynical laugh. "What's not?"
"You gotta get past that stuff. You gotta get on with things, you know?"
She nodded and they stood in amicable silence for a long time. Finally, Juliette looked up at him, tentatively. "I'm sorry, Auggie. For everything."
"What's to be sorry about, Twig? You're always so nervous. Chill out, Jules. As long as you're in my life, as long as you're still my friend—I'm happy with that. It's you not being around, or you being unhappy, that I can't deal with."
* * *
They went to dinner together that night, Juliette having to consciously remember not to cling to Auggie's hand. She could do this on her own. She sat staring at the full plate and tried not to calculate its calories. She tried to dull the roar of her mental calculator by turning to Shelby. "Is it just me or is the cook here getting better?" she asked, just this side of frantic. "I think this food looks a lot better than the stuff a few months ago, don't you?" Her head bobbed several times emphatically. Shelby gave her an odd look but played along.
"Yeah. Right. This food is much less disgusting, Juliette. Now I feel like vomiting when I look at it, as opposed to projectile vomiting. It takes a real chef to make that kind of leap."
Juliette gave her a nervous grimace as she shoved the first spoonful of potatoes in her mouth, closing her eyes tightly as she swallowed the lot.
They stuck in her throat, fat and warm. She drank a large gulp of milk to shove them into her stomach, where at least she couldn't feel them so much, even if she still had to think about them. Spoon up, she told herself. Normal people eat more than one spoonful. That's it—not too much, not too little. Don't get greedy. She cut off that direction of thought and focused on the conversation around her as she forced the spoon into her mouth again.
She ate half the meal and considered it a victory.
* * *
The next day they had to go out to the climbing wall. Kat walked with her, silent but supportive, and settled Juliette on a rock next to the wall. She did not have to climb. She did not have to do much of anything, lately, except show up. Peter said it was all right to spend her energy focusing on her "issues." Juliette kicked around listlessly off to one side from the rest of the Cliffhangers. They were giving her space. She was back to being poor Juliette, poorsickdelicate Juliette. It was familiar but not comforting. Getting better was a pain in the ass. She wandered away from the rock, careful to stay within the counselor's line of sight, and tried to remember the tree identifications they had learned in biology several months later. It was impossible. She still couldn't tell the difference between a maple and a sycamore.
It was the glint that caught her eye. A faint reflection of sunlight that hit a tree's trunk just so, shining light up at her like a signal or a beacon. The pieces of a broken root beer bottle. Without even thinking about it, she had bent down to the shards and grabbed a long and narrow piece, shaving it deep into the back pocket of her jeans.
* * *
Her heart beat fast with anticipation and apprehension for the rest of the day. When Sophie pulled her aside after English class, Juliette was certain that she'd been seen taking the glass shard. She tried frantically to come up with excuses, useless reasons which fell away when Sophie said merely that if Juliette ever wanted to talk, Sophie was available. Relieved, Juliette nodded. She ignored the voice in the back of her head that told her to hand the glass over to Sophie right then, to rid herself of the weapon.
She wasn't alone until bedtime, safely locked in a bathroom stall. She stared at the piece of glass. Turned it over in her hand. It was sharp on three sides. She held it loosely, thought about tossing it into the trash. He hand tightened around the glass immediately at that thought. Okay, Juliette thought, I want to use the glass. Why? What would it help? Although she winced inwardly, Juliette shoved the glass back into her pocket, emerged from the stall, and went to her bed. She pulled her journal from her backpack.
I really want to cut right now. I have this piece of glass right in front of me, this perfect opportunity, and I'm blowing it. Somebody's going to come looking for me and I'll have to get rid of it
Or not.
I could put it in my pocket; nobody would know. Peter and Sophie don't check me for…stuff… every night. I could put it under my mattress and—
I hate thinking this way. So conniving. It's obvious it is wrong, so why do I keep obsessing over it?
I'm tired of this, Peter. I AM TIRED OF THIS SHIT. That's what it is: shit. Stuff that's ruining my life. I want it GONE. I am ready for a change. Ready to eat like a normal human being. To not spend my life in front of, or thinking of, a toilet bowl. To not hurt myself. To stop hurting inside. To stop feeling bad about single thing I encounter.
I am going to change, Peter.
I think.
Juliette scowled at the journal. She couldn't be decisive, she couldn't take a stand, not even now. She couldn't trust herself to make the change. She couldn't trust herself.
She sat with that thought a minute, dumbfounded.
Is that what this is? All this time, all this hatred, all these expectations I have to live up to—and I don't even think I can really do any of it? Daisy would called that a doomed prophecy, wouldn't she? Asking myself to live up to what I don't believe I can do.
Who do I trust—and trust completely?
No one. Not Auggie, not Peter, not even myself.
Is that why I'm going nowhere? Is that why I'm not getting better? I don't believe I can, or deserve to? I don't have any faith in myself. I don't trust myself.
She shoved the journal back into her backpack, down to the bottom, as though she could make her thoughts disappear, and slipped her shoes back on.
"Where are you going?" asked Daisy, who, unbeknownst to Juliette, had been watching the girl's pained writing.
"Out," Juliette said shortly, but she softened when she saw a hurt look cross Daisy's face. "I, uh, need to see Peter. I need to talk to someone." She stopped, realizing how that sounded. "I need to talk to Peter." She could talk to Daisy eventually, but only Peter would know how to help her with this mess. Daisy nodded. "I'll let them know when they come to check on you," she said. Juliette pulled her coat on and walked purposefully out the door.
Kat came out of the bathroom, wiping her face with a towel. "Where did Juliette go?"
"Peter. I think she needs some help."
"Should one of us follow her?"
"No, I think she's okay."
* * *
Peter 's office door was closed, locked tight. Juliette began to panic. Her hands shook. She had this piece of glass and Peter was nowhere to be found. What was she supposed to do? She turned to go back down the hallway, back to the girls' cabin, and collided with Peter's chest.
"Whoa, whoa there, Juliette. What's up?"
Relieved to finally be in a position to hand the whole mess over to someone else, Juliette burst into tears. She sank to the floor, not even bothering to maintain a semblance of control. She couldn't: she had no control.
Peter kneeled next to her, concerned, distressed. "Jules, what's wrong? Juliette, are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself?" His hands pulled gently at her sleeves.
"No," sniffled Juliette, trying to let the tears ease. "No, I'm okay. I just, uh, Peter—" she couldn't say it. She pulled the piece of glass from his pocket and handed it to him. Peter examined it, then pocketed it and helped her to her feet.
"Let's go into my office, Juliette. We need to talk, am I right?"
She nodded, mute. He fumbled with his keys for a moment, then led her to the couch. He perched on the coffee table in front of it, eye-to-eye with her. She shut her eyes.
"Did you use this, Juliette?"
"No! No, I told you. I wanted to. I wanted to, but I didn't."
"Okay, it's okay, Juliette." He put his hand on her leg for a moment and Juliette relished its warmth. She needed comfort like air.
"I want to, Peter, I want to so bad. I don't understand this! I just—I just want to hurt myself." She dissolved into incoherence again.
"You hurt and you don't understand why, is that it, Jules?"
She shook her head, then nodded, then shook her head again. "Yes—no—I don't know!" She tossed her arms up slightly, a gesture of futility.
"Are you scared, Juliette?"
"What?"
"Are you scared?"
"Of what?"
"Of anything?"
"Yes; I'm scared of everything, Peter."
"What? Like what? Name some things."
"I'm scared I'll get fat. I'm scared nobody will like me. I'm scared I have no friends. I'm scared I'm stupid…I'm scared there's something wrong with me…I'm scared my mother—that she, she doesn't like me. Love me. I'm…" she trailed off, eyes blank and sad.
"That's a lot of fear in there," Peter said, motioning to her chest. "That's a lot to keep bottled up in there."
"So? Peter, I know I'm a wreck. I could've told you that."
"What happened tonight, today?"
"Nothing, nothing different. I didn't have to do anything; there was nothing to upset me. I found the glass and I went to lunch and classes and dinner and then I went to uh, um, use the glass."
"Were you upset at lunch, at dinner?"
"No. Well, no more than usual."
"Jules, you have these emotions in you all the time—you're scared, upset all the time. I'm not sure you're even aware of it anymore. But part of you is—that's why you wanted to use the glass, isn't it? To get rid of those feelings, to calm down, to feel better."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." She sat quietly for a moment. "I don't even know what I feel half the time. How can I feel better, then?"
"By working at it, Jules. You know you don't change overnight. If you did, we wouldn't need Horizon, right? I could just pop in for house calls."
Juliette managed to crack a very small grin. They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes.
"Feeling better?" Peter finally asked.
She nodded. "Yeah, a little. I guess I really needed to be upset."
"You've got to feel the feelings, Juliette. Even if they scare you, even if they aren't pleasant. You've got to get them out of you. You can't get better otherwise."
She looked up at him, honest, wide open for the first time. "Peter," she asked tentatively, her voice barely audible.
"What, Jules?"
"I don't think I want to get better."
Peter did not waste time on platitudes; he did not reassure Juliette that she did, in fact, want to improve. It didn't matter that he knew she could—she had to figure that out for herself. Otherwise, she wouldn't ever get better. "What does that mean, Juliette? Explain it to me."
"I—I don't think I can get better. I don't think I can stop doing this."
"You don't think you can. That's different from not wanting to, isn't it?"
"What's the difference?" She bent her feet up on the table in front of her as if to shield herself from something unseen.
"The difference is whether you are motivated or not. If you believe something is impossible, Juliette, you'll never accomplish it. You'll prevent yourself from achieving it."
"You sound like Daisy."
"Daisy's a smart girl."
* * *
For the first time, she slept through the night without waking. She cried no tears, just fell into bed, exhausted. She woke ready to fight another battle: every day was a long battle. But she was finally fighting back, fighting for herself. She was worth fighting for.
