Three Little Things

XxX

I forget where I am.

I wake, thinking I'm still at home, hearing Darry's coffee brew, Soda clambering through the front door. A warm glow is cast through my room. Instead, I open my eyes and apple-face is there, opening windows and carrying a tray. "Pills," she says. I scowl and swallow them down.

XxX

On my way to breakfast, I pass the receptionist from yesterday. She chuckles heartily, "My, my, I was just speaking about you." I stop dead in my tracks, turn around and walk back to the desk.

"To who?"

"Oh honey," she booms, "you've been getting phone calls since two o'clock yesterday. Of course, I told dem boys when visitin' hours was but they sure cared none. They just keep calling. All day and all night."

XxX

I claim a table in a far corner, picking at my toast. I have no appetite. I take a drink of orange juice and twirl the plastic fork between my fingers like it's a pencil. I think of the crayons on my nightstand.

There's the squeak of a chair as the one opposite me is pulled out and a woman sits. She sets her tray down. I lean back.

"Hello." Her voice is deep and raspy. She's maybe in her 30's, with curly red hair and a thin scar trailing from the end of her left eyebrow to the edge of her chin. "I've seen you reading." She starts clucking her tongue.

I take a bite of toast and chew, unsure of what to say or do.

"I'm Marie," she says. "I like your name better though."

"Thanks," I say, smiling.

Marie clucks her tongue again and then says, "There're not many kids your age in here. There was one boy but not anymore."

I almost choke on my toast. I swallow fast. "What do you mean?"

"We have the same eyes," she says, cocking her head this way and that; evaluating me. She's right. In this light, I see they're a bright green. She stands.

"Wait," I say. "Who were you talking about?"

"Have a good breakfast," Marie says, leaving her tray and walking off.

I chew my lip. She was talking about Jamie Coleman. I go back to my room and smoke a cigarette.

XxX

10 o'clock hits and Nick's already waiting in the common area. He's in a baseball cap, sitting at one of the card tables, drumming his fingers against the top. He nods as I walk in, his face brightening.

"Hey," I say, sliding into the chair across from him.

"Well, you got in."

"I got in." I raise a brow, amused. "What's the matter, Nick? Had some doubts?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I expected to happen." His voice gets low. "So, what'd ya say?"

"Just told them I wanted to swallow a bunch of pills is all."

"That's quite a whopper. Although," Nick says, giving me an angry look, "according to your big brother, it ain't too far from the truth."

I bite my lip. "You heard."

"Yeah. What the fuck, Curtis?"

"You didn't tell Max did you?"

"No I didn't tell Max. But hell, telling Max is the least of our problems," Nick hisses. "Curtis, you're in here to bust a story. How're you gonna do that if you can't get straight?"

"I'm straight. Well," I amend, getting another glare, "straight-ish." I teeter-totter my hand. "I couldn't tell you Nick. It ain't something I wanted to broadcast. It's…it's embarrassing."

Nick sighs. "Ponyboy…"

"Okay, look, I wouldn't have done this if I didn't think I could handle it. I can. Besides, you think this is easy for me? I have to write with crayons, Nick. Crayons."

"Really? Shit that almost makes this worth it." He laughs and then asks, "Are you doin' okay at least, man?"

"Yeah, don't sweat it." I rest an elbow on the table, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You tell my brothers?"

"Yeah. It wasn't pretty. Darry went nuts," Nick says. "I went over there after work and he's on the phone yelling at someone and as soon as I walk in he starts yelling at me, something about how you shouldn't be on your own because of the pills. And then he gets this kind of panicked look on his face when I ask, 'what pills?' and I'm standing there like an idiot while he starts roaring about that."

Nick takes his baseball cap off, threading his fingers through his hair. He puts his cap back on, getting a breath and I remember why Nick's a journalist. "Then when I tell him what's going on, where you are—some sort of undercover work assignment, yada, yada—I swear Curtis, he wanted to take a swing at me."

"Shit. He didn't, did he?"

"No. He wanted more details but I wouldn't give him any." Nick smirks. "Leaving that to you."

"Hey, you did your part." I rub a hand across my forehead. "Thanks, man."

"Nothing to it. So," Nick says, giving me a forgiving grin. "Tell me what's goin on."

I launch into what all's happened in the last 24 hours, talking to the therapists, safety precautions that aren't lax, the taking away of my pens and pencils, and finally finishing up with meeting Marie this morning.

"I'm damn sure she was talking about Jamie Coleman. I'm going to try and talk to her later today," I say. "If she'll talk."

Nick's nodding. "That's good. Real good. Hey, I'm going to try and talk to Jamie's parents. Just ask them a few ques—Curtis, who's the lady eyeballing you?"

I follow Nick's gaze. It's Apple Face. "I don't know. She's some nurse, gives us our pills and—"

"Wait, what? You're taking meds?"

"Yeah, they put me on some anti-depressants."

Nick goes white. "Jesus Christ. You ain't taking them are you?"

"They watch you swallow. I can't get out of it." Nick groans and I say, "Glory, I don't want to take them either but I ain't got a choice."

"Okay, okay. Just…just be careful, Ponyboy." Nick glances at his watch. "You can call out here right? I can call in?"

"Yeah." I give him the phone number for the payphone in the hall. We talk for a few more minutes until Apple Face comes over and tells us morning visiting hours are over.

XxX

Marie was right. So far, I'm the youngest one I've seen in Ward B.

I survey the patients in my group therapy class.

After Nick's visit I had gone back to my room, only to be pulled out by Stubs. "We got class," he had said. I followed and ended up in a circle of chairs, led by Dr. Please.

I don't know how the class is divided up, but join the group of five. Marie and Stubs sit on each side of me. Across is the chess man, Clarence, who keeps staring off into space. He hums some garbled tune and doesn't answer any of Please's questions.

There's a blonde girl named Flora who keeps tugging at her hair. She pulls out long wispy strands and puts them in between her teeth like she's flossing. When she's done she wads the hair into a ball and sticks it in her pockets.

I stare at the tiled linoleum, wishing I were somewhere else.

The last patient is named Lester. He's big, Jerry Woods big, and has thick glasses and a lisp. He breathes heavily and has a laugh that cuts. "New," he keeps saying, staring at me through thick coke bottle lenses. "You're new. New and nice."

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. "Leave the kid alone," Marie snaps. She pats the top of my fluffy, non-greased hair. "Leave him be."

Dr. Please begins the session asking questions, following up on topics from last week. I keep quiet and listen.

XxX

I wander into the rec room. Group therapy is over and I try to kill some time by asking some questions about Cherry Hills. I spread them out among the lingering patients, hoping they're not too obvious.

I find out that three things are required at the hospital to get by. Individual Therapy on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, Group Therapy on Mondays and Fridays, and Pill Line-Up in the evenings at 8pm sharp.

There are 30 of us on Ward B, clusters of patients assigned to specific doctors and nurses.

The rest of the time it's about calm. About peace. You can interact if you want. Or you can hole yourself up in your room. Someone tells me to avoid The Box. I don't ask what that is.

XxX

Around two in the afternoon my hands start trembling. I stare at them like I've never seen them before.

XxX

I call my house. There's no answer.

I call Max. He's out.

I go back to my room.

XxX

I'm pacing. I need a pill. Need something. My chest is going to explode. The aching for a buzz returns. My hands ball into fists. You're sick, I tell myself. You're sick you have to resort to this. Everyone knows you're a mess. Everyone but you.

Thoughts reel in my mind. What would your parents say? What would Johnny say? Stay gold? Not anymore. Dallas would slap the shit out of you. You're lucky Darry hasn't already. Soda should've disowned you by now. No wonder they haven't come…

It's worse than I thought it would be. Here, I can't get anything. it's not like at home where I'd swear off the pills, do fine for two days and then cave and go buy some more. I'm literally on an island with no way off.

And it's only been a day.

My vision blurs and before I know it I'm running into the bathroom to retch.

XxX

"Ponyboy?" my door opens and I sit up, expecting Apple Face. Instead, it's Nurse Wilkes. She smiles gently. "Were you planning to come to dinner tonight?"

I sit up on my bed. "No ma'am. But thank you."

"Well, if you'd like I can send up some dinner?"

"Dinner's early here, ain't it?" It's only 4:30.

"We like to let the patients eat before evening visiting hours at 6," Wilkes says. "Settle your stomach some. Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

"Maybe just some water."

Nurse Wilkes gives me a knowing look. "You're doing fine, Ponyboy. I'll be back with that water."

XxX

The crayon snaps in my hand.

I swear, making a note to tell Dr. Please that I need a pencil. I pick up another crayon, a blue one this time, and scribble down my thoughts from the last two days. What people have said; opinions and facts.

Pausing, I lean back, against the headboard of my bed. I take a sip of water from the plastic cup. "Shit."

I set the cup back down on the nightstand. Specs of red float in the water. I touch a hand to my mouth. It comes away red.

I grab a tissue and cough.

Red.

XxX

There's a tap at my door. Quickly, I stick the papers into my pillowcase, along with the crayons. "Yeah?"

Stubs stands in the doorway. Today, he's all in black, reminding me of Johnny Cash. "You got some visitors. Two fellas look a lot like you."

I slide off my bed. Slowly. Shaken. "Where are they?"

"Common area." He catches my arm before I can bolt out of the room. "Walk it, kid. Don't run."

XxX

I get to the edge of the room. They're sitting on a couch, backs to me. I recognize the hunch of Darry's shoulders and hear Soda's low voice murmuring. Then Soda's back stiffens. He turns. And he's the one running.

XxX

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Ponyboy," Soda keeps saying. "What're you doing here?" Soda has his hand glued to mine. He glances around, checking out the other patients and their visitors. He grips my hand tighter. Only a few people are in the common room; no one that I know.

"Ponyboy, you got a lot of explaining to do." I glance at Darry. He's across from me sitting on another couch, his shoulders big and broad, arms crossed, face exhausted.

"Nick told you," I say. "It's for a story. And I—I thought this place could…"

"Fix you?" I stay silent and Darry sighs. "Pony, you know what I thought when I saw that letter?"

"Yeah, I do."

His glance is sharp. "Do you?"

"I saw the books, Dar." Darry pales. Soda seems confused so I keep talking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I say. "I couldn't do it by myself."

"You weren't by yourself," Darry says. "Pony, I would have done anything. Anything, kiddo."

"I—I didn't mean it like that. I just—I don't have self-control," I say. "I can't go cold turkey. I thought I could but I can't. And since we were doing a story for work I thought I might as well—"

"What? Volunteer yourself?" Soda finishes, and his jaw is tighter than I've ever seen. "Check yourself into this place? This shit show?"

"It's okay, Sodapop."

"Nothing about this is okay!" Soda yells. Heads turn to gawk, an orderly steps around the corner to watch us. "Nothing." Soda drops my hand. "Why didn't you just tell us instead of sneakin' off like you did?"

"I knew you wouldn't let me go."

Soda looks away.

"What's the story about, Pony?" Darry says.

"What?"

"The story. What is. It about?" His words are spaced far apart, like I'm slow and need time to think. Which in fact, I do.

"It's uh, about the day-to-day routine of a patient in Cherry Hills."

"And you couldn't research that at home?"

"No. It's investigative journalism." I eye Darry suspiciously. "And don't go calling my boss. He knows I'm here. He's the one who got me in."

Darry shakes his head. "Check yourself out, Ponyboy. Come home. You can do the report there. You can get help there. From someone we know."

"Please." Soda's staring at me.

My leg's jumping, mouth dry. The talk with my brothers makes me want to let them take me home. But I'm here for a reason. Two actually. "I can't." I shut my eyes and then open them. "There's a two week mandatory period. I already signed something."

"No," Soda says. "No. There has to be some way…Darry, can't we do anything?" Darry sits still, watching me.

"I'm stayin', Soda." I tug on my brother's plaid shirt, smelling gasoline fumes and his musky aftershave. "It'll work out. I hated lying to you guys; I can't do it anymore. I'll be okay. I'll do the story and come ho—"

A buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the visiting hour. I jump at the noise. Soda stiffens, watching another orderly walk across the room. Darry moves from his seat to sit next to me. He reaches out, wrapping a large hand around my neck, and draws my face close to his. "Kiddo, I don't like it here. I don't like leaving you. You call us or the boys every day, got that?"

"Glory, it's just two weeks, Dar."

"I don't care. If we don't hear from you, we're driving up, visiting hours or not." I nod. Bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

We say goodbye, Darry grabbing me and Soda both up in his arms. And when they leave, walking out, down the long white corridor, Soda is the one holding Darry up.

XxX

"Tuckered out, kid?" Stubs asks as I slink into line. I'm wiped out from the visit. I was on my way back to my room when the music had sounded, reminding me about Pill Line-Up. The song tonight is Glen Campbell's By the Time I Get to Phoenix. I wince at the country twang…

By the time I get to Phoenix she'll be rising
She'll find the note I left hangin' on her door
She'll laugh when she reads the part that says I'm leavin'
'Cause I've left that girl so many times before

"Butt out," I tell Stubs. He chuckles in surprise. I wince, saying, "I'm sorry, man."

Stubs holds a hand out. "No worries. You're withdrawin'. I can dig that."

I scratch my shoulder, twitchy. "How'd you know?"

"Most everyone here's on or off something."

"And you? What're you on?"

"Off…" Stubs murmurs, eyes distracted, watching something over my shoulder. I turn and see a young girl bickering with Apple Face. She throws her cup of pills. They go flying, blue and red capsules dancing on the floor.

"Oh, oh," Stubs says.

I watch in awe as two orderlies approach, question her calmly and then when the girl slams her hands on the counter, they each loop an arm through hers. She starts screaming, bucking her body as they drag her away; her wails echoing in the hall.

"The Box," someone up ahead of me says. Murmurs of worry float among us.

Stubs dips his mouth close to my ear. "It's just the seclusion room. I've been there. It ain't all it's cracked up to be."

My brain pulls up an article: Doug St. John, 38, …the patient, was found hanging in his seclusion room…

I smile as I approach Apple Face. I hold a hand out and take my meds. I gotta get in there.

XxX

SE Hinton owns the Outsiders.

Pardon typos.

Many thanks for the read and reviews. You guys rock and make me thankful I have such great readers. Hope you're enjoying the story so far. Lord knows there's enough left. Ha. But seriously…I still got a lot more to tell. Hope you're along for the ride.

XO,

Feisty