A Room With A View
Chapter Two
Disclaimer: I don't own any Degrassi characters, or anything affiliated with Epitome. The rest, besisdes a few things is mine.
In Dr. Mann's office there is giant painting hanging on the wall behind her desk. And every time she asks me a question, and I look up to meet her gaze, I end up staring at it this piece of artwork. This large, over the top, out of place painting annoys the shit out of me. Like just now, she's still talking and all I can think about is how much that ugly painting probably cost.
She's re-asking some retarded question about what my mom's favorite thing to cook was, as if I didn't hear her the first time. Why does she want to know that? Dr. Mann is always asking random questions like that. Considering that and the fact that her hair is short, and a vibrant shade of plum and her clothes are eccentric and don't match, I question her credibility as a psychiatrist.
I rub my temples with my index fingers, and even though I'm staring at the stupid painting, I can see the movement of Dr. Mann leaning forward, watching me massage my forehead. I can feel myself sweating, even though the air condition is cranking from it's spot below the wide window. The blinds are shut.
"Craig, are you… nervous?" Her voice is light and warm, soothing almost, like she's just one big pillow or something. Man, my way with words is lacking since I've been here, at Sandy Ridges.
Three days and counting. Three days, zero visits and one phone call, from Joey. He wanted to know if I need my own toothpaste. Nothing heartwarming or motivating in conversation about brands and flavors of toothpaste.
Personally, I prefer "Kiss me mint"; mostly because the color purple excites me and secondly, I want to be kissed real bad. Ellie was the last girl I kissed, and she hates me now. So I don't want to be kissed by someone that hates me. But, in my state of being right now (a fucked up loser), sharing some love with a girl wouldn't be so bad. Not all the girls here a drop dead ugly. Soo….
Jesus, Ellie hasn't called yet, not that she said she would, I just assumed… Ah, why do I care?
Yesterday, Mayson was blasting some scene, Mtv band in the rec room. Panic! At The Dance or something of the like. For the most part, they sucked. But, one line stood out, 'Sweetie, you had me.' For lack of originality and any better words, I want to tell Ellie that. Over the phone or in person or whatever. I want to hear her laugh and than they say something smart, with lots of big words that I'd have to look up in the dictionary. That'd be nice.
"Craig, are you okay?"
It feels really stuffy in here; Dr. Mann's office is located on the first floor and on the second floor above, I hear stomping. Like someone's having a helluva time dancing their heart out in the dorms.
"Dr. Mann?" My voice surprises me, it sounds so calm, like everything in my life has been and will always be just peachy.
She leans foreword, bending her elbow against her desk, her right hand cradling the left. Her eyebrows are raised her small ears perked up. Silly Dr. Mann; she thinks I'm going to say something amazing, like some great autobiography of my emotions. On the contrary:
"May I open the blinds?"
I don't think I've ever seen a face fall that far, become that disappointed in just five measly words. That's most definitely a record. And if I was the type of person who wrote all my feats down in a notebook, that'd definitely go in. Bill Watski, who's in my group therapy sessions, that's what he does. After ever meal he writes down everything he ate and how he survived and didn't choke on anything. Just stupid crap like that.
Dr. Mann nods her head yes, while looking defeated. The brown leather cow of a couch creaks when I stand up, except I hear it as a moo and I start laughing. Now, I'm laughing absurdly at what seems to be nothing at all and Dr. Mann thinks I am even more crazy than she originally suspected. I cross the oriental rug, over to the window and pull on the string. The grey, plastic blinds shift upwards, rattling against the glass. Slowly, they're pulled up.
The sunshine makes my eyes tingle and I blink a couple of times before adjusting to the warmth and brightness. I head back to the couch, sit and hear another creak that reminds me if a 'moo'. And I'm laughing. Hysterically.
"Craig, what's so funny?" As soon as she says this, I stop laughing and become mute, now staring at the dumb painting again.
"I don't know." I mumble, rubbing the toe of my shoe against the rug.
The painting is this picture of a house. Just a plain simple home, that a nice family probably lives in. The house is white with dark green shutters, the windows glowing, probably because the scene is night. On the side of the house, there is this big, ancient looking tree, with a tire swing dangling from one of it's branches. It's the stupid tire wing that makes me hate the fucking painting the most.
When Mom and I first moved in with Joey, all those years ago, there was this tire swing in the backyard. It was my favorite thing in the world, mostly because it was all mine. Angie was too young to play with it while, Mom claimed she'd get motion sickness. Joey, sometimes, would swing on it, just for kicks and giggles, but other than that, it was all mine.
But after mom died, the day before I was to move in full time with Dad, Joey cut the swing down. He said the rope was rotted and he didn't want Angie getting hurt, and besides I was getting too old for it and was moving away anyways. I should've understood the angle Joey was coming from, but I didn't. And frankly, I still don't.
"Craig, I think your problems go deeper than your addiction. You have to open up though, in order to get better. You're young, you don't want to be caged here."
I wanted to scream DUH in her tiny face, but I didn't. I just closed my eyes and thought for a moment. Than I spoke.
"My mom and paternal Father are both dead." I didn't open eyes, I was speaking too bluntly, and I felt almost sick.
"Oh, Craig, I didn't know that. I'm so sorry."
Now, I look at her, wait, I glare at her. Making a fist with my hand at my side.
"Don't be, I'm over it. Didn't it say all that in that manila folder of mine?"
Dr. Mann shook her head no. I bet she's lying, doctors and important people always lie to make you feel better, to make you feel like you can relate to them when you really can't. She's probably rich and drives an energy efficient car, while I'm not allowed to access my funds or my sweet car.
Time is eating at my insides, like a tapeworm. I want this session to be over. I'm sick of Dr. Mann, and all her lies and question. She's looking at me again, shaking her head, an attempt to assure me that everything is okay. What the fuck? Nothing is okay!
"Can, I… leave yet?"
I ask, standing up. The couch creeks, but I hold in my laughter, biting my lip. She has a confused look on her face, but reluctantly nods her head. And as she does, I'll I can do is stare at the jiggling fat under her chin. Dr. Mann isn't a fat person or anything, but like most older people she hast that double-chin thing going on. Oh, I want to laugh so bad, but my teeth are jabbed into my bottom lip. So, I just stand there, looking like a self-cannibal or something.
She mumbles something about, calling an escort, because I'm that much of a hazard to myself. We're silent till the knocking on the door is heard. There's Forrest.
Since he has been here for a long time, he gets to escort people to and from their counselor meetings. He smiles, warmly and knowing. And I lever Dr. Mann's office without goodbye, full aware that I have another half hour left.
I wonder what Dr. Mann will do with this free, thirty minute break. I glance back into her office. She's closing the blinds. Ick.
Lunch is served at the same time, everyday. 11:35am. Forrest and I arrive early today, because we had nothing better to do. But, it's actually a good thing because then, there is U-G-L-Y girl. This beyond obese girl with, ironically enough, caramel color eyes and bland brown hair to her boulders, err, shoulders.
We don't know her name, but she always wears this shirt that says: "U-G-LY; you ain't got no alibi". When one looks like a female Hagrid (you know, the Harry Potter series), you should not deem anyone around you ugly.
We watch her take the plastic green tray up to the server for seconds. It's only 11:34. The server shakes her head no and U-G-L-Y girl puts her tray in the stack to be washes, the garbage checker not even batting an eyelash in her direction.
She walks out of the cafeteria, and I watch her exiting form, wondering, how? How does one lose themselves, and get swallowed into a world of food. Is it the same as my own addiction?
The girl drops something, and I jog over to what fell from her pocket.
"Hey, you dropped something!" I call, but she doesn't turn around, like she didn't hear me. I stuff the note that she dropped into my pocket. I'll give it to her later.
I walk back to Forrest; he's in the lunch line, having Salisbury steak splattered onto his tray.
"That's a huge bitch." He mumbles and I laugh with him, even though it was a pretty mean thing to say. I grab my own tray and opt for a turkey sandwich and some French fries. Yum.
Dr. Mann may have a double chin, but U-G-L-Y girl has a quadruple chin. I'm an evil basturd.
Our lunch table hosts the younger guys at Sandy Ridges. The circle table can sit six people, and I've only talked about three of them, myself included.
To my right, is Forrest. We've sort have become buds since my arrival. He's the only one I consider as a friend.
Then there's Blade Hartman. A badass kid that smoked one too many joints. He has a Mohawk and he thinks his shit doesn't stink and that he's cooler than everyone. We put him in his place, though.
Next to Blade is Bill, who is jotting stuff in his notebook. He's youngish, but crazy. One too many LSD trips.
Derek Bick sits next to Bill. Derek's a real bookworm, here because he tried to kill himself. Just as he was about jump off the latter he was on in his garage, noose around his neck, his father walked in and saved him.
On my left is Roy. I think he's a weird guy, he likes talking with an old English accent (think Shakespeare).
"What do you think about her?" Forrest asks, nudging me. I look up and see a new girl, I've never seen before. To be blunt, she's hot. Real hot.
Her eyes, though sunken in, are an amazing shade of blue. Her blonde hair choppy, and up to her ears. And she's walking with Mayson.
Three days filled with numerous, one sided conversations, her doing all the talking and me just listening, in the rec room with her, it doesn't surprise her when I call out her name.
"Mayson!!" She swings her new friend, to the direction of our table. Now, they're both standing by my chair and I turn to face them. Forrest quirks an eyebrow.
"Hey, what's up Craig?" Forrest laughs at Mayson's small lisp. I hit his knee under the table.
"Nothing much." I shrug, and poke a whole into the bun of my sandwich with my pinky.
Mayson seems to shudder a bit at the sight of three empty mayonnaise packets on my tray; I ignore it.
"Who's your friend, Mayssson?" Forrest asks, mocking Mayson's pronunciation of her own name. Mayson, looks at the ground, and I punch Forrest's knee under the table again, muttering 'asshole' under my breath.
"I'm Cara…" Holy shit, this Cara girl is looking right at me, licking her lips. What a fucking slut. Forrest is eating it up. Taking her hand into his and bringing it up to his lips to kiss.
"Well…" Forrest says releasing her hand. "Welcome to the Cuckoo's Nest."
Asshole.
Both the girls walk away. "Which one do you want to fuck?" Forrest asks.
That answer, if this would've been the real world, I'd have said Mayson. The shy, protective best friend girl. But here, for some reason, I said, "Cara…"
And Forrest raises his hand for a high five.
After lunch, I decide that I'll take the first step and call Ellie. To apologize, or say some shitty lie or something.
There is only one phone on the first floor, located in a small room between the two washrooms. I walk into the room and see that someone is already on the phone.
The U-G-L-Y girl.
Other than the prying video camera in the corner of the room, that is linked right to the front desk, we're alone.
I sit on the stiff, plastic, chair, waiting for my turn. I try to tune out her coversation, but I can't help but hear that she is crying.
"Mom, I don't want to be here anymore. I don't fit in….I know. But, I'll I try harder…Mommy…Yes, I know how old I am….nineteen. Okay…Bye… Love you?"
I can hear the dial tone from here. Her mom didn't say, 'love you' back. I feel bad for her. She turns to leaves and catches a glimpse of me for the first time, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
The fattest man I've ever seen was at the beach, when I was six. I couldn't help starring at him, as I watched him breath with one of those tube things. He was drinking slim fast, and watching his kids, who seemed older than me by one or two years build a sand castle. Mom caught me starring at him, and demanded to Dad that we go to another beach. We did. I wonder what happened to that man…
"Sorry…" She whispers, her voice delicate.
I give her a quizzical look. "Why are you apologizing?"
She shrugs her shoulders, and I pull the note she dropped out of my pocket.
"You dropped this, in the dinning hall." I hand it to her, and she smiles. She has pretty teeth.
"Thanks…"
"What's your name?"
"Angela."
I smile, "That's the name of my little sister, I miss her a lot."
Angela gives me a sad look, and plays with the beaded bracelet around her wrist. It looks like the kind little girls make, with the plastic, rainbow of colors beads. The kind with the big holes, so string slides right in through.
" I miss my little sister too."
I nod, "It was nice talking to you, but I have a phone call to make…"
"Okay…bye."
"Bye."
As soon as she exits, I dash to the phone, my hand shaking as I reach into my pocket for my wallet which contains my calling card.
So frantically am I digging in my wallet, my heart drops into my stomach when I pull out a wallet sized picture. From a wedding, along time ago.
How the hell did it get into my wallet?
I stare at the picture, mesmerized by how much she has change in ten years. Emma Nelson, my how you've grown. And I squint my eyes, picturing what she looks like now.
I forget who I was going to call, and end up dialing a number that could, most certainly cause all Hell to break loose.
I really am fucking mental.
And why are the threads so loose on my wallet?