Turn the World Upside Down Page 4

  I cradle my right arm with my left. The boom and throb from my head and ears travels to my hand, pain pulsing through it in heavy waves.

  It’s not a second later that the door shoves open, and people storm in. Their voices are muffled. I don’t move, don’t speak, as they touch my hand, look at me, then lead me to another part of the building. A medical center.

  If it wasn’t for the pain, I would think I’d maybe stepped out of my body again. That I wasn’t living the situation as I see a doctor, go through an X-ray. It’s not broken, but it’s bruised and swollen. I need to keep it wrapped for a few days. Blah, blah, blah.

  The only response I can give them is a nod. It’s as if all my words are gone. Nothing is there except Holly and what I let happen to her.

  “Hunter? Oh, sweetheart. I’m here.” Mom’s voice partially snaps me out of whatever alternate universe I slipped into. Or not an alternate universe at all, just a reality full of nothing but truth.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Mom’s arms wrap around me, squeeze me, remind me I’m real. “You can’t do that. You hurt your hand.” She’s crying now. Her tears run off her face and down mine. “We can go home. If you need to, we can go home.”

  “No.” It’s the first word I’ve said since I lost it in the shrink’s office, but the pain in her voice inspires it. I’m hurting my family, Holly and my mom. No matter how much I want out of here, how much I’d rather be with them, maybe I shouldn’t be. Not since I keep making things harder on them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FOR THE next couple days, I don’t speak unless I have to. Casey doesn’t play his clarinet at all in our room, and despite the voice in my head saying I should tell him he can, I don’t.

  Maybe there are voices there. I told the doc there weren’t, but maybe there are. I just don’t know if those are the ones that are supposed to be there or not. Like, what’s the difference between having internal thoughts or a conscience and “hearing voices”?

  Rosie came to tell me she hopes my hand heals fast. People talk. That much is obvious. They’ve all heard that I went postal in my psychiatrist’s office and hurt my hand punching a wall.

  Strangely, I can’t find it in myself to care. Can’t find myself caring about much of anything.

  Stray and their blonde friend are in my afternoon therapy sessions. Her name is Bethany. His is Jeremiah. They said it in therapy, otherwise I wouldn’t know. The therapist accidentally called him by his name once, and he corrected him, insisting on being called Stray.

  I feel the eyes on me, always on me. You wouldn’t think I’d be the freak in a place like this, but right now, I am.

  It’s not how Rosie looks at me, and she’s always looking.

  It’s not how Stray watches me either. His eyes are always there too.

  I’m not sure how I feel about Rosie or Stray, so I don’t think about it.

  Mom called once. She asked if I wanted to say hi to Holly, but I told her no.

  One of the reasons I used to get so upset with Holly when she had nothing good to say about Dad was because I always felt so lucky. I’m not stupid. We aren’t wealthy, but we’ve never struggled. She always had gymnastics, and I always had every sport I wanted.

  We went on vacations in the summer, and my parents laughed and talked. They didn’t fight like my friend Anthony’s parents did all the time.

  Yeah, maybe Dad was a little strict with Holly sometimes, stricter than he was with me, but I just saw it as him wanting to protect his daughter. Plus, she’s younger than me. I never saw him lay a hand on Holly, even to hug her. Now that I think about it, I remember catching stern looks, and I’d see Holly drop her gaze. I just didn’t get what it meant.

  In my mind I couldn’t get why she didn’t understand that he was trying to be a good dad.

  We had a good life. I was happy.

  Now, I see it was all a lie, and I’ll never be happy again.

  I’ve never known what it feels like to be lonely. Now it lives inside me. Fuels me. It’s my only friend, and there’s the knowledge there, always in the back of my head, that it should be like that.

  People do something wrong, and they get punished.

  There are actions and consequences. Results. These are my results.

  I might not have been strong enough to stop what happened, but I’ll be strong enough to deal with the aftermath.

  Holly has to.

  Mom does too.

  It’s been three days since I hurt my hand. Each one I go through the motions: therapy, “wilderness therapy” where we explore the grounds, and art therapy. I just finished my afternoon session. Another group is in there now, and everyone else is taking part in different activities. I’ve already been dinged for not doing some of the extracurricular activities, but it helps that my hand is screwed up. It limits the activities I can participate in.

  Really, all I want to do is lie in bed. Lie in bed and sleep.

  The sun’s so bright, my eyes sting when I walk outside. Sunglasses have never really been my thing. The sun doesn’t bother me unless I look right at it, but now it’s as though just being outside hurts. Like the world is suddenly too bright. I’ve never craved a dim world, but now the sun highlights everything that’s happened. It’s a spotlight following me around.

  Hoping to find more places to hide from the world, I walk around the side of the building. There’s a yellow path, as though they tried to channel The Wizard of Oz.

  I remember when Mom made us watch that movie one night. I thought it would be lame, the flying monkeys laughable, but my parents liked it so much, I somehow did too.

  It was so easy then. When we were happy. When we were blind. But then, it wasn’t easier for Holly. She shielded us from her pain, even though it caused us more.

  There’s a ton of open space behind Better Days. The stables are over to the right, but all off in the distance. Close to the building, I think I’ll be alone.

  Who would have thought? Hunter Donovan craving more time alone.

  As soon as I make the turn, I see Casey against the wall. Brock and another guy, Abraham, I think his name is, are both standing in front of him.

  He looks like he did when I told him I’d rather he didn’t play the clarinet that night. His hands are twitching and wringing together. He’s looking down, shaking, and I think if he had the power, he’d make himself completely disappear.

  “What are you looking at?” Abraham yells my way. “Get out of here.”

  I could. There’s nothing stopping me from turning and walking away. This isn’t my business, but then I think about that Casey-shaped lump under the blanket. The shame and fear he held when I mentioned him in the first group lesson. The way he looks like he could burst out of his skin.

  The way I always feel now.

  “Nah, he’s cool. That’s Hunter. I got him in my morning therapy,” Brock tells Abraham. “He was giving Shakes crap about that stupid fucking clarinet the first day. He’s not like these guys. He’s more like me.” He pushes Casey against the wall.

  There’s a part of me who knows Brock is right. He looks like a guy I’d be friends with back home. A guy I’d chill with instead of staying home with my sister. I’d be more likely to hang out with Brock than I would Casey.

  “You share a room with him, don’t you?” Brock nods at me. “I bet you want to kick his ass more than I do. You’re the one who has to hear him playing that stupid thing all the time. P-p-p-please. I n-n-need to p-p-play.” Abraham and Brock laugh, and it feels like a kick to my gut.

  Holly was weaker than Dad, and he knew he could prey on her.

  I’m not letting them do the same thing to Casey. “Leave him alone.”

  The smile slides off Brock’s face. Veins pop out of his thick neck. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, man. Back off.”

  “You gonna make me?” He lets go of Casey and steps toward me.

  “Yeah, if I have to.” The noise in my head starts up, a low buzz forming there
that gets louder and louder each second. There’s two of them and one of me. Maybe I should care about that, but I don’t. Let them kick my ass. They’re not touching Casey.

  Brock and Abraham both move toward me.

  “Get out of here.” I nod at Casey. He shakes so bad, his teeth are clattering. But he doesn’t run. Doesn’t move at all until he just goes down, his body sliding along the building until he’s sitting and leaning against it.

  “Look at him! He’s losing it.” Brock laughs. “What a pussy. He can’t even run, he’s so scared.”

  It’s almost like Casey doesn’t hear them. Like he’s not in this world anymore. He wraps his arms around his legs, rocking, shaking, staring off into space. He’s mumbling, counting I think, but I can’t really hear him.

  It’s then that he grabs his chest, starts gasping for breath.

  “What the hell?” I hear the nerves in Abraham’s voice.

  Casey sounds like he’s choking on air, trying to suck in deep breaths that can’t make it through him. My heart jumps up a notch. Then starts running faster.

  “Holy shit. He can’t breathe. Let’s get out of here!” Brock hits Abraham’s arm, and then the two of them run, their footsteps slapping the yellow brick road as they leave me with Casey, sitting on the ground, fighting for breath.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MY HEART keeps trying to jump out of my chest. Anxiously, I look around for help. There’s no one here. Why isn’t there anyone here?

  “What do I do?” My knees are weak when I kneel next to Casey. He needs help, but I don’t know if I should leave him alone.

  “Help!” I yell, and then my body jerks when he grabs me and pulls.

  “N-n-no.” He doesn’t say anything else.

  “I’m thinking that’s not a real good idea, man.” I don’t know why he doesn’t want help… but then, maybe I do. I get it. Not wanting everyone to see you when you spiral out of control.

  People saw that when I wrecked the display case at school. Saw when I accidentally hit a teacher.

  “Okay. I’m. Okay.” His words are broken. He’s still trying to catch his breath, but he looks better than he did a second ago. “Every good boy does fine. F-A-C-E.” I have no idea what he’s doing until he mumbles. “Whole notes. Four beats. Half notes. Two beats.” His words are still broken and choppy, but as he keeps going through notes and beats and rhythms, his breathing starts to even out, and his shaking slows down.

  Not knowing what to do, I just sit there, hoping like crazy he doesn’t pass out on me or something.

  “Treble clef. Bass clef.”

  The more he talks, the calmer he becomes. His fingers move like they’re playing his instrument, and I realize then what it does for him. Why he needed to play, and why Stray and Rosie said I need to let him.

  This is what I tried to take from him.

  When his breathing gets almost back to normal, mine does too… and I feel like crap. “Are you okay now?” I ask, almost touching his shoulder, but then pull my hand back. That’s weird. I shouldn’t touch him when I don’t really know him. “I thought you were going to lose it for a minute there.”

  Casey’s body tenses up at my words. He scrambles backward a few feet, his long limbs awkward.

  “Hey—” I start, but then Casey pushes to his feet and runs away.

  NEITHER STRAY nor Casey is in afternoon therapy. Suddenly, I’ve become a stalker because I watched the other afternoon session and saw that Casey hadn’t gone. It annoys me that I paid attention to these things. The afternoon keeps playing through my mind, making me alternate between anger and confusion—screw Casey for not being appreciative over what I did for him and what did I do wrong?

  From the afternoon group session, I go straight to my room. For a second I consider trying to find somewhere else to go, but then I’ll be around people. I can’t handle being around people right now.

  Casey won’t be there. I’m not sure how I know that, but I do.

  The room feels even smaller than it did when I first got here. It’s gotten smaller each day, which is strange because it feels like I’ve gotten smaller and smaller as well. Maybe that’s what this is about. It’ll make me disappear. Maybe that’s better.

  At four minutes after three, I’d walked into my room. It’s now five, and I’m not really sure where the hours went.

  There’s a quick knock, and then the door pushes open, and Mrs. Spencer’s smile is there.

  The rest of her is there too, but it’s only the smile I notice. How can someone smile that much? How can they smile so much while they’re here?

  “You need to come out for dinner, Hunter.”

  “Why do you do this? You don’t harass anyone else the way you harass me.” I don’t look at her when I talk.

  “Is that what I’m doing? I wasn’t trying to harass you. Where I come from, it’s being kind.”

  “Why am I the only one to get your kindness, then?”

  “Because you’re so much fun to be around.” Another smile. “Let’s go.”

  Really, I know it’s because I’m her job. She’s assigned to me. There’s not a chance in this world she’ll leave me alone, so I push off the bed and head for the cafeteria.

  Every time I walk into the place, I’m reminded of school. Lunch used to be one of my favorite times of the day. My friends and I owned our spot in the lunchroom, and in some ways, I do here too. No one sits at my table.

  No one but me.

  That’s the difference.

  We’re having fried chicken and potato salad today. After getting my food, I head to my table. The whole time I try to keep my gaze from darting over to where I know Casey, Stray, Rosie, and Bethany will be. But then, that nagging worry is there too.

  Casey might have run away from me like I was a serial killer, but a minute before that, he’d been pretty screwed up. Brock and Abraham could have found him again, or maybe he got sick. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t in therapy.

  My heart speeds up. I should have gotten him help. What if I let him down the way I did Holly?

  Clank! My eyes pop open at the sound of a tray being dropped to my table. I don’t even know when I closed them.

  When I look up, Stray stands there. He pushes his blue hair out of his face. It’s somehow a little darker than it was, like he’d been able to dye it. I again notice the scars on his arms.

  “I’m a cutter,” he says and then just… sits down.

  Not sure how to respond to that, I don’t say anything.

  “Bethany’s doing better. Bulimia for her. Casey has severe anxiety—panic attacks, a little OCD too. He’s scared of everything, and his self-esteem isn’t for shit. There’s nothing wrong with Rosie. Not really. She’s just happy. The world is so screwed up, it even wants to take the happiness and strength out of people if it doesn’t conform to what they believe.”

  His words roll around in my head. No matter how many times I try to form my own, nothing comes off my tongue. What would I say anyway? My dad molested my sister. She’s coping, but I’m not.

  Somehow, I think he sees it. Not why I’m here, but that I can’t say it yet. That I’m still trying to work through everything and figure it out… and I think he’s okay with it because he doesn’t push.

  Turning my head, I find the other table again. Rosie smiles at me, leans over, and kisses Casey’s forehead. She does that a lot, I’ve noticed.

  Then she stands. It feels like their friends sort of take their lead from Rosie and Stray. Once she’s on her feet, Bethany is too, then Casey. They pick up their plates and walk over to my table.

  We don’t talk while we eat. None of us do, but for first time since I found out Dad was hurting Holly, I don’t feel alone.

  What I don’t understand is why I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MY MIND starts doing funny things when I’m tired and I can’t sleep, making sleep transform into this thing I try to catch. For hours I chase after it, fighting to g
et my hands around a nap, at least. At this point I’d take anything, but my eyes either stay open, or I almost jump out of my skin if I keep them closed too long.

  If I don’t get out of this bed, I might do the same thing—jump out of my skin.

  I sit up, my leg bouncing, my insides twitching. Casey’s breathing evenly in the bed beside mine. After we ate, they went to hang out in one of the common areas, but I came back to the room. We still haven’t talked since he ran away from me, so the urge I suddenly get to whisper his name, to talk to him, to someone just makes me annoyed at myself.

  Bounce, bounce, bounce. My leg gets more jittery by the second, so I get to my feet. Walking. That should help. If I walk around the room, then the mini-seizures jolting my insides will calm down.

  So I do. Pacing lasts about a minute and a half. The room is suddenly half the size it was before.

  We’re not supposed to walk around at night. Mrs. Spencer made sure to jam that down my throat.

  But I feel it… the burning tingle beneath my skin. The one that makes my heart speed up and makes me feel like I’m going to lose it.

  I can’t do that again. I won’t let myself.

  The doorknob is cold against my hand. After holding it there a second, I twist my hand, slowly opening the door.

  No alarms go off, which, yeah, I totally knew they wouldn’t. People stick their heads in my room enough at night for me to know that. Still, there’s a part of me who thought something would happen… or maybe I wanted it to. I need something, anything, to happen, but I don’t know why.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see Casey hasn’t moved, still lying in the same position under his blanket.

  I take a step out, then another, and another, before gently closing the door behind me. The click of it latching into place is soft, yet still seems to echo through the hall.