Then
I hate this place. A month in, I can say with confidence it’s not getting better.
I’m in a Spanish class that I’m too advanced for, an art class that might as well be nap time, and a science class taught by a teacher who clearly hates teaching.
Since classes are the only time that girls from other units mix, they’re hectic and not really productive.
It almost feels like the teachers know that beforehand, and so the lessons are made to be interrupted or ignored.
The only part of school here I like is my creative writing class, which I actually love.
I’ve been writing down all my thoughts, and it feels good to get everything out.
When the bell rings at the end of science, my teacher shoves a folded piece of paper at me. “There’s been a change to your schedule today,” she says without even looking.
Send Jasmine to therapist.
I crumple the paper. I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything. Someone bumps me and the ball of paper rolls across the floor.
“A love note for me?” Amari asks. A few weeks ago, she started waiting for me after science. It’s become our little ritual and I kind of like it. She picks up the paper and looks over for permission to open it.
“You’re going to do it anyway,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She reads it quickly and crumples it back up. “You know where to go, right?” she asks.
“Director Brewster’s office?”
My case manager’s office is there too, but the one time I was supposed to meet her, she canceled, and I haven’t heard anything since.
“No, you’ll get tackled walking over there without staff and I’ll have to go into crisis,” she says.
“For little ole me?”
It’s called “throwing a crisis” whenever a girl is defiant for more than five minutes, and most times, there is nothing funny about it.
The worst part and a hopeful deterrent is that a staff member gets to decide when you’re “out of crisis.” If you’ve pissed them off badly enough, it can take forever.
The hallway clears out as the bell rings again. We’re both late.
“I’m already risking it all to help you right now,” she says, “so you know it’s real.”
“Just come on, Amari,” I say, “where am I going?”
She points to a perfectly painted yellow arrow on the wall a few feet away. “Follow it,” she says.
A staff member yells out. “Class now, ladies!!”
Amari starts walking backward in the opposite direction. “You can’t miss it but I’ll miss you,” she calls out.
I laugh. “Me too,” I say, and get on my way.
I’m sure the therapist is used to new girls being late—this place is a maze. The usually locked double doors are wide open and no one is around, but I still won’t chance it by running. Amari was right though; I couldn’t miss it.
There’s a bright mural of wildflowers painted over the peeling gray walls with the words THERAPEUTIC INTERVENTIONS in bubble letters. A big wooden door opens and an older white woman with long silver hair steps out.
“I thought you might be standing me up,” she says, looking me up and down.
“Sorry, I didn’t know how to get here,” I say.
“They sent you alone?” she asks, leading me into a waiting room surrounded by smaller wooden doors.
“Yes.”
She groans and mumbles something about laziness as she holds open one of the doors and motions for me to enter. I’m surprised that the office is ten times nicer than Director Brewster’s, even without a window.
“Take your pick,” she says, gesturing to the large couch and two chairs.
I choose the couch because it reminds me of mine at home.
She introduces herself as I sit down. “Jasmine, my name is Dr. Opal Rose and I’m going to be your therapist during your stay.” She sits across from me in one of the chairs and reaches out her hand. I shake it. She seems nice and I feel even worse for being late.
“Hi, and sorry again for being late,” I say.
“I’m just happy that you came,” she says, and I wonder if she really thinks I have a choice.
A door slams outside and we both jump a little.
“So, today is finally your first call with your parents.” She smiles. “How does that sound?”
I don’t know her well enough to tell her I’m not excited. “I only have one,” I say instead.
She looks embarrassed as she gets up to grab a file from her desk. “My apologies, I must have overlooked that,” she says, flipping through it. She puts on the large glasses that were hanging around her neck and looks more closely at one of the pages.
“Who is Travis?” she asks.
I feel my eyebrows knit together. “I don’t know anyone named Travis.”
Dr. Rose makes a note with the pen in her pocket and closes the file. “Okay, well, you’re speaking to your mom today, so let’s go over how this works,” she says.
I nod, even though I’m still confused about why someone named Travis would be in my file.
“Phone calls can take place here and on the unit. They will be here until we can trust you to have them safely on the unit. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but having them there is a really big privilege that most girls never get.” She looks at me seriously.
“Got it,” I say, making a mental note of another privilege I’m working toward.
“In here, I will leave the room for your phone calls, which are twenty-five minutes and monitored.”
I sit up straighter. “You listen to our calls?”
“No, I said monitored,” she says, removing herself from my Nice Adult list. I’m pretty sure those mean the same thing.
“There’s absolutely no yelling, no cursing, and no threats.” She pauses like she thinks I’m going to protest.
Who does she think I am?
“Why would I be doing that?” I ask.
“The same reason you would end up here,” she says sternly.
I can’t stand this place. “Of course, because I’m a horrible kid,” I say, my words dripping with sarcasm.
“That’s not appropriate, Jasmine.” She walks to her desk, turns the phone around, and pulls up a chair. She motions for me to come and have a seat. “I’ll dial the number and hand you the phone once your mother answers,” she says, holding the receiver to her chest. “Questions?”
“Nope.”
“Good.” She puts the receiver to her ear and dials. “Hi, is this Janice Cooper? Great, this is Dr. Opal Rose, the therapist from Guiding Hearts. I’m here with Jasmine for your call.”
She hands me the phone. I take a deep breath before putting it to my ear. I can hear my mom laughing on the other end. There are voices in the background too.
My heart sinks a little. Is she having fun?
The therapist taps my shoulder and I assume she’s urging me to talk.
“Hello,” I stammer.
“Hold on, guys! It’s my daughter,” my mom says.
I hear the office door close behind me and I’m glad to be alone for this awkward moment.
“Jasmine, you there?” my mom asks, the background noise gone. She must be in another room. “I miss you.”
I feel my throat tighten. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I wonder if I can hang up and spend the twenty-five minutes in silence.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I finally say.
“Are you not happy to speak to me?” she asks. I can’t imagine she really thinks I would be, but since someone is listening in, I’ll play along.
“Yeah, delighted,” I say. “Mom, who’s Travis?”
I hear her gulp and set something down.
“Where did you hear that name?” she says.
“The therapist said it.”
“Well, I wish she wouldn’t have. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“About? We don’t know anyone named Travis.”
“I do, Jasmine,” she says. “Umm, he’s my boyfriend.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “You’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“Well, I did actually, we met a while ago but it just got serious a few months back,” she says with a chuckle that annoys me even more. “I’ve been wanting to tell you but you know, things got—”
“How long have you been seeing him?” I ask.
There’s a long pause. “About six months,” she says.
My heart squeezes in my chest. Was that part of the reason why she was never home? All this time, I thought she was busy working. She was pissed at me for staying out late with Desiree when she was out with her new boyfriend?
“Jasmine, I wanted to tell you but—”
“But you were too busy having fun?”
“It’s not like that,” she insists. “Neither of us expected this. He’s a really great guy and we really love each other, Jasmine. And he’s a great father. He has a daughter your age. Her name’s Kayla.”
“So, you have another me there too? This just keeps getting better.”
“Jasmine, come on. They’re excited to meet you. Maybe soon…”
“What?”
“We’re trying to see how we can get a visit in the next few months.”
I can’t tell if I’m more angry or confused, but whatever it is, it’s coming out in tears.
“Jasmine? Why are you crying? I thought you’d be happy to have visitors,” she says.
“No, Mom, this whole thing is crazy,” I yell. “I don’t want you to bring your new family to see me in jail! You’re so excited and it’s—”
“Okay, okay, it’s what?! Just stop yelling, I’m really trying to understand,” she pleads, her voice cracking.
“This isn’t a sleepaway camp, Mom! Do you know that there are bars on the windows? Like we can’t open them for fresh air? And we wear uniforms like criminals? We can’t even go to the bathroom without someone taking us. This is J-A-I-L, Mom. Jail.”
I hear sniffling and it takes me by surprise. I don’t know how my mom has deluded herself about where I’ve been all this time, but I can feel that my outburst might have broken through.
“Jesus. I didn’t know there were bars. Jasmine, that’s … that’s not what I imagined. I knew it was strict but bars, my god,” she says softly.
I feel my heart twinge in my chest. It’s the first time she’s seemed really moved by where I am, and yet her helplessness makes me want to cry—whether from frustration or anger, I’m not sure. I’m the one in here, but she’s the one crying.
The door to the office opens and I hang up before I make things worse. I don’t think I can calm down right now.
Dr. Rose looks at me but says nothing. She turns the phone around. “Someone will be here to escort you to your unit in a few minutes,” she says, handing me a tissue and a small bottle of water. “Do you want to talk about your call?”
I open the water and sip it through sobs. “No.” I shove my chair back and walk out of the office.
I don’t want to talk to anyone else. I want to cry alone.