The St. Ambrose School for Girls(45)
For godsakes, the girl offered to beat up Greta for me. She has principles.
“So who can I call for you?” Phil says. Like he’s had to repeat the words a couple of times.
I gather he’s been speaking to me again and I haven’t been responding, and as a result of this, what little persuasive ground I’ve gained on the I’m-not-crazy front has probably been lost. But that doesn’t matter now. My course has changed, and it is because of something he’s said, although not in the manner I’d assume he intended. This isn’t a permanent alteration in my goal. Only a delay so that I can set a different foundation for my actions.
“I’m not going to kill myself,” I tell him. “That is not what’s going to happen.”
As I stare the pharmacist right in the eye, I’m lying about absolutely nothing at all.
Well, almost nothing. I will not kill myself right now.
Right now, I have to talk to Strots. Immediately. I don’t know how long I have before the darkness comes back for me, and I’ve got to find my roommate before the shifting decks of my mood tilt at the plunging angle again.
Phil nods slowly. “Okay. I believe you.”
chapter FOURTEEN
I’m racing up Main Street, heading back to campus, my refill of lithium in the pocket of my jacket, absolutely no aspirin or Orange Crush on me because Phil is not as dumb as I thought he was. I’m on Medicaid because of my mother’s low income and my diagnosis, and I was able to cover the co-pay for my prescription refill with my five dollars. On my way out of the CVS, I put my forty-three cents in change on the counter in front of Margie, the cashier. She seemed surprised. It’s a shame that I couldn’t promise I’d be back to repay the rest of what I was given to meet the cost of the Rit dye and the ColorStay, and also that I didn’t have the time to report on the success of the advice she and Roni had given me.
I have no idea how long I’ll be able to keep the wolves away, and making preemptive peace with my roommate is my paramount purpose.
As words that start with the letter p circle my mind like a flock of birds, all flapping wings and squawks, I steam up the hill to Ambrose, chugging along in my heavy boots, making good time that nonetheless feels slow. It’s two fifteen in the afternoon. I want to get my pills hidden and be in position on my bed well before Strots returns to drop her books off and have a cigarette before her home game starts. She does this because she can’t smoke anywhere near the playing fields. And her cigarettes were under her pillow when I left, a first base that she will have to slide back into.
As I pass by the theater building and zero in on Tellmer, there are no students walking around. This seems right, as I feel utterly alone.
I am on the swinging pendulum between the living and the dead, and this is not an experience I believe I am sharing with many of my cohort here. It is also not hyperbole. When you begin to dance with the idea that you can take your own life, when you have tried on a number of plans for size and not talked to anyone about them, when you’ve actually attempted to kill yourself a couple of times, when you are mentally ill and messing around with your brain chemistry with mood stabilizers because it’s the best of the bunch of weak solutions that the doctors can give you, you’re very aware that what drove you to go down to CVS one hour ago is a switch that gets flipped with greater ease every time it’s used. The first crank is rusty and there’s some resistance; you may have to put both hands into it. But you quickly wear that off until the gear is smooth and the toggle itself entices.
That’s where I am now.
The realization that I’m in a separate class of citizens makes me feel self-important. I’m a critical problem, not just an alienated girl on scholarship at a fancy prep school who wears black clothes and is growing out a drugstore dye job on her brown hair. Still, beneath that surface gleam of special status, I’m absolutely terrified.
I’m completely out of control. And in spite of this insight, I’m not sure whether I’d want to take the wheel if I could.
Arriving at Tellmer, I surmount the steps up to my dorm’s front entrance, and as I wrench open the shoulder-straining weight of the door, I think about Ms. Crenshaw. Shit, I pray that she’s not lying in wait for me at the base of the stairs, or in the open doorway of her apartment, or, even worse, leaning against the wall next to my room upstairs, all because of some loser simpatico that has her instinctually aware of my trip down into town.
There’s no one at the bottom of the stairs, and her door is closed. I don’t waste time. I don’t check my mailbox. I take the staircase two steps at a time, the loose pills chattering in their hard-sided bottle in my pocket as if they’re clapping for me, cheering me on. Up on the second floor, I speed down my hall. No one is around. I stop at the bathroom because I don’t want to be disturbed by a call of nature once I get to my room.
I’m still drying my hands with a paper towel as I come up to my door. I knock. There’s no answer. A flash of panic goes through my body as I enter and close myself in. Her bed is still made, the pillow still in place. I open her closet. Her team jackets and her jerseys and the one dress she brought with her are where they’ve always been. Thank God. And her bureau is still full. Lastly, I revisit her cigarettes, which are exactly where they’re supposed to be.
Relieved, I fall onto my bed, letting my limbs lie where they land. I should take my jacket off, but I’m breathing hard and dizzy from not having eaten. It’s also hot in our room, that boiler I intend to die next to doing its job. But so much for the maintenance man finding me; he’s already turned the great beast on for the season. But at least, when I follow through with my plan, I’ll be warm.