Patricia McCormick: Cut

“Guess I can’t call you S.T anymore.” She waits at the door for me to catch up. “Now that you’re talking.”

“It’s OK,” I say. “You can still call me that.”

There’s a blast of cold, smoky air as Sydney opens the door. I step onto the porch, take in the curious looks of the other girls, and jam my hands into my pockets.

“Want one?” Sydney waves a pack of cigarettes in front of me. I shake my head and watch the careful way she lights up, cupping her hand around the match to keep it from blowing out. “My favorite addiction,” she says, blowing out a fat white smoke ring.

Tiffany wanders over. “Does anybody else think it’s weird that we’re allowed to smoke here?” she says.

Sydney admires her smoke ring as it floats away. “Yeah,” she says. “No barfing, no bingeing, no inhaling fumes from the art supplies. But smoking’s OK.”

The other girls laugh and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. I lift my sleeve to my mouth, but the smile stays as they make jokes about the rules, about the food, about Group. It’s cold outside and I wonder why no one ever wears a coat at Sick Minds. Mostly, though, I test out what it feels like to smile again.

I’m so tired that night that I fall asleep in my clothes. I’m sitting up in bed reading a story for English and the next thing I know Ruby’s leaning over me, telling me it’s almost lights out.

“You want to put this on?” She’s holding one of my nightgowns.

Then she’s gone, her shoes squeaking down the hall. The room is dark; Sydney’s on her back, sleeping. I get up slowly, then make my way down to the bathroom.

Rochelle’s in her chair and Amanda’s standing at the sink, although I hardly recognize her. She’s washed off all her makeup—her pencil-arched brows, her black eyeliner, her red lipstick—and she looks very young. She’s studying her face in the mirror, so she doesn’t notice me right away. When she does, she scowls.

I find a corner, turn my back, and begin the process of getting undressed for the shower without letting her see me. First I unhook my bra, tug the straps down, and pull it off from under my shirt. Then I drape the towel over my shoulders and take off my shirt, quickly pulling the towel around me, toga-style, as my shirt falls to the floor Next I step out of my jeans, holding the towel in place with one hand and tugging my pants off with the other I’m balanced on one foot, kicking off my pants leg, when something metal hits the tile floor with a tiny plink.

The metal strip from the dining room table: I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. Instinctively I slide my foot across the tile, covering the piece of metal.

Rochelle’s head bobs up, but she looks in the wrong direction, over at the toilet stalls. But Amanda turns quickly toward me. She takes in my awkward position, the towel gripped to my chest, one foot half stuck inside my pants leg, the other stretched out uncomfortably far away, across the floor Then she nods slowly, approvingly.

“Rochelle,” she calls out, still looking at me. “Is there anyone down at the desk? I need something.”

I’m too startled to move. Is she going to tell on me, get me in trouble?

Rochelle’s gotten up; she’s banging the toilet stall doors open one by one, checking to make sure no one’s in there. When the last stall turns up empty, she gives Amanda an annoyed look. “What do you need this time of night?”

Amanda smiles at me, then turns to face Rochelle. “A tampon.”

I don’t understand. Then I do. Amanda’s sending Rochelle off on a fake errand so I can pick up the metal strip and hide it.

Rochelle sighs. “You two aren’t food-disorder girls, right? You’re not gonna throw up if I leave for a minute?”

We nod, almost in unison.

“OK,” she says. “I’m trusting you. No funny business.”

We nod.

Rochelle leaves. Amanda is next to me all of a sudden. I slide my foot back and the metal strip is lying there on the floor between us.

“Where’d you get it?” she says.

“The dining room table. It broke off.”

“Gutsy,” she says. “Real gutsy.”

She seems so delighted at the sight of the strip, I think maybe she’s going to take it. I picture myself grabbing it and just dropping it in the trash can right in front of her. Instead I pick it up, close my fingers around it, and head for the shower before Rochelle comes back. The hairs on my neck tingle, as if Amanda might grab me at any minute and pry the metal strip out of my hand. But she doesn’t.

I turn the water on high and listen while Amanda thanks Rochelle for the tampon. A toilet stall door opens, closes, then opens again, and I hear Amanda call out good night in a sing-song voice. Slowly I take off my towel, wrap the metal strip in it, and get in the shower. When it’s time to go back to my room, I put the piece of metal back in my pants, folding them carefully so it doesn’t fall out. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.

I feel suddenly shy when I sit down across from you in your office today. Something happened between us yesterday and I don’t quite know how to come back from it. You smile and a good warm feeling comes over me. I settle into the cushions of the couch, deciding that I’ll work hard today, try to come up with the right answers to your questions.

“How are you?” you say.

“Fine.” This is true, but it sounds inadequate. I give you a practice smile. You smile back.

“Callie,” you say, folding your hands around your knees. “What you did yesterday—speaking out in Group—that was a big step.”

“It was?” I want to hear more.

“It took a lot of courage.”

My cheeks get warm, an uncomfortable and at the same time not uncomfortable feeling.

“How did it feel to speak in front of the other girls?”

“OK.” I try to come up with a better answer. “A little scary, I guess.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“That people would get mad at me.”

“Hmmm.” You nod. “Who did you think would be angry?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Everybody?”

“Everybody?”

I shrug. The foggy feeling settles over me. I want to give you a right answer, but I don’t have one.

“Let me ask you this: do people get angry with you a lot?”

“Not really.”

You wait.

“My mom cries a lot but she doesn’t yell or anything,” I say.

“And your father…”

I chew on a hangnail. “He doesn’t get too worked up,” I say finally.

A car tire spins on the ice outside.

“I’ve noticed that you don’t talk about your father much.”

My leg muscles tighten, I feel ready to run. I cross and recross my legs, trying hard to just stay in my seat. “So?” I say.

“What can you tell me about him?”you say.

“Don’t you have stuff in your file?” I say after a while.

“I don’t really know much about him. I met with your mother on visiting day, but your dad wasn’t here.”

“He has to work.” I remember scanning the parking lot for him, watching somebody’s dad come up the sidewalk, banging on the window, and realizing it wasn’t him.

You tap your file. “He’s a computer salesman, is that right?”

Your file makes it sound like he works at RadioShack; for some reason, this makes me mad. “He sells computers to companies. He takes people out to dinner and stuff to get them to buy whole, big computer systems.”

You don’t seem to understand.

“He has to travel.”

You still don’t say anything.

“Well, he used to. Travel, I mean. Since Sam got sick, he changed jobs. Now he just sells to companies nearby.” I don’t tell you about how it seems like all the companies nearby already have computers, that for a while he took people out hoping they’d become customers and that now he mostly just goes out. “He has to work a lot.”