Michael Ford: Suicide Notes

“That’s Bone,” said Juliet, beaming like she was showing me her new car. “We’re in a band. Gratuitous Sex and Violence?” she added, as if she wasn’t sure herself. “Bone plays guitar. I sing.”

Next to me, Bone sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing a white T-shirt, and he had lots of tattoos, even though I don’t think he’s a whole lot older than I am. My parents would never let me get a tattoo, so it’s kind of impressive that he has so many. I looked at them for a second, but none of them were really interesting. Just lots of flaming skulls and naked girls on motorcycles and stuff like that. He had hair he obviously dyed because it was too black to be natural, and eyes that didn’t seem to focus on anything. His eyes were black, too, like his hair. He looked like a comic book drawing.

“Which one of you is sex and which one of you is violence?” I asked.

“What?” Juliet asked, her smile slipping.

“Gratuitous sex and violence,” I said slowly, as if I was talking to a really little kid. “Which of you is which?”

Juliet looked at Bone, like he was going to give her the answer. He just kept staring at his feet. Juliet ran a hand over her mouth as if she was trying to wipe something away that wasn’t there. Someone else started to laugh, but stopped.

“Um, it’s not really… ,” she said, sounding confused. “It’s just a, you know, a name.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bone said suddenly, looking up for a second. “She just thinks she is. There is no band. I don’t even know her, okay?”

Juliet looked at him and started to say something, but Cat Poop spoke before she could. “Why don’t we move on,” he said. He reminded me of a tour guide at one of those historic places where they take you through in little groups to make sure you don’t touch the eight-million-year-old candlesticks or whatever. “Why don’t we move on” isn’t really a question, because you don’t have a choice; it’s just a passive-aggressive way of saying, “Get the hell out of here. There’s another bunch of tourists who want to see the candlesticks.”

So Cat Poop made us leave the bedroom where Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves and go to the kitchen where they were baking bread just like they did two hundred years ago. Actually, he just nodded at the next person, a girl sitting beside Juliet.

“Okay,” she said. “My name is Sadie. I’m a Libra, I like sunny days and kittens, and think pollution and negative people are real downers. Oh, and I tried to drown myself and this guy saved me and so I’m not dead.”

She looked right at me, like she was daring me to ask a question. Her eyes were this really intense blue, like the ice at the North Pole. She had black hair, cut short and spiky, and pale skin, which made her eyes look even bluer. The best way to describe her is to say she looked like an evil pixie, or at least a troublemaking one.

Bone was next, but all he did was say “I’m Bone” and go back to his feet. I was hoping he’d say more about the girl who wasn’t his girlfriend, or what it was like being a walking cartoon, but I guess he thought he’d told us enough already.

So then it was my turn. I really didn’t want to say anything, but Bone had already done the silent and mysterious thing, and I knew if I did it too I would look like I was trying to be like him.

“I’m Jeff,” I said. “I’m here because they think I need to be. But I don’t. There’s not much else to tell.”

“What’s with the bandages, then?”

Sadie was nodding at my lap. I looked down and saw that the cuffs of my shirt had ridden up, and some gauze was sticking out of the bottom.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just a cut.”

“Okay,” said Cat Poop. “Now that Jeff knows a little more about you, today I want to talk about what it means to tell the truth.”

That’s when I zoned out. Actually, I just kind of settled into this warm, foggy place where everything faded out and voices sounded like planes flying somewhere way faraway. I knew people were talking, but I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t interested in anything anyone had to say. I mean, telling the truth? What a lame thing to talk about. The truth is that I don’t belong here.

Eventually the airplane noises stopped, and I realized that group was over. Everyone was standing up. Cat Poop came over to me. “You didn’t contribute much today,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“Like?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Like whether the whole boy-band craze is really over,” I said. “I know people say it is, but I think they’re wrong.”

“Why don’t I show you around,” said Cat Poop. “This is the lounge. You’re allowed in here as long as there’s a staff member present. There are usually four people here during the day, two nurses and two orderlies, and we always have at least two nurses and a security person on at night.”

“Security,” I said. “Sounds serious. Is that to keep the Gratuitous Sex and Violence fans out?”

“Meals are also served in here,” he continued, ignoring me and pointing to two long tables surrounded by more plastic chairs. “You’ve been allowed to eat in your room, but from now on you’ll eat with the rest of the floor. Food is brought up from the hospital cafeteria.”

“Just like one big happy family,” I remarked as we left the lounge and walked down the hallway toward my room.

“You each have your own room,” Cat Poop said. “Boys on this end, girls on the other. You may not be in another person’s room unsupervised. There are bathrooms on either end of the hall.”

“Can we be in there with each other unsupervised?” I asked. “Or is peeing at the same time frowned upon?”

“You’ll be given a schedule for each day,” he went on. “You’ll be keeping up with your schoolwork while you’re here. We’ll see about getting your books and assignments from your school.”

“You’re telling the people at my school that I’m here?” I said. I was already imagining Principal Matthews giving the morning announcement. “ Today’s lunch will be spaghetti and meatballs, cheerleading tryouts will be held second period in the gym, and Jeff is in the nuthouse.”

“They’ll be told that you’re going to be out for some time,” Cat Poop said. “That’s all.”

“Great,” I said. “And here I thought I’d found the perfect way to get out of that algebra test.”

“As I told you earlier,” Cat Poop continued, “you’ll participate in group sessions, as well as individual sessions with me.”

“Are those supervised too?” I asked him. “I mean, what if you try to, you know, touch me inappropriately or something?”

Cat Poop stopped and turned to me. He handed me a sheet of paper. “Here’s your schedule for today. You have some free time now. I suggest you spend it getting to know the other people here.”

“Sure,” I told him as I folded up my schedule without looking at it. “They seem like swell kids.”

“Give them a chance,” he said. “You might be surprised.”

“I’ll take your word on that,” I said. “You know, if this whole shrink thing doesn’t work out, you should look into getting a job at Disneyland. You’re good at this guide thing. You’d rock the safari ride.”

“I’ll see you later this afternoon for our session,” he said, without missing a beat. “My office is at the end of the other hallway off the lounge. One of the nurses will bring you down there.”

After he was gone, I unfolded the schedule and looked at it. My therapy session was scheduled for three thirty. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was only twelve thirty, which meant I had three hours to kill before the Amazing Cat Poop tried to open up my head and see what was inside. Three hours to spend doing nothing.