The Bitch Posse (6 page)

Cherry Diana Winters—Chronic Case.

She still doesn’t have off-unit dining privileges; the chicken breast and spinach she ate for lunch were delivered to the locked ward on a hard blue plastic tray. It isn’t fair. She didn’t hurt anyone that day Maybe it was because of the other—

And she can’t think about that anymore.

The doctors, she’s almost certain, still think she’s a danger to herself, maybe to others too, still don’t trust her to leave the unit, still don’t dare send her for a walk outside all by herself. Dr. Baum is gone. Now they’re sending her to a woman, Dr. Anders, some fifty something garbage brain who looks just like Marian and says things like
Yes, Cherry,
and /
see, Cherry,
and
I’d like to hear more about that, Cherry.

Last time it didn’t take long for her to smile her way to off-unit privileges, despite the charges (and after she was so sure she’d never be tried as an adult!), the court case, the evidence, and the whoosh of relief as it was this and not prison. Last time, it was so easy. It was only two years before she was pronounced “cured.”

She twists another knot, tighter than ever. Squeezing the last bit of ease out of the yarn sends a rush through her, a whirlwind that starts in her stomach and twirls to a stop in her head.

Maybe it’s the cutting. That’s harder to quit than smoking. Through a half-lidded eye Cherry gazes at her sliced arm, red welts pulling up from skinny pale flesh, slowly healing. They took away all knives and sharp objects the first day, of course, just like they did before. And she’ll never get her precious glass Bitch Posse jar back. They won’t even let her have a can of Coke for fear she’ll rip it up and use it to cut herself, and she still gets only a plastic knife with her meal. But she smashed her watch, used the crystal inside to slash at her arm,
hid it in her pillow, and lied and said she’d fallen down. No one believed her, of course, but it didn’t matter. They turned her room upside down, shook out her sheets, all her clothing, her underwear strewn about the floor, to look for the knife or razor blade they were sure she had.

They haven’t found it, after six years, and that accomplishment rolls waves of pleasure through her.

Her perfect Princess was a cutter too. Afraid if Buckingham Palace found out they’d take her children away, put her in an institution. So she and Cherry have more in common than just a name.

God, if she could bring herself to sleep with Dr. Anders, maybe it’d help. Dr. Anders is so aboveboard, her red hair coiffed into a neat bun. It’s not at all like those sessions with Dr. Baum, when he told her he loved her, that she wasn’t crazy after all, that he’d get her out. And he kept his promise. Two short years and he got her out.

Of course, there were other promises he didn’t keep.

“God fucking damn it.” Michael’s cut his warp thread by mistake, and his whole project starts unraveling.

The art teacher leans over to knot it back together again. Josie looks up and meets Cherry’s eyes, Josie, the waif-girl who looks like a teenage Princess Di, or a combination of her two best friends, tiny Rennie, blond and gorgeous Amy.

No, no. Never, never think of them.

Josie the heroin-junkie-turned-brownnoser glances worriedly at Cherry. Josie. She could be a project too.

Cherry looks away. Lately she doesn’t say much out loud. Words are massive efforts. Like moving boulders across football fields. Like creating Stonehenge.

“This project fucking sucks.”

Susan raises a disgustingly controlled eyebrow. Susan, the thirty-something-suicidal-housewife—Cherry probably should relate to her, but can’t, because Susan had a young adulthood without courts, psychiatrists, drugs—Susan’s problems are blissfully normal, a husband
with an affair, a little Vicodin problem, a learning-disabled daughter. Susan likes to egg Michael on, makes her feel powerful or something. “This isn’t high school, Michael.”

“Fuck you.” He slides the yarn over his fingers, and he’s cut himself somehow—a drop of blood soaks from his skin into the wool.

Cherry’s heart quickens. Her dry lips scrape together as she pushes out the whisper. “If you don’t swear so much, they might let you out faster.”

“Fuck you too. Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” His nose ring quivers and he rises to his feet. Here it comes. The Michael tantrum.

“Who the
fuck
do you
fucking
think you
fucking
are, you
fucking fuckhead? Fuck you!
” He pounds his fists on the table, his voice rising to a bloody, passionate, rolling-back-and-forth-on-the-bed, a fuck of the voice, a thump-thump-thump into the headboard, push her hands over her head and hold them together, teeth tear into flesh.

Cherry’s knees go weak under the table. Michael hurls his half-completed tapestry across the room and wrenches the table from the floor, topples it. The art teacher stands up, her face awash with terror as her supplies float around her, suspended in slow motion.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” whispers Josie.

The blur of the moment whirs through Cherry, pulling laughter from her stomach, her lungs, and she bursts into the silence with sobs of mirth.

The nurses call frantically for male staff, and Michael is gathered up and put into the quiet room.

Cherry can’t stop laughing, even after Michael is put away into his little box. She’s laughing so hard tears come from her eyes as she crosses her arms awkwardly, her just-grown-out nails biting into her wrists. As she breaks the skin she crests onto a high, like being on the top of the roller coaster at Great America, as high as she was that night at the Porter Place. She pushes her nails into her skin, flesh popping
and wetness flowing, and glances at her red, sticky wrists. Suddenly she’s choking on her laughter. She can’t breathe, she’s shaking, and she becomes aware of arms behind her back, seizing her wrists together, but they can’t stop the blood from trickling down, licking her skin with warm wetness, ah yes, ah yes.

March 1988
Holland Avenue, Stoplight

As I’m waiting at a stoplight in my dad’s Mustang, snow flings itself onto my windshield. I press my cigarette to my lips, the Smiths’ “How Soon Is Now?” streaming from the car stereo. Morrissey wails, and I pull the smoke in hard, burning away the fight at home. It’s not a part of me, it doesn’t matter. I turn up the music because there’s just something about Morrissey, how you know his heart is breaking, how you want to reach through the music and give him a hug. And I know just how he feels, aching to be loved and being disappointed every. Fucking. Time.

Tonight the Bitch Posse, Cherry and Rennie and I, are meeting at the college to hook up with some guys from the People’s Think Tank who hang out late nights in the Student Union smoking, drinking coffee, and debating politics. A year ago I would’ve been cruising Greek Row with Pammie McFadden and Debbie Ridgeway, but last year I
was fluffy and stupid. Or I pretended to be. Besides, unlike the Greeks, who in my experience subscribe to the bang-’em-and-forget-’em philosophy, the People’s Think Tank guys actually call the next day. Sometimes they even want to hang out for coffee or go see college bands in the basement of the Psych Building. Of course, I’m no brain like Rennie, no debater like Cherry. The truth is that Brandon’s uncomplicated and unneedy, and he looks good next to me, and I’m the kind of girl who needs someone next to her.

I pull into a parking spot. Man, it’s icy. I push away the memory of swearwords, screams, the constant and never-resolved fight over Callie. The scene’s predictable, every movement choreographed. Dad suggests, for the millionth time, bringing Callie home. Mom, for the millionth time, says no and launches into a long list of reasons it’s a bad idea. Dad pours a scotch and soda that’s mainly scotch. Mom turns on the television and mixes a screwdriver. Dad tells Mom,
Barb, you’re being selfish.
Mom says,
Fuck off, Rich.
The drinks pour again. The voices get louder. I put on my coat, swipe a bottle of anything from the liquor cabinet, grab my mittens, and get the hell out.

I wait for the song to finish and pull my backpack off the passenger seat. Cherry’s truck is three spaces away, thank God. I hate being the first one here, because usually the People’s Think Tank guys want to know our opinions on world events. Rennie knows way more than me, and Cherry can bullshit her way around any subject, but I sit there like an openmouthed fool. Which is fine if all three of us or even two of us are here—I can be the pretty, mysterious one—but last week I was alone for twenty fucking minutes before Cherry and Rennie showed up, and Brandon asked me my opinion of the situation in El Salvador. The only thing I could think of was a line from a Peter, Paul, and Mary song that Mom likes, and I actually fucking blurted it out! Actually forced my lips around this bullshit about the breezes blowing in El Salvador. Oh, my God! What an
idiot! They thought I was making a joke. Brandon even said, “You’re damn cute, Amy.”

Yeah, it’s weird, my parents. They used to be hippies, I guess. According to pictures. Mom always says,
Stand up for what you believe in, Amy.

But I don’t believe in anything. Not anymore.

At least that El Salvador thing turned out okay. Brandon and I had a pretty good time in the back of the Mustang later, the heater running full blast in the parking lot, Morrissey making love to me with his voice (yeah, he’s gay and depressed, but he wouldn’t be either of those things if he knew
me),
the clicks of Brandon’s kisses on my neck interrupting the music. I let him take my top off, and tonight, if he wants to, I’ll let him do more. That’s just the kind of girl I am.

I get out of the car. The icy wind whips around me, roars in my ears, scorches my cheeks.

I’m not sure, exactly, what I thought I’d change by hanging out with the Bitch Posse. I’m still the same old Amy, still cruising for guys, still hoping to get laid. They just have a different label, People’s Think Tank instead of Sigma Nu, Doc Martens instead of the Gap. But at least my friends are true friends now.

I’m pretty sure.

The snow’s a fucking mile high, and someone’s plowed a skinny pathway to the Student Union. I scoop up a fingerful of frosting with my mitten and let the flakes play over the yarn. As I toss the snow into the air, a bit sticks to my fingers, and like a little girl, I lick off the rest.

When I push open the door I see Cherry, chatting with Sam and Brandon and the guy with dark hair who never talks, just sits there staring. I think his name is Kent. She sees me and waves me over.

Sometimes I wonder what she and Rennie really think of me. In my old crowd, most of the girls hated each other’s guts, spread rumors, backstabbed. I was probably the biggest bitch of them all. But my new friends are more complicated, or at least they show more of themselves
to me. Rennie’s virginal, perfect, holy almost, saving herself for marriage, pouring her passion into her poetry and her acting. And Cherry’s hard, tough as nails. She’s been around the block a few times, but the only guy she’s let into her heart is Sam. They’ve been together since forever. They’ll probably get married or something.

And then there’s me, flighty Amy. Half the time I’m convinced they’ll figure out who I really am and drop me.

They haven’t yet.

I hurry toward their table. Cherry’s probably high already since she has the coolest mom in the world. Her mom wants Cherry and us to call her Marian, and she doesn’t care how long Cherry stays out as long as she’s home by dawn. More than once she’s joined us in Cherry’s room to get stoned. And get this! Cherry doesn’t even have to buy her own pot! Her mom buys it once a week and keeps it in this little box in the kitchen. Cherry can help herself. How cool is that?

“Hey, Cherry!” I call across the Union and join her and the guys. Brandon pushes his blond hair away from his face, and his gaze lingers on my breasts. If I was Cherry, I’d say something snappy like “I’m up here,” but I don’t have the nerve. I don’t care anyway.

Cherry blows a couple smoke rings, then whooshes out the rest and drops her cigarette into the ashtray that’s surrounded by a flurry of papers advertising a rally about something I don’t have the energy to try to understand. “Hey, Aim. How’s it going?”

I throw my backpack under the table and scoot a chair next to Brandon. “Are you stoned?” I peer into her eyes.

“No, damn it. I don’t even have any on me. Are you?”

“You disappoint me, Cherry. I’m not the one who has a pot dispenser in my kitchen. Brought some of this, though.” I unzip my backpack and show her the bottle of Smirnoff I’ve nabbed.

“Oh, Aim comes through again!”

Sam and Brandon are only twenty, and I’m assuming Kent is too, so a bottle of vodka is much appreciated among them as well and they
echo Cherry’s delight. Cherry slides her pack of Marlboros toward me. I pull out a cigarette, lift it to my lips, and light it with Cherry’s Zippo. The smell of lighter fluid opens my nostrils, and I have a strange impulse to push the flame closer to my face, to make it burn, just a little. . . .

I snap the lighter shut and zip up the vodka for now. We’ll head down to the basement of the Psych Building and drink it later. Security types hang out at the Student Union, and getting drunk or stoned there is asking for trouble.