normal family to hide a problem for years. Even though I always knew my parents loved me, they never had a clue about my eating disorder. The fact was that they were both busy, and as long as everything appeared to be under control, they assumed it was.
Family enablement trap number one, I’d learned in rehab at St. Francis: convenient assumptions. A smooth surface often hides a deadly undertow.
Still standing in the hallway, I planned my day while watching the ladybugs, now marching single file down the center of the ceiling. First, read the rest of the grant application booklet, then spend some time looking over the Web sites the sergeant had mentioned. See if I could come up with ideas that would be viable at Harrington, then figure out how to get Stafford to agree. In the past, he’d backhandedly made it clear that I wasn’t to delve into the private lives of students, because, after all, their parents might complain to the superintendent or the school board. Heaven forbid.
Flipping on the lights in my office, I realized that it was almost ten, and I hadn’t done a thing except attend the drug education program. In a way, I could see Mr. Stafford’s point. There were only so many hours in a school day. Trying to do anything more than process all the required paperwork seemed impossible, and probably not worth the effort. Who was I to think I could change the tightly-woven fabric of Harrington? The place was what it was, and I had to learn to operate within the confines that existed, not butt my head against them. Getting into a snit with Mrs. Morris about Dell Jordan’s essay hadn’t been a smart move, either. I was only making trouble for myself, and probably for Dell.
When I picked up my briefcase from my desk, something fluttered underneath it—two pieces of lined paper, torn out of a spiral notebook. I recognized the handwriting. A ladybug was sitting in the center of the page. I blew on it, and it flew away as I sat down and started reading.
It’s Say No to Drugs assembly, but I’m sitting in the storeroom behind the instrumental music hall. I think Mr. Verhaden knows I come in here sometimes, but he pretends like he doesn’t. He never says anything about it. Anything is fine with Mr. Verhaden, as long as when it’s time for music, my mind is on music. Other than that, he doesn’t care if I go in the storeroom where it’s quiet. Maybe he understands, or maybe he only cares about the music. I don’t know.
I didn’t want to go to the assembly today, so I hung around until everyone left, and then I slipped into the storeroom while Verhaden was locking his office. I almost thought he saw me, but he didn’t turn around. My heart was in my neck, because I couldn’t stand it if he made me go to the Red Day assembly. I forgot to wear red today. I’d be the only one there in a lime-green sweatshirt.
That isn’t why I didn’t want to go. I hate those assemblies, because I know what they’ll say. They’ll talk about drugs, and all the bad things they can do to your body, and they’ll show some pictures of messed-up brain slices and lungs that are all rotted from huffing, or crack, or smoking weed. They’ll show some babies that scream day and night and will never be normal because their mamas did drugs.
I’ll look at those babies and wonder if that’s me. Is my brain messed up like that? Was I like those babies? Did I cry, and twitch, and look all shrunk up and pale? Is that why Mama brought me home to my granny and didn’t stay six months before she went away again? Did she leave me there because she figured I was messed up and always would be? Is that why my daddy didn’t want me, either?
Did he even know there was a me?
I’ll go through the questions in my mind—why did Mama straighten herself out for more than a year when she had my baby brother? She wouldn’t do that for me. She was in love with Angelo’s daddy. Maybe that was the difference. He used to come around Granny’s house
Family enablement trap number one, I’d learned in rehab at St. Francis: convenient assumptions. A smooth surface often hides a deadly undertow.
Still standing in the hallway, I planned my day while watching the ladybugs, now marching single file down the center of the ceiling. First, read the rest of the grant application booklet, then spend some time looking over the Web sites the sergeant had mentioned. See if I could come up with ideas that would be viable at Harrington, then figure out how to get Stafford to agree. In the past, he’d backhandedly made it clear that I wasn’t to delve into the private lives of students, because, after all, their parents might complain to the superintendent or the school board. Heaven forbid.
Flipping on the lights in my office, I realized that it was almost ten, and I hadn’t done a thing except attend the drug education program. In a way, I could see Mr. Stafford’s point. There were only so many hours in a school day. Trying to do anything more than process all the required paperwork seemed impossible, and probably not worth the effort. Who was I to think I could change the tightly-woven fabric of Harrington? The place was what it was, and I had to learn to operate within the confines that existed, not butt my head against them. Getting into a snit with Mrs. Morris about Dell Jordan’s essay hadn’t been a smart move, either. I was only making trouble for myself, and probably for Dell.
When I picked up my briefcase from my desk, something fluttered underneath it—two pieces of lined paper, torn out of a spiral notebook. I recognized the handwriting. A ladybug was sitting in the center of the page. I blew on it, and it flew away as I sat down and started reading.
It’s Say No to Drugs assembly, but I’m sitting in the storeroom behind the instrumental music hall. I think Mr. Verhaden knows I come in here sometimes, but he pretends like he doesn’t. He never says anything about it. Anything is fine with Mr. Verhaden, as long as when it’s time for music, my mind is on music. Other than that, he doesn’t care if I go in the storeroom where it’s quiet. Maybe he understands, or maybe he only cares about the music. I don’t know.
I didn’t want to go to the assembly today, so I hung around until everyone left, and then I slipped into the storeroom while Verhaden was locking his office. I almost thought he saw me, but he didn’t turn around. My heart was in my neck, because I couldn’t stand it if he made me go to the Red Day assembly. I forgot to wear red today. I’d be the only one there in a lime-green sweatshirt.
That isn’t why I didn’t want to go. I hate those assemblies, because I know what they’ll say. They’ll talk about drugs, and all the bad things they can do to your body, and they’ll show some pictures of messed-up brain slices and lungs that are all rotted from huffing, or crack, or smoking weed. They’ll show some babies that scream day and night and will never be normal because their mamas did drugs.
I’ll look at those babies and wonder if that’s me. Is my brain messed up like that? Was I like those babies? Did I cry, and twitch, and look all shrunk up and pale? Is that why Mama brought me home to my granny and didn’t stay six months before she went away again? Did she leave me there because she figured I was messed up and always would be? Is that why my daddy didn’t want me, either?
Did he even know there was a me?
I’ll go through the questions in my mind—why did Mama straighten herself out for more than a year when she had my baby brother? She wouldn’t do that for me. She was in love with Angelo’s daddy. Maybe that was the difference. He used to come around Granny’s house
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