Eleven

Winnie

The car’s too hot, and it smells like lemons. Cindy’s driving like she’s waiting for a deer to jump out in front of the car. There are a lot of woods down this stretch of the road, so I guess it’s possible, but I’m pretty sure she’s only driving this slow because my silence makes her nervous.

I try to ask her a question so that she doesn’t think I’m ungrateful or stupid, but then my mind shifts to Trey and how I’d rather be in his car right now. My throat gets scratchy, and I hold back the tears, convincing myself to keep a brave face around Cindy and the other kids.

My sweatpants are damp, and I need a Band-Aid. I use that as a distraction. A couple of times, I even press on the cuts, so they clot faster. The cotton from my pants stings a little, but I like it. It means I’m capable of feeling something—something other than sadness and shame.

Cindy changes the radio station again. I think she’s waiting for me to tell her I like one of the songs, but I haven’t been listening to music lately. The hospital didn’t have a radio, and the TV stayed off most of the time. Nancy said, if I had time to watch it, I had time to work on myself, and then she would walk me to another counseling session with more people I didn’t know.

We sat in a round circle with chairs facing the center of the circle, just like in the movies. I always thought it was weird that you had to look strangers in the eye while revealing your deepest, darkest secrets, but Nancy said that was the point.

“Look fear in the eye, Winnie. Don’t ever give it the power to destroy you.”

I thought about that for a while. Did I let what Jax and Tess had done to me destroy me? I didn’t think so. I woke up every day, and I tried to make it through the day. The cutting stopped while I was in the hospital, and I had a grip on my anger. But what didn’t change was the self-doubt—the way I thought I wasn’t good enough. If I had just been stronger, better, less dependent on other people, I could have made it on my own by now.

When it came time for me to speak to the circle, I opened my mouth, and I screamed. Some of the girls covered their ears. A couple of guys laughed at me. Nancy just let me get it out.

When I was finished, she said, “Do you feel better?”

Better? No. I didn’t feel much different.

That was when she told me, “We’ll get there, Winnie. Just take it one day at a time. Let one second follow the next.”

I listened to her. I focused on seconds instead of minutes. Minutes instead of hours. Then, hours instead of days. Time in the hospital became routine and manageable, but it didn’t change life on the other side of the tracks. When I left, I knew I’d have to dig deeper than I ever had before. And that made me want to cut.

Another station change, and Cindy says, “You’re probably glad to be done with that hospital food.”

“I liked the hospital food,” I tell her.

It was the best food I’d had since Dad died. The fact that it didn’t come from a can or a pouch made it taste better. It was usually a hot meal, and I got to use actual silverware to eat it.

Cindy flicks her turn signal and doesn’t say anything until she’s made the turn onto a new street. This one’s lined on both sides with huge trees. The kind of trees that hold so much history, the leaves tell stories when they fall to the ground.

“You’re right, Winnie. Hospital food isn’t so bad. What are your favorite snacks? I’ll make sure to get them for you the next time I run to the market.”

“I pretty much lived off of tuna fish and canned fruit. I’d get a lot of saltine crackers from the cafeteria; they were free. I couldn’t afford much.”

She swipes at her cheek and rubs her hand on her pants. There’s still a little dampness left underneath her eyes.

Pity. Pity feels cheaper than dancing at The Whip. At least there, I’d get money in my pockets and not have to defend hospital food.

“Well, I have my homemade chicken soup simmering on the stove. It’s my claim to fame. How does that sound?”

I had soup a couple of times in the hospital. Chicken, tomato, even clam chowder once. I wasn’t sure if I had a seafood allergy or not, but since I was already in the hospital, I figured it was safe to try. Turned out, clam chowder was gross. Those little rubbery bites were hard to chew, and the broth was thick like milk.

“That sounds good,” I tell her.

Another right and then a left, and we pull into a driveway. I’ve learned not to expect much, but the two-story brick home is massive.

“What do you think?”

“It’s huge.”

She points to the second floor, the last window on the right side. “That one there is your room. You’ll share with Melody. She’s a very talented musician, but you’ll see that for yourself soon enough. She’s working on a new song.”

“Who else lives here?”

Cindy puts the car in park, and the doors automatically unlock.

She leaves it running, and I tell her, “Don’t worry; I’m not going to run.”

I don’t know this side of town very well. Even if I ran, I wouldn’t know which buses to take to get to Jasper’s house, and I have no idea if Trey’s still staying at the trailer now that I’m not living with Tess.

“Winnie,” she says, “I want you to be happy here. We all want that for you. I think, if you give us all a chance, you’ll see that things aren’t so bad. Like I said, Melody’s your roommate. Hannah and Raven share the room across from you. The boys—Chance, Matty, and Dray—are on the other side of the house. Dray has the single, and Matty and Chance share.”

“Are they nice?”

“They have manners when it matters. Sunshine Place is a learning opportunity. We gave it a happy name because most of the kids who pass through don’t know what sunshine on a warm day feels like. They know darkness and clouds.”

My whole life’s been a dark cloud following me around.

The curtains part in the living room, and a girl with long blonde hair peeks out.

“Which one is that?”

“Raven,” she says. “She’s the exact opposite of her name.”

Nodding, I check out the other windows, but nobody else is watching us. It’s a good thing. I’d be nervous if they were all in the driveway, expecting me to be someone I’m not.

“Any other questions before we go inside?”

“No.” I want to see my room and find someplace quiet to check Jasper’s phone.

As soon as Cindy opens the front door, the smell of chicken soup smacks me in the face. The house is neat and clean—not a single decoration out of place, no pieces of laundry strewed on the floor, and no empty pizza boxes from a week ago on the coffee table. I’m afraid to touch anything.

“Raven, why don’t you take Winnie up to her room? Show her around the upstairs and then meet us back down here, so we can talk about your punishment. I believe today’s the last day of your grounding.”

She doesn’t say a word, just stares at me, and then she starts walking up the stairs. They’re lined with school pictures of teenagers, some more dated than others.

“That’s the memory wall,” she tells me. “Your face will go up soon.”

I didn’t get school pictures taken this year. Not even a senior picture for the yearbook. I couldn’t afford any of the photographers the other kids were using, and I was absent the day they took the free shots with the school photographer. I wandered around town that day because I didn’t want my picture in a memory book. Thirty years down the road, they’d wonder who the sad-looking girl with blue eyes was. Maybe they’d had a math class with her or maybe she’d moved into town late in the year. Regardless, they wouldn’t remember me anyway. I didn’t want them to.

Raven stops in front of a closed door and says, “Good luck.”

Before she goes back downstairs, I ask her, “What did you do? To get grounded?” I want to know what I’m up against and just how strict Cindy and her husband really are.

She gives me a wicked smile, and then she laughs. “I screwed Matty on the kitchen table.”

Cindy’s words float through my head. “Sunshine Place is a learning opportunity.”

Sunshine Place might look like the house from Home Alone, but I’ve walked in on Tess screwing Jax on the kitchen table more times than I can count. Maybe this place isn’t much different than the trailer.

“Go inside.”

I turn my head, and Alex Drayer’s standing at the end of the hallway with a football in his hands. He’s in a couple of my classes, but I had no idea he lived here. Then again, I have no idea where most kids live or what they do outside of school. That’s part of why I keep to myself. The less I know about them, the less they know about me. Or so I hope.

“Alex?”

“I go by Dray here,” he says as he walks closer.

We’ve never had a real conversation. Just a few words exchanged during a class project last semester. Alex—I mean, Dray has never made fun of me to my face. He’s never laughed at my clothing or the homemade bags I use to carry my books. He’s even smiled at me a couple of times in the hallway. Now, I wonder if that had something to do with his own life. Because, if he’s living here now, it must not be that great.

“I didn’t know,” I tell him. I didn’t know he was in trouble. Or that he had no place to live.

“Nobody does. I use a different name at school. I ride the bus from the good side of town, so who would guess my life’s fucked?”

“How long have you been here?” I ask him.

“Six months. I hated it at first. Mostly because of the rules. I was used to being on my own. But give Cindy a chance. She’s tough, but she’s fair.”

“What’s Melody like?”

“Weird as hell,” he says with a laugh. “But she grows on you.”

“I guess I should go in.”

Dray stands there, all six feet of his muscles and tan skin, and waits for me to open the door. My fingers wrap around the knob, and I realize how nervous I am to get this girl’s approval. She probably doesn’t want a roommate any more than I want to be one. Like Dray said, we’re used to being on our own, fending for ourselves.

Melody’s lying across her bed with headphones on. She doesn’t hear the door open or lift her head. I set my bag on my bed, and she looks up from her sheet music. Beside it, there’s an open journal with a bunch of lyrics scribbled across the page. At least, I think they’re lyrics.

At first, she just looks at me, and I glance at my clothes. My sweats aren’t impressive, and compared to her trendy cutoff jean shorts and tank top, I must look homeless.

She makes no effort to speak to me, so I turn back around and open my bag, digging to the bottom to find my phone. That gets her attention because, when I pull it out, she rips off her headphones and sits up.

“How’d you get that in here?” she asks.

“Um, in my bag.”

“Cindy didn’t go through your things?”

“No. I came straight from the hospital.”

“Oh, that’s why,” she says. “She figured you’d already been searched. You got lucky.”

I tuck the phone into my pocket and sit on the edge of the bed. “We’re not allowed to have phones?”

“We’re not allowed to have any distractions. Just hobbies and school.”

The lump in my throat goes down hard. If talking on the phone isn’t allowed, how am I ever going to get permission to spend time with Trey? I won’t be able to lie my way around seeing him.

Melody’s still talking, but I’ve blocked her out. My heart’s racing again, and I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t want to give Sunshine Place or Cindy’s stupid chicken soup a chance. I just want to find a way to Jasper’s and then to Trey.

I run out of the room and into Dray as he comes out of the bathroom. He puts his hands on my shoulders and bends down to see my face.

“Stop,” I tell him. “Let go of me.”

He fights me for a second, but then I spit into his face, and he backs up into the wall. As soon as the door is closed, I try to lock it, but there’s no lock on the door. They don’t trust us to be alone; we’re all so screwed up. And they took away the only thing that has ever made me feel safe—a locked door. It’s like I’m back in my room with the Christmas bell around the doorknob, waiting for it to ring, waiting for the hands to find my body.

I sit on the edge of the tub and wrap my arms around my stomach. The only thing to put in front of the door is a small plastic trash can. It’s not heavy enough to keep anyone out. But Dray and Melody aren’t trying to get in. I’m all alone, straining for a breath.

The phone in my pocket vibrates, and I pull it out. Jasper’s name flashes across the screen, and I think about which way to swipe to answer the call.

“Winnie? Are you there?”

His voice makes my eyes sting, and I force myself not to cry, but my voice is shaky when I say, “Jasper.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he says in a rush.

“I’m freaking out. I can’t stay here. Can you come and get me?”

He lets out a frustrated breath, and I know he’s pacing.

“I just picked up a new phone. If I can get Ace to let me borrow his car, I’ll come across town and find you. But I don’t know if he’ll let me have it.”

“Please,” I beg. “You have to come.”

“Winnie.”

“Please.”

“I want to. You know I do. I’m sorry.”

I’m in bed, listening to Melody’s music playing from her computer. Her voice is unique and like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

I think I’m dreaming when the familiar rumble of an engine rolls down the street and stops in front of the house. Before it disappears, I run to the window and pull the blinds up. At the edge of the driveway, Trey’s sitting there, watching the house.

There’s no way to get outside without scaling the house. The bedrooms are on the second floor, and I’d break my legs and end up back in the hospital if I tried to jump. He’s so close, and I can’t get to him.

“Your phone’s ringing, Winnie.”

My phone. I run to the closet and pull it out of my bag. Trey’s name is flashing across the screen.

“Get me out of here,” I tell him.

He says nothing.

“Trey, can you hear me?”

Still, no response.

“Trey!” I’m panicking, but I can hear him breathing, so he has to be able to hear me, too. But I know that’s exactly why he’s not responding. He showed up so that I know I’m not alone, yet he stays far enough away so I won’t get into trouble. I want trouble. I want Trey. “Talk to me, please. I need you.”

The call ends, and he revs his engine and then takes off down the street, the same way he came. My heart skips a beat, and I try to throw up the window, but it won’t budge.

“It’s locked,” Melody says. “For the jumpers.”

“Are we in prison? No locks on the doors. The windows don’t open. Maybe they want to microchip me before school starts,” I seethe.

“We’re here because we’re fucked up, Winnie. If we could go to a regular foster home, we would have. But this happy place is supposed to make us normal again.”

I have no idea how long she’s been living here. For her to be so pessimistic yet stay, something must be appealing about not running away. Because, right now, that’s all I want to do.

If I could make it out the front door without an alarm going off, I’d do it. That’s why I decide to work on finding out the code. If I watch Cindy and her husband, Doug, close enough, I bet I can figure it out.

For now, I lie down in my bed and type out a text to Trey.

Winnie: I need you. Come back.

I wait two hours for a response, and I end up falling asleep with the phone cradled against my chest. Come morning, the phone’s still in the same spot, but Melody is gone, and then the panic returns.