Day Two

Day Two

Brandy is on the floor, rooting through her suitcase. Dental floss, underwear, and very lacy bras fly through the air in clouds of pink, purple, mint green. She's pissed. Her voice tumbles out in a rush.

"They took everything. Everything. Makeup, toothbrush, toothpaste…Heathens."

I get up from the bed sleepily and walk over to my own suitcase, pushed against the wall under the window. Outside, I can see it's still early. There's a grayness to the sky; the sun is just beginning to rise.

I unlatch my suitcase. It's not really mine; it was Laurel's. It's old-fashioned and hard as bricks and she decorated it when she was a teenager, Mod Podging funny stickers, old postcards,and photographs of bands cut out from magazines. "My parents were so mad," she told me. "It was quite expensive. But I had to make everything mine. Put my own stamp on things."

I don't care about makeup. I only have one good eye anyway.

T-shirts, jeans, a hoodie, underwear, my copy of Wild, like that's any use to me now.

The door opens.

It's Tracy, fresh-faced and smiling, blond hair pulled behind her ears.

"Breakfast," she announces.

On each bunk, she places a stack of brand-new toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, hairbrush.

"Why would you take my makeup?" Brandy asks angrily. "That's something that makes me feel better naturally. "

I study Brandy. She looks a lot different than she did yesterday. She must have taken off her makeup at some point last night while I was sleeping. She looks so much younger with a naked face.

Tracy shrugs. "You could hide drugs in it. But also, we don't want you to hide, if you know what I mean."

"I don't hide behind my makeup," Brandy mutters, sweeping her hair into a scrunchie. She stands up, grabs the things Tracy gave us, and stomps into the bathroom. She slams the door. Tracy smiles at me and leaves.

"I do," I say to the empty room. "I hide behind my makeup."

"Good for you!" Brandy yells from behind the bathroom door. "Good for effin' you."

—

Billy is already at the table, surrounded by bowls of scrambled eggs, plates of sausage, plates of toast and butter, boxes of cereal and cartons of milk. Brandy wrinkles her nose at one of the bowls. It's filled with scrambled tofu. Tracy points to another table with urns of coffee and juice.

"Not you," she says as I start to head over. "Pedialyte for you. No coffee just yet."

"That's not fair," I say.

"You wrecked your body," she says simply. "We're still rehydrating you. You can have that or water."

"One cup of coffee isn't going to kill me," I argue. This is ridiculous. It's coffee, and I'm not dead. I didn't die. I'm very much still alive, apparently, and in this awful place.

"Rules are rules," she says. "And speaking of…"

She places booklets in front of each of us.

Desert vista, a shining sky, Sonoran Sunrise in beautiful lettering on the cover, with Welcome to your future across the bottom.

"The handbook," Tracy tells us. "Read it, initial each page, give it back when you're done."

She sits down and starts making a plate of fruit and scrambled tofu.

"I'm not much of a reader," Billy says, flipping through the booklet. "Somebody just tell me the good parts." He shoves a sausage into his mouth with his fingers.

I use a fork to break the seal on my bottle of Pedialyte and dump some eggs onto my plate. The bad side of my face throbs. I take a small bite of egg and chew very, very slowly as I flip through the booklet.

Welcome to Sonoran Sunrise, a behavioral and rehabilitation program for adolescents in crisis.

We are a healing, empathy-based recovery program that emphasizes personal responsibility and growth. Addiction recovery treatment is not one-size-fits-all because adolescents are not one size. We tailor our program to each individual in need, utilizing a variety of methods: self-awareness training, self-reliance, physical and adventure activity, emotional therapy.

Images of kids hiking, with backpacks and trekking poles. Campfires. Swimming in the sparkling blue pool. Gathered in circles listening to some extremely healthy- and positive-looking person talk. It looks like a summer camp, for god's sake. It looks like all cheeriness and good health and good living and I am none of those things.

There's a list of rules.

At Sonoran Sunrise, I agree to:

Participate fully and openly in my recovery program.

Respect myself and the other residents.

Respect the counselors and other health staff.

Refrain from ingesting drugs and alcohol at any time, with the exception of medication approved by staff.

Refrain from violent or disruptive behavior toward myself, fellow residents, or staff.

Not abuse, harm, or put at risk any of the camp animals.

Respect the confidentiality of my fellow residents.

Refrain from sexual activity with my fellow residents or with staff.

Report any and all instances of inappropriate or violent behavior, sexual activity, drug use, or bullying to staff.

Follow all rules pertaining to mealtime, therapy, assigned physical activity, and any other activities.

By signing this document, I agree that I am ready to accept myself as a valued, spiritual, empathetic, and important person on this earth.

"Animals?" I say, breaking the silence that's settled over the meal room.

"Goats," Brandy says, rapidly turning the pages of her book. "They have goats and chickens here. That's what my mom said. She said it's a bunch of damn hippies. That doesn't seem so bad, though, honestly. My last place, everyone was like a prison guard, practically. The food was great and the sheets were luxurious, but the staff sucked. I might prefer the goat thing."

Oh my god, I'm like Ricci now. At a place with cute animals that are supposed to calm me down. I'd laugh, but it would hurt my face. Someday I'll have to tell Ricci about this. The place with animals and—

Ricci. What even have my parents told her? She's never been away from me for so long. She's going to freak out. They're going to freak out, trying to take care of her without me to run interference. It's going to be a nightmare.

My brain says: Good. Make them suffer.

My heart says: Poor Ricci.

There's a lot of other information in the book, about meal prep and phone calls and visitors, but I can't process all of it, so I just sign every page. This is my life for the next month. I can't believe it. My head starts to swim.

I grab a pen from a pile in the middle of the table and initial every page, throw the booklet next to the pens.

"What a good girl you are," Brandy says.

I ignore her, sipping my Pedialyte.

Brandy finishes signing her handbook with a flourish and then grabs Billy's, signs all his pages, too, as Tracy watches.

Billy looks at Tracy.

"Suit yourself," she says. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

—

No.

That's what I tell Tracy.

No.

We're in the activity room, which I didn't really get a good look at yesterday when Fran was marching us around. I'm feeling a little bleary after breakfast, and the two ibuprofen Tracy handed me haven't kicked in.

Tracy is standing in front of a wall of Polaroids. A veritable cornucopia of dysfunction, rage, and sadness. Kid after kid after kid after kid posing against the wall: disgruntled, beat-up, stitched-up, giving devil horns; red-faced, woozy-eyed, flipping off the camera; shit-eating grins, resolute fury, stone-faced; apple-cheeked and smiling like absolutely nothing is wrong or ever has been.

"There's no no, " Tracy tells me. She's holding the camera in her hand. "This is part of your process here. Every day, a photograph. Day Fifteen, which is halfway through, you look at all of them. You'll see a difference. You'll see yourself becoming a healthier person. You'll become more aware of yourself."

I notice that she does not say happier.

Also, this sounds suspiciously similar to the stupid art class self-portrait, and that just makes me angrier.

Brandy and Billy are inspecting the Polaroids and giggling at some of them. Brandy points to a photo of a pink-haired girl.

"Who's this here, flipping you off?"

Tracy gives a half smile. "That's Charlotte. You'll meet her later in Gen. She's a real charmer."

"Anyway," Brandy says, "this is weird. We didn't do this at any of my other places, but what the hell. I'm gorgeous, snap away."

She finds a blank spot against the wall, releases her hair from her scrunchie and fluffs it around her shoulders, and pouts. Tracy takes the photograph. When it slides from the camera, she puts it on the chair to develop. Brandy skips over to watch.

"Wait a minute. How many places have you been in anyway?" I ask Brandy.

"Technically, only one rehab," Brandy says. "The other two were purely mental. And they were nice. One even had massages and a sauna."

"Damn, girl," Billy says, standing against the wall for Tracy. "And you're still not better?"

"It's not about being better, Billy. It's about managing your addictions and behavior," Tracy says. She holds the camera up to her eye.

"I'm not addicted," Billy says. "I manage my pharmaceutical behavior just fine, thanks. I'm only here to do the time for my crime, ma'am."

He sticks out his tongue. Tracy hands him his photograph, then motions to me.

"You signed the booklet," she says evenly. "This is a required part of the program."

" Look at me," I say. "I don't want to."

She gestures to the wall of kids. "Look at them. Everybody's face has a story here. These are all Detox photographs. You need to face yourself, Bella. If you can't face yourself, you won't do well here."

I think I hate her. Her blond hair, her perfect, unblemished face. She's like one of those smooth and beautiful rocks you find on a walk along the beach: glistening, unmarked, special. You slip it into your pocket and keep it forever.

That will never be me.

Tracy walks up to me very slowly.

"I know what you're thinking, Bella," she says quietly. "I know it. You think you know my story just by looking at me. You have a whole idea in your head. You've written a whole novel about me."

Brandy and Billy have gotten very quiet. My heart is knocking in my chest. Is Tracy going to hit me or something? Her face has changed, somehow. There's an edge to her voice.

She opens her mouth and gently, with one hand, pops out her entire top row of teeth, just for a second, revealing the emptiness there. Then, as quick as if it never happened, she pops it back in.

"Someday I'll tell you how that happened, Bella, and how I came to be at Sonoran, but for right now, don't judge people based on what you think you see. Your face is part of the story that's going to be written here over the next month."

Billy nudges me toward the wall.

I walk over, fit my back against it, look at the ground.

"Who's going to write that stupid story?" I mumble. "I wouldn't want to read it."

"Bella!" Tracy shouts.

Startled, I look up.

She presses the button, catches the photo as it slides out.

Smiling, she says, "You are. And you will."