Dirty Secrets

Part 41

Friday morning, she dried her hair, pulled a clean t-shirt over her head, then slipped into the freshly-laundered jeans and hoodie that were draped over the back of the chair. When Lyla took a quick peek in the mirror, her eyes were drawn to the hair on the left side of her head performing a levitation act. No amount of brushing would tame it.

Looks like it's gonna be ponytail day. Not cute, messy ponytail. Homeless person ponytail.

She gathered her hair at the back of her head and secured it with an elastic. With her face fully exposed, she noticed a ferocious pimple blossoming at the intersection of her cheek and her nose. She made an attempt with a dab of concealer, but it was like trying to cover a car wreck with a bedsheet. She avoided the mirror knowing that with the pimple and her frizzy ponytail she likely looked like she was ten years old. And on that disconcerting note, she set out to take on whatever Friday had in store for her.

The whole day felt out of sync. If this was life's way of reminding Lyla that she was fallible, it was wasted energy. No reminders required.

For some inexplicable reason, the heel of her left sock was wet and according to the food stain on her sleeve, somewhere along the way, she'd apparently leaned in a blob of yogurt. At least she hoped it was yogurt.

Every person she spoke with stared at her unruly hair, her pimple, or both.

Her mouth was unusually dry. She was tempted to quench her thirst at the drinking fountain but decided against it, determined to avoid the bathroom at all costs.

Never going in there again. Not ever.

At long last, 2 o'clock arrived. She needed only to survive Matthew's group session and then she would be free. The weekend was waiting with open arms. But by then, Lyla felt like she was the eye of the storm. A dark energy swirled around her with such intensity that it seemed to affect everything in her sphere. The mind-numbing boredom of group sessions to which she'd become accustomed had mutated into a palpable tension that simmered just below the surface.

The broken window still had not been repaired and to add insult to injury, someone had sketched a blackbird on the panel of plywood. She tried not to look at it.

To underscore the fact that group session was an academic exercise, Matthew dragged a whiteboard into class on which he had drawn diagrams. With colorful markers, he'd written,  "Lists of Things You Can Control" versus "Things Beyond Your Control." He circled, "Establishing Goals." No one took notes.

As part of some ill-conceived team-building exercise, each girl was called to the board to write the name of the person with whom she most identified on personal issues. Like everyone else in the class, Natalie was uncomfortable with the marker in her hand, eager to get it over with.

"Guess I could relate most to AJ," she said and wrote AJ on the board.

"About anything in particular?" Matthew prodded.

"Just about sometimes feeling less than when I should be astro-excelling."

AJ nodded.

Natalie shot Maisie an antagonistic look then wrote Macy.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I got nothing from her. Did she even ever say anything?"

"We're not--"

Maisie cut him off. "What's this Macy? Like I'm a department store?"

"That's your name, right?"

"Learn to spell, alpha-bitch."

Before Matthew could intercede, Natalie tossed her marker to the floor and advanced toward Maisie, her eyes wild with rage. She snarled, "I'll grab that nasty pink hair of yours and drag your skanky ass across this floor."

AJ closed her eyes and covered her ears.

"Ladies. Ladies. Let's calm down." He grabbed Natalie's sleeve.

She jerked her arm free. "Don't you put your hands on me."

In his calm, clinical tone, Matthew responded, "Please take your seat. Okay? Come on, Natalie."

Shaniece leaned in toward Lyla. "What the actual hell? You see that one coming?"

"Total blindside," Lyla whispered.

........

Not long after 3 o'clock, Lyla hurried through the hospital atrium where soft shafts of sunlight streamed through the tall panes of glass then jogged out the front door where she found Packer dutifully waiting for her.

"Didn't see you this morning," she said.

"Forgot to charge my phone. Alarm didn't go off."

"Awesome way to start the day."

He nodded. As they plodded toward the parking lot she said, "You're limping."

"Rolled my ankle yesterday. Could barely get my shoe on this morning."

"What do you mean rolled?"

"I landed on some guy's foot coming down from a rebound, and my ankle just rolled over."

She grimaced. "Does it hurt?"

"Only when I walk... Or stand... Or sit... Or lie down." 

She grinned. "But other than that?"

"Feels great."

He unlocked his car and Lyla got in. It took Packer considerably longer to wedge himself into the driver's seat. He started the car and steered toward the exit.

"Sorry about yesterday," he said.

She gave him a quick glance.

"Sorry I..."

"What?"

"I didn't mean to freak you out."

Oh, no. Please let's not talk about it.

"Guess I was pissed off about my car. Shouldn't have said anything about that dude following me around. You don't need that in your life. I talk too much. Forget all that." 

But she couldn't.

"It's just that...," she said, closing her eyes. "My ex had a shaved head and a blue tattoo on his neck."

"What?"

"Yeah, a big blue tat of a snake. So when you said--"

"So the creepy dude... He's your ex."

"--My ex died a couple months ago."

That stopped him in his tracks. "Wow. Sorry. I mean..."

She looked out the window.

"I mean, that's a super freaky coincidence. Right?" he said sheepishly.

She didn't respond.