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  And for the first time in my life, I get up and walk away from them.

  21

  Nobody speaks as we approach the two-story brick building. It’s been more than seventy-two hours, so Misty’s been moved to a place called PrairieCare. “We’re here to see Misty McCullough,” Dad says to the tiny woman at a huge desk.

  “ID, please.” Mom and Dad hand her their licenses, sign in a book. The woman glares at me.

  “I don’t have any ID,” I confess. “I’m their daughter.”

  “How old is she?” the woman asks my father.

  “Eighteen,” Mister Always Tell the Truth fibs. I sign in.

  The woman speaks into a radio. Then she says, “You can meet her in room two. Through the metal detector, then to the right.”

  Like at the airport on our way to Florida fun, we pass through the detector. This is no vacation. Everything’s washed out. Like the walls and floors had color, but something sucked it dry.

  In a small room, we sit in silence on hard tan chairs at a tanner table. After a few minutes, the door opens. It’s Misty, without make-up, and a woman in a uniform.

  I stand up to hug her, like I didn’t do when she left. “No PC,” uniform lady says.

  “Personal contact,” Misty mumbles. “They speak their own language here.”

  I sit back down. Misty joins us at the table. She wears a large gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. I can see the old scars on her arm and the fresh ones, like the deep one on her left wrist. Her sneakers have no laces. There’s no tie on the pants. She can’t hurt herself here. Or be hurt.

  “Misty, how are you feeling?” Mom says like she’s talking to a tiny child.

  Misty makes a fist with her right hand, relaxes it. After a deep breath, she says, “Better.”

  “That’s good,” Dad says. If this isn’t the most awkward conversation in history, it at least cracks the top ten.

  “So when can I get out of here?” She’s looking at me, begging me for support, but I’m mute.

  “That depends on lots of things,” Dad starts. “We’re meeting with the doctor and—”

  “Why don’t you just say it?” Another snap. “That you don’t want me anymore.”

  Mom looks at Dad, who looks at the table. I look at Misty and I start to cry, for both of us.

  I sit in the car while my parents talk to the psychiatrist. I don’t know if Misty’s part of the conversation. I wanted to stay longer with Misty, but they wouldn’t leave me alone with her.

  After an hour, my parents come out. No Misty, just a brown folder in Mom’s hands.

  “Where’s Misty?” I ask.

  “She’s not coming home with us.”

  “Why not? They know what’s wrong with her now, right? Can’t we get her on medication—”

  “Rachel, it’s not that simple,” Mom snaps.

  “I don’t need it to be simple. I just need you to tell me what’s going on. What’s wrong with her?”

  “There are issues of patient confidentiality here,” says Dad. “I’m sorry, honey, but we really shouldn’t talk about it.”

  The drive home, like the trip out here, is silent.

  In the middle of the night, I creep downstairs into my parents’ shared office. I find the hidden key to Mom’s “family” filing cabinet. Open it. There’s the brown folder.

  It’s easy to find because Mom keeps everything in order. Cabinet, house, life. Me.

  I click the lamp over the desk, open the folder, and read the report with final exam-like focus. Under diagnosis it says: borderline personality disorder (BPD).

  I read on. BPD is a psychiatric disorder characterized by variability in actions, relations, and self-image.

  Below the definition is a checklist of symptoms. As I read it, each bullet point is a stab wound.

  Difficult and unstable relationships

  Poor self-image

  Intense but short episodes of anxiety or depression

  Difficulty controlling emotions or impulses

  Fear of being alone and abandonment

  Frequent displays of inappropriate anger

  Recurrent acts of crisis such as wrist cutting, overdosing, or self-mutilation

  Feelings of emptiness and boredom

  Impulsiveness with money, substance abuse, sexual relationships, binge eating, or shoplifting

  Periods of paranoia and loss of contact with reality

  For each item, I flash to Misty. Like an action movie trailer, images come too fast to process. Fresh scars, red thong underwear, flask of vodka, stolen dress. I skim through the rest of the file, find the details about treatment. There’s no magic pill or easy fix, though different medications can treat some symptoms, like depression. The recommended treatment is DBT: dialectical behavior therapy. I read the description. DBT is a long, slow process that demands patience and persistence. Definitely not Misty’s strengths.

  As I struggle to understand, I hear footsteps, a sigh, and the click of a light switch.

  Dad stands by the door, looking defeated. “Do you have any questions?”

  I let out a long shaky stream of air. “Just one question. When can we bring her home?”

  22

  “Do you think they’ll let me have a door again anytime soon?” Misty asks.

  The words get swallowed up by the still near emptiness of Misty’s room. Dad moved the bed, a chair and the desk back in, but that’s it so far. We sit on the floor.

  “Sure,” I say. “Just give it some time.” We all need a little time.

  “I haven’t thanked you,” she says.

  “For what?”

  “Convincing your folks to take me back.”

  I start to protest, to lie—to say we all wanted her back.

  “Come on, Rach, I know it was all you.”

  I shut my mouth. After all those years of keeping promises to my parents, I’ve finally made a promise to myself. I’m going to accept the truth. Even if it’s messy and ugly and out of control. And the truth is that my parents don’t trust Misty. Don’t really believe she belongs here. Don’t really think that our family can handle her, that she can handle us. And I’m still not sure, deep down, if they’re wrong.

  Misty shows me her new stash of pills. “This is for the depression. This should help me sleep.”

  I nod, not sure what to say.

  “Have you seen Alix at school?”

  I nod again. “I told her what happened—that you were at PrairieCare. She seemed sad.” I don’t mention the rest of our conversation. I’d said, “I didn’t know that Misty was gay. I thought, with her and Colt, her and Nathan …”

  “To be honest,” Alix said, “I don’t think Misty knows what she is—gay, straight, bi. She’s whatever you need her to be for whatever she wants at that time.”

  “What about your other friends?” I ask now. “At Rondo? Have you heard from anybody?”

  “Rondo’s taking me back,” she says. I let the non-answer slide. “I promised my ‘team’ I’d study more. And I’ll see a therapist on Monday and then go to a DBT group on Thursday nights.”

  “You won’t have any time to get into trouble,” I joke.

  “I’ll be just like you,” she says, then laughs. There’s edge to her statement, but I let it pass.

  “I read up on Dialectical Behavioral Therapy,” I tell her. “It looks hard. There’s a lot to remember.”

  Misty climbs up on her bed, lies back, and says, “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  “Well, that’s not true,” I correct her. “I can help you study, so you can get caught up.”

  “If you want to help me, I need to see Alix. Is there some way you could sneak her in?” she asks.

  “I’ll … see what I can do,” I say, against my better judgment.

  “That’s not holding me accountable,” Misty says, standing up. “Now I gotta put that on a diary card.” The diary card is part of the DBT process for tracking emotions. I read as much as I could about it so I could h
elp Misty through the process.

  “Sorry.” There I go again, apologizing. Old habits die hard. “Does anybody else read those? Your therapist?”

  Misty shrugs and flops down on the bed. “Dunno. Shrinks are so weird. Who wants to hear about other people’s problems?” You, I think, remembering Kevin. Like I can forget. Misty was there for me when I needed someone. Now I want to be there for her. “I mean, seriously,” she says. “Who’s gonna care about all I went through?”

  I stand, go over toward the bed, place a hand on the end of it. “I do, Misty. I care.”

  Misty stares at the ceiling. “Thanks. When Alix gets here we’ll drink to our friendship.”

  I laugh. A nervous laugh. But Misty doesn’t join in. She’s breathing deeply, relaxing.

  “Before you sneak Alix into the house, tell her to bring the goose,” Misty whispers.

  “The goose?”

  “You know, vodka,” Misty answers. “The top shelf stuff. It gets you messed up, no hangover.”

  “But what about the pills you’re taking?” I ask, careful to keep most of the alarm out of my voice. “I’m pretty sure it’s super dangerous to mix medication and alcohol.” Thank you, AP Chem.

  “Aw, Rach. You worry too much.”

  I stare down at Misty. She looks so calm. So close to being at peace. But I know her now. I used to think we were so different, but I was wrong. Misty is her own unique kind of messed up. So am I. So are Dana and Sarah and Kevin and my parents. Misty’s way is just more out in the open than mine. Yet we could be twin sisters, under the flesh.

  Words from this summer echo in my head like distant thunder—words that hold true for Misty as much as they ever did for me: I don’t like change.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  One of the hardest parts about writing realistic fiction for teens is the desire to “make it real” while at the same time hearing from upset readers that the book didn’t have a “happy ending.” In some novels, I’ve sugarcoated, while in others, like this one, I opt for hard truth.

  This is one story of one girl with borderline personality disorder (BPD). Misty might not make it, but many young women—and it is primarily girls who are diagnosed with BPD—do the hard work of therapy and come out on the other side. Others put in equal effort but still find their lives chaotic, and sometimes only aging seems to calm the fury.

  The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), published by the American Psychiatric Association, provides a common language and standard criteria for the classification of mental disorders. Before the publication of the 5th edition of the DSM in 2013, borderline personality disorder could not be diagnosed in people under the age of eighteen. Allowing this life-altering disorder to be treated earlier, most often through dialectical behavior therapy (DBT), may lead many young people to better outcomes. In addition to my own research, Nancy McLean reviewed the manuscript for accuracy of my portrayal of BPD. McLean is a licensed marriage and family therapist (MFT) with a graduate academic degree, clinical work experience, and successful passing of state-certified licensing exams. Along with a two- to three-year master’s programs with a practicum and internship, MFTs are required to complete clinical training in individual or family therapy.

  Finally, as with all the books in The Alternative series, students and teachers at South Saint Paul Community Learning Center read and commented on the manuscript, in particular John Egelkrout, Mindy Haukedahl, Kathleen Johnson, and Lisa Seppelt.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patrick Jones is the author of more than twenty novels for teens. He has also written two nonfiction books about combat sports, The Main Event, on professional wrestling, and Ultimate Fighting, on mixed martial arts. He has spoken to students at more than one hundred alternative schools, including residents of juvenile correctional facilities. Find him on the web at www.connectingya.com and on Twitter: @PatrickJonesYA.