The Evolution of Mara Dyer

12

JAMIE.

Minus the dreadlocks and taller, but definitely, unmistakably Jamie. I smiled so widely my face hurt; I jumped up to hug him but he raised his hands defensively before I could.

“Can’t touch this.”

“Don’t be an ass,” I said, still beaming.

Jamie’s expression mimicked mine, though he appeared to be trying not to show it. “I’m serious. They’re strict about that,” he said, giving me a once-over.

I did the same. Without his long hair, Jamie’s cheekbones seemed higher, his face more angular. Older. His jeans were uncharacteristically well-fitted and his T-shirt clung to his frame. On his shirt was an image of what appeared to be ancient Greek men linking arms in a row and kicking their legs like Rockettes. He was so strange.

At the exact same time we both asked: “What are you doing here?”

“Ladies first,” Jamie said with a little bow.

I looked up at the ceiling as I thought about what to say. “PTSD,” I decided finally. “A few hallucinations here and there. Nothing to write home about. You?”

“Oh, my parents were persuaded that it would be a wise preemptive measure to send me here before I shot up a school.” He dropped onto the bench.

My mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”

“Unfortunately, I am. Our best Croydian friends made sure that’s what the all-knowing adults would think when they planted that knife in my backpack.”

Anna and Aiden, those assholes. At least I’d no longer have to see them on a daily basis. Lucky me.

Lucky them.

I sat back down on the bench and Jamie went on. “Unable to comprehend the idea that my earlier threat to give Aiden Ebola was made in jest,” he said, “I was considered a two-time offender and was therefore labeled ‘at risk’ by the guidance department, those ultimate arbiters of wisdom. They in turn scrawled that all over my record.” His mocking tone changed, then. “Words have power. And I may be privileged and have a higher IQ than any of our former teachers, but when people look at me? They see a black, male teenager. And there is nothing quite as frightening to some folks as an angry young black man.” He popped a piece of gum into his mouth. “So. Here I am.”

I offered a small smile. “At least we’re together?”

He grinned. “So it seems.”

My eyes rested on his shorn head. “What happened to your hair?”

“Ah.” He ran a hand over it. “Once overanxious parents are told that their child is ‘at-risk’, they decide that all ‘at-risk’ attributes have to go. Good-bye, long hair. Good-bye, rebellious music. Good-bye, delightfully violent video games.” He exaggerated a lip quiver. “Basically, I’m allowed to play chess and listen to smooth jazz. That is my life now.”

I shook my head. “I hate people.”

He nudged me with his elbow. “That’s why we’re friends.” Jamie blew a small turquoise bubble and then sucked it back into his mouth. “I actually saw Anna last week when my mom dragged me to Whole Foods. She didn’t even recognize me.”

“Did you say anything to her?”

“I politely suggested she drive off a cliff.”

I grinned. I felt lighter just being with him, and I was so glad to not have to endure this ridiculousness alone. I was about to tell him so when the office door opened in front of us and Mr. Robins peered out.

He looked back and forth between Jamie and me. “We’re ready for you, Mara.”

Jamie stood. “And I’m going to be late for electroshock therapy!” Then he faced me and said with a wink, “See you ’round, Mara Dyer.” He saluted Mr. Robins, turned on his heel, and left.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling and entered the office appropriately somber.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Robins said, closing the door behind me.

I slid into an uncomfortable plastic chair next to my parents and waited to hear the proclamation of my sentence.

“I just want to explain a few things and then we’ll have you sign some paperwork.”

“Okay . . .”

“The Horizons Outpatient Program, or HOP, as I like to call it, is part of an overall behavioral evaluation that your parents are enrolling you in. You will be expected to be here five days a week, from nine a.m. until three p.m. without fail, barring an excused absence accompanied by a doctor’s note. Your success here will depend entirely on your participation in your activities and in group therapy, and—”

“And academics?” I wasn’t a Daniel-level student, no, but there had never been a future for me that didn’t include college. I didn’t like thinking about how my adventures in psychotherapy would affect it.

“You’ll be completing coursework under the guidance of tutors, but the emphasis at Horizons, Mara, is not on academic achievement but on personal achievement.”

Can’t wait.

“As I was saying, your participation is integral to your success. After a period of two weeks, there will be a reassessment to determine whether this is the right place for you, or whether it would be prudent to move you to our residential treatment facility.”

So this was a test, then. To see whether I could make it here in the real world without any . . . problems. I looked up at my parents’ hopeful faces as the word residential echoed in my mind.

It was a test I needed to pass.