Milo's Story: Stories from The Gateway: Companion tales to The Gateway Trilogy by E.E. Holmes Page A

my question. What’s the lie this time? Math camp? Future Doctors of America Conference? You’re going to have to let me know so that I stick to the official line when I finally get paroled from the joint.”
    “I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” she said, pinching the top of her nose as though my attitude was bringing on a spontaneous nosebleed.
    “Now or never,” I muttered.
    “Do you want us to come in with you?” she asked, because she had to.
    “Of course not,” I said. “I don’t want Phoebe to see that place, and neither do you. That’s why you brought her, isn’t it? A sweet little ready-made excuse not to get out of the car.”
    Without waiting for her lame protests, I opened my door and slid out of the car. I leaned into the back seat to pull out my bag, and kissed Phoebe on the nose. Her mouth was quivering at the corners.
    “Stay cool, dancin’ fool,” I told her.
    “Stay hot, tater-tot,” she said tremulously.
    I shut the car door and turned my back on her quickly, before she could see that I was teetering on my own verge of tears.
     
    ~
     
    I don’t recall much about the whole “Welcome to New Beginnings” bullshit, except for a few random details. The woman at the front desk had a mole on her lip that was like a whole other face sprouting under her nose, and I couldn’t concentrate on a single word she said because I was staring at it. The nurse gave me a welcome packet with, I shit you not, a smiling sunshine peeking over the top a hillside on the cover. Then she swiped an ID card to open the door from the lobby and pointed me in the direction of my room. She told me that she’d come and get me in an hour for my first group therapy session, but to “make myself at home” in the meantime. I may or may not have laughed in her face.
    It was obviously a guys’ hall; it smelled like body odor poorly masked with cheap body spray. I put a hand on the door handle to my assigned room and pushed. It turned easily, but wouldn’t open. I leaned my shoulder against it and shoved, throwing my body into it. Still nothing. These places were always full of locked doors. The nurses had probably forgotten to get it ready for the new head case. I looked again at my ironic, sunshiny welcome packet and checked the room number. I was in the right place, according to the paperwork. I was about to turn and head back to the front desk to tell mole-lady when I heard something that made me stop in my tracks.
    A voice was just audible on the other side of the threshold. It was speaking in low, urgent tones, but I couldn’t make out what it was saying. There was a small window near the top of the door, and I stood on tip-toe to peer through it. The bed had been pushed up against the inside of the door, which explained why it refused to open. But more interesting than that was the fact that a girl was sitting on the end of said bed, carrying on one hell of a conversation with absolutely no one.
    I groaned. Over the last few years I’d decided that there were four kinds of kids in these places. And screw medical terminology, I guarantee you that any doctor would agree with me, even if he didn’t admit it out loud; in his head, he’d be saying, “Well, shit. I spent a small fortune on my medical degree and this kid has gone and nailed it without a single day of med school.” Seriously. Here’s how it breaks down. First, you’ve got the Fixer-Uppers. These are kids like me, whose families are unhappy with something about them. A lot of these kids don’t even realize there’s anything wrong with them until other people start pointing it out. “Oh, that’s not normal. Should he be doing that?” “Oh, that really isn’t typical behavior. You should really have that looked at.” The Fixer-Uppers are hardly crazy. They’re just dealing with the repercussions of being told that they’re wrong in some way. In fact, if people would just accept them, or at least leave them the fuck