Dakota South
chapter one
“How have you been feeling, Dakota?”
“What do you think of Schrodinger’s experiment, is the cat alive or dead?”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Dakota.”
“Oh. Sorry. I thought this is the part where we both get to ask questions,” I say.
I fidget in the seat. I hate this room. It’s too bright, but I know if I get up and close the blinds that will count as suspicious behavior. Darkness means sadness, and I’m on probation with sadness. The pictures are stupid, too. Too bright, too happy, too fake. Happiness doesn’t count if it’s fake. My eyes are glued to the blinds. I can’t stop staring, or thinking how good it would feel to just –
“Dakota, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
“I don’t need help - I need to go home,” I tell him.
Dr. White sighs and crosses his arms. It’s funny because he’s black. He sighs and crosses his arms at me a lot. It’s like a secret language of ours. I speak it fluently, but it’s his second language. Usually, he just sits there, his arms folded firmly across his chest and his eyes begging me to help him. I can’t help him though. How am I supposed to help him when I can’t help myself?
“Well, how do you feel about starting up school again soon?”
“I’m not going back. I’m going to be homeschooled.”
“That’s not what your mother told me on the phone.”
I can see Australia in my mind, I’ve never been there, but I can see it. Seagulls fly across the crystal blue sky, begging the people at the beach for the scraps from their lunch. But, suddenly, the sky darkens. Dark thunderclouds roll into view, people and seagulls alike scatter to find cover before the rain falls.
“She’s worried about you, Dakota.”
No, that’s not right. The sky clears again. The clouds retreat back to where they came from, back to whatever god created them. The sun is shining again, just the way it should be – just the way it always is in Australia.
“We’re all worried about you, Dakota.”
In the large crowd of people milling about on the harbor-side beach, I catch sight of myself. I’m smiling, a big free smile. I want to get closer, to see the faces of the people who are making me smile like that. Perhaps the weather is bringing me such joy? No, I’m laughing with the person next to me. His or her face is blurred. I can’t see who they are. I need to see who they are.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes,” I say.
Sleep permeates my mind, causing my eyes to flutter open and shut, my eyelashes tickling my cheeks and eyelids alternately. My head hurts. Both the artificial light from the fluorescent bulbs over our heads and the sunlight streaming in from outside make it impossible for me to keep my eyes shut. The blinds need to be closed. The window’s open too. A woman outside is yelling at her son, James, for hitting his sister. Another kid is crying about the ice cream he spilled on the ground. Some businessman, no doubt in his starched black suit and his lucky tie, is trying to seal the deal with a client on the phone. The sounds drift through the open window and through my mind – it needs to be closed.
“Dakota, you can’t keep hiding from your problems you know.”
That sounds like a challenge.
“How was it today?”
“It was good, Mom, I really think we’re on to something now,” I say. I tell her about all the progress Dr. White says I’m making. I tell her I feel better. I lie through my fucking teeth.
“We were talking last night about how the new medication seems to be working nicely.”
I swear, my parents are so inexplicably stupid sometimes. I tell her she’s right though, no point in making two of us more miserable than we have to be. She beams at the fake news. She’s genuinely happy, and the irony brings a small smirk to my lips that I quickly have to suppress. Her mouth is moving, but no words are coming out. I watch the phenomenon in shock, how is she doing that? But. Then:
“Dakota Shea, are you listening to me?”
Dakota Shea South, that’s my name. My parents think they’re clever.
“I’m listening.”
Mom rolls her eyes so far into the back of her head that I swear I can almost see the backs of her eyeballs.
“I’m making pizza for dinner tonight, if you want to help.”
“Sure,” I say. “That’d be fun,” I say.
We drive for hours through dreary scenery. The people on the streets blend into one long, endless, grey mob. The trees, now slowly dying as the days grow shorter and their food supply dwindles, stare back at me dolefully through the window. It’s endless. But. It’s really only an hour. Dr. White is the best psychiatrist in the state, according to extensive research via Google, so I guess we lucked out. My parents lucked out in finding him and I lucked out that his office is only an hour away. If it were across the country, we would have relocated for this, I’m sure. My parents are overbearing. Sometimes, late at night, the tears and screams I couldn’t let out during the day bottle up in my throat and threaten to explode from my mouth, taking away all the pain with them. It’s a tempting thought, but it counts as suspicious behavior. The doctor put me on probation months ago. They took my bedroom door. That makes me want to throw a fit, but that counts as suspicious behavior, too.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
“Okay,” I say.
]
I go to the kitchen. Dad’s still at work, and Jonathon and Mark are sleeping upstairs. Trust my parents to give my brothers normal names. They think they’re clever but they’re really not. All their creativity was wasted on me. It’s a shame there wasn’t much to start with. They say it was because Jonathon and Mark are family names, that it was obligatory. Whatever.
I can hear Mom upstairs in the bathroom. All the windows are already closed. Good, I don’t have to close them. That counts as suspicious behavior. I go to the fridge. I open it. There’s a bottle of tequila staring back at me. While Mom is busy upstairs, I take a couple of swigs from the bottle, enjoying the burn as it slips down my throat. I don’t want a chaser. I want it to hurt. I hear her coming, and I put the bottle away, moving over to sit on the counter on the other side of the kitchen.
“Are you ready?”
“Of course,” I say.
My parents think they’re clever. They’re not.
“What do you think of Schrodinger’s experiment, is the cat alive or dead?”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Dakota.”
“Oh. Sorry. I thought this is the part where we both get to ask questions,” I say.
I fidget in the seat. I hate this room. It’s too bright, but I know if I get up and close the blinds that will count as suspicious behavior. Darkness means sadness, and I’m on probation with sadness. The pictures are stupid, too. Too bright, too happy, too fake. Happiness doesn’t count if it’s fake. My eyes are glued to the blinds. I can’t stop staring, or thinking how good it would feel to just –
“Dakota, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
“I don’t need help - I need to go home,” I tell him.
Dr. White sighs and crosses his arms. It’s funny because he’s black. He sighs and crosses his arms at me a lot. It’s like a secret language of ours. I speak it fluently, but it’s his second language. Usually, he just sits there, his arms folded firmly across his chest and his eyes begging me to help him. I can’t help him though. How am I supposed to help him when I can’t help myself?
“Well, how do you feel about starting up school again soon?”
“I’m not going back. I’m going to be homeschooled.”
“That’s not what your mother told me on the phone.”
I can see Australia in my mind, I’ve never been there, but I can see it. Seagulls fly across the crystal blue sky, begging the people at the beach for the scraps from their lunch. But, suddenly, the sky darkens. Dark thunderclouds roll into view, people and seagulls alike scatter to find cover before the rain falls.
“She’s worried about you, Dakota.”
No, that’s not right. The sky clears again. The clouds retreat back to where they came from, back to whatever god created them. The sun is shining again, just the way it should be – just the way it always is in Australia.
“We’re all worried about you, Dakota.”
In the large crowd of people milling about on the harbor-side beach, I catch sight of myself. I’m smiling, a big free smile. I want to get closer, to see the faces of the people who are making me smile like that. Perhaps the weather is bringing me such joy? No, I’m laughing with the person next to me. His or her face is blurred. I can’t see who they are. I need to see who they are.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes,” I say.
Sleep permeates my mind, causing my eyes to flutter open and shut, my eyelashes tickling my cheeks and eyelids alternately. My head hurts. Both the artificial light from the fluorescent bulbs over our heads and the sunlight streaming in from outside make it impossible for me to keep my eyes shut. The blinds need to be closed. The window’s open too. A woman outside is yelling at her son, James, for hitting his sister. Another kid is crying about the ice cream he spilled on the ground. Some businessman, no doubt in his starched black suit and his lucky tie, is trying to seal the deal with a client on the phone. The sounds drift through the open window and through my mind – it needs to be closed.
“Dakota, you can’t keep hiding from your problems you know.”
That sounds like a challenge.
---
“How was it today?”
“It was good, Mom, I really think we’re on to something now,” I say. I tell her about all the progress Dr. White says I’m making. I tell her I feel better. I lie through my fucking teeth.
“We were talking last night about how the new medication seems to be working nicely.”
I swear, my parents are so inexplicably stupid sometimes. I tell her she’s right though, no point in making two of us more miserable than we have to be. She beams at the fake news. She’s genuinely happy, and the irony brings a small smirk to my lips that I quickly have to suppress. Her mouth is moving, but no words are coming out. I watch the phenomenon in shock, how is she doing that? But. Then:
“Dakota Shea, are you listening to me?”
Dakota Shea South, that’s my name. My parents think they’re clever.
“I’m listening.”
Mom rolls her eyes so far into the back of her head that I swear I can almost see the backs of her eyeballs.
“I’m making pizza for dinner tonight, if you want to help.”
“Sure,” I say. “That’d be fun,” I say.
We drive for hours through dreary scenery. The people on the streets blend into one long, endless, grey mob. The trees, now slowly dying as the days grow shorter and their food supply dwindles, stare back at me dolefully through the window. It’s endless. But. It’s really only an hour. Dr. White is the best psychiatrist in the state, according to extensive research via Google, so I guess we lucked out. My parents lucked out in finding him and I lucked out that his office is only an hour away. If it were across the country, we would have relocated for this, I’m sure. My parents are overbearing. Sometimes, late at night, the tears and screams I couldn’t let out during the day bottle up in my throat and threaten to explode from my mouth, taking away all the pain with them. It’s a tempting thought, but it counts as suspicious behavior. The doctor put me on probation months ago. They took my bedroom door. That makes me want to throw a fit, but that counts as suspicious behavior, too.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
“Okay,” I say.
]
I go to the kitchen. Dad’s still at work, and Jonathon and Mark are sleeping upstairs. Trust my parents to give my brothers normal names. They think they’re clever but they’re really not. All their creativity was wasted on me. It’s a shame there wasn’t much to start with. They say it was because Jonathon and Mark are family names, that it was obligatory. Whatever.
I can hear Mom upstairs in the bathroom. All the windows are already closed. Good, I don’t have to close them. That counts as suspicious behavior. I go to the fridge. I open it. There’s a bottle of tequila staring back at me. While Mom is busy upstairs, I take a couple of swigs from the bottle, enjoying the burn as it slips down my throat. I don’t want a chaser. I want it to hurt. I hear her coming, and I put the bottle away, moving over to sit on the counter on the other side of the kitchen.
“Are you ready?”
“Of course,” I say.
My parents think they’re clever. They’re not.