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“I drive myself.”
She kicks at the ground with her tattered Converse sneaker, and the gesture comes off as more childlike than defiant. Deciding that talking isn’t going to be the key, I turn and grab my paddleboard, hefting it to my side before motioning to the last one sitting in the sand. “You ready for a paddle?”
Now she looks up, blinking through the unbrushed hair that’s falling in her face. “I don’t have a suit.”
I shrug, leaving my own long-sleeved cover-up on. “It’s just water. Come on,” I say, walking away. “The others are waiting.”
It takes us some time. I paddle a little way out, and then turn and wait for Liza, staying silent when she struggles. Most of the girls who come through my group need help and guidance, but I learned through my own experience, and all of the groups I have been a part of or facilitated since, that giving help when they haven’t acknowledged me or asked for it, is what they expect. They’re ready to be annoyed with me, especially those girls like Liza who continue to return each week, but don’t know why.
Fifteen minutes later, we meet the other girls toward the middle, where they have already sat down and circled their boards. The first week we met, we worked on this. By the end, we were all wet, and tired, and sweaty, but seeing their faces when they just sat on the water, legs kicking, body floating…I knew this was where we would meet from now on.
“Check in. On a scale of one to ten, how’s everybody doing?”
We go in a circle, and though it’s still short and succinct, most answer more readily—and I think, honestly—than they did even last week.
Cassie, the overweight fourteen-year-old who tried to commit suicide last year after she was bullied incessantly, gives me a five without comment, and I make a mental note to come back to her after everyone else has shared.
Mya, a spunky brunette in her sophomore year of high school, who is recovering from her fourth stint in juvie and working toward sixty days sober, gives me a nine, and I let out a cheer when she mentions blocking her ex-girlfriend’s number.
Nora, a varsity cheerleader with miles of blonde hair and haunted blue eyes, gives a six with no comment.
Lena, another sophomore, with more piercings than I can count in her nose, ears, lips, and eyebrows, and already enough ink for her to give Malcolm a run for his money, gives a seven, and then lifts her arm to show a new symbol added to her already-messy sleeve work.
And then it’s Liza’s turn. We all wait while she picks at her nails, yanks up her already-wet leggings, and shifts on her board.
A part of me wonders if she’s using, but I can’t quite buy it. Or not just that. Something else about this girl…she reminds me of me, but looking at her, listening to her, I can’t figure out why.
“Liza?” I prompt when she says nothing. “How would you rate your week?”
She takes another minute, and I see Lena and Mya both fidget on their boards, neither very good at impulse control or patience. I ignore them, and keep my eyes on Liza. Finally, she jerks her shoulders. “Four,” she mumbles.
“Jesus, that’s shitty.”
“Mya.” My voice isn’t hard, but it carries just enough authority that the girl shrinks a little. “Liza, can you tell us why your week was a four?”
She shakes her head. I want to push, but I also know that it’s too early for that. She trusted us with an honest number, and sometimes, that has to be enough. “That’s okay. Cassie, what about you? Why was your week a five?”
Cassie’s cheeks turn red, and she looks down at her board too, silently tapping her fingers against the slight rubber indents. I wonder if I’m going to have to ask again, or let her slide like I did Liza, when she finally speaks. “I decided last week that I wanted to be healthier…not just, you know, emotionally,” she says looking up. The other girls reward her with a small laugh, and it makes her smile a little. “But do something about all of this.” She gestures to herself.
“That’s an amazing goal,” I say.
“It was. Until my mom found out.”
“Is she a bitch?” I close my eyes at Lena’s question, saying her name on a sigh. “What? My mom’s a bitch, but she doesn’t mean it. She just can’t help herself. Stress and all that.”
I say her name again, but Cassie laughs.
“Sometimes she can be a bi—brat. Not because she like, hits me or calls me names,” Cassie says, eyeing Lena, who shrugs. “She just gets so excited when I talk about changing myself. Like, when I wanted to learn to cook so I could eat healthier meals, kind of be a part of the process…she got so into it, it was all she would talk about with me. It’s like,” Cassie licks her lips, pausing to look around, assessing if now is the time she can trust us. Whatever she sees, she decides it’s good enough. “It’s like she loves me, but every time she hears me say I want to be different, skinnier, or healthier, or have different hair, she’s so excited, I feel like maybe she’s disappointed that I’m like this, too.”
No one says anything for a second, a little awed and amazed at Cassie’s honesty, like me, and maybe because they understand that Cassie might be right. Unfortunately, people who love us often forget to love the person we are, not the person they think we should be.
I reach over to squeeze Cassie’s hand. “Your goal is your own, Cassie. Maybe your mom wants to be a part of it because it’s the only way she can help.”
“Right?” Mya says. “It’s like when my mom called my girlfriend a bitch and told her she would kick her ass if she ever offered me drugs again. It made me mad at the time, but…it was the only thing she could do to help, you know?”
Cassie’s eyes are wide, and I can’t hide my smile. “That’s very true, Mya, and a great reflection. We have ten minutes—enough time for one more thing before we paddle back.” Unzipping the front pocket of my cover-up, I pull out the worn stack of cards Mac gave me last year, the same ones she used to carry when I was in group, and shuffle through them until I come to one that will work.
“What is one healthy phrase you can say to yourself today that will motivate or comfort you when you are in a hard situation?”
The girls all shift, moving side to side as they think, eyes downcast. I’m about to call on Mya when Liza speaks up.
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” She looks up, and though her tone is strong, her face is hollow and scared, like she’s looking for me to make a promise to her that what she’s saying is true. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” she repeats, and all the other girls nod.
Not me, I think to myself while we paddle back toward shore, because she’s already so much wiser than I was at her age. When Malcolm rejected me, I spent too long in a downward spiral, pretending I was in control. When I was raped…I spiraled even further because I wanted to control what was already done, and whatever part my actions had played in it.
But I couldn’t. The thing we forget when we’re healing is that we can’t go back and change, we can only go back and forgive who we were and what we did—maybe even forgive the person who hurt us, if we truly have that kind of heart and need.
I can’t forgive Ezra Shields for taking away my choice that night. And after years of counseling, I can say that’s what he did. I didn’t sayyes; I saidno. I remember crying when he shoved me face first into the rough side of the house, and I remember the blinding pain of invasion, the vomiting afterward, and dragging myself from the bushes where he left me.
I can’t forgive him for that. But I can forgive the girl who got drunk when she was too young, and tried to find love when her pride was hurting and her heart was shattered. Which means…maybe it’s time to forgive the boy who did nothing but tell her the truth before he walked away from her.
