Don’t Touch Me I’m Prickly - Part III
Last week, Celine earned phone privileges. She tried telling Genna that her mom didn’t really die in a car crash and learned about a plan to break out of Monterey Bay Center for Hope.
Celine listened to Genna’s steady stream of pee from the unsupervised privacy of her own stall. “You ready?” Genna asked over the sound of a flush.
“For what?” Celine asked, not because she didn’t know what Genna was talking about, but because she’d always wondered what it would feel like to have friendships that existed on a level of intimacy in which peeing wasn’t a barrier to conversation.
“Did you even read the note?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah you read it? Or yeah you’re in?” Genna asked. Celine flushed too, and joined Genna at the double sink.
“Yeah both,” Celine said to the wall in front of her where a mirror should have been.
“Okay,” Genna said. “Good. Bring your wallet and phone to yoga. We’re going right after.”
Yoga wasn’t really yoga. It was half an hour spent in various poses that were all basically just lying on the floor. Their instructor, a middle-aged French woman whose thick accent made her direction hard to follow, gave them ten minutes afterward to change out of their sweaty clothes, as if they’d been lifting weights or running in place instead of practically napping.
“No time to change,” Genna whispered as they all made their way to the curtained off office just outside the yoga room. “One at a time. Out the side door. I’ll go first.”
*****
It was surprisingly easy. Celine had expected an alarm to sound, or a bodyguard to appear, tackling them to the ground in rapid succession. Or at the very least, for Dr. Shibori or one of the interchangeable staff members to pop out of an office, punctuating their silent procession with an exclamation of surprise or disappointment. Confusion, at least.
“What now?” Emily asked.
“Should we go to Starbucks?” Solly said. “I would castrate myself for an iced coffee.” His skin was less translucent in the light of day.
“That’s dramatic,” Celine said, rolling her eyes.
“It’s only two blocks away. Shouldn’t we pick somewhere farther? Like, get a walk in?” Emily asked. Her nose didn’t look so big out here. Maybe it was the unit that was too small.
“Some of us get dizzy if we walk too much,” Jules said. She looked like a child in her too-tight shirt. This one had a cactus on it, and in loopy cursive: DON’T TOUCH ME I’M PRICKLY.
“Iced coffee sounds good,” Genna said. They started walking, past a fast casual pizza place, two craft stores, a dry cleaner that boasted 24-hour Ugg repair, and a woman with a toddler perched on her hip who used her free hand to slide her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. She scanned the group disapprovingly. Celine’s breath quickened.
Jules pushed the swinging door open and announced that it was snack time.
“We don’t have to do that,” said Celine, suddenly nauseous. “Like, no one’s here.”
Genna told Julies that it was a good reminder. “I’m going to get a bagel with cream cheese,” she said, ignoring Celine and reaching out to touch Jules’s shoulder. Solly and Emily ordered blueberry muffins and iced coffees with whole milk.
“Nice work,” Genna said, patting them both on the necks.
“Why did you want to sneak out if you’re just going to follow the rules?” Celine asked.
“We were bored. That doesn’t mean we’re giving up,” Genna said. “It’s just a few hours. Then we’ll go back. We’ll apologize and tell them we have a renewed sense of motivation for recovery or something. Which, actually, I’m hoping will be true.”
It felt good to bicker. The rhythm of their voices out here in public sounded convincing. Like maybe a stranger would think they were just a regular group of friends.
“I’ll do a muffin, I guess,” Celine said. Genna and Solly and Emily ordered and paid. Celine approached the register, and suddenly she couldn't handle the pressure of it all: the people behind her, waiting to order, the way they’d probably get whatever they wanted without thinking about it; the cashier, whose bad dye job reminded Celine of her dead mom’s; the sterile case of limp looking pastries, all of them staring at Celine, as if to mock her: Ha! You’re afraid of us? Even Genna isn’t afraid of us, and she’s skinnier than you’ll ever be! You’re dumb and bad at everything, including being anorexic!
“Did you want to order?” the cashier asked. One of the baristas looked eerily like Ryan.
“Celine?” Genna asked.
“Fuck,” Celine said, and made a beeline for the door: she needed to be out of there, immediately, sitting on the curb where the pastries couldn’t see her. She needed to tell Professor Sonnenberg that she couldn’t do this, that she was afraid of cake pops and cashiers and the only ex she had, if she could even call him that, and if it wasn’t too late, Professor Sonnenberg should consider aborting her fetus because there was a chance the fetus could grow up to be a person like Celine.
She sat and whipped out her phone.
Jules sat down next to her, a hand on her back. “Who are you emailing? You okay?”
“Oh,” Celine said. “My advisor. From college.” Her breath was still quick in her chest.
“Haven’t you been done with college for like, two years?”
“One year,” Celine said. “It’s—I babysat her kid. Her name is Laura, not that you care. And like, the whole Ryan thing wasn’t really—I had to buy Plan B once, and she was the only one I told, but she also supervised my independent study, and—look, I have these dreams that she’s, like, my mom.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Jules said.
“You asked,” Celine said, shrugging.
“I know,” Jules said. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“It’s okay,” Celine said.
“It’s not,” Jules said.
“I guess,” Celine said.
“Look, Celine, I know you don’t want to be here, and that’s fine. But like, I know what it’s like to lose a parent, and my mom—I know I say the good things, in group and stuff—but she also kicked me out of the house when I came out in sixth grade, and she cheated on my dad a lot, and she was a compulsive shopper, and like, I still miss her. A lot. I just mean that I understand what you’re going through. Not exactly, but more than a lot of people.”
“Oh,” Celine said again. “Thanks for not furrowing your brows in sympathy.”
Jules laughed at this, a hearty, confident laugh that seemed to come out of nowhere. “Dude,” she said, catching her breath. “If Shibori looks at me like that one more time—”
“Fuck,” Celine said, “What’s with that?” she added, laughing now too, a light, frothy sound that felt foreign as it came out of her.
“You should eat, okay?” Jules said. “Like, your mom’s dead and you had a shitty ex. But don’t punish yourself over it.”
“He—well, he’s not really my—ex, I guess. Not that—well, you’re too young to get it.” A pickup truck pulled out of a parking spot in front of them, narrowly missing a stray cart. They watched it like a sunset.
“You don’t have a monopoly on suffering, Celine,” Jules said after a minute.
“I never said I did,” Celine said.
“Did he—like, I don’t know. Was it not consensual?”
Celine scoffed, because she’d wanted to go back to Ryan’s booklined apartment. Because she’d been relieved when her mom had died, just a little bit, after all of the suffering and all of the nights spent crumpled in a hospital chair, trying to sleep, thinking she’d wake to an empty room, her mom off to the morgue and Celine lonely and free, sucking on ice chips and ready for whatever might have been next.
“I’ll do a latte, okay?” Celine said.
“Yeah, good.” Jules stood and helped Celine to her feet.
*****
Hi Prof S,
I’m at Starbucks right now because we kind of broke out of the unit together and it’s going ok, actually, and I’m realizing that maybe I have more anger towards my mom than I thought and I had a latte, which probably sounds like a really dumb thing to be proud of myself over, but I am. I know this is all way beyond your job description. But I just want to say that I really appreciate you. Laura and the fetus are lucky.
Celine
*****
“What should we do next?” Jules asked. She licked her finger and pressed it into stray crumbs from her muffin, which were strewn across the napkin she was using as a plate.
“We could go to the mall,” Emily said, taking one last sip of her coffee.
“Yeah, let’s try on clothes and look in the mirror and cry. Genius,” Celine said. She’d finished most of her latte, and felt triumphant and buzzed from the caffeine.
“What about a movie?” Solly said.
“Or,” Genna said, rising and gathering the table’s trash, “we could go bowling. Think about it. There are lunch options, and we need to have lunch. And there are no mirrors. Plus, it’s close, and it’s not like we have a car.”
“That sounds fun,” said Jules. Solly didn’t have a better idea. Neither did Emily.
“Fine,” said Celine.
They filed out of the Starbucks, past the dry cleaner-slash-Ugg repair shop and one of the craft stores. The bowling alley was dark inside and almost empty. They stated their shoe sizes and selected their balls. There were six plastic chairs in various shades of orange. A cartoon bowling pin with bug eyes warned them from their lane’s flatscreen TV that bumpers were for children only.
Solly won the first round, and Jules won the second. Emily came in third both times, and Genna and Celine traded off between fourth and last. After the second game, Celine announced that they should get pizza. She felt lighter than she had in a while. Maybe she was even cured. Maybe this whole anorexic thing was fake. Maybe she was just lonely, and needed to participate in regular activities like bowling with people who made her laugh. Maybe she could eat pepperoni like a normal twenty-three year old, and get on with her life. Maybe she could revel in a dead-end job and a boyfriend who was actually her boyfriend and a distant but existing relationship with her dad and a normal therapist who asked her about her stress levels and her goals for the year and whether or not she’d be okay skipping next week’s session because she—the therapist—wanted to take a day off and it wasn’t like Celine was a risk to herself, so maybe we pick this back up in two weeks? Maybe she could get Genna’s number and Jules’ number, even, or fuck it, Dr. Shibori’s number, and they could plan a trip together, to Costa Rica or something, where they’d eat fried plantains in bathing suits and wear reef-safe sunscreen and go snorkeling. Even Mrs. Shibori could come.
“Well, it is lunch time,” Genna said. “And pizza—well, I did a practice session with pizza a few weeks ago. And I—God, it’s so oily, but I want to get back to UCLA, and—” she took a deep breath. “Sure.”
Celine bought an extra large pepperoni pizza from a guy whose face was as greasy as the pie. She brought the pizza and a stack of flimsy paper plates back to the table and took a slice. They all watched the cheese go stringy as she pulled it onto her plate.
“Right,” Solly said. “Right.” He paled, but took a slice too. Jules and Genna knocked theirs together like glasses of champagne. Emily took one too.
“No bad foods,” Celine said. She’d meant for it to be a joke, but maybe she believed herself. The pizza was good. She couldn’t say it wasn’t good. It had been so long since she’d had pizza.
“Slow down, Celine,” Genna said, nudging her. But it was too late: she was already at the crust, eating that too, and reaching for another slice. She ate the second with the same abandon as the first. She went for a third: folded it in half this time, the way they’d all eaten pizza as kids, back before any of them could have imagined that pizza would one day become controversial. Solly watched in wide-eyed horror. Everyone else averted their gaze. A fourth. Her stomach hurt, but it was so fucking good. She’d been denying herself for so long, and she wanted to be normal! Better! Happy! Maybe everything could be easy!
“You guys know Ryan? The guy I told you about in group?”
They nodded.
“It wasn’t actually—he was never my boyfriend. I just said that. I think he kind of—not rape, but like, it wasn’t totally—I mean, we dated for a bit after that. But like, he’s actually pretty hot, so it’s not a big deal. I’ll show you.”
Jules nodded solemnly. “Thanks for sharing that, Celine.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Celine said. She reached for her phone. There was already a response from Professor Sonnenberg. “Hold on,” she said. “My professor”—she let the word carry some weight—“emailed me back, like, immediately. Let me just see what she said.”
Thank you for your email. I’m on maternity leave for the semester, and will be slow to respond. In my absence, please contact Max Lightfoot, Department Chair.
SJH
Celine closed her eyes for a second to brace against the sting. It was unreasonable to have feelings about a form email. It was unreasonable to be jealous of a baby.
“You good?” Genna asked.
“Sorry. Yeah.” She opened Instagram: her older cousin’s dog was sleeping, clutching a toy that looked like a miniature version of itself; her high school boyfriend was rooting for the Packers with a group of guys she recognized by now, though she’d never met them; her freshman roommate was missing a vacation she’d recently taken, although it seemed like maybe what she was missing was attention, or else she wouldn’t have posted three identical pictures of herself in a bikini. She typed in Ryan’s name and settled on a shirtless picture in which his pockmarked back wasn’t visible. His abs glistened.
“Here he is,” she said, holding up her phone.
Solly grabbed for her phone and started scrolling.“Is that a sonogram?” he asked.
“What?” she said, grabbing her phone back and looking more closely at the square images that made up his life. Maybe it was his older sister’s uterus he’d screenshotted and shared. She read it out loud:
Beyond blessed to announce that we’re expecting a baby girl in February. My absolute rockstar of a partner @JulianaYogaLife has been a trooper, and I could not be more in love with her wild and divinely feminine spirit. We are so thrilled to welcome this little love into our world. #beyondblessed #girldad #excited
“Jesus Christ,” Celine said. Genna sucked in a breath of air. Emily blew one out.
“You good?” Solly asked from a plastic chair on the other side of the ball return.
“I’m actually gonna kill myself,” Celine said.
“I’ll call 9-1-1,” Jules said, placing a bowling ball back into the ball return.
“Not actually,” Celine said. She tapped the bottoms of her bowling shoes anxiously against the waxed floor.
“Can you not joke about killing yourself?” Jules said. “You know a lot of us genuinely struggle with suicidality.”
“You don’t have a monopoly on suicidality,” Celine said. “Did you ever think—just because you’re not into men—I mean, this is really painful for me, okay? Just because you’re immune to exes impregnating women who go by ‘Juliana Yoga Life’.”
“Don’t be a cunt,” Jules said.
“You wish I was a cunt,” Celine said. “You look at me like I’m a cunt.”
“Celine, stop,” Genna said. “You sound like a twat.”
“I’m just—fuck, I need a second, okay?” She stood up from the table and ran to the bathroom, ignoring the sign that said bowling shoes weren’t allowed. Suddenly, the weight of the pizza in her stomach was unbearable, and she regretted not only the slices, but everything else: agreeing to treatment, sneaking out of treatment, letting Ryan take her home that one time, then going back for more, quitting her babysitting job when she was nineteen—God, she had no follow through—not being on the Forbes 30 under 30 list, ignoring her friends when they said they were worried about her, throwing away a can the other day that could have been recycled, accusing Jules of wanting to fuck her which was mean and not the point. She shoved a finger down her throat and the vomit came easily, once, twice, three times, orange and flecked with chewed up bits of pepperoni. She was starting to return to lightness. Once more, and she’d be okay.
Celine heard footsteps. She flushed the toilet. “Celine,” Genna said. “Jules fainted. We need to go back.”
She flushed the toilet again and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What?” she said, even though she’d heard. She unlocked the door to the stall and pushed it open.
“Jules fainted. You know she has an elevated heart rate already. She started crying after you—God, Celine. Were you puking?” Genna asked.
“No—no,” Celine said, even though she knew Genna would see right through her lie.
“Celine, fuck,” Genna said. “You have to—we need to go, like, now. Solly and Em are with Jules. We called an ambulance, but like, if you’re not gonna take this seriously, then at least don’t make it harder for the rest of us. It’s seriously really triggering when people pull shit like this in treatment, okay?”
“I didn’t pull anything,” Celine said. “I just had to pee.”
“Don’t,” Genna said. “I actually want to get better, okay? I want to get back to college. I want to have kids.”
“You look pretty fertile to me,” Celine said, emerging from the stall and raising her eyebrows at Genna’s hips, which were miniscule, but she knew Genna didn’t think that.
“Fuck you,” Genna said.
“Fuck you,” Celine said back.
“Some of us have lives we actually want to get back to,” Genna said, then pushed the door to the bathroom open. Celine followed, and as her eyes adjusted to the strobe lights in the bowling alley, she found herself worried—not about herself, but about Jules, who had genuinely fainted, which meant that she probably did deserve to be here, which was an accolade in and of itself, but also a huge fucking bummer. Jules was the youngest. For some reason, Jules had been the one who’d be okay.
To be continued…
Phoebe Kranefuss is an MFA candidate in Fiction at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. She studied English Literature at Bowdoin College, she's taught fourth grade, worked at an eating disorder clinic, survived entry level sales at a tech company, and spent some years in tech and advertising. When she's not writing, she's biking, running, reading, or crafting. Her work has been published in the Breakwater Review and Slackjaw, and she's at work on her first novel, Girls Our Age.
Follow her on Instagram, Twitter, and check out more of her work here.