Paris: The Memoir(31)

This one song played over and over and over on repeat while everyone sat down and the team leaders—Weaselmug, Hippie Mess, and the recent graduates who now worked here on some sort of fucked-up Stockholm Syndrome career path—went around and spooled off paper towels in little piles here and there and then set the rolls of paper towels strategically around the circle.

“What the hell . . .” I whispered.

The guy sitting next to me huffed a little half laugh and said, “Whatever you think you know—you don’t.”

Around the circle, kids shrank into themselves, looking like hamsters in a snake pit. Or they perched on the edges of their seats, eyes alive, eager for the game to begin.

“Blanda, would you like to start?” said Weaselmug.

Blanda stood in front of the boy next to me and said, “Jason, I saw you talking to Paris just now. Aren’t you on girl bans because you winked at Deirdre last week? I mean, it’s out of agreement is all I’m saying, and you know, I guess you’re probably thinking you’re going to fuck one or both of them, which is a total fantasy, because no self-respecting girl is going to fuck a fat, ugly slob like you. It’ll never happen, but you’re so oblivious, you don’t even know what a shit human being you are. I know you’re secretly gay. I saw in your file about your child molester uncle, and it’s like, not even he wants you around now. What does that tell you?”

I waited to for this dude to tell her to shut up or go screw herself. He sat there, staring at the floor, saying nothing.

“Where is that selfish desire coming from, Jason?” asked Hippie Mess. “Was that I or Me looking at Paris and Deirdre with selfish thoughts—dirty thoughts—disgusting sexual fantasies? Was that I, the liar, or Me, the feeler?”

“I,” the dude mumbled.

“Right! Look! Look what you’re doing right now,” said Weaselmug. “I is biting Me’s lip!”

“Selfish asshole,” said another girl. “On bans all the time. Too stupid to work the program. Too selfish and dumb and lazy to do the emotional work. It’s no wonder his family was like, get the fuck out, you piece of crap. Because no one can stand you. Not even the people who are legally obligated.”

Like a floodgate opening, people piled on, everyone talking at once, their voices tangled in that weird, loud music like What a jerk-off! Why are you even alive, you piece of shit? Your family can’t stand YOUUUUUUUUUU LEFT ME because you suck at everything you do. You pretend you’re a writer—like you’re going to write a book someday and rat everybody out YOUUUUUUUU LEFT meanwhile, you’re too stupid to spell your own name you worthless piece of shit why don’t you YOUUUUUUUUUU LEFT ME kill yourself and put everyone out of their misery? Oh wait—I forgot—you tried and you couldn’t even do it right.

This went on and on and on and on for what seemed like forever until his face crumpled and tears streamed from his eyes, and still they kept at it and kept at it and at it and at it and at it until he bent forward with his face in his hands, wailing like a wounded animal.

“Run your anger, Jason,” said Hippie Mess. “Take care of your feelings.”

The dude sobbed deep, wrenching sobs, choking on the words, “I can’t—I can’t—I’m a piece of shit and I try—and—and I tried not to look at her and I was thinking about wanting to—to see her—and like—wanting to jerk off because I’m a sick piece of shit! I’m weak and perverted and a dumb-shit asshole!”

Tears and slimy boogers dripped down on the floor in front of him. Weaselmug nudged a wad of paper towels over with her foot.

“I want to know why Paris hasn’t said anything,” said one of the girls. “She’s just sitting there like a prissy little stuck-up rich bitch.”

“Uh, you don’t know me,” I said, “and what happened to the no-swearing rule?”

Hippie Mess winked at me and said, “Talk dirty, live clean.”

“You were right to put her in pinks,” said Blanda. “She told me she’s gonna run. She said the program is bullshit, all the girls here are fat, stupid pigs, and if she can’t get out, she’s going to burn this place down.”

I gritted my teeth and said, “Fuck you, Blanda. I never said that.”

“I heard you were slacking on chores,” said Weaselmug.

“She was slacking! She was slacking!” Jason hiccupped. “She was mincing around like she was too good for everybody while I went up the fucking hill eight hundred times.”

“I don’t have any shoes, you moron.”

As soon as I said it, I knew it was a mistake to defend myself. The entire circle zeroed in on me, a monster made of saucer eyes and black hole mouths.

She thinks she doesn’t have to work. She was slacking today on the job. Lazy little bitch. Stupid spoiled whore. YOUUUUUUUUU LEFT ME think you can come in here and flash your tits around and not work your program JUST WHEN I NEEDED YOU MOST make all the guys slobber all over you and slack off on chores.

A roaring tide of raw verbal sewage came at me. Like when you see film of a flooding river. Dark water full of debris. It was worse than sticks and stones; this was like bricks and broken glass. It was relentless, and it lasted a long time, like who do you think you are YOUUUUUUUUU got kicked out of like every school in the world stupid spoiled YOUUUUUUU LEFT ME JUST WHEN I NEEDED YOU fucking stupid lazy bitch you think you’re all that your family hates YOUUUUUUUUUU toxic fucking influence on your siblings and they don’t give a crap about YOUUUUUUUU stupid spoiled fucking stupid lazy spoiled bimbo YOUUUUUUUUU LEFT ME JUST WHEN can’t admit just admit it just admit it what a stupid spoiled liar slacking until you end up going to Provo and I hope they beat the shit out of you and and on and on and on like that until I bent forward with my arms over my head, trying to protect myself from this storm of words and spit and cruelty. I couldn’t breathe. Waves of nausea rolled through my stomach. My pulse hammered in my head. I felt like my soul was being sucked out the top of my skull. I heard someone screaming and realized it was me.