Paris: The Memoir(43)

We were all crying. Coughing. Talking out of our heads. My eyes and sinuses burned from smoke and lack of sleep. I heard the voice of the operator.

Collect call from Star. Will you accept the charges?

Collect call from Star. Will you accept the charges?

And then my head bobbed, jerking me out of drifting half sleep. They made us say and do all these bizarre things—chanting, moaning, howling, beating drums, passing stones back and forth—I don’t know. I didn’t get it. It was beyond. If there is an authentic Native American ritual in which all these things mean something, please don’t be mad. I’m not disrespecting that. Not at all. I’m just saying, we were in no condition to understand or appreciate anything like that, and the Camo Goons were in no way qualified to oversee it.

Anyway, I toughed it out, focused on that “home stretch” where Mom and Dad would be waiting.

When I got there, Burly was all happy happy joy joy. “You did it, Paris! You graduated!”

“I’m going home,” I said. “Where are my parents?”

“They’ll meet you in Redding and drive you to Cascade.”

“Cascade . . . what . . .”

“You’ve still got another year to work the program,” she said.

So—wow. Trying to find words.

At that moment, all that mattered was seeing Mom and Dad. I had to make them understand that they were being manipulated by someone who was even better at it than I was. Burly gave me some clothes, and I cleaned myself up as much as I could, but I still felt gross when I got in the car with Mom and Dad in Redding.

Dad was crisp and well groomed, as he always is. Mom smelled like a lavender patch in God’s backyard. I just wanted to lay my head on her lap and die while she stroked my hair and told me how happy she was to see me. When she brought up the topic of this other CEDU program, I begged and cried.

“Mom, please, please, please take me home.”

“You’ll like this place,” she said. “Look. It’s really nice.”

She showed me a brochure that featured happy students, green grass, and a stately lodge with a rainbow arcing across the sky above, with the words The Cascade School.

Again. Actual ad copy:

As a community, we acknowledge the true potential of humanity and the nobility of the struggle toward a sane, caring, and enlightened world.

For fuck’s sake.

“Mom, I can’t,” I said. “I’m literally going through hell. These places are insane. These people are lying!”

“Let’s not spend our time arguing,” said Mom. “This is hard for all of us. We have to be strong. We have one year left before you turn eighteen. This is our last chance to save you. We have to see it through.”

She’d been primed for this conversation. If parents raised any doubts or fears, the counselors leaned into the CEDU script: Don’t believe anything your child says. She’ll make up stories and say she’s being abused. She’ll say anything to go back to her old life—a life that will leave her dead or in prison. Tough love is the only way. You must be strong enough to save your child.

They went hard on the idea of that two-year commitment. Your kid was “cured” only if your insurance ran out and you weren’t wealthy enough to pay. They saw my parents as a deep pocket and used my escape attempts—especially the moment I kangaroo-kicked the door into the transporter’s face—to convince my parents that I was on a dangerous downward spiral. I was supposed to feel lucky; no one pressed charges and I was going to a pristine mountain retreat instead of juvenile detention.

I didn’t know what to do. I just cried. Mom stroked my hair, murmuring soft, comforting words. She kissed the crown of my head.

“My hair is so gross,” I said. “My roots have grown out four inches.”

“You could use a trim,” said Mom. “These split ends.”

I sat up, swallowing my tears, trying to look like a good girl.

I said, “Could we please stop somewhere? On the way to the school, I mean. There must be someplace we could go. If I’m going to be there for a whole year, I need to at least get the roots highlighted so it can grow out without looking totally jacked.”

Mom agreed with that, and we found a place in Redding: a cute little salon situated in the hairstylist’s house on the edge of town. Before we went inside, I hugged my father and said, “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, Starry,” he said and held me tight for a moment. “I hope you know we’re only doing what’s best for you.”

I smiled up at him and said, “I know, Daddy.”

Mom and I went into the salon. I sat close to her until it was my turn, and then I sat in my smock, smiling and chatting while the stylist foiled my roots.

“I need to use the restroom,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

In the bathroom, I tore the smock off, jammed a magazine rack under the doorknob, and climbed out the window.

I ran like hell, dragging the foils from my hair and jamming them in my pockets. I saw a Greyhound bus station and dodged into the bathroom. The bleach on my scalp smelled pretty strong and was starting to sting, so I stuck my head in the tiny sink and cupped water over my burning scalp with my hand. I rinsed my hair as well as I could, forked my fingers through it, and twisted it into a tight bun on top of my head.