Crossing the Line by Dianne Bates Read Free Book Online Page B

day I carry the dream with me. All through my classes I trip in and out. Physically I’m sitting in front of my easel in the art room painting a rural landscape, but my mind is riding to another place. It’s an unsettling feeling. Much of the time I don’t dare to close my eyes for fear of dreams, and now they pursue me in the daylight.
    At lunchtime I hear Greta’s voice, loud and commanding. ‘She’s been cutting herself.’
    How could she know about it? How could she tell people? I’m about to run when someone asks Greta who she’s talking about.
    My heart double-beats.
    ‘Hayley Evans,’ Greta answers. ‘That pretty new girl. She must be an idiot.’
    I move closer, making sure as I do that the sleeves of my jumper are pulled down to cover my own scars.
    Cassie steps into the discussion. ‘That’s not fair, Greta,’ she says. ‘You can’t just judge her like that without knowing the facts.’
    ‘The fact is she’s dumb. Why would anyone want to cut themselves up?’ Greta looks around at us, demanding an answer. Her eyes stop at me.
    ‘What do you think, Soph?’
    ‘I have no idea . . . unless it makes her feel good.’
    ‘Are you mad? How could cutting yourself feel good?’
    My shoulders slump. I want to disappear.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I say lamely.
    Someone points out Hayley, standing near the canteen.
    ‘I’m going to set her straight,’ Greta says.
    She strides away before I can stop her. But I know deep down that I really don’t have the courage to speak up. I hate myself for that.
    ‘I know other girls who cut themselves,’ Cassie tells me. ‘It’s not like Greta thinks – they’re not dumb.’
    If I say anything I’ll draw attention to myself, so I shrug and change the subject.
    Later I think about finding Hayley and comparing notes. But the coward in me re-emerges. She has her demons, I have mine. We must each face them on our own.

9

    F or weeks now I’ve been dreading today. Marie has come to take me for a case conference review. This is a reminder, in case I ever dare forget it, that, much as I want it, my life isn’t yet my own. The Department will put me under its microscope like I’m an insect as its team of arrogant fools poke and prod me with questions, to check my ‘progress’, or lack of it. The aim of the exercise is for them to decide if I should be allowed to continue living independently. What I want doesn’t matter.
    Marie raps on the door, short, crisp and businesslike. That sums her up in every way. If she has any warmth in her, she leaves it at home when she goes to work.
    ‘Oh.’ It’s obvious from the moment she sees me that she doesn’t approve of what I’m wearing. ‘I thought you’d be in your school clothes.’ She pats her hands on either side of her suit jacket, as though she needs to brush something sticky from them.
    ‘No,’ I say brightly. ‘This is how I usually dress for school.’ Amy has lent me a long Indian skirt that swishes when I walk and almost touches my sandals. I rattle my mass of bangles, just to annoy Marie, and flash a smile to rub it in.
    ‘Very well . . . do you think you’ll be all right this morning? I wouldn’t want you to get upset. That does no one any good.’
    Once I totally lost it at a case conference. Swore at Marie. Swore at the whole bunch of Department suits. They kept pushing me to live with this couple I hated: it was nothing personal – I hated everyone then.
    ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’
    We drive ten blocks in silence, and then, because it must be Department policy, Marie asks a question.
    ‘How are your sessions going with Doctor Palmer?’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘And school?’
    ‘Okay.’
    She can waste her words if she wants but I’m not wasting mine. I know that in her briefcase are reports from my school, and from Noel. There’s probably one from Jan, too. She’ll have them all neat and tidy in a folio to hand over at the conference. I hate this.
    Marie