Angry Management Read online

“Sarah Byrnes has a face like the moon.”

  Nak’s Notes

  First Impressions

  Transcribed directly from digital recorder

  NAME: Montana West (no fooling)

  AGE: 17

  REASONS TO BE PISSED: Daddy’s chairman of the school board; that there by itself would piss most kids off. Adopted; early childhood abandonment. Locked in a power struggle with her daddy, who don’t leave her much wiggle room. Passive momma. (That’s a bad combo.)

  SIGNIFICANT CHARACTERISTICS: Real perty; don’t know what to do with it. Personal exterior decoration. Writes real good. Maybe a little identity trouble.

  COPING SKILLS: Does that thing they call goth—all kinds of metal in her—famous tattoo, likes to use the school newspaper like a weapon. Another smart one. Kinda in your face.

  PROGNOSIS: Look the hell out. She’s gonna be just fine.

  NAME: Trey Chase

  AGE: 17

  REASONS TO BE PISSED: Not a lot. This boy don’t seem to let a lot get under his skin. Lost his parents.

  SIGNIFICANT CHARACTERISTICS: Dead-on handsome, got that bad-boy thing going. Good athlete. Might be smart but ain’t gonna let you see it.

  COPING SKILLS: Seems to soothe his savage self with the company of the ladies, sits back and checks things out, doesn’t show his hand real quick.

  PROGNOSIS: This boy could be president.

  Montana Wild

  “Montana, we’re going to have to change the lead story.”

  “Change it how?”

  “Dump it. We ran up against the censors. Again.” Dr. Conroy shakes her head. “We didn’t have much of a chance with this one.”

  “How does it get censored? It’s a story about medical marijuana, for crying out loud. It’s, like, about cancer and terminal illness. I put a lot of work into that.”

  “Mr. Remington and Dr. Holden both say the whole thing is a ruse to legalize marijuana, make it so anyone can get their hands on it.”

  “So because that’s what they think, I have to report it that way. What do you think?”

  “You know what I think about censorship,” Dr. Conroy says. “But I don’t have the power to change their minds.”

  “Which means you’re not a concrete worker. Did you show them the article? There isn’t one thing in there about recreational use.”

  “Of course I showed them the article.”

  “And…”

  “And I doubt either one of them read it. In fact I’ll bet Remington is as far as it got.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “It’s as fair as it would be if he showed it to Dr. Holden. Mr. Remington is a Kennedy compared to Dr. Holden.”

  “So I wrote it for nothing,” Montana says.

  “You wrote it for an A,” Dr. Conroy says back. “Just because we can’t publish it doesn’t mean you don’t get a grade. Look, in another year, you’ll be in college. Your university newspaper would print this in a minute. You make your point; you have great quotes. It’s succinct. A work.”

  Montana stares at the article. “I didn’t write it for a grade. I can get an A anytime. I wrote it to publish.”

  “I know, Montana. But you had to realize there wasn’t a great chance. I mean, how many of your articles have those guys stopped? You did hunting, which you called ‘slaughtering animals for fun’ you did scientific experimentation on animals, which you called the same thing. You did an article comparing Christianity with Greek mythology. What else?”

  “Gay marriage.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Isn’t there a way around this?”

  Dr. Conroy smiles. “We can take any one of those articles all the way to the school board.”

  “Right,” Montana says. “To my dad. He makes Holden look like a Kennedy.”

  “Lessons in relativity, huh?” Dr. Conroy says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, ‘How far right do you have to go to make blank look like a Kennedy?’ I’ll bet it’s close to infinite.”

  “Huh. If you get much further right than my dad, you’re in outer space.”

  “He means well, Montana.”

  “He means ill.”

  “I believe your father thinks he’s keeping people…children…safe when he makes those decisions.”

  Montana lays her books on Dr. Conroy’s desk and hoists herself up. “How did this happen?”

  Dr. Conroy says, “How did what happen?”

  “I’m young and supposedly optimistic. You’re old and supposedly cynical from experience. How come I get it that my dad is intentionally a dick and you cling to a possibility that isn’t possible?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I’m just glad I’m adopted,” Montana says. “At least I don’t have to worry about his DNA getting on me.”

  Dr. Conroy loves the way Montana sees and says things, though political correctness doesn’t always allow her to say so. She’d give a chunk of her paycheck to have more writers like her.

  “God is a wonderful entity,” Montana says. “Takes one look at my father, recognizes the cosmic mistake, and gives him zero sperm count.”

  Dr. Conroy laughs out loud. “How in the world would you know that?”

  “I heard them fighting. That’s a real weapon, I think; sperm count. When she said it, he shut up.”

  “Well, it’s an adult weapon. You need a license to use it.”

  “Yeah, I know. I took it for a trial run.”

  “Grounded?”

  “Till I’m thirty.”

  Dr. Conroy stares at the medical marijuana article. “I’d have a backup to this if you want to keep your name above the fold.”

  Montana twirls her cheek stud between thumb and forefinger. “Hmm.”

  “Pick your battles, darlin’.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that feature on how cheerleaders get such muscular calves.”

  “The PE department would love it.”

  “Yeah, I could get back in their good graces for my ‘Why I Need PE to Get into Bryn Mawr’ article.”

  “If I remember correctly, the entire text of that article was ‘NOT.’”

  Montana waves without looking back as she exits.

  Interesting kid, Dr. Conroy thinks as the door closes in slow motion against the hydraulic arm. Two years ago, as a sophomore, Montana was a beauty queen. Long dark hair, killer brown eyes, the lean, muscular body of a dancer. Dated the senior tight end on the football team. Came back this year with piercings where most girls don’t know they have places, the famous worm tattoo, and an attitude toward authority that made her new dark appearance look like child’s play. I guess they have to find their places to stand.

  Montana opens the front door to see her sister facing the corner opposite the front door. “Hey, little sis, what’d you do this time?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Put you in the corner for nothin’, huh. Better not ever do anything or they’ll skin you alive. Where’s Mom?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Maybe I can negotiate your release.”

  “In the kitchen. Making poison.”

  “I’ll put food coloring in it,” Montana says. “So we can trace which food she puts it in.”

  The kitchen door swings closed behind her. “Hey, Mom.”

  Her mother is stirring a pot, doesn’t turn around. “Hi.”

  “How long is the rat in the corner for?”

  “Until she can tell me why I put her there in the first place.”

  How familiar is that? “Mom, do you know what kids like her think about in the corner?”

  “What.”

  “We think about outlasting you. And how we’re gonna get even.”

  “We?”

  Montana rolls her eyes. “Mom, I smeared poop in the dryer, turned it on high, and hid in the closet. I’m one of those kids.”

  “You were one of those kids.”

  “We’ll see,” Montana says. “Now how does Tara get out of the
corner?”

  “She tells me what got her in there.”

  “Which was…”

  “Ask her. Montana, don’t get too used to her. I don’t know that we can keep her. Nothing seems to work. I’ve tried every kind of star chart and sticker chart her therapist or I can think of, and she just gets worse. I’m at wit’s end.”

  “Come on, Mom. I smeared shit inside the dryer and you didn’t get rid of me.”

  “We call that poop around here, young lady, and I was younger then. I thought there was a chance for you. This little girl turns everything sour. Everything.”

  Montana walks back into the living room.

  “Hey, little girl.”

  “I hate her.”

  “Yeah,” Montana says.

  “They’re gonna give me away.”

  “Naw, nobody else wants you.” There’s a moment of silence, and Montana sees Tara’s shoulders slump. “’Cept me,” she says. “Let’s get you out of this corner. What did you do to get in here?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Did that nothin’ have to do with poop?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  “Did it have to do with poop that didn’t go into the toilet?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  “Is it somewhere in your room?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  “Where Mom can’t find it, even if she can smell it?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  “Let’s go get it. Let’s find the poop and put it where it belongs and set you free.”

  Tara is quiet.

  “Little sis, what are you doing? Mom’s not kidding when she says you can’t stay if you keep doing that. And you don’t wanna see Dad get all crazy like he does.”

  “I know.”

  “Stay here a minute.”

  Back in the kitchen she says, “Tara and I are going on a scavenger hunt, okay?”

  “Tara’s in the corner.”

  “Well, I’m taking her out of the corner so she can go find what you put her in the corner for and put it in the toilet. Then she’ll come in and tell you why she was in the corner.”

  They go into Tara’s bedroom, where Tara sits on the bed, staring at the door.

  “Jeez. What did you eat? Show me where it is.”

  Tara sets her jaw.

  “Don’t mess with me, little sis. That might work with Mom, but you know it gets no play with me.”

  “Under the bed,” Tara says.

  “Gawd. This place smells like an outhouse.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A place that smells bad.” Montana is on her hands and knees, looking under the bed for the offending excrement. “I don’t see it.”

  “It’s kinda rubbed.”

  Montana furrows her brow. Tara joins her on her hands and knees.

  “Kinda rubbed? This carries the hint of premeditation.”

  Tara stares questioningly.

  “It means you did it on purpose. You thought about it before you did it.”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are they gonna gimme away?”

  “I don’t know,” Montana says. “Why do you care? I mean, you always pick the thing that makes them the maddest. It’s like you want to be given away.”

  “You pick the thing that makes Daddy West the maddest.”

  “Everything makes Daddy West the maddest. And that’s different. I’ve been here long enough I can be a bitch. You can’t start out like that.” Montana swallows her lie. This kid could be her, back before her adoption when she came into foster care. Seven placements in three months. It wasn’t a record, but it would do until she found what the record was. Hell on wheels at four years old. Ached for a mother she can barely remember now, and for whom she still aches. Tara is six, but that’s about the only difference.

  “Why do you keep hiding your poop, little sis? How are you going to make Momma want to keep you? You have to make them think they’re doing something good for you. Do you want her to give you up?”

  “I hate methamphetamine,” Tara says. She pronounces it perfectly.

  “That’s a good thing to hate,” Montana says back. “I hate methamphetamine, too.”

  “If I could throw methamphetamine in the ocean, I could get my real mom back.”

  “You sure could,” Montana says. “But the only person who can throw methamphetamine in the ocean is your mom. So far she’s not doing so hot, and until she drowns it, you’ve got to be good so you can stay here, and that means you have to stop hiding your poop.”

  “I get so mad. And my poop is mad, too. If it could talk it would say, ‘I’M SO MAD!’ I poop ’cause I’m mad I can’t live with my mom. It wasn’t her fault, it was Greg’s. He was always asleep when he was s’posed to take care of me when my mom was usin’ meth. My mom’s not gonna do what she’s s’posed to do to get me back. I’m really scared she doesn’t want me back. That’s the worst thing.”

  “Yup. When you and your poop get so mad, you gotta hide it in the toilet. It’s not Mommy West that’s making you mad.”

  “It’s CPS.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve talked about this. CPS doesn’t make your mom use meth. Your mom makes your mom use meth.”

  “If I was there I bet I could make her stop.”

  “Bet you couldn’t. You could make her not use it in front of you, but you know meth.”

  “Yeah, but if I could be there I could trick the CPS lady again. I could make it look like Mom’s not usin’ it. I did it before. Besides, sometimes CPS makes her feel bad and that’s when she uses it. You use meth when you feel bad.”

  “Other way around, little sis. You use meth and you can’t get your kid back and then you feel bad. Your mom’s making a big mistake giving you up to Mommy West. But if you don’t be good, which means quit hiding your poop and sneaking around at night trying to find things out, Mommy and Daddy West will give you up too. Listen, you’re mad ’cause you’re scared. I was just like you. If you talk about being scared, you might not have to poop. Get mad. Yell and scream. You don’t see me pooping when I get mad.”

  Tara grimaces. There’s no answer.

  “So can you do it? Do you know how bad I’m going to feel if they give you up?”

  “I don’t want to go away from you. I’ll try to use words to get it out instead of poop it out.”

  “That’s my girl. You have to remember, if you don’t want to give me up, you can’t do things that will make Mommy West give you up. If you can’t have your mom, while you can’t have your mom, you want Mommy West, right?

  “I WANT HER TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD!”

  Montana grabs Tara and holds her tight. Tara squirms a moment, then surrenders. How do you tell somebody that? How can she tell her mother that feeling bad feels right when everything in your world is wrong; that at first you need your foster parents to make things familiar, which in this case means fucked up. It makes such sense at a heart level, but even for a wordsmith like Montana West, it’s impossible to articulate. It’s so true, and it sounds so crazy.

  “We’re going to get a hot wet rag and some cleaner,” Montana says, “and I’m going to lift up the bed and you’re going to scrub the poop off and then you’re going to go tell Mom what you did to get in the corner, which is you crapped in a no-crapping zone. Got it?”

  The third period bell rings, and Montana hangs back. “I’m thinking of dropping this class,” she says.

  “Look over there at the door,” Dr. Conroy says, and Montana does.

  “At that area on the floor right in front of the door.”

  Montana does that, too.

  “Now picture my dead body lying there,” Dr. Conroy says, “because you will have to step over it if you try to drop this class.”

  “I can’t write any of the stuff I want to write.”

  “Well, then write the hell out of something you don’t want to write.”

  “Like what?”

  “You can’t think of anything you don’t want
to write? How about the football playoffs?”

  Montana looks at Dr. Conroy like she just dropped a dead fish into her latte.

  “Looks like we’ve found it,” Dr. Conroy says. “The football playoffs.”

  “Ronnie Jackson does sports,” Montana says. “What are you going to do, kick him over to fashion?”

  “We don’t have fashion.”

  “But you get the point.”

  “No, I’m not taking Ronnie off sports,” Dr. Conroy says, “but you can do a human interest piece. Profile a player who doesn’t usually get a lot of attention, or write about some other aspect of the sport.”

  Montana stares at the ceiling. “This so sucks.”

  “Listen,” Dr. Conroy says. “I know passing everything through the principal’s office doesn’t reflect what the real world’s going to be like. But truth is, when you get to college, or if you join a major newspaper, they’re going to give you assignments that would make a football playoff piece look Pulitzer-worthy. They start everyone at the bottom. So instead of considering yourself the crack columnist of your high-school newspaper, consider yourself at the lowest level of the next step up. It’ll keep you ahead of the game.”

  Montana walks away shaking her head. “Football playoffs.”

  “This is a personality profile? What’s that?”

  “It’s where I profile your personality.” Montana says.

  “That definition would get you a C- in English,” Trey Chase says.

  “I didn’t know football players took English.”

  Trey smiles, and Montana almost melts. She understands where this guy gets his rep. “I’m just looking for a different angle on the football team,” she says.

  “Coach told me to be careful,” Trey says. “He says you’re a muckraker.”

  “Only when there’s muck to rake,” she says back. “Shall we get on with this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mind if I record it?”

  “Yup.”

  “You do mind?”

  “I do mind,” Trey says. “I only let people record me making late night 1–900 calls.”

  Montana shakes her head, hits the record button on her digital recorder, and sets it on the table between them, closer to Trey than to her to accommodate the cafeteria background noise.