See You On Mars

Chapter 1

At the end of my fourteenth spring mom decided that I'll be expelled from school because I cut class, spent most my time away from home, and when at home I listened to incredibly loud music, ate whatever and dedicated an excess of free time to my friends. Perhaps she was right and I was about to end up in a boarding school for troubled teens. Yet the harsh destiny forewarned by all parents for "children who don't study well" wouldn't have caught up to me. Oh no, I was on a course for a far more cruel fate.

If you read books, articles, or poems dedicated to love, you know that the authors themselves have no idea what they are talking about (some assert that it's a chemical reaction, while others pontificate about morality, universal love, etc.). And indeed it seems that no one knows what it is. But my mother did not care about love, my grades worried her. So she decided to take me to the school psychiatrist, Dr. Levy, who confirmed that I really do skip school for several months in a row (though somehow I manage to hand in homework on time), and that my mom now needs to hire a tutor and send me to obligatory weekly support group meetings.

My support group differed in that did not follow the classical canon. We did not sit down in a circle in the middle, and didn't share our feelings or experiences of professional truant. Instead of emotional nonsense and one leader of the group (in the movies it's usually a forty-something man, who is a reformed alcoholic) our meetups resembled psychological trainings under the guidance of mentors. Mentors were ten years older than us, they were in the same year at the university and were a motley group of eccentrics, musicians and artists. Actually their collective character was kind of a reflection of our meetings.

Meetings were held on Wednesdays and Thursdays, in an abandoned sports hall of our school. We sat on the familiar school chairs (that we've grown to loath after our 7 years of imprisonment) and began our lessons. One of the mentors guided the first session, and then an hour later there was a break for tea and donuts, after that another half hour of training followed. The format didn't change, the mentors did.

Stephanie taught us drawing. Milly told corny jokes and instilled a love of classical music. Carl, well, Carl was probably the most interesting of the leaders, he taught us psychology, probed our character and sometimes held meditation sessions. There was also Ron, but he somehow always remained silent and stood aside, playing the role of a certain observer. In principle, each of us played some sort of role. And there were plenty of roles to go around - joker, big brother, slut, goody, dolt, clown, beauty, Mr. Popular, gamer. We had a group of fifteen people and each of us came under some stereotype. Only I, as always, was a girl without a role.

Maybe I described it all too well and awesome, but I didn't like these visits to support group, not at all. Although all the participants went to my school, most of them were older or in other parallels. I did not know them, and was not sure if I want to meet them closer than the "Hi! Bye!" basis. The only compensating component of the support group was a guy named Xander, skinny, short, mid-long hair and dark scars on his hands. Someone between a goof and alternative kid, he immediately took me under his wing and introduced me to all the participants of the project "You are not alone" - as it turned out, it was official name of our support group that the government sponsored.

Xander's dad was a general and worked for the government, engaged in leadership structure of something something. And his mother worked in a nursing home, I do not know exactly what she was doing, all I can say is that through the months of friendship with Xander, I have not seen any of his parents. One day I went to visit Xander after school. He met me at the door, his long sleeves rolled up. He wanted to fix a lock of hair, that was slipping onto his face, that's when for the first time ever I noticed his scars. Many small scars adorned his left and right hand, some were long, some were more blurred than others. I knew that he did not get along with his father and at first I thought maybe that was Xander dad's way of punishing him.

In fifth grade, I knew a girl named Lizzie, Lizzie's mother beat the poor thing's head on the table when she couldn't solve math problems. Yes, some are really lucky with their parents.

I decided not to spend too much time guessing, so I asked him: - Where are these from? Xander looked me straight in the eye and said: - I have a knife. So I use it. He finished his sarcastic response with his crown smile. That was my cue that he did not want to talk about it and so I dropped the topic. His scars did not give me rest, I tried to extract some information a few times, but he was silent. I've no longer seen any new scars on Xander. But where did these cuts come from and why I did not understand.

In our group there were many things that I did not understand. Girls that were jealous of one another, boys with unquenched thirst to beat-up other boys, and among all these soaring hormones and frustrations were our good mentors. They taught us altruism, fraternity spirit and other skills.

This was our first exercise. We were all called to the front, and then Carl said: Imagine that all of you are crammed into one elevator. Suddenly the elevator stops, it's stuck. Here's a girl - he pointed at me - who really needs to use the washroom. And you, young man - he nodded toward Eli - are terribly thirsty. Now, act out this case and feel free to improvise.

I stood in a complete daze. Stares pierced through me, few dozen of eyes expecting some action. Eli took charge and immediately shouted out: I'm thirsty. You know what your situation is. So, let's just help each other out. He winked. And then everyone burst into laughter. Everyone laughed, including Carl. Even Ron was laughing out loud. I just stood there, completely embarrassed, and thought about when is this going to end so that I could go home.

A month later, I maxed out my limit on both my acting skills and patience, I was ready to become a goody good girl, just not go to these gatherings eve again. Maybe this was the secret of the "You Are Not Alone" project. To put you under such unbearable conditions that you're ready to sign a contract with your own blood, which obliges you to attend school forever, on time, and to do all your homework for all of the eternity.

On that Thursday when I met Nathaniel Graham, I took all possible and impossible measures to avoid yet another attendance of my support group. I called in sick, lied to my mom, and instead I went to visit a friend. While we were sitting with her on the sofa, and eating our third ice-cream sandwich, washing it down with insta-noodles, Dana decided to spoil this lovely evening.

- Shouldn't you be at that meeting of losers right now? - She asked with a half-mouthful.

- Maybe. Why do you care? - I replied mockingly, not suspecting anything.

- Hey, take me with you.

- Where?

- Well, to your support group.

- Are you kidding?

- No, I'm serious.

- Dana, why? You are an A+ student? And last time I checked you're no into self-inflicted torture.

- Well, I am just curious. Okay?

- Curious won't cut it, sorry.

- Why do I even have to explain myself? - She pouted - Besides, you did say that there's older guys in your group. Maybe I could meet someone. My very own prince charming.

Bleh, I vomited a little at the thought of Dana's prince charming. He'd had to be buff, typical bad boy with awful manners and greasy hair. Oh the horror. But then she was in great luck, because most of the guys in the group met her archetype of that perfect guy to crush on for a week or two. I decided then and there that next time I'll be sure to take Dana with me. Meanwhile, I focused back on reality and anticipated an enjoyable evening of viewing the Titanic for the twentieth time. I pulled a box of tissues closer to me and started to reach for the remote as I was shamelessly interrupted:

- So, let's go? - Dana beamed.

I was about to ask her "Where?" and then I realized that my movie night is over, we're going to that support group and we're going right now. Dana was so determined and there was no reason arguing with her. I've known her for too many years, this woman was not to be argued with.

Uneaten sandwiches were left to melt and die, we've put on our shoes and jackets, and started our journey up the hill to the cursed abandoned school gym.