And when you get the chance, you are the dancing queen

I disappeared from my high school for a few months when I was 17. I can’t remember where I told everyone I had been when I came back after Christmas was over, and since I had almost no advance notice that I would be whisked away, I had no time to concoct any story. My friends knew, of course, and would have sensed (especially in those days), that I’d be perfectly fine with the distribution of the cold truth - or even a much harsher one to litmus test my reputation. Sharing the results of the experiment might make a good anecdote for these other teens after the holidays ended and I said goodbye to Santa’s other misfit toys of the season.

(It’s important to understand that we only had 2 hours of actual “school” a day, and had to find other ways to pass the time.)

A notably scandalous fake story might have been hard to pull off. I’m not sure any 16 year old would believe a rumor about how “some girl” had a mismanaged back alley abortion that resulted in months of inpatient hospital recovery - and as chaotically Caitlin as I was, I just don’t think anyone would have pinged me for ever being in desperate need of that kind of service. Going even further, teen pregnancy wouldn’t have worked as a story at all because I weighed less than 110 pounds at the time. I got turned away from the school blood drive and felt quite proud.

But as to how my disappearance went - I knew as soon as I stepped into that center that I would be one of the “good girls” because I hadn’t been arrested - there was never a court order to send me here, there, or anywhere. And thankfully that’s still true. It brings me some comfort now knowing that my parents dolled out a bunch of their real cash for their daughter to be babysat and rehabilitated, gain some weight and maybe a cheerier demeanor.

As a bonus, they may have thought, I could mingle with some drug addicts in the misfit toy chest to make sure I knew that life didn’t turn out very well for those people.

(I have been disillusioned by a couple of family members who suffered from some form of addiction throughout my lifetime (including but not limited to my father) and always find comments like “thank god you never got into that Caitlin!” a bit insulting.)

In our “center” there was a cute boy named L who was one of the court-ordered toys. When I say things like “cute court ordered toys” I’m using the language I would have used in high school here. I don’t remember what L was arrested for - it might have been for several DUIs - but just understand that this sort of thing felt like a ranking order, and because I THOUGHT I was stylish, dainty, and too far pure to be anything like their junkie, I should be their queen. There was another girl in the section of our center who was also very beautiful, but I thought I was smarter than her (AND smaller), so she felt more like a “princess.”

These are some of the absurd nuances of what it felt like to be a teenager thrown out of life and into a “center” for 8 hours a day. To be clear, I could sleep at home, but that came with every restriction imaginable.

I could tell a lot of stories about each year of my life, and especially that time at the center. I’ll try to sum this one up quickly now.

The center brought me a lot of freedom. It ENCOURAGED the real Caitlin to say any damn thing, no matter how sad or stupid, which compared to some of the other teens didn’t even make me look like an anomaly for once. “Say anything, Cait.” I had a reputation as a loose cannon in those days and did for a long time in general, not hysterical, not even illogical, just a lot of unbridled feeling - and by the way, Danny, you in the corner of AP History need to shut your fucking mouth and leave that girl alone (perfect example).

Among that box, L will always be the most memorable court ordered boy toy because of his smile. I’m just a sucker for guys that smile with their eyes - ones that can make me laugh a little. I think even now that standard still applies - a guy that tolerates my sporadic giggles, and who laughs right back at me not because I’m even funny but because when I laugh I they feel something like freedom coming off of me, spark by spark, and know that I’ve been the real thing the whole time, and aren’t they so lucky to get a chance to catch me right now?

That was L and me. And being around L wasn’t anything like being in love, which had already happened for me. L still occupies a space in my mind, like many others, who never meant “love” but maybe something better: a surprise, an accidental moment of clarity, a question with answers that only lead to more questions, but for some reason you don’t mind it one bit.

During our group therapy times we’d al gather in a room. L and I started laying on the floor next to each other instead of chairs one day. It seemed to be accepted. THEN we started singing to each other all the time. It was never romantic, but still none of it felt like a joke, and I tried to use a very lovely singing voice.

I’m sure it was annoying as hell to other people, but as the Queen, it had to be.

All day there were our interludes of:

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me

Tell me where did you sleep last night?

In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine

I would shiver the whole night through

• “Nirvana Unplugged”

As the days passed in the center and our routines continued I thought “being exhiled from high school is the worst thing that could have happened to me, but I’m okay. I can go back and graduate. These are my people. This wasn’t so bad. And now that the worst thing is over, everything will be okay!”

More and more often I had bursting moments like that, sparks I could see coming out of myself - noticeable to me and not just my parents who wanted me to get better, and were looking for a sign of life, or a boy just I couldn’t stop smiling at.

The doctors and therapists served a purpose, but it was less about the therapy and more about being a queen again somewhere, after being dissected by your parents for your failures - you Cait, after all, have had all of the ingredients of love and house and church and with these 3 essential staples how could this very simple recipe have gone so awry?

What is wrong with Caitlin?

Mom said, she’s a handful, she’s challenging, her grades are slipping, and burden on us all.

They asked me why I wasn’t happy. They almost never told me they just WANTED me to be happy. They told me I needed to get my grades up. If I didn’t get better, my grades would still drop. If I didn’t get better, then I’d be dead by my 18th birthday.

One time dad did say he wanted me to be happy. And I believed him. Standing in a voice flat and finished as old concrete: “I never wanted you to have a life like mine. I wanted you to be happy. I wanted us to have fun.”

And many chilling years later I realized that whenever he made any type of comment like this, that he never wanted me to have a life like his, he was speaking of himself in the present tense.

My parents, being human, were loving and fallible. Dad needed a center, ideally an inpatient center, maybe more than I did, especially by the end of his life. But by then it was too late.

I graduated from the center. On a chilly Monday morning I twirled right back into first period after all of the Christmas trees in the world were sawed down. To the best of my memory, I felt proud that I didn’t give a damn about any particular face in first period. If they felt pity for me, if they felt sympathy, if I seemed like I “needed help” then I’m glad they never told me because I would have just (internally) laughed at them and thought, these are still just kids, they never understand anything.

But I knew that I was right, I was my own lock and key now. I had survived the center and being removed from my friend group. House arrest. That morning said “Welcome back Caitlin!” The Queen I was then bowed to the court, grinned, and did a twirling dance to her desk - her victory had nothing to do with that damn school or any grade at all, but in truly believing that she had all the power and strength that she’ll ever need.

And whenever I close my eyes and think back to that morning, I don’t truly see defiance at all. I see a sweet girl, and I would never warn her of a damn thing, I would give her a little forehead kiss, the crown she earned.