The only thing that told me if I was going to be safe around Roxie—besides if there was a smile or a scowl on her face—was her hair. I remembered back when we were kids, there was a horrible, angry teacher that had her hair into a high ponytail every day. Roxie used to laugh and imitate her (in a kind way), and then whenever she was in a bad mood she’d forewarn me, letting me avoid her and any unintentionally lashed out brutality until her hair was safely down and falling.
Our parents thought it was the cutest thing ever—I thought it was good manners. Roxie was a little scary when she was mad. One day when we were in 7th grade, she punched the wall of our school and broke her hand. I sat next to her at her hospital bed as she stroked her ponytail with her good hand and admitted she thought she might have anger problems, especially with a recent need to express it physically.
Still, the fact that she could own up and say she had anger problems put her higher up on the pedestal, even as she got ISS and OSS and I didn’t see her at school anymore.
Growing up with her did make me a little overprotective. It was obvious she didn’t need me to guard her, especially in a fight, but I couldn’t help it. If someone looked at her the wrong way or some rumor was flying through the halls, I’d transform into the Hulk before she could transform into a bigger, stronger version and take care of herself. I did bulk up in around high school, and eventually got stronger than her, but there was just something about her ponytail moments that made strength surge through her, overpowering everybody.
I’d had no idea that one day I’d end up needing to protect her from herself.
After the 7th grade, her parents fought over how she “ended up like that”. I can’t believe I’d never noticed it. ISS came during their fights. OSS came after a divorce. Her parents began evaluating her as something dangerous. Of course that’s offensive, and she was tying her hair into a ponytail more frequently than ever.
I paused at the front step, breaking away from the memories that came every time I come here. Inpatient, it read. This would be the last time I’d be coming here.
After an almost-attack at a party, there were three sides to Roxie. The angry one, the sad one, and the normal, happy one I loved and grew up with.
Slashes covered her wrists. They decided it was definitely time to take her to a psychiatrist.
“Your daughter has borderline personality disorder.” He’d turned to me. “You’re her best friend. Seeing as she hasn’t hurt too many people and seems in control around you, maybe you should monitor her, in a way? Keep her happy and calm. With this depression, she could end up taking her own life.”
I gritted my teeth and opened the door. He was right. That was exactly what had happened. Well, almost.
Roxie’s face lit up. I was relieved to see fading scars and her hair down. “Ethan! You came!”
I smiled. “Of course.”
We hugged for a long time, neither of us wanting to let go. I was fully aware that this was dangerous, seeing we didn’t know all of her triggers yet—but I didn’t care right now.
A worker behind us cleared her throat. “Roxie,” she began, “come on. It’s time to pack. It’s a long way to that rehab center we’re taking you to.”
The worker pulled us apart and I saw Roxie begin to tie her hair with trembling hands. My heart lurched. She might be considered dangerous, but I felt like there was still that little girl who felt the need to protect people and let them know when a fit’s coming on.
The doors closed behind them. I heard a faint thud.