I dropped my bag on the concrete, my one solid piece of me. Everything else I had left at home two years ago. I saw the bus slowly chugging down the dirt road and quickly slid my iPod out of my pocket and down my shirt, icy metal sinking into warm flesh. I pulled my phone from my back pocket and dropped it down my pants in the back, resting between my spandex and my undies. Spandex was always necessary when you were going to hide things in your body. It was also necessary when wearing incredibly baggy sweat pants. I was doing both. The yellow monstrosity screeched to an unwilling stop in front of me. The doors opened to a nearly empty sea of defaced seats. I reached down and picked up my duffel and sighed, hopping onto the bus and climbed up to face the driver. He looked me over, and jammed his finger towards the back of the bus. I was used to the staring. People generally never expected me to be what I was. But I was what I was and I am what I am. Dr. Seuss moment. I ignored the eyeballing a few of the guys gave me, since the only action they were ever going to get was in their head. I took a seat next to the window and zoned until the bus lurched to a standstill in front of my new home. Huge, imposing, concrete. Surprise surprise, no white picket fence. Instead, we lucky ones were greeted my a fifteen foot imposing wall of chain link with barbed wire and possible electricity. We nut-cases never get a break.

Inside the building, there was a cold, gray room with once white linoleum floors and greyish white curtains and a large, gray desk in the middle where I was to check in, update my info, inform her of all my psycho secrets. I knew the drill. Seventh transfer in two years. This place really needed a woman's touch, I decided. I walked up to the check in lady and stood there while she finished updating a large binder of paperwork. Nice job, Christopher Dean. Arson, pyromania, and slight psychotic tendencies? Sorry, buddy, but I have you beat.
“And you are?” The woman asked, looking up at me for the first time.
“Sophie French.” I responded. She glared at me. What the fuck did I do?
“Age?”
“Sixteen, two years underage for smoking, five years underage from drinking, but just the right age for sex.” I responded.
“Sex?” She replied, unfazed. Gender, I knew she meant.
I dropped my bag, smiling. In a weird mix of Transylvanian and Indian and God knows what else, I said, “Yeah. When the pee-pee,” insert hand movement to indicate a certain male body part, “gets in the va-gee-gee,” insert movement towards my crotch, “and pleasure and loud noises ensues.”
“Male or female?” She specified, looking up at me, definitely annoyed.
“Both.”
“Male,” she spit, “or female.”
“Female. Very observant. Is it really mandatory to ask all these obvious questions?”
“Height?”
“Five seven.”
“Weight?”
“That is one of the forbidden questions.”
“Weight?” She asked again. I was doing a very good job at pissing this woman off.
“One hundred and six pounds.” Yes, I was thin. I attribute it to horrible cooking at my previous crazy shacks.
“Diagnosis?” She asked.
“Chronic case of sarcasm and lack of caring. Are we done here?” I asked, bending over to pick up my bag.
“If you wish. I already have all of this on record.” She said, not really smiling, but pretty darn close.
“Well then why the hell were you asking me and wasting my fricking time? I need to bond with my fellow crazies.”
“Because this was part of your evaluation. Based on your display, we can put you at the bottom of the levels. You can meet with your new therapist tomorrow.”