Fall to Pieces: A Memoir of Drugs, Rock 'N' Roll, and Mental Illness Read Online Free Page B

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    Thanks to the domestic adventures of Mom and Dad, Coronado Middle School was my seventh transfer since first grade. Vista La Mesa Elementary, Baldwin Park Elementary, Rosebank Elementary, Vista La Mesa again, San Miguel Elementary, Lemon Grove Middle School, La Mesa Middle School. I should’ve been an old hand at being the new kid, but it was agony. And the seventh grade is its own kind of weird: you’re not quite a teenager, but you’re not a little kid anymore, either.
    The next morning, as my mother drove me to school, chattingabout “Oh, isn’t this exciting,” “Isn’t everything pretty here,” “It’s going to be great!” I felt only growing dread: Everybody would be rich. Later, I found out that many students were from military families, far from wealthy, and that there were a lot of middle-class kids as well. But that first day, I knew in my heart that my mother was about to drop me into a scene right out of Heathers .
    I’d carefully chosen an ensemble I was certain would win me new friends and influence new people: a mint green sweater under mint green overall shorts, and black high-top Reeboks with yellow laces. My hair was long and dark, the top half pulled back leaving just my bangs, which hung down to my chin. I spent a good ten minutes each morning leaning upside down with a curling iron, shaping my bangs so that they would resemble a wave (in fact, they more closely resembled the Nike “swoosh”). Upside down, I teased it at the roots, coated it with Aqua Net, and blew it dry with a hot hair dryer. When I stood back up, so did my hair. Hard as a rock, too—it wouldn’t have moved if I’d run straight ahead at warp speed. The look was a dead giveaway: poor Mexican kid from a crap neighborhood which, more or less, is what I was.
    The school was a short walk from the beach, and the main building was two stories high. I’d never been to a two-story school. Mom took me to the guidance counselor’s office, wished me luck, then took Johnny to his school. The counselor, a soft-spoken woman who seemed not much older than my mother, walked me to my first class, already in session when I arrived. After an introduction—you know the script, right? “Boys and girls, may I have your attention? This is Mary Forsberg, who’s just moved to Coronado. I’m sure you’ll all give her a warm welcome, answer any questions she may have, and help her be a part of our community! Right? Okay? Have a niceday!”—I was assigned a “buddy” to show me around school and get me from class to class.
    As I walked to my desk, I heard the giggles and the tittering; I guess, had I been them, I might’ve laughed, too. This was a room full of kids with a laid-back California beach vibe—Esprit khakis, sun-faded Izod polo shirts—and I looked like a circus clown.
    During the break before my next class, a few girls came up and introduced themselves. One girl gave me a hug. Oh, that’s nice, I thought—at which point she yanked the back of my sweater, revealing the tag inside the neck: fake Guess that my mother bought in Tijuana. Even my Reeboks were fake, also from Mexico. All the girls were laughing. Red-faced and nauseated, I couldn’t decide whether to deal out a beat-down or sprint for home. My faux-bok’ed feet wouldn’t cooperate with either option. My helpful new “buddy” then escorted me to my next class, where I sat barely able to concentrate, making eye contact only with the chalkboard. Up until then, lunch was always my favorite part of the school day. At every previous school, I lined up with everyone else in the free-lunch line. Your family has to make next to nothing to qualify for free lunch, and nearly everybody I knew made the cut. No one was ashamed; we were all in the same boat. But here? The free-lunch line was out of the question. I will starve before I go stand in that line, I thought, and that’s what I did. It may have been the first time in my life that I turned down food. The