Safe Feelings
by Consatnce Gelvin

Right after I'd committed to the Hollow Falls High School workshop, I got the call requesting SafeFeelings for the five-year anniversary of the Macedonia Madman's little rampage.

Shit.

Then I read that Gerald Stacey's "Smash the Violence" was chosen to kick off the Macedonia events with "Dateline" covering onsite. I wondered if the arrogant asshole knew I'd been approached first.

I trotted over to the Quik-E-Print to copy Julie's article: "SafeFeelings' Slam Dunk" for my press packets. I remembered her last message: "Rumor has it there've been sightings of the elusive Mr. James Jamison in beautiful, downtown Squanee Springs. If so, would the said Mr. Jamison please call me? Don't wait a minute more, just ca-ll-ll me" she'd warbled. I didn't; her neediness put me off.

I copied and collated, glad I'd let Tiffanee go--her lack of boundaries was so unprofessional--because scut-work gives me time to think. This assignment would be a real resume builder.

I arrived at the airport sixty miles north of Hollow Falls "The Town That Banned Halloween," and was met by Judith Schreiver, Director of Counseling Services, who carried a sign lettered "Jamison," a heart sticker dotting the "i".

"Our principal, Mr. Engelen, wanted to send a student teacher, but I said, 'No way, Jose.' Said I wanted to pick your brain." She chuckled nervously, muttered "Just kidding." She sported the improbable mullet-style hairdo of your typical country singer: bristly short in front, wispy tendrils in back. No wedding ring.

Over the obligatory drink at the hotel bar, she chattered non-stop, and I knew instantly she was one of those counselors who pride themselves on their listening skills. She oozed the mental health party line about students "traumatized by recent events," their "trust issues." As she blathered on, I mentally fleshed out the outline of the book I'd pitched to Actualization Press: "The SafeFeelings Revolution!"

My disappointment at losing Macedonia had evaporated. Redneck-ville Hollow Falls was back in the news bigtime because local businessman Terrance "Tiny" Thompson's trial was fast approaching. He'd pled innocent to the Halloween night murder of Fonda Kay Franklin, and insisted he knew nothing about the disappearance of either Reeba Taylor or Brittany Brewington, who'd vanished the Halloween a year before Fonda.

A garden-variety perv's protestations of innocence don't rock my world, as the kids say. And the whole Halloween thing was just too slasher flick for my taste. Not only could this job blast SafeFeelings into the anti-violence stratosphere, but I much prefer the unworldliness of the students at the smaller, rural schools.

The SF Seminars are a cinch to run. I give a rousing introduction (short, teenage attention spans being what they are) about the "SafeFeelings Seven: Number One: Your feelings are your most precious possession; never let anyone tell you how you should, or shouldn't, feel."

But these "Holler"--to use the vernacular--High kids were even more blank-faced than your typical Genericus High Schoolus. One kid in Jethro-style overalls dozed off, but the weight of his descending head snapped him back into startled wakefulness.

I had everybody split into small groups which was accomplished with much noise and confusion. One girl with doughy fat pooching out of a "Pray Hard" t-shirt sniveled: "I'm scart 'cause I, like, knew Mr. Thompson. Had the coolest car--an Apexa XKE. When I learnt he'd been arrested, I, like, uh..."

"How did that make you feel?"

She looked confused. "Well, like, um..."

Jesus. I'd been squatting in front of her with both hands clasped around her damp, ham-hocked sized one--my Empathy Position. I dropped her hand and stood quickly.

"Listen up, people. Quieten down. Everybody close your eyes. Now. Imagine you have a magic wand. What do you wish for Hollow Falls High?" Always a good reprieve from their inarticulate attempts to verbalize their feelings, but rarely does anyone come up with anything original. "I wish everybody would get along." "I wish we didn't have gangs/cliques/hatred between the races." Since it's almost always violence that brings me to their schools, I get a lot of "I wish" (someone's name) "hadn't" a) "committed suicide" or b) "been murdered."

In Group Three, a redhead with a creamy complexion and startled-looking eyes sat, elaborately bored. She looked up from her toe-ringed foot and blurted, "I wish we didn't have to sit through psychobabble bullshit sessions like this one. It's not going to change what happened, bring Fonda Kay back or anything.  It's--"

A pimply girl with road cone orange hair snarled, "Fonda Kay was a friend of mine. And I don't want no smart-ass yankee bitch disrespecting her memory."

I couldn't believe it--she actually called her a "yankee." Shouts, curses welled up. Counselor-Lady Judy charged over, whispered in The Redhead's ear who stood, tossed the "Do You Have Safe Feelings?" quiz, tugged down her flowered skirt, and flounced out behind Judy. Emotions were running pretty high, but a SF credo is: "Confrontation Brings Communication."

Afterward some brown nosers collected the scattered quizzes, dragged the chairs back into rows. I answered a few questions from kids who lingered. Judy lumbered back with a gangly kid in tow who "needed a one-on-one," but I pointed out that he should forge a relationship with someone he could continue to bond with. Like her.

Afterward, I spent a couple hours replenishing the well. I'd brought a gym bag, so I did some laps around the school track, followed by a walk to the four-block downtown. Judy had lovingly described its major "prettying up." Striped awnings jutted from the hotel shading filigreed bistro tables and chairs that looked uncomfortable as hell. Next door was "Brew-ha-ha: A Coffeepub" with the requisite brown-tipped ferns, posters, chess sets. But a few storefronts were pure Mayberry: Milt's Tack Shop, Mode O'Day, Jones' Sundries.

I nursed a beer, and jotted down notes about the day's session. The goings-on were perfect for my "Chaos and Catharsis" chapter. I wondered if The Redhead was in trouble for simply expressing her opinion. I dug out the "Hellcats Howdy" card with Judy's home number scribbled on it--"in case you need anything."

She joined me at the bar less than thirty minutes later. She beamed, lipstick smudged on her long upper teeth. "I'm glad you called. I wanted to tell you that today's session really got to the core of what's eating at these kids."

"Yeah, it was pretty intense. Crumple the facade, that's a SafeFeelings' sound bite. But a mental health professional like yourself knows that. But about The Redhead, slender, who--"

"Just Katie Burke being Katie Burke. She's an uppity little thang with quite the mouth on her. I've tried to cut her some slack 'cause she's from Philadelphia."

Civil War's over, folks. "Judy, do--"

"Judith."

"Excuse me--Judith. I admire people like yourself, in the schools--the trenches, as it were--who deal with every conceivable emergency, every problem."

She rhapsodized about her counseling successes, touched briefly on the failures, denigrated peer facilitating. I held forth on a topic I've studied extensively: Juvenile Accelerated Dissociative Behavior Syndrome.

"It's nice to talk with someone so knowledgeable. James--or Jim?--no? James Jamison--did--"

"Yes, my parents named me that; they suffered from a lack of imagination, needless to say. But I must tear myself away, my publisher--"

"You're writing a book? I'm so impressed; I've always wanted--"

"Well, it's still in its infancy. But something you said earlier interested me."

She raised her eyebrows, furrowing her forehead to the hairline.

"I'm doing a chapter on the more difficult kids I've encountered during SafeFeelings. Could you arrange for me to meet with Katie sometime tomorrow?"

"But you said the kids should talk with someone they could establish a relationship with."

"That's usually the case. But I'm hoping if I take the time to talk to her personally, it might make things easier for you in the long haul. Someone as in-your-face as she is has probably made life fairly difficult for you."

She had, and Judy painstakingly filled me in on the details "fit to talk about." Katie'd organized a three-member Green Club to protest the "raping" of Black's Forest. She'd plastered a "What Would Satan Do?" bumper sticker in her locker, had refused to cook meat in Domestic Sciences class. Every day for a solid week, she'd had to reverse the Deathrocker t-shirt she'd worn to school.

Tah duh. That would be my in--Deathrocker's lead singer Japeth Case grew up in Squanee Springs, my hometown, had hung out with my daughter Dawn.

The booth's cheap vinyl made a squinchy sound as Judy peeled away her thighs. "Okay, I'll arrange for you to meet, say three-ish? Maybe you'll be able to turn her around."

Maybe.

"Katie? Thanks for stopping by. Let's talk about what you said yesterday."

She swiveled and eyeballed me coolly. "Don't tell me. Let's see...you wanted us to meet for--what?--closure?"

"You don't take too kindly to what you consider 'psychobabble' words like closure. Call this a friendly chat." I rested one arm over a dented file cabinet labeled: Advanced A-H.

"Did you ever in your whole life say you didn't take 'too kindly' to anything 'til you arrived in this shit hole?"

"Cain't reckon as ah ever did."

She laughed, then grabbed a handful of hair and studied its tips. Dawn used to do that too, looking for split ends. Finally she looked up, "So why don't we get right down to it?" She winked.

"'It' being?"

"About why Shreive-port dragged me here. Hear things got pretty crazy yesterday after I spouted off about the Franklin bitch. And I was oh-so-heartbroken about not getting to role play this morning." She smirked as she studied her stubby, robin's egg blue nails.

"Well, some kids' wounds are still pretty raw after Fon--"

"Spare me."

There's only one thing I like better than mixing it up. I've badgered Neanderthal jockboys down to their penitent knees, reduced gangbangers to quivering blobs of emotion. "I understand you're fairly new to town. It must be hard moving here where everyone's grown up together."

She laughed.

"You're an intelligent girl; I can tell. Imagine how you'd feel if a friend from your former school had been mur--"

"You're right; I am an intelligent woman who's smart enough to know everybody should just shut up about what happened, quit grandstanding, giving interviews--how fucked is that? It's like they think living through three girls dying, presumed dead-- whatever--makes them special, interesting or something. I've got news for them."

She picked up another strand of hair. I waited. Silence didn't seem to make her uncomfortable. "I hear you saying you don't like--"

"What difference does it make whether I like, or don't like, this dead-ass town, this retard school, or your fucking seminars? You get paid big bucks for this shit, right?"

"I'm not in this for the money. You seem pretty angry about something."

"Well, duh."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

She sat back, scooted her elbows along the chair's metal armrests. Her bra-less breasts wobbled under her faded, spaghetti-strapped top. I knew to tread carefully.

"You hate it here."

"Brilliant, Sherlock."

"But you are here, and I'm assuming you'll have to stay until you leave for college or get a job."

"Think I'll have to stay, huh? I turned eighteen last Friday."

Perfect. "I doubt you'll drop out after you've made it this far. So what can you do to make your enforced stay in this 'shit hole'--" I comma'd my index fingers in the italics gesture--"more tolerable?"

"Got me."

"I knew someone else who hated the town he'd moved to. Name was Japeth Case, ever heard of him?"

"You knew Japeth Case? The leader of Deathrocker, Japeth Case? When--"

"He was my daughter Dawn's first boyfriend."

"You're shitting me! Before he married Taryn, right? Did Dawn go to his concerts and stuff? Did she go to his m-memorial service?"

"She didn't. Dawn died right before Japeth came out with his second album--"

"The Blankness Within" we said in unison, then nodded at each other appreciatively. "Sorry about that; I mean, about your daughter and all."

A smidgen of empathy--a start. "Thanks, Katie. Dawn was always very troubled; her death is what ultimately led me to form SafeFeelings. But, hey..." I cleared my throat. "Tell me why you liked Deathrocker."

You just need to listen, show you care.

During the next morning's session Katie was a real firecracker--when someone suddenly buys into the program, it's amazing how they can transform a group. She cracked everybody up with her dead-on nagging mother imitation during the "Get off My Back!" role-playing session. When I huddled with Group Four's troublemaker, I could feel her watching me. Later, when I left the locker room ready for my workout, she stood, resplendent in skimpy running shorts, studying the track trophies.

She waggled a finger. "Don't go getting a big head. I'm not a teenage girl nutcase doing a transference number."

"Transference? Bet you got an "A" in Beginning Psych."

She looked embarrassed. "I have something I want to talk about."

"Fine by me. Feel like running while we talk? You do run?"

"I used to be in cross country."

"Used to be?"

"It's a long story." We ran the first two laps in silence, her breathing ragged. "Hey, you're pretty fast. For an old guy."

"Gee, thanks. What's on your mind?"

"Whew, I can tell it's been a while since I slapped the track."

"Let's stop. Cool down. Get a Coke."

"Yeah, it's...well, one of the things I'm pissed off about? The way everybody goes on and on about the murders and all?"

She'd lapsed into teenage girl tentative-speak.

"Just venting, talking things through. It helps."

She sucked her whipped cream noisily through the straw, blowfishing her cheeks. "It's just...they're railroading Mr. Thompson. Here you're guilty before proven innocent. They never really investigated any other suspects."

"Well, Fonda Kay's body was found in Thompson's barn. But since you feel so strongly about this, you must have a different suspect in mind."

She squinted off into the distance. "Yeah."

"If you were so suspicious couldn't you have anonymously called or written the police?"

"I'm not going to say 'brilliant suggestion, Sherlock" 'cause I'm on my best behavior. Notice?"

"I did. So who do you--"

She grimaced. "A weird guy who ran this kind of like Inaminit Mart store. That boarded-up place down the block, see it? It's being renovated for a real estate office."

"So where's this guy now?"

"People say his rich old lady aunt died, left him her home in New Orleans."

"So what makes you think..."

"The guy creeped me out. We'd just moved here; it was right after that Brewington chick gone missing. This freaky dude--Merwyn was his name--hardly spoke, stared holes through you like he was mad you were shopping at his store. My Mom got to where she'd send me over to the Holler Stop practically every day for one thing or another. One night he kind of stuttered, "K-K-katydid."

"Katie did what? Was he being funny?"

"Katydid. It's an insect that looks like a leaf to hide from its predators. Merwyn was this complete yokel, but turns out he'd studied on his own, knew all about protective..."

There are no coincidences in the universe; I firmly believe that. How likely was it that our conversation would veer into this subject? It was a sign. "Protective coloration."

"You know about--"

"I've done some reading on cryptic coloration."

"Cryptic?"

"One of the forms of protective coloration like camouflage and disruptive coloration--"

"Yeah, right, it's coming back to me. I ended up doing my Science Fair on the subject. Stupid teacher wouldn't let me use Merwyn as a reference even though I went and bought a Mini'Corder just to tape an interview with him about his original research. Everybody in the Science Department hates my guts."

"So he helped you, and called you katydid. That creeped you out?"

"No. Duh. When I returned his poster: "Nature's Sneaky Survivors" he started stroking my hair like you'd pet a cat. Gross."

"So this inappropriate gesture made you suspect he could have killed Fonda Kay?"

In reply, she grabbed a handful of hair and dabbed the ends like a powder puff over her face.

I looked around, noticed a primer-streaked truck parked across the street. A bee buzzed underneath a voluptuous hanging basket, an old man standing by Jones' Sundries honked a line of snot out his nose then chopped it off neatly with his index finger. I reached over, patted her hand gently, let it linger just a moment.

"Was there anything else? Did he ever try to..."

I thought I had my answer when I saw Katie's jaw drop in horror. But her gaze was focused over my right shoulder, I turned to see Judy Schreiver standing, transfixed, wearing one of those florescent jog suits. I felt Katie's small, pulsing hand slip away from under mine. Judy's lips writhed, like she was groping for words. I waved her toward us. She stumbled forward. "I hope I'm not interrupt--"

"Of course not. Katie and I were just discussing her Science Fair project." I tossed Katie the subtlest of winks. Her slight frown ironed out, like an invisible hand had smoothed the sheet of her face.

Judy winced into the sun. A thick cloud of sweat assaulted my nose, and I wondered why she was dressed so warmly. As if she'd read my mind, she said, "I better stay put. I'm probably a little ripe." She smiled and wiggled her nose like the witch on that 60's sitcom. "Looks like a fun place for a counseling session."

I could feel the chill that emanated from Katie at the words 'counseling session.' "Our session started out with what I call 'running therapy,' but Ms. Burke, despite her buff exterior, was unable to keep up with someone she'd only minutes earlier referred to as an 'old guy.'" Judy flashed me a knowing everybody-looks-old-to-teenagers look. "So I suggested we adjourn to the legendary Brew-ha-ha for a medicinal dose of caffeine."

I sensed both women waiting, sizing me up. I realized how I finessed this situation could have enormous implications as to the way I hoped things would play out. I stood, "Why don't we continue our conversation while we head back to the school?" I strode through a wedding partyish lattice bower braided with raspberry-colored bougainvillea. Both women followed me silently.

"Judy, Katie has shared a concern of hers--"

"I told you that in confidence! Don't you have, like, a confidentiality thing, like a priest or something?" A small muscle jerked underneath Katie's left eye.

I stopped walking. "Katie, what you told me involves the possible commission of a crime. As a professional counselor, I'm obligated to report--"

"I don't fucking believe this."

"Katie! Keep a civil tongue in your head. That'll be another half hour detention, count on it. James--" Judy's voice caressed my name.

I snatched up one of Katie's hands, held it firmly while she struggled to pull it away. Now Judy watched us approvingly. "Katie has shared with me some information that could impact the upcoming Thompson trial. She has reason to believe that someone else killed--"

Judy snorted a laugh. I backed away. She looked at Katie with an expression of disgust. "Oh indeedy, Miss Burke? Let's see...who are you mad at? Who do you think was hitting on you? Who do you want to get in trouble? Remember, Missy, that you're accusing someone of murder this time. Who--"

When Katie's face crumbled, I realized how truly beautiful she was. Her nose didn't redden, her mascara didn't trickle black streaks down her cheeks; she simply flushed and her eyes, with one brow more arched than the other, swam with aquarium-thick tears. "Fuck you. No, you two go fuck yourselves. Each other, fuck...whatever." Her tongue-tiedness made her angrier. "You deserve each other."

With that Katie swiveled, then darted behind the beater truck, and ran with a lightness of foot she hadn't displayed at the track; Judy's ineffectual "Katie, Katie!'s" bouncing off her back. I was shaken; things had taken an unexpected turn. I'd envisioned a "Seminar Director Saves Innocent Man"-type scenario and instead... But, hey, thinking on my feet is my specialty.

Judy looked at me, shrugged, "I feel I should apologize for Katie's behavior." It seemed, in Judy's unbiased opinion, that Katie had escalated from an occasional innuendo here to a downright accusation there. I clucked disapprovingly over Judy's litany: Katie'd claimed that the cross country coach had used sexually-charged language (couldn't be proved; no other students would back her up); maintained Mr. Pottenger, the chemistry teacher, had fondled her (he'd ended up moving away, a "broken man"), accused the Hellcats' star quarterback of sexually harassing her (came out later he was gay.)

Katie was the Chicken Little of sexual accusation. Someone who'd never be believed if worse came to worse.

Perfect.

Judy's front lawn was littered with huge, gnarled driftwood branches, "All axe-cut," she informed me proudly. "Some from the 1890's." I didn't ask how she knew, instead asked if she'd be attending the upcoming NAHSC convention in Orlando. I urged her to do so, told her I hoped we could "hook up" there.

I knew she'd tell everyone.

Perfect.

I looked up the address in The Book. "Burke, Patricia. 141 2nd Street." Katie's mother was about my age. She stood in the doorway, one foot over the other as if she were embarrassed at being barefooted. She wore a stained "Spleen Society Walkathon" t-shirt over pendulous breasts. Katie was barricaded in her room, and her mother had to threaten her to get her to come out and talk to me.

I asked her Mom if I could have some "alone time" with Katie to "get to the bottom" of what had happened this evening.

We walked down the deserted street, stumbling over the warped sidewalks. She spoke, without looking at me. "Talk if you want to. But I'm not saying shit. No one believes anything I say any way." There's only one thing I like better than a challenge. I delicately drew her out about the accusations, and realized something I couldn't tell her. That my guess was what had happened between her and the coach, teacher, and football player was partially due to her (admittedly probably subconscious) sexualized behavior. When we returned to Katie's, her mother was gone. "Probably out drinking." We sat on a glider obscured by thick lilac bushes. Katie rocked the swing gently with one foot against the fence. I took her hand. "Katie, I want to share something with you. You remember the first of the SafeFeelings Seven?"

She looked at me, seemed to be holding her breath.

"Never let anyone tell you how you should, or shouldn't, feel." She nodded.

"Well, I have something to confess. I have some feelings that people would say I shouldn't have..."

SafeFeelings. Not too many people know that protective coloration can work conversely. I'm a bit of an expert...

"Safe Feelings" won first place in the Arizona Authors League 2000 Contest, Short Story Category.  Consatnce Gelvin has placed in several writing contests including: Arizona Authors League Short Story Contest, Writers West, MileHiCon 30, Garden State Horror Writers, and the 1998 and 1999 Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition. Her play: "Mental Health and Other Myths" was produced by Love Creek Productions in New York City the end of October. Her first novel No Reason to Lie will be published by Hard Shell Word Factory in 2001.