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Dear Reader,
YA fiction is failing our teens with mental illness.
I knowits a bold statement. But think about it. How many novels
have you read that featured a teen refusing to take her meds because they
make her feel dead inside? Or a character who wont talk to his therapist
who doesnt get it, instead sitting in moody silence for an hour? A depressed
boy who just needs the right girl to save him?
Depression runs strongly in my family, so to me these portrayals are
unrealistic and, worse, feel potentially harmful to teen readers. A combination of medication and therapy is the recommended method of treatment
for bipolar disorder and anxiety and many other mental health issues. So
why do we repeatedly let our novels show the opposite? Why do we reinforce
the stigma of treatment?
Because a plot following a character who is ill, goes to therapy, starts
meds, and gets better isnt interesting.
But it can be, in the right authors hands. And The Weight of Zero is.
As Cath is secretly planning her suicide, her mom switches her to a more
proactive therapist, who puts her on new meds that start to work, and
starts her in a support group where she makes friends.
Only, Cath cant see what the reader can: that these things are making
her better. The tension of the book is that you want to pull the brakes of the
speeding train of her suicide plan and yell, Stop! Youre going to be okay!
Spoiler alert: the thrust of this novel is that there is always help and
hope for struggling teens. This story wont fail our kids with mental illness.
Teens need to know that life with a psychiatric disorder can be well lived,
and that they can trust doctors and meds and friends and family when they
are at their lowest.
There is always hope.
Kate Sullivan
Senior Editor
Delacorte Press
Delacorte Press
#WeightOfZero
Delacorte
Press
ort_9781101938898_2p_all_r1.indd 3
3/8/16 11:0
ATTENTION, READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT
Zero, but since Ive skipped a few classes, hes upped the
dosage of my new med in addition to this intensive outpatient program at St. Annes.
Sorry, Cath. Mom rubs my back. Even though Im
annoyed with her, it feels wonderful, comforting, and I almost purr, my skin soaking up the contact like a parched
plant takes in water. I know weve gone over it already,
she continues. Im so tired I dont know what Im saying.
The restaurant was packed tonight. Even her voice sounds
fried. I dont know how much longer Ill be doing this.
Two jobs in one day.
We both know shell keep doing this Friday double to
pay for my doctors, therapy, meds, donations to the shrine
of St. Jude (the patron saint of lost causes) and whatever
else my mental defect demands.
You should get some sleep, I say, shifting slightly in
her direction. She rises and hunches over me. Her face is in
the shadows, and bony shoulders poke out of her sleeveless
pajama top. She could be eighty years old.
Mom tucks in the bottom corners of the comforter too
hard. My toes curl forward under the pressure. Okay,
baby. Wake me up if you need anything. I love you. She
clicks off my bedside lamp like Im three.
I wait a safe twenty minutes even though its Friday
night, the night Mom passes out after eight hours of typing for a bunch of loser attorneys followed by a five-hour
encore waitressing at Dominics. Ive got a couple of free
nocturnal hours before she resumes watchdog rounds by
my bedside.
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Its beautiful out. The brilliant afternoon sun glints off the
roofs of the cars as they stream out of the school parking
lot. I was tempted to leave earlier because of the nightmare
in the computer lab, but today is my intake appointment at
St. Annes, the home of the new intensive outpatient program Dr. McCallum recommended. Instead of scurrying
home, I spent the rest of the day in the library, missing
three classes. School is finally over, so now Im shielded
by a large bush and standing as far as possible from the
throngs in front of the schools brick entrance, waiting
for Mom.
Shes got to drive me. Theres no way Im taking the
transportation St. Annes offers, with its pickup from Cranbury High at 2:45 sharp. Weve only been in school for a
month, but the unmarked white van is already known as
The Crazy Kids Shuttle, Amwack and The Fucked-Up
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St. Annes Outpatient Day Hospital is situated in the commercial, non-quintessential part of town, tucked behind an
upscale housewifes dream strip mall: Target, Loft, White
House Black Market, Whole Foods and that store that specializes in swanky fartwear, Chicos. Makes a lot of sense.
While Jimmy gets his head straightened out, Mommy can
bang out some errands.
The Day Hospital is a plain one-story building marked
only with a number to identify it inside this small industrial park of corrugated metal warehouses and loading docks. Mom parks next to the dirty white St. Annes
van that mustve just unloaded my chemically imbalanced
colleagues from Cranbury High. Maybe we can all sit at
one big unhappy lunch table at school. Over brown-bag
lunches we can share funny stories about our suicide attempts, vomiting or cutting. Just what Mom wanted for
menew friends.
The little waiting room is empty, as is the darkened
hallway with its four closed doors. A petite young woman
steps from behind the reception desk. Hello, she says,
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her long brown hair falling like a veil over her face. You
must be . . . Catherine. Catherine Pulaski?
I nod.
Im Vanessa Capozzi. Im a social worker and manage the IOPs, she says, smiling brightly. Im all ready for
you. She picks up a clipboard loaded with forms. Would
you follow me?
She leads me and Mom down the hall to the first closed
door on the right. Vanessas hair lies like brown silk on her
back, reminding me that I havent touched my hair since
this morning. I run a hand through its stubby ends. Its getting a little long; I should cut it again. A return to Rodrick
at two hundred dollars a cut is not in the budget, so I do it
myself and Mom helps out with the back. Its not great. But
I dont really care.
Vanessa swings open the door, revealing a cluttered office and fresh Ikea-type furniture. Please, have a seat,
she says. Piles of paper and folders cover the desk and
floor. Empty bookcases await the contents of the large
brown boxes beside them. Stepping over the crap on the
floor, Vanessa smiles and shakes her head. Sorry about the
mess. Were not quite finished unpacking yet. Next week
you wont recognize it. She pulls an elastic off her wrist
and throws her hair into a ponytail. That movement is as
familiar to me as breathing, and I feel a sudden jolt of sadness. Long hair belonged to normal Catherine.
Vanessa riffles through a metal bin on her desk and
pulls out a folder. I see my name handwritten on the top
tab. Okay, she says, and takes a deep breath. She cant be
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has never been a breach. But right now, I think weve got a
good group of kids in that regard.
Of course, the question on my lips is: What is Vanessa
smoking? Does she seriously think I would confide one
measly thing to a bunch of mentally ill strangers who go
to my very own school? The question isnt will there be a
breach but how soon and in what manner? Text or Twitter or Tumblr? In the bathroom or the parking lot or the
car on the drive home?
But I nod like it all sounds kosher. Its my standard
MO. On the outside, I go with the flow. Five-days-a-week
intensive outpatient program? Sure! Another new prescription? Bring it! Group therapy? Im all in! Because the
opposite would be to confide, and we all know that any
meager whining on my part isnt going to unscramble my
DNA and correct my abnormal brain function. And of
course, the other, real reason for my Ms. Compliant act is
that it raises no suspicion about my future plan involving
my shoe box.
Vanessa smiles at me. Well, unless you have any questions, youre done with me. Dr. Yu wants to have a chat
with you. Hes our staff psychiatrist and will do a quick
evaluation. Hes already been in contact with Dr. McCallum, so it shouldnt take too long. Hes directly across the
hall and waiting for you. See you tomorrow!
I say good-bye to Vanessa and cross the hall into an
identically messy office. A young guy in jeans and a polo
shirt is glued to his phone but pops to his feet when I enter.
He sticks out his hand like were meeting at a party. Hi,
Catherine. Im Dr. Yu. Have a seat.
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And were off. The eval doesnt take too long. Dr. McCallum has fully informed Dr. Yu of my status and I know
all the standard questions and answers by heart. Mom
mustve been hovering in the hallway because as soon as
I open Dr. Yus door to leave, shes there, fluttering her
hands. Oh . . . I just wanted to say hello to the doctor. Can
you wait for me by the door?
I plop onto a plastic chair by the reception desk. Theres
still not a soul in here. But then the front door swings open
violently and a tall black girl with a gray newsboy cap
storms in and up to the empty desk. She wears denim cutoffs, gladiator sandals and a loose, silky gray T-shirt that
exposes a smooth shoulder. After two seconds, she whirls
around to me. Shes got one of those perfect symmetrical
faces, and the dancer still in me notes that she moves with
natural grace.
Is anybody here? she asks me. She looks frazzled as
she snaps the strap on her Longchamp bag.
Vanessa is in her office, I offer.
Whos Vanessa? she asks.
The social worker. I think shes in charge here.
The girl shrugs, her shoulders brushing the gold hoops
in her ears. I dont know her. My intake was with some
guy. She looks around nervously. This is my first day. Im
an hour late.
I do a quick scan of her arms. There are no ladder scars,
the cutters signature tattoo. Whats wrong with her?
Vanessa mustve heard our voices because her head
emerges from the office. Hey, Kristal! Why dont you come
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into my office? You can fill out the DBT and then head on
in to Room Three. Oh yeahVanessa points to methis
is Catherine. Shes new too. Shell be joining group tomorrow. Vanessa vanishes back into her office.
Kristal looks at me. You sure you dont want to start
today? She flashes the most radiant smile Ive ever seen.
This girl could get signed to a modeling contract.
I shake my head and offer an apologetic smile. Sorry.
I dont blame you, she says, our eyes holding as her
grin fades fast. She looks down the hall. I do not want to
do this.
I connect with the undercurrent of fear in her voice.
Me neither, I say softly but easilythe first two totally
honest words Ive said in weeks, maybe months. Good
luck.
Thanks. Ill see you tomorrow. Our eyes lock again
and she gives me a sad smile before walking slowly down
the hall. Jesus, help me, she mutters.
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T HE
W E I G H T O F Z E RO
B Y KA R E N F O R T U N A T I
#WeightOfZero