A Danger to Herself and Others(26)

“Can’t you call the judge?” I ask.

“What would you like me to say?”

I press my lips together, biting them from the inside so she won’t see. Tell him they need to set the date of my hearing! Explain that this stupid misunderstanding is ruining my life! I’m so mad I can barely look at her.

I hear my mother’s voice, lamenting a legal system that kept inmates awaiting trial at prisons like Rikers Island. Kids! she said to me once, her voice full of passion. Under eighteen! In gen-pop.

She said gen-pop (which I later learned meant the general population of the prison, as opposed to separate facilities for minors) like she was familiar with the lingo, but the truth was, she’d only read one article on the subject.

I wonder if she’d be pleased that at least I’m here with other minors.

Lightfoot blinks. She shifts in her seat, dropping her hands and gripping either side of her folding chair. She’s scared I’m going to try to grab it again. I look up and see that Stephen isn’t standing with his arms crossed like usual. He’s crouched, his arms out in front of him, ready to move, ready to pounce, like I’m a wild animal who might try to escape her cage.

No. I will not lose my privileges. I need Lightfoot to be on my side, so that when we finally meet with the judge, she can tell him that (in her expert medical opinion) I’m perfectly normal, that Agnes’s parents were taking out their anger over what happened to their daughter on me, and the other girls in our summer program were talking trash about me because they’re nothing more than silly little girls who live to create drama out of something perfectly innocent. Maybe Lightfoot will even write a letter for my college applications explaining what happened and praising me for persevering despite the difficult circumstances. I could write my admissions essay about how I overcame this hardship, how I intend to help others who were wrongfully accused.

In fact, if I play my cards right, this could even look good on my college applications.

I relax my lips and open my mouth, letting out a heavy sigh so Lightfoot will think I’ve accepted the situation as it is. One finger at a time, Lightfoot releases her grip on her chair. I don’t look at Stephen, but I hear him clear his throat and his boots squeak against the linoleum floor. He must be moving out of his crouch.

“I haven’t diagnosed you yet, Hannah,” Lightfoot says. That’s the second time she’s said my name in the last five minutes. Another trick they must have taught her in school: Use your patient’s name to establish intimacy, to make her think you’re on her side. “It’s not in your best interests to rush this process.”

It’s not in my best interests to be diagnosed at all, because diagnoses are for sick people and I’m perfectly healthy.

Doesn’t Lightfoot understand that being in here is more likely to derail my progress than the other way around?

Across the room and behind Lightfoot’s back, Lucy’s mattress squeaks as she shifts on her bed. She’s holding a book above her head, but she’s not reading. She’s listening.

September eighth.

Her audition is a week away.

It’s not too late for Lucy.





nineteen


“We’re getting you out for your audition,” I whisper after lights-out.

Even though it’s dark, I can see Lucy sit up in her bed across the room. “How are we going to manage that?”

“I didn’t say I knew how, I said we were getting you out. Making the decision is Step One.”

“What’s Step Two?”

“That’s figuring out how.”

“Okay.” Lucy sounds skeptical but intrigued.

“Remind me what your schedule is. When do you have art therapy?”

“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

I shake my head. Kids at summer camp probably aren’t forced to spend that much time doing arts and crafts. Not that I would know. I never went to camp. “What exactly does weaving a basket have to do with curing bulimia?”

“I don’t know. It’s supposed to be meditative. Like I can’t think about fat and dancing when I’m doing it.”

“Does it work?”

“Of course not.” Lucy laughs. “Maybe they think it’s enough to keep my hands occupied so I can’t stick them down my throat.”

“How do you get to and from art therapy?”

Lucy shrugs. “I don’t really pay attention. They come get me, and I go downstairs.”

I nod, considering. “Is it just you or are there other girls?”

Lucy shrugs again. “It varies.”

That makes sense. The other girls here probably gain and lose their privileges just like I do. Which means some days they have art therapy privileges and some days they don’t.

Which means sometimes the group walking to art therapy is small, maybe only two girls plus the attendant escorting them. It would be impossible to slip away without being noticed if there were only a couple of girls in the group. And we have no way of knowing when it will be a large group and when it’ll be small, short of breaking into Lightfoot’s office to find a log of who has which privileges when. (Which would just add another difficult step to an already difficult plan.)

I hear Lucy shift in her bed, lying back down. “Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but I think this plan of yours is going to have to end with Step One. They keep too close an eye on us to—”