A Danger to Herself and Others(28)
Before we fell asleep, I asked Lucy, Do you know Joaquin’s cell number by heart?
Of course I do, she replied with urgency, as though she would never have relied upon her cell phone to keep such an important piece of information.
(I rolled my eyes. It was dark enough that Lucy couldn’t see.)
Teach it to me.
I made her repeat it over and over again until I could recite it back, like a little kid learning how to spell his name for the first time.
His number is the second thing I tell myself after I wake up: “Joaquin’s number is 510-555-0125.”
This goes on for days:
Today is September tenth. Joaquin’s number is 510-555-0125.
Today is September eleventh. Joaquin’s number is 510-555-0125.
Today is September twelfth. Joaquin’s number is 510-555-0125.
Today is September thirteenth. Joaquin’s number is 510-555-0125.
Today is September fourteenth. Joaquin’s number is 510-555-0125.
Today I wake up and say, “Today is September fifteenth. Joaquin’s number is 510-555-0125.”
Today is Step Four.
We didn’t want to put the plan into motion too far ahead of time. What if word got out somehow? What if we gave Joaquin too much time to think about it and he lost his nerve? (That would never happen, Lucy insisted. He would do anything for me. More eye-rolling when she couldn’t see.) What if we gave ourselves too much time to think about it and we lost our nerve? What if something went wrong?
The less time, we agreed, the better.
So we waited until today. September fifteenth. The day before Lucy’s audition. It was scheduled long before they sent her here: 4 p.m. on September sixteenth.
Plenty of time, I promised last night while Lucy slid into a perfect split between our beds, stretching in preparation for tomorrow. It’ll only take you a couple hours to get from here to there, right?
Depends on traffic.
Yeah, but even with traffic, you’ll have plenty of time to get there.
We don’t know exactly what time lunch lets out.
We can assume it’s sometime after noon but before two, right?
Right.
Now, I remind her, “You know, I won’t have time to hear back from him. You’re sure he’ll do what we tell him to do, even coming from a number he’s never seen before?”
“He’d do anything for me.”
(I look up at the ceiling so she won’t see me rolling my eyes again. Her voice goes all earnest and sappy whenever she talks about Joaquin.)
Step Four takes place at lunch, in the cafeteria. (We’ve been on our best behavior to make sure we didn’t lose any privileges.) I have to do this step by myself, since Lucy is stranded across the room with the other E.D. girls.
When the attendant gestures that I can take a seat, I don’t choose my usual table with Trance-Girl and Beside-Me-Annie.
Today, I head straight for Queen Bee and her minions.
Queen bees have never been particularly interesting to me. They’re all alike: relishing their little bit of power, holding it over the girls around them. Queen bees are boring because they’re already exactly where they want to be—at the top of the high school (or mental institution) food chain. Nothing like the best friends I’ve made over the years.
I sit beside QB, to show that I’m not like the four girls who sit across from her every day. No, not four girls. Today there are only three.
“What happened to…?” I gesture vaguely in front of me. I don’t know any of their names.
The girls opposite me don’t answer. One redhead, one blond, and one girl whose short curly hair is even darker than Lucy’s. The missing girl was another blond, but her hair was so light it was almost white, even lighter than Agnes’s hair, not like the yellow-haired blond sitting across from me now. Each of the girls is strikingly pretty, just like the girls in QB cliques in the outside world.
But their eyes are milky—soft, like a photograph taken out of focus. Meds have made their pupils enormous, despite the bright fluorescent lights above us.
“Cara got sent home yesterday.”
QB’s voice is deep, several octaves lower than mine or Lucy’s. Even sitting down, I can tell she’s taller than I am. She looks like maybe she was an athlete before they sent her here. But trapped in this place, unable to exercise, her bulk has gone soft.
Nothing like in those prison movies, where men work out in the yard, counting the days until their release, until they can take revenge on whoever it was who sent them there.
QB’s brown hair is matted into dreadlocks; I wonder when it was last washed. The smell coming off her is powerful. Maybe that’s the real reason her minions sit across from her.
QB’s eyes are sharp and crystal clear.
“Good for Cara,” I answer finally, as though I knew her name all along. Queen bees assume that the people around them know not only their names, but their friends’ names too, as though their friends are the supporting cast in the reality show of their lives.
QB shrugs. “It’s not like she got well.”
“No?”
“No way. They just loaded her up with meds and sent her on her way.”
Briefly, I wonder why Dr. Lightfoot hasn’t tried that approach with me. Maybe—despite the near-solitary confinement and strict meting out of privileges—she isn’t quite unethical enough to medicate a perfectly healthy person.