A Danger to Herself and Others(29)

Of course, she’d say that she hasn’t medicated me because she hasn’t diagnosed me yet.

But QB has been here for months, and she doesn’t look the least bit medicated.

I say, “Still, it’s better than being stuck here forever.”

QB raises her eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Maybe out there she can go to a real doctor, someone who’ll give her the right meds for whatever’s wrong with her, instead of just stuffing her full of pills to keep her quiet.”

Another thing all queen bees have in common: disdain for those who have power over them. Out there, it could be the principal who caught them sneaking a smoke behind the school or the childhood friend who knows they wet their bed until they were eleven.

In here, it’s the doctors.

“Yeah,” QB agrees. “They only care about keeping us under control.”

“You look like you’ve managed to sidestep their efforts.” (All QBs want you to be in awe of their wiles.)

“Yeah, well, don’t think they haven’t tried. But mine is the kind of diagnosis that can’t exactly be medicated out of you.” She looks at me meaningfully, and even though I’m not actually intimidated, I break her gaze as though I am. She wants me to know that whatever she has is serious, worse than whatever I have. She wants me to be scared of her. As though being sicker than I am means she’s more powerful than I am.

Maybe in here, it does.

I glance around us, biting my lip so she’ll think I’m nervous. “Don’t worry,” QB offers. “The attendants don’t watch this table too closely.”

I exhale like I’m relieved.

“I heard that you…had stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“A connection to the outside world.” I raise my eyebrows and drop my voice into a whisper. “A cell phone.”

She scoffs. “That’s the least of what I have.”

I consider all the things they don’t allow us in here—not cigarettes and beer, the things adults keep from teenagers outside—things like chewing gum and good novels, pencils and paper and SAT II prep books.

But I can’t get distracted. I’m here for Lucy, not for myself.

“I need to send someone a message. That is, if you really have a cell phone.”

In the outside world, queen bees expect to receive something in exchange for whatever they give you: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a ticket to a sold-out concert in exchange for an invite to their birthday party. Sometimes it’s enough to confide why you need their help; a good queen bee collects knowledge to use against you later, should the need arise.

I’m counting on the fact that in here, merely proving to me that she is queen bee will be enough for this girl.

I’m right.





twenty-one


I feel the weight of the phone on my lap as QB slides it onto my thighs. She turns from me to her lukewarm vegetable soup and starts slurping it loudly.

I look down.

The screen glows back at me, confirming the date: September fifteenth.

It tells me the time: 11:48 a.m. (They feed us lunch at 11:30? What are we, toddlers? Whatever. At least it’s better for Lucy. It’ll give her more time to get to her audition.)

I open the messages folder. It’s empty. QB erases everything she sends as soon as she sends it. Clever girl.

I could text my parents. (They’d be back from Europe by now.) Or Jonah.

With a start, I realize I don’t actually know his number. Not that I didn’t memorize it or that I forgot it, but that I never knew it at all—he never gave it to me. I guess it didn’t seem necessary. We lived in the same dorm. He was never far away.

I could text Agnes. (She might still be comatose, but maybe her parents keep her phone beside her bed, so friends and family can reach out, check in. But not if she’s back in the ICU. They don’t allow phones in the ICU, right? Anyhow, I don’t know her number by heart; it’s stored safely in my own cell phone, which I haven’t seen since they admitted me.) Maybe I could reach out to my attorney, get some answers. (But I don’t know his number either.)

I shake my head. I’m texting Joaquin. That was the plan. That’s what I’m here for.

I hide my hands beneath the table and angle myself, so it looks like I’m leaning over my bowl of soup. Carefully, I dial Joaquin’s number: 510-555-0125.

Hi, Joaquin. I’m Lucy’s roommate at the institute. (I asked Lucy if I should use some sort of euphemism instead of calling this place what it is, but she shrugged. “He knows where I am,” she said. “He doesn’t hold it against me.”)

Maybe Joaquin will wonder what I did to get sent here. Maybe I should explain that I’m not eating disordered like she is.

“What are you, writing a novel?” QB asks. “You better hurry up.”

I lift my head and follow QB’s gaze. An attendant is making his way toward our table. Guess they can’t ignore QB’s table entirely.

Lucy can still make it to her audition. She needs your help. Send.

Pick her up at 12:15 p.m. tomorrow. Send.

Don’t write back. Send.

QB reaches to take the phone back, but I hold fast. I need to delete all this before she has a chance to see it.

“He’s coming,” QB says. Under the table, she tries to twist the phone from my grip. Her hands are hot.