A Danger to Herself and Others(31)

I curse under my breath.

“Next,” the orderly says. Luckily, he keeps his gaze down on the bracelets in front of him. But there’s only one girl left.

Without the group for cover, it’s obvious that Lucy and I aren’t where we’re supposed to be.

Lucy pulls me in the opposite direction.

I want to ask her what she’s planning, but I’m scared the orderly will hear me.

So I follow without a word.

Lucy leads me down another windowless hallway lined with doors. This one has an emergency exit at the end of it.

“You can’t open that door,” I whisper. “The alarm will go off.” I stop walking and point at the sign that says so.

What if Lucy ignores my warning? She could make a run for it, be out of sight before they catch her, hide in the woods until it’s safe for her to meet Joaquin. It would be me they’d find, still inside. It would be me they’d punish, revoking the few privileges I’ve earned.

I glance at my roommate. Would she leave me like that?

Lucy tightens her grip on my hand.

Suddenly, she pulls me back against the wall. Someone emerges from a doorway just ahead of us. We flatten ourselves against the wall like we could blend in somehow.

A woman in yellow scrubs—a nurse, I think—closes the door shut behind her and walks toward the emergency exit without glancing in our direction. She pushes it open.

No alarm sounds.

She reaches into the pocket of her scrubs and pulls out a cigarette and lighter. The scent of smoke fills the air.

It feels like it takes her an hour to finish that cigarette.

“When she comes back inside, she’ll see us,” I hiss desperately.

Lucy nods, then pulls me in the opposite direction, back toward the stairwell. For a second I think she’s going to admit defeat and lead the way back up to our room, but instead, she crouches on the lower steps. The nurse would have to look closely to see us hiding here.

We peer down the hall. The nurse finishes her cigarette, drops it on the ground, and grinds it with the heel of her black clogs.

She blinks as she reenters the building. I swear she sees us. We both hold our breath. Lucy lets her dark hair fall in front of her face like it’s a mask she can hide behind.

The nurse walks down the hall. I count her steps.

One, two, three, four.

She stops. For a split second, I think she’s about to break into a run toward us.

Instead, the nurse goes back through the same door she came out of five minutes earlier.

“Let’s go.” Lucy grabs my arm and breaks into a run. Our slippers shuffle and slide against the linoleum.

Lucy pauses for a second when we reach the door, then shoves it open. She steps out and throws her arms overhead in triumph. I reach out and clap my hand over her mouth before she can let out a joyful shout.

The sun is warm. I look up.

The light is blinding. I blink, but my eyes won’t adjust. I shift my gaze to the ground, wondering if I’ll ever get used to sunlight again.

A breeze blows inside. Real air, not manufactured air-conditioned air.

I shiver pleasantly.

“You better get going.” I hold the door open so I won’t get locked out.

Lucy hesitates. “You could come with me. Moral support and all that.”

It’s tempting. I breathe in the smell of grass and leaves and trees. I slide one foot out the door. The ground is soft beneath my slippers. Dirt, not linoleum.

“You coming?” Lucy prompts.

I slide my foot back. “I better stay. I have Lightfoot this afternoon. We have to stick to the plan.”

Me staying behind is a big part of the plan. Lightfoot probably won’t notice that Lucy’s not in the room when she comes for my afternoon session: Lucy usually has art therapy. And hopefully, the “teacher” who runs today’s art therapy session won’t think much of Lucy’s absence. Lucy said girls miss class all the time—because they lost privileges for acting out or because they’re in treatment. (Though she didn’t know what it meant to be “in treatment.”) It happens so often the teacher doesn’t even keep track. Or so Lucy assured me.

But Lightfoot will definitely know something’s up if I’m not in the room for our session.

“Go,” I whisper.

Lucy doesn’t hesitate.

I linger in the doorway to watch her, shading my eyes with one hand. She sprints to the trees, her long, almost-black hair flying out behind her like a cape. She kicks off her slippers and runs barefoot. (Lucy said Joaquin would know enough to bring her spare toe shoes and an appropriate outfit in his car.)

Even the way Lucy runs looks like a dance. She lands on the balls of her feet, loping gracefully from one step to the next.

She doesn’t have to worry about blowing her audition. She’s ready.

I smile.

I take another small step outside. I can’t help it.

I take another step, then another, until only the tips of my fingers are holding the door open.

I think I can smell the ocean on the other side of the building.

September in the Santa Cruz Mountains looks nothing like September back home in New York. The sun is bright overhead, and the air is crisp and thin, not thick with humidity like it might be in New York this time of year, where the warm weather lingers through most of September. There are no clouds overhead, no hint of rain on the horizon.