A Danger to Herself and Others(32)

I don’t recognize September here.

If I’m not there for our afternoon session, Lightfoot will raise the alarm. I might be able to hide somewhere in the woods, but Lucy’s parents would know exactly where their daughter went.

The San Francisco Dance Academy at 4 p.m. They’d get to her before she could audition.

I slide one foot back, and then the other. I’m standing entirely inside again.

I take one more deep breath of fresh air and carefully, quietly, close the door. The hall behind me is still empty, and the stairwell is too. Everyone else is exactly where they’re supposed to be.

It’s enough that Lucy is out. Enough that Lucy gets to feel the sun on her face. Even though I’m still trapped in this place, I can’t stop smiling. I haven’t had this much fun since they brought me here.

If only Lightfoot could see me now, giving up my chance to get out to make sure that Lucy gets hers.



Step Six. I completely forgot to plan for Step Six.

The door to the room is locked.





twenty-three


I sit on the floor with my back against the door. I run through possible explanations in my head so I’ll be ready when Dr. Lightfoot and Stephen show up.

I went the wrong way after lunch.

I wasn’t paying attention. My head was in the clouds.

By the time I got here, there was no attendant to let me in.

I thought someone would come get me, so I waited.

I close my eyes and picture Lucy jumping into Joaquin’s car, whooping in triumph as he drives away. In my imagination, the car is a convertible and Lucy’s hair lifts in the breeze. Joaquin steps so hard on the gas that they leave tire tracks on the asphalt.

Jonah didn’t drive a convertible. Actually, Jonah didn’t drive at all. He thought it was better to ride a bike or walk. He cared a lot about the environment. It was something we had in common. Not the environment part—I care about it as much as the next person, but it’s not my focus like it was his. I mean, the not-driving part. I don’t have a car either. I never really needed to drive in Manhattan.

So Jonah couldn’t have come for me like Joaquin came for Lucy. Not because he doesn’t care. Not because he wouldn’t want to rescue me. Not because I wasn’t technically his girlfriend. He literally wouldn’t have the means to rescue me.

I finger the bracelet on my wrist. It’s tight enough that I can’t move it up or down my arm much. I guess they don’t want to risk it being loose enough that patients could slide it over their hands. My skin itches beneath it.

Unlike Jonah and me, Agnes had her own car. This summer, if I had to go anywhere that wasn’t within walking distance, Agnes would offer me a lift. She and her parents had driven her little hybrid from North Dakota to California at the beginning of the summer. Her parents had given her the car for her seventeenth birthday. It was so fuel efficient that even Jonah approved of it.

In June, Agnes drove us—just the two of us—into San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge and up into Muir Woods for a girls’ day out. With traffic, it took nearly two hours to get there, but we turned up the radio and rolled down the windows, and sang along at the top of our lungs. Driving over the bridge, the temperature must have dropped fifteen degrees, but as we headed into the forest, it got warm again. Between the trees, there were patches of sunlight bright on the ground. Agnes slathered on sunscreen that smelled like coconuts, but her shoulders were still sunburnt at the end of the day. I wondered if Jonah would rub aloe into the burns later. We hiked for an hour, stopping to take pictures. The woods didn’t look all the different from the woods around this place. What little I saw of them, anyway.

Tap tap tap.

I look up and see Lightfoot headed down the hall toward me. I scramble to my feet and offer one of my prepared excuses.

The doctor uses her plastic key fob to open the magnetic lock on the door. She steps aside so I can go in first. I take a deep breath as if I’m diving underwater.

Once again, the room looks smaller. And emptier. Empty. For the first time, it occurs to me that Lucy might not come back after her audition. We never discussed that step.

Stephen takes his place at the door, but Lightfoot leaves her plastic chair out in the hall. Bad sign.

Maybe Lucy assumed I wouldn’t expect her to come back. I mean, who would come back if they didn’t have to? Then again, if she doesn’t come back, she’ll definitely be in trouble. It might not matter how well her audition goes. Lightfoot could track her down and force her to return. She could keep Lucy here for months as punishment—past when she’d get her acceptance to the dance academy, past when she’d show up for orientation or move into the dorms.

Lightfoot could keep Lucy here for years.

So Lucy has to come back, right?

Lightfoot stands in the center of the room and looks at me expectantly. My excuse—My mind was in the clouds—obviously wasn’t enough to satisfy her. I shake my head. I shouldn’t be worrying about Lucy, about whether she’s coming back or how she’s going to get back inside if she does. I should be worrying about myself. I can’t get into trouble. I won’t give Lightfoot an excuse to keep me here any longer than is absolutely necessary.

I sit cross-legged on the bed. (It’s harder to think of it as mine now that I don’t know whether Lucy’s coming back). I try to look like a normal teenage girl.