A Danger to Herself and Others(37)

We’re too old for these games.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” Lucy promises, laughing. I put my pillow beneath my head.

Then she says, “But you wanted him to be your boyfriend, right?”

I roll over so my back is to her, folding the pillow in half so it fits in the crook of my neck.

“I never thought about it,” I say quietly. It’s not a lie. Jonah had a girlfriend. He wasn’t going to break up with her, so what would have been the point of thinking about whether or not I wanted him to be my boyfriend? That would have been completely impractical and like I said, I’m very practical. “Go to sleep,” I add.

Lucy giggles, then sighs, but I listen as she adjusts her pillow and blanket. I hear her breathing slow.

“Lucy?”

“Hmm?” she murmurs sleepily.

“Why did you come back? I mean, you could’ve stayed out there.”

Her voice is muffled. “It seemed like it’d be too risky to stay away.”

“Oh,” I answer. Lucy must have had the same thought I had: If she got into enough trouble, Lightfoot could keep her here so long that it wouldn’t matter how well the audition went. She’d never get to attend the dance academy.

Coming back was the practical decision. It would have been incredibly impractical to stay away. And it would have been equally as impractical to come back for any reason other than staying out of trouble. Like because she didn’t want to leave me alone.

Lucy’s breathing is shallow and steady; she’s asleep. The room feels so much warmer with her here.





twenty-six


The next day, no one comes to get me for lunch. In our afternoon session, Dr. Lightfoot tells me I lost my cafeteria privileges.

“Why?”

“Because you weren’t in your room after lunch yesterday.”

“But that wasn’t my fault! By the time I got back up here, there was no one to let me in.” Even though I’m lying, I feel like a victim. Lucy went all the way to San Francisco, and she still got to go to the cafeteria today.

I should’ve found an orderly to bribe like Lucy and QB. Or how my parents tipped busboys at hotels, slipping cash into a handshake, just enough to get a free upgrade to a room with a nicer view, free breakfast, free Wi-Fi.

I bet even this place has Wi-Fi.

Not that it’s a hotel.

But I don’t have any money for tipping. And you probably can’t really call it tipping in circumstances like these.

But if Lightfoot won’t let me go to the cafeteria, I can’t convince QB to let me use her phone again. If I can’t use her phone again, I won’t be able to find out whether Lucy got into the dance academy. I won’t be able to text my parents to demand a better attorney. (Demand, like an adult. Not beg, like a baby.)

“I told you I was distracted.” It comes out sounding like a whine. Like a plea. I hate my voice.

“Nevertheless—”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“That may be true, but you still broke a rule.”

The words that may be true are infuriating. Despite the manufactured cool air, I’m sweating.

Funny thing about lies. When someone doesn’t believe you, you feel like you have the moral high ground. How dare they accuse you of lying?

“I told you, I was thinking about my old school. I was thinking about my parents. I was thinking about Jonah.”

If I had his phone number (and cafeteria privileges), I would demand that QB let me text him. No. I want to call him. (How could I possibly do that? In the middle of the cafeteria? Everyone would notice if I had a phone to my ear. Even if I tried to hide it, they’d see it. Crouching under the table wouldn’t work. You can only pretend you dropped your plastic spoon for so long.)

But if I could call him, then I could hear his voice. Deep and gravelly and calm.

Maybe I do know his phone number. I mean, maybe I used to know it. Maybe if I wrack my brain long enough, I can remember it. Human beings only use 10 percent of their brains, right? Maybe his number is hiding somewhere in the other 90 percent. Maybe I could find it if I tried hard enough.

I shake my head. I’m only thinking about Jonah because of Lucy. She got to be rescued by her knight in shining armor (more like skinny, acne-marked boy in a beat-up old car, I bet) for a few hours yesterday, so now I want to be rescued too. Even though I’m not that kind of girl, and a brief escapade with Jonah won’t bring me any closer to really getting out of here.

It’s a completely impractical thing to wish for.

“Who’s Jonah?” the doctor asks. I have to stop myself from raising my eyebrows. Obviously, she’s pretending not to know. No doubt Agnes’s parents told Lightfoot about Jonah weeks ago. Lightfoot probably interviewed him when she was trying to get info about me.

He wouldn’t have told her about us of course. But if Agnes and I were joined at the hip this summer, then Jonah was joined to her other hip.

“Hannah, who’s Jonah?” Lightfoot repeats. She crosses and uncrosses her legs. I hate when she does that. She looks like a praying mantis.

“Nobody.”

“He must be somebody if he distracted you enough that you missed getting back to your room after lunch.”

“He was a boy I liked before.” Inwardly, I curse. I shouldn’t have referred to him as a boy I liked before. I should’ve said he was a boy I knew before.