A Danger to Herself and Others(44)

And just because Lightfoot couldn’t find him, doesn’t mean Jonah isn’t real.

I mean, if Jonah were a hallucination, wouldn’t my brain have brought him here with me to keep me company? Wouldn’t my brain have made him the perfect boyfriend, like Lucy and Joaquin?

But if he were real, wouldn’t Lightfoot have found him? Wouldn’t the Smiths? Wouldn’t the police have found him? He should have been called as a witness in the case, interviewed, his statement taken. His name would be all over Lightfoot’s files.

When Lucy comes back to the room, I’m lying in bed pretending they sedated me again. I don’t feel like talking. I don’t feel like thinking, either. Thinking means doubting, and doubting means Lightfoot has gotten under my skin like a rash that won’t stop spreading. Doubt means I’m beginning to believe what she says about me. I wish there were an antidoubt drug I could take instead of whatever Lightfoot gave me.



A nurse shows up the next morning, along with our breakfast. She hands me a little paper cup with my pills—turns out they’re blue and chalky, but small so they’re easy to swallow. Other than their voices trilling, Room check, I haven’t interacted much with the nurses here. This woman has long, black hair plaited neatly down her back, and she’s wearing papery scrubs like Lightfoot’s, though hers are peach. The color flatters her. I think April Lu (Rebekah-with-a-K’s former best friend) would probably look good in that color, too. But April has hated me since eighth grade, so she’d surely ignore my advice, however helpful it might be.

At lunchtime, they open the door and lead Lucy and me to the cafeteria.

I don’t plan to sit next to QB, I just do.

I don’t plan to beg to use her phone, I just do.

I’m going to text my mom. I’m going to tell her that they’re putting me on medication, and she has to find a way to get me out of here. I’ll tell her that I’ve been kept in near-solitary confinement since they brought me here. It’s not entirely true—not anymore—but surely that will be enough to get her attention, to make her come rescue me.

“No way,” QB says.

“Why not?”

“The last time you used it, we almost got caught.”

“No, we didn’t.” I would stomp my foot, but it wouldn’t do much to emphasize the point when I’m wearing slippers. “I promise to make it worth your while.”

QB folds her arms across her chest. “How?”

“When I get out of here, I’ll—”

QB starts laughing before I can offer anything.

“Do you really think I’m such a sucker that I’d say yes any time someone promised to do something for me when I get out of here?” She shakes her head. I hate the way she’s talking to me like she’s so much older and wiser than I am, but all QBs do that. “Believe me, sweetheart, once you get out of here, you’re not gonna look back. No one does. At least, not until they get sent back here, and then they don’t have a choice.” She cocks her head to the side. “Besides, from what I heard, you’re not getting out any time soon.”

My hands are cold. “What are you talking about?”

“Word is, they put you on antipsychotics.” She holds her pointer finger level to her ear and twirls it, a kindergartner’s taunt.

“How do you know that?”

She shrugs. “How do I have a phone?”

Jeez, haven’t they heard of doctor-patient confidentiality even in a place like this? Then I remember: Of course not. I literally have therapy in front of another patient half the time. I shake my head, then realize it’s not only my head that’s shaking. I’m trembling. Not with fear. Not with cold. I’m angry.

I don’t plan to do it; I just do.

I reach for QB’s shirt and try to grab her phone. She’s quiet at first. She doesn’t want to draw attention to what’s happening. Her phone would get confiscated if the wrong person saw. But when she tries to tug her shirt out of my grip, I pull so hard that it rips right up the middle—and it’s not a papery shirt like the one I’m wearing. QB wears her own pajamas. She starts to scream.

The attendants move so fast I don’t see them coming. They pull us apart, and a needle jabs into my upper arm.

The familiar sensation of the sedative takes hold.





thirty-one


When Lightfoot comes for our afternoon session, I’m lying in bed. I feel like I weigh two hundred pounds.

The doctor stands over me. “I hear you had a run-in with Cassidy.”

Cassidy? I think. That’s Queen Bee’s name? That’s the kind of name they gave queen bees in the eighties and nineties. Watch any old movie, and you’ll see.

“We confiscated her phone,” Lightfoot adds. Apparently even the orderlies she had wrapped around her finger weren’t willing to risk their jobs for her, so they turned her in. I don’t feel bad. If QB isn’t willing to share her toys, she shouldn’t get to keep them.

Eventually, some new orderly will start working here, and Cassidy will work her QB magic on him. She’ll get another phone. Girls like her always do.

“How did you know she had a phone?”

I shrug. The sedative hasn’t worn off, but it’s been long enough (or maybe it was a lower dose) that I’m able to move a little. I’m able to speak.