Break(37)

Once they’re gone, my stomach feels gross and empty. I take a handful of strawberries out of my backpack and eat them while I put my clothes away, but it doesn’t really help.

I wonder if they’re going to confiscate my strawberries.

“Hey, new kid?”

I bring my head out of the closet. The boy from the elevator and a chubby blond girl stand at my doorway.

“Hey,” I say.

He jerks his head to the side. “You want to hang out? We’re all in the lounge. I’m Tyler. This is Annie.”

She waggles her fingers.

“I’m Jonah,” I say, trailing down the hallway behind them.

“Good,” Tyler calls over his shoulder. He takes one of my strawberries.

We walk down the hall, away from the elevators, pass door after door. Most of the rooms look cold and empty; I guess October isn’t a popular month for crazy kids.

“They let the boys and girls stay on the same floor?” I ask.

Tyler says, “There’s only one floor. I guess they assume we’re too f*cked up to get it on. Though the stains on my mattress suggest otherwise.” Strawberry juice drips down his chin.

At the end of the hall there’s a wide room with two propped-open doors. Four kids sit around in armchairs, throwing playing cards onto the floor.

“Hey,” Tyler says. “Look what I brought. New kid.”

Most of them wear sweatpants and socks, and I know I overpacked. One of the girls pulls Tyler onto her lap and gives him a few cards. Annie sits on the floor, picks up the pile of cards in front of her, and hands them to me.

I edge to the floor beside her. “Thank you.”

She nods.

They all look like regular kids who got squeezed out. Empty teenage tubes of toothpaste. It’s not that bad.

“We’re letting Mariah win,” Tyler says. “Because she’s going home today.”

“They’re not letting me win.” Mariah has lime green toenails and wears more makeup than the rest of the girls combined. She shifts Tyler over on her lap and hides her cards from him. “I’m just full of mad skills.”

I make an awkward smile.

“You better be spelling that with a z,” Tyler says.

She wrinkles her nose. “Like . . . skillz?”

“Exactly.”

“Only you, babe.” She turns to me. “When’d you get here?”

I look at my cards. Nine of clubs, four of spades, six of spades, queen of hearts. “Like, five minutes ago.”

Tyler leans his head against Mariah’s. “His parents were so middle-American.”

“Mariah was trying to stay here longer than me.” This slack-face guy with a bit of a beard and a haunted voice throws two cards into the center pile. “But nobody can. I’m out.”

Tyler says, “You’re hiding cards in your pocket.”

He sighs and takes them out.

“And stop complaining, Stephen.”

He sorts his cards. “I’m just saying. It’s been three weeks.”

“If you stopped sneaking in candles, they’d probably let you go home.”

“I’m not burning,” he mumbles. “I just like candles.”

“Yeah, but they see a burner with candles . . . and they think you’re burning.”

I feel almost like laughing. He’s been here three weeks for burning himself. . . . I’ll probably be here for f*cking months. I guess I’ll have to avoid sneaking in sledgehammers or skateboards.

This skinny-skinny girl from the corner reaches out and takes all the cards from the middle. “We’re gonna miss you, Mariah.”

“Shh.” The brunette next to the skinny girl captures her under her arm. It reminds me of me and my father at Jesse’s hockey game, and I look away.

Tyler flicks through his hand. “Leah, I don’t know if you should have taken those cards.”

Skinny girl says, “I needed them.”

“That’s hardly letting me win, though.” Mariah taps her green fingernails over her lips. “Oops.”

Annie drops some cards into the pile.

Tyler says, “Wanna go, Jonah?”

“I don’t know how to play.”

He shakes his head. “Just play, man.”

I flick the six of spades into the middle. I’m rewarded with a host of approving nods.

Everyone plays. Tyler throws down the rest of his hand. “I lose.”

On my turn, I take all the cards.

Everyone applauds, and Tyler smiles. “Yeah, man, you’re gonna fit in just fine.”

I’ll take this as a compliment.





thirty


“THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE IN THE PAST WEEK?”

I shake my head. The doctor shoves his glasses up his beaked nose and pulls his chair closer to my bed. From my experience, I can conclude that all doctors wear glasses. This guy. Dr. Schneider. The ER docs. Even Jesse’s immunologist.

I can’t picture Will’s pediatrician, but I assume he wears glasses too.

“Taken any drugs?” he asks. “Alcohol?”

“In the past week?”

He glances up from his clipboard. His eyes look crossed from behind those enormous lenses. His cologne is the same stuff my math teacher wears, and I’m drowning in the sweaty pepper smell.