Break(47)

“Hi,” I say, and then I can’t stop saying it. “Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.”

She comes to my bed and puts her hand all over my forehead and the back of my neck.

“Is your brother okay?” she says.

“I’ve got to find out, yeah?” My heart is screaming inside my chest.

“Uh-huh. God, you’re sweaty.”

“Mackenzie, Mackenzie. You’re letting me out, right?”

She leans very close to me. “There are stairs down the hall. Code for the lock. It’s Four-four-two-five. Run down the stairs, three flights, and you’ll get to a back door. Don’t stop running. Get the hell out of here.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

I head toward the door, and she says, “Wait.” I turn around and she hugs me.

She cuts my bracelet off and says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”


She just smiles, and my stomach churns.

“No,” I say. “It was an accident. This isn’t my fault.” I bend over and cough, and she puts her hand on my back. “None of this is my fault,” I insist. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

She opens the door, and I run down the hall. My breath rags and threatens to make me cough again. I no longer give a shit about my broken toes. Any second I’m sure I’m going to hear sirens. . . . Any second they’re going to drag me back. . . . They’re going to tie me up. . . .

4425.

The door won’t open.

Oh, God. I’ve been set up.

She’s working for them. Her wrist isn’t really broken. It’s all an act and I’m screwed I’m screwed I’m f*cking screwed.

4425442544254425

The latch gives.

Never mind.

I almost hit myself with the door, I’m pulling so hard.

Mackenzie is somewhere and I hear her voice. “Run, Jonah!” and I don’t know why she had to say my name. I don’t know why everyone has to say my name.

I stop halfway down the stairs so I can breathe. The stairs are dark and wet and awful, and I keep expecting light at the end.

But it’s night.

I am Jonah. I spent three days in dark hell and now I’m out. Sputtering and alive.

I break through the bottom door, out of the home, into Halloween.





forty


I WADE THROUGH MUSHY WEEDS FOR TEN MINUTES before I reach the bus stop. I pant and lean against the cubicle and wait for the bus with a witch and some kind of animal-slut.

When I climb aboard, the bus driver nods. “Cool costume.”

Since when is a cast a costume? I guess the whole sweaty/lurchy thing helps, though.

I sit down and try not to look at the freaky people who ride the bus on Halloween. Before, bus passengers always looked narcoleptic. Now they’re so antsy I’d believe they’re all on speed, and I have a hard time convincing myself that they’re not psych-ward spies, hiding cameras and tape recorders behind the masks and provocative costumes.

I swallow and brush dirt off my jeans. Concentrate.

Charlotte lives right by the school.

Right by the bus stop.

It’s not hard.

Really, it’s my best option. It’s not as if I can go home. Please. When the police are looking for you, the last place you can go is home. I assume it’s the same for psychopathic psychologists.

You can never go home.

You’re a mental health outlaw.

My broken hand grinds with every speed bump.

This might not be the worst thing. I’ll miss Jess, and Will, but they’ll do better without me. Charlotte and I could run away together. After I convince her I’m not crazy.

We could have kids and name them Jesse and Naomi.

I get off the bus and walk across the parking lot to school. A few freshmen in stupid Scream masks are egging the science lab. They startle when they see me.

“Don’t throw eggs, you idiots,” I say.

They bristle. “Who the f*ck do you think you are?”

“I’m the f*cking police. Some people are allergic to eggs, *s. Clean this up.”

One kid actually does. What a f*cking loser.

The deeper I get into the residential areas, the crazier the crowds get. I pass Frankensteins and ballerinas and zombies. I pass people much, much too old to be dressed up. More teenagers who use Halloween as an excuse to get naked.

The cold air is like my mother’s hand on my cheek when I’m sick. I stumble on my toes and scrape my palm when I catch myself. My broken hand explodes like fireworks.

Get up.

No one heads toward Charlotte’s neighborhood except these two teenagers, a pirate and a fairy. I watch them from a few feet behind. She has a clay pumpkin full of candy dangling from one tiny pink hand, and holds his white glove with the other.

They don’t know I’m following them, and that makes me happy and sad all in the pit of my stomach.

Then they stop and kiss under a streetlight, and my knees almost fall off.

The tiny little fairy, with the purple dress and eyeliner and delicate tights—it’s baseball-cap-hardass Naomi.

And the pirate.

The pirate with Naomi’s tongue in his mouth.

It’s Jesse.





forty-one


MY STOMACH’S ABOUT TO COME OUT MY NOSE.