take in the curious looks of the other girls, and jam my hands into my pockets.
“Want one?” Sydney waves a pack of cigarettes in front of me. I shake my head and watch the careful way she lights up, cupping her hand around the match to keep it from blowing out. “My favorite addiction,” she says, blowing out a fat white smoke ring.
Tiffany wanders over. “Does anybody else think it’s weird that we’re allowed to smoke here?” she says.
Sydney admires her smoke ring as it floats away. “Yeah,” she says. “No barfing, no bingeing, no inhaling fumes from the art supplies. But smoking’s OK.”
The other girls laugh and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. I lift my sleeve to my mouth, but the smile stays as they make jokes about the rules, about the food, about Group. It’s cold outside and I wonder why no one ever wears a coat at Sick Minds. Mostly, though, I test out what it feels like to smile again.
I’m so tired that night that I fall asleep in my clothes. I’m sitting up in bed reading a story for English and the next thing I know Ruby’s leaning over me, telling me it’s almost lights out.
“You want to put this on?” She’s holding one of my nightgowns.
Then she’s gone, her shoes squeaking down the hall. The room is dark; Sydney’s on her back, sleeping. I get up slowly, then make my way down to the bathroom.
Rochelle’s in her chair and Amanda’s standing at the sink, although I hardly recognize her. She’s washed off all her makeup—her pencil-arched brows, her black eyeliner, her red lipstick—and she looks very young. She’s studying her face in the mirror, so she doesn’t notice me right away. When she does, she scowls.
I find a corner, turn my back, and begin the process of getting undressed for the shower without letting her see me. First I unhook my bra, tug the straps down, and pull it off from under my shirt. Then I drape the towel over my shoulders and take off my shirt, quickly pulling the towel around me, toga-style, as my shirt falls to the floor Next I step out of my jeans, holding the towel in place with one hand and tugging my pants off with the other I’m balanced on one foot, kicking off my pants leg, when something metal hits the tile floor with a tiny plink.
The metal strip from the dining room table: I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. Instinctively I slide my foot across the tile, covering the piece of metal.
Rochelle’s head bobs up, but she looks in the wrong direction, over at the toilet stalls. But Amanda turns quickly toward me. She takes in my awkward position, the towel gripped to my chest, one foot half stuck inside my pants leg, the other stretched out uncomfortably far away, across the floor Then she nods slowly, approvingly.
“Rochelle,” she calls out, still looking at me. “Is there anyone down at the desk? I need something.”
I’m too startled to move. Is she going to tell on me, get me in trouble?
Rochelle’s gotten up; she’s banging the toilet stall doors open one by one, checking to make sure no one’s in there. When the last stall turns up empty, she gives Amanda an annoyed look. “What do you need this time of night?”
Amanda smiles at me, then turns to face Rochelle. “A tampon.”
I don’t understand. Then I do. Amanda’s sending Rochelle off on a fake errand so I can pick up the metal strip and hide it.
Rochelle sighs. “You two aren’t food-disorder girls, right? You’re not gonna throw up if I leave for a minute?”
We nod, almost in unison.
“OK,” she says. “I’m trusting you. No funny business.”
We nod.
Rochelle leaves. Amanda is next to me all of a sudden. I slide my foot back and the metal strip is lying there on the floor between us.
“Where’d you get it?” she says.
“The dining room table. It broke off.”
“Gutsy,” she says. “Real gutsy.”
She seems so delighted at the sight of the strip, I think maybe she’s going to take it. I picture myself grabbing it and
“Want one?” Sydney waves a pack of cigarettes in front of me. I shake my head and watch the careful way she lights up, cupping her hand around the match to keep it from blowing out. “My favorite addiction,” she says, blowing out a fat white smoke ring.
Tiffany wanders over. “Does anybody else think it’s weird that we’re allowed to smoke here?” she says.
Sydney admires her smoke ring as it floats away. “Yeah,” she says. “No barfing, no bingeing, no inhaling fumes from the art supplies. But smoking’s OK.”
The other girls laugh and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. I lift my sleeve to my mouth, but the smile stays as they make jokes about the rules, about the food, about Group. It’s cold outside and I wonder why no one ever wears a coat at Sick Minds. Mostly, though, I test out what it feels like to smile again.
I’m so tired that night that I fall asleep in my clothes. I’m sitting up in bed reading a story for English and the next thing I know Ruby’s leaning over me, telling me it’s almost lights out.
“You want to put this on?” She’s holding one of my nightgowns.
Then she’s gone, her shoes squeaking down the hall. The room is dark; Sydney’s on her back, sleeping. I get up slowly, then make my way down to the bathroom.
Rochelle’s in her chair and Amanda’s standing at the sink, although I hardly recognize her. She’s washed off all her makeup—her pencil-arched brows, her black eyeliner, her red lipstick—and she looks very young. She’s studying her face in the mirror, so she doesn’t notice me right away. When she does, she scowls.
I find a corner, turn my back, and begin the process of getting undressed for the shower without letting her see me. First I unhook my bra, tug the straps down, and pull it off from under my shirt. Then I drape the towel over my shoulders and take off my shirt, quickly pulling the towel around me, toga-style, as my shirt falls to the floor Next I step out of my jeans, holding the towel in place with one hand and tugging my pants off with the other I’m balanced on one foot, kicking off my pants leg, when something metal hits the tile floor with a tiny plink.
The metal strip from the dining room table: I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. Instinctively I slide my foot across the tile, covering the piece of metal.
Rochelle’s head bobs up, but she looks in the wrong direction, over at the toilet stalls. But Amanda turns quickly toward me. She takes in my awkward position, the towel gripped to my chest, one foot half stuck inside my pants leg, the other stretched out uncomfortably far away, across the floor Then she nods slowly, approvingly.
“Rochelle,” she calls out, still looking at me. “Is there anyone down at the desk? I need something.”
I’m too startled to move. Is she going to tell on me, get me in trouble?
Rochelle’s gotten up; she’s banging the toilet stall doors open one by one, checking to make sure no one’s in there. When the last stall turns up empty, she gives Amanda an annoyed look. “What do you need this time of night?”
Amanda smiles at me, then turns to face Rochelle. “A tampon.”
I don’t understand. Then I do. Amanda’s sending Rochelle off on a fake errand so I can pick up the metal strip and hide it.
Rochelle sighs. “You two aren’t food-disorder girls, right? You’re not gonna throw up if I leave for a minute?”
We nod, almost in unison.
“OK,” she says. “I’m trusting you. No funny business.”
We nod.
Rochelle leaves. Amanda is next to me all of a sudden. I slide my foot back and the metal strip is lying there on the floor between us.
“Where’d you get it?” she says.
“The dining room table. It broke off.”
“Gutsy,” she says. “Real gutsy.”
She seems so delighted at the sight of the strip, I think maybe she’s going to take it. I picture myself grabbing it and
Similar Books
