We'll Never Be Apart (4 page)

CHAPTER

A
BUZZER WAKES ME IN THE MORNING, DRAWS ME FROM A DEEP, DREAMLESS SLEEP.
Rain spatters against the barred window like sniper fire. It drizzles down the glass and makes the trees outside look dreamy and sad. My pink-haired roommate is already up and dressed, moving around the small room. I sit up in the bed, the old metal frame moaning and groaning as I do—a sound that makes me think of ghosts in the walls.

“I was up last night when they brought you in. You were in the bathroom an
awfully
long time,” she says, turning toward me, hands on her hips.

I study her small face. With an upturned nose and spiky pink hair she looks like a pixie, something made of mischief and trouble. I swing my legs over the bed and reach for the scrub pants folded on the nightstand. I'm not sure how she wants me to reply, so I stay silent.

She shrugs and goes back to fiddling with whatever she was doing before. “I saw the pill fall out of your pocket, too.” I slip into the scrub pants as she goes on. “You know you can get in a lot of trouble for something like that.”

I walk over to my lavender bag and fish out a couple of pieces of origami paper, stuffing them into my hoodie pocket before she can see. “Are you going to tell on me?”

She turns to face me, flushing slightly. “No, of course not. I just want you to know that I can keep a secret.”

I shove my feet into my laceless Chuck Taylors. My gaze drifts down to the raised white scars on her arms. They're not from burns. A burn scar has jagged edges. It is careless, messy, like the bite of a vicious dog. Her scars are clean and precise, as if made by a thin blade and a steady hand. “Me too,” I say.

Her face turns a deeper shade of red. “Well, good,” she says, pulling down her sleeves.

Another buzzer sounds, followed by the whoosh of all the doors in the corridor unlocking.

“Breakfast time. It's Tuesday, so that means . . .” She taps her lips.

“Pancakes—they always serve pancakes on Tuesdays.”

She eyes me in an entirely different way. “You've been here before?”

I swallow. “My sister and I were here for a couple of weeks. I'm Alice, by the way.”

A short blaze of recognition flashes in her face. For a moment it seems as if she's going to say something, ask me about my pyromaniac twin, my epic escape with Jason, or the mangled flesh on my right hand. The burns tingle and I flex my fingers, waiting for her inquisition to begin. Instead she bites her lip, then smiles. “I'm Amelia.”

Amelia and I stroll to the cafeteria together. We stand in line to get our pancakes, and the servers avert their eyes when they hand us our trays. The line moves slowly. The girl in front of me slams down her tray and screams, “I want bacon!” I glimpse a server in the back eating a piece of bacon. Two techs rush over, and the girl is artfully silenced with calm words and a threat of the Quiet Room. She cleans up her tray and softly weeps. I don't blame her for her outburst. Because I don't think it's the bacon she really wants. It's what the bacon represents. A freedom. It's a question of equality, and here there is none.

Amelia and I sit at a round table. Patients spread out among us. Some sit together, others deliberately away from one another. Because they are jellyfish, there is no rest. Some rock back and forth while they eat; some bodies stay still, but their eyes constantly move. Even though our day is rigidly structured, it still feels like there's too much disorder. My palms itch to take out a piece of origami paper and start folding. That's when Chase comes in.

Amelia picks at her food, dissecting the pancakes into little chunks and then even smaller pieces. She pushes tiny bites to the edge of her tray and spreads the food around. I nod toward Chase. “What's up with him?”

She follows my gaze. “Chase Ward. He was transferred here last week. He was in the Quiet Room for the first couple of days. He just got sprung.” The Quiet Room is a white padded cell. It has a steel door with a double-plated window for observation. Cellie went to the Quiet Room once and screamed bloody murder until two techs and a nurse came and made her be quiet.

I touch my throat where it suddenly feels raw. “I had a run-in with him last night. I don't think he likes me very much.” I want to add that the feeling is mutual.

Amelia takes a tiny bite of her pancake and washes it down with a giant gulp of water, like she's swallowing a pill. She opens her mouth to say something, but we're interrupted by a girl walking past. I recognize her from before, but can't remember her name. She's got curly hair pulled high into a bun and a round face that makes her look soft and sweet. The girl drops a crumpled piece of paper into the pool of syrup on my tray and keeps going. I reach out and tentatively open the note. Written across the lined sheet in big, bold black letters are two words: DIE PYRO.

I crumple the note back up and toss it onto my tray. Pain rips through my skull and then down my arms. Tears of shame and embarrassment burn my eyes. I look around and all I see are faces, faces with big eyes that stare at me, big eyes that couldn't have missed the huge black letters. Damn Cellie. She haunts me everywhere, even in a place that's closed off from the outside world.

Amelia takes the note from my plate and frowns. She turns, and before I know it, she's hurling the dripping, sticky wad at the girl's back. “Monica, you snatch,” she yells as the note hits the girl square between the shoulders.

The girl swivels around. “You really want to go?” Her hands fist at her sides, a clear invitation to fight.

Amelia stands and the room goes quiet. Suddenly the jellyfish aren't jellyfish anymore; they're sharks, and they smell blood in the water.

“Is there a problem, ladies?” Nurse Dummel shouts from across the room. Her voice cuts through the tension like a steel knife.

“No problem,” Monica says. Her hands unclench. She smiles a smile that's almost as sweet as the syrup dripping down her back. “I was just cleaning up something I spilled.”

Nurse Dummel shifts her bulldog gaze to our table. Her eyebrows raise a notch higher.

“What Monica said—there's no problem,” I blurt.

Amelia sits down with a loud thump.

Monica picks up the piece of paper and throws it away. Cafeteria conversations start again as if nothing has happened. Everyone resumes focusing on their pancakes, their appetites seemingly increased by the show. Except for one. Chase sits across the way, his eyes level with mine. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, a smile that is equal parts curiosity, disdain, and amusement.

“Forget about Monica,” Amelia says as we stand in line for morning meds. “She's a bitch, and she probably wears dirty underwear.”

I smile absent-mindedly while my eyes stay trained on Chase. Ever since breakfast I've been tracking his movements. As much as I hate to admit it, I need his help. I need to ask him if he knows where Cellie is.

Amelia doesn't miss a thing. “You're staring at him again.”

“Staring?” I keep my expression blank.

Amelia wiggles her head back and forth in the space between Chase and me. “Yeah, you know, the act of looking intently at something with your eyes wide open.” She pries her eyes open to illustrate her point. Her hands drop back down to her sides. “So what's up? You got the hots for him or something?”

I chew my lip, not sure what to say. Should I tell Amelia that I need his help? That I'm using him to get information that'll help me hunt for my sister? Better not. So I stay mute and refocus on the kid in front of me. He wears an Insane Clown Posse tee, and a yellow band wraps around his left wrist.

But Amelia isn't deterred. She sees something in my face, the wrong thing. “Patient relationships are strictly forbidden, Alice.” But her face isn't forbidding; instead it's laced with hungry interest and delight.

“It's not like that.” I scratch my forehead. “He's hard to read, that's all.”

“Like
Atlas Shrugged
?”

I chuckle. “No, more like
War and Peace.
”

She shoulder bumps me and grins. “Just remember, Alice, chicks before dicks.” I smile and bump her back. Amelia chuckles for a minute, but then her face changes. “Seriously, though, I don't think he's a good idea. He was in the D ward, and one of the girls in my therapy group said . . .”

“What?”

“I'm not supposed to say.”

“Christ, Amelia, you can't just leave me hanging. What'd that girl say about Chase?”

“She said, and honestly I wouldn't believe her if she didn't tell me that she went to high school with him and then another girl confirmed it . . .” Her words come out in one long, rushed run-on sentence.

“What'd she say, Amelia?”

“She said Chase is in here because he killed someone.”

I imagine that my expression is a cross between disbelief and horror. My mouth hangs open and before I can form a response, Amelia nudges me. “You're up,” she says, motioning to the nurse's counter.

“Alice Monroe,” a nurse says, and by the annoyance in her voice, I know it's the second time my name has been called. As I walk to the nurses' station, I throw Amelia a look that says
wait here
. I grab the cup from the nurse's outstretched hand. I'm on what I like to call “the Fourth of July,” a combination of red, white, and blue pills. The nurse jerks another cup toward my face, one with an inch of water. I grab it from her and down all three pills with one swallow. I open wide, roll back my head, and let her peer into my mouth. “Good,” she says; then, “Next.”

Amelia is up next, and I try to wait off to the side for her, but a tech comes and ushers me to group therapy. We're broken into groups that are named after birds: sparrows, blackbirds, doves, robins, blue jays, swallows, ravens, crows, etc. I'm in the blackbird group and Amelia is in the sparrows.

The group therapy room is far from peaceful. The harsh fluorescent lights cast a sickening pallor on the speckled linoleum floor and plastic chairs. It makes me feel disoriented and nauseous. I sit in the chair farthest from the door so I can see everyone who walks in. Dr. Goodman is there, along with Nurse Dummel.

Monica comes in and rolls her eyes when she sees me. More patients shuffle in and sit down.

“Good morning, everyone,” Dr. Goodman starts. “As many of you can see, we have a new member in our group: Alice.” I am not
new.
I've been in the blackbirds before. With the exception of Monica, everyone else here is
new.
“Could everyone help me in welcoming Alice?” There are quick murmurs of greetings, monotoned
Hi, Alice
's. And then a much softer whisper, laced with malice, “Welcome, pyro.” My eyes dart to Monica, who sits with her mouth shut, but I swear it's her voice. I look around to see if anyone has noticed, but everyone seems oblivious. “Well, that was a very nice, warm—”

The door to the therapy room bangs open. Chase stands in the entryway scanning the group. His eyes land briefly on mine before he settles into an empty chair.

“Well, Chase, thanks for joining us today,” Dr. Goodman says.

Chase mutters something, but I can't make it out.

“You just missed welcoming Alice to our group. I think, since we have someone new and it seems that some of us could use reminding”—he shoots a pointed look at Chase—“we should go over our group therapy rules. Would someone care to read them?”

Monica's hand is first in the air.

“Go ahead, Monica.”

Monica clears her throat and sits up taller in her chair. She reads from a poster on the wall just to the right of me. “‘Speak your truth. Be on time. Accept others' differences. Breathe. Listen. Tolerate. Rest. Recover.'”

“Thank you, Monica,” Dr. Goodman says when she's finished. “What Monica forgot to mention is that everything said is confidential. What happens in group therapy stays in group therapy. Now let's pick up where we left off yesterday. Alice, since you're just settling in, you don't need to talk. Just get to know the group. This is a safe place.” The doctor leans forward, ready to dig in. “Yesterday we talked about goals. Figuring out what we want. It can be long term or short term. Anything. Chase, since you were the last to arrive, would you like to be the first to share? What is it you want?”

Chase smirks. “I want to be rich enough that every time I enter a room, a dozen white doves are released.”

Wow, he's even more irritating than I had originally thought.

“Clearly, Chase isn't up to sharing today.” Doc steadies me with a level stare. “It's important to remember how our attitudes can affect the group. It's always okay to feel negative, to not want to share, but it's never okay to damage morale. This is a boundary.”

Dr. Goodman asks if anyone else wants to share, and Monica's hand shoots into the air again. Kiss-ass. Bored, I remove a square of origami paper from my hoodie pocket. I can feel Chase's eyes on me. As I begin to fold, I risk a glance up. Sure enough, he is watching me, almost studying me. When our eyes connect he lowers his head, like he's embarrassed to have been caught. The movement gives me a full view of the scar on his face. I go back to folding. By the time group is over, I've made one paper elephant and two paper dogs. And all I think about the entire time is Chase and his scar and how he might've gotten it killing someone.

Lunch comes and goes. Amelia and I sit together. When we start to move from our seats, the lights in the cafeteria dim and a tech comes out holding a massive sheet cake with one candle lit. Unease skitters up my spine. A girl smiles with delight as he sets it down in front of her and begins to sing “Happy Birthday.” Other techs and nurses join in and encourage patients to sing as well. Some do. But for the most part it's just the techs and nurses singing. The girl blows out her candle, and the tech takes the cake back to the kitchen and cuts it.