There’s tiny thrill in my heart to be finally believed, to know that I must have mumbled garbled versions of Ruth’s story to this miniature person, and that she’s taken it upon herself to get us both coherent. For now, I’m ignoring the fact that she seems to think she’s a forty-year-old man.
“Oh no, Felicity and Barb!” Sir Albus springs to her feet on the cafeteria bench, looking around like some kind of prairie dog. “Quick, they’ve seen you!” she chirps. She collapses facedown into the food on her tray, and begins to snore loudly. I see that many of the girls at our table are already doing the same. “I’m going undercover, Sergeant!” she says out of the side of her mouth. “Don’t copy me! You’ve got to think of something to say!”
I look up to see two nurses making their way toward us down the aisle. Their matching orthopedic clogs clack against the linoleum as they walk. Barb and Felicity. Soon, they’re beaming down at me, looking extraordinarily friendly and wholesome. They’ve got long, athletic legs and the short blond hairstyles of soccer moms and Nazis. They could palm watermelons—and probably bake a really mean casserole, too.
“Hey there, why aren’tcha eating, Kippy Bushman?” croons Barb.
“Isn’t the food treating you well?” adds Felicity.
“Any diarrhea?”
“Upset tummy?”
“We saw you giving yourself a little facial—”
“And wanted to check in what the matter was. The food goes in your mouth, don’tcha know—”
“You betcha!”
They’re looking down at me batting their blue eyes. One of them plucks my bread roll from Jefferca’s fat fingers.
“Because I’m anorexic all of a sudden,” I blurt. “You know, in addition to whatever else is wrong, I’m very anorexic.”
Barb and Felicity exchange a look. “You can see Dr. Ferguson now,” they murmur approvingly, dragging me along. “Therapy wasn’t any use until you could admit you had problems.”
The crooks of my elbows are trapped between their meaty forearms and biceps, and my feet are barely touching the floor. As I look over my shoulder, I see Jefferca bending her face to the table, licking up the last globs of ketchup from my tray.
Even in the heat of a funny farm, with my body screaming emergency and my brain spinning with ways to bolt, there are still cool corners in my mind where the wind stops and where I think of Davey. And I can’t believe I ruined everything.
Not to make excuses, but I’ve heard that half-orphaned children often have a hard time with romance. Dom once had a book about it in his bedroom called Confused Love Seekers. Apparently boyfriends and stuff make us terrified.
Now that I’m awake, I think of what I’ve lost and tumble between utter remorse and childlike hope, anxiously retracing all my wrong moves and praying for time machines. Part of me imagines clawing through the jungle surrounding this asylum, and crawling all the way to Davey—playing some kind of love song on a guitar outside his window, even though I don’t know how to play guitar—and begging for his company back.
I need to get out of here.
Dr. Ferguson is wearing purple glasses on a chain around his neck and a light-gray lab coat. His face is sad and cavernous, like Abraham Lincoln’s, and his long torso makes the metal desk he’s sitting at look even smaller. When I enter his office, he’s rearranging pens in a mug on the corner of his desk with the thoughtfulness of a florist, as if putting together some kind of bouquet.
“Ah, hello there, Ms. Bushman.” The chain around his neck jingles as he places the glasses on his nose. “What can I do you for?”
Something unexpected stirs in me. Now that I am finally alone with an actual psychiatrist, and not just Dom, I’m tempted to ask about regret. Like, how long do you kick yourself for when you feel like you’ve ruined something? I sit down and rub my palms on my flannel pajama pants.
“The nurses made it seem like you wanted to talk to me,” I say carefully.
“Right! Because you were finally able to admit you had a problem. So why don’t you tell me about your problem, then, hmm?”
Answers swirclass="underline" My best friend was murdered; she died after having her teeth forced down her throat; I found I’m very skilled at investigative research, but no one will allow me to help; I sort of kind of cheated on someone because I wasn’t sure he liked me, and now I’m pretty sure he hates me. I notice an eight-by-ten gilded frame on the doctor’s desk, next to the pen mug. It’s facing away from me so I can’t see who’s in it. I wonder what kind of person is important to this man.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about these, for instance.” He brings out the Ziploc bag containing Ruth’s Friday underpants, and shakes the bag as if for emphasis. “What are these, Kippy?”
The back of my neck prickles. They must have gone through my backpack. “They’re mine,” I blurt. “I bagged them for hygienic purposes.”
“Hm.” He thumbs up the tag through the plastic bag, and sure enough RF is written in black Sharpie. “They seem to have your friend’s initials on them. I’m interested to know more about your determining them a keepsake.”
I can feel my face getting hot.
“Perhaps we can talk about that later.” He smiles and puts the underwear to the side, adjusting his glasses. “You think you’re some kind of elderly journalist, that’s what it says here.” He blinks at the page. “Oh, no, excuse me. Your journalistic ambitions have escalated into detectivelike pursuits, which is”—he looks up—“clearly not healthy.”
“I just admire certain people.”
“Hm,” he says, like this makes zero sense. “Are you and Adele getting along? I thought you two should make fast friends as roommates. She thinks she’s a British police officer, or some sort of military man, depending.” He smiles.
“You mean Sir Albus?”
He looks vaguely disgusted. “We prefer to call her by her given name. It expedites the rehabilitative process, we’ve found.”
“How old is she, anyway?”
He wags a pen at me, smiling mischievously. “This meeting is about you, Kippy. No wiggling. I’ve heard you’re good at diverting people’s attention.” He wrinkles his brow, looking suddenly concerned. “You seem very . . . cogent, for this time of day. Have you been eating properly?”
My stomach growls loudly, as if on cue.
Dr. Ferguson raises his eyebrows. “Would you like me to have Felicity bring you some corned beef?”
I shake my head. “Dr. Ferguson, how long do I have to be here?”
“Based on some of the background we have on your case, that really depends on you.”
“What do you mean? What are people saying about me?” I realize this sounds paranoid, maybe, and vaguely rude. “I mean, I’d like to know what my dad said when he checked me in. What people think of me, or whatever.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Being concerned with other people’s point of view demonstrates an interest in normalcy.” Dr. Ferguson’s brow wrinkles as he squints into my file. “Seems here that Dominic Bushman has been worried for your mental welfare because you haven’t adjusted well to the recent tragedy.” He lays the folder down on his desk. “You know, we heard about that Fried incident all the way out here at Cloudy Meadows. I’m told you two were good friends?”
I nod fast.
“Hm.” Lightning cracks outside. “It’s enough to make anyone crazy, I suppose.” He shakes out the folder. “We also have statements from Sheriff Bob Staake, and a fellow named Ralph Johnston.”
My pulse quickens. “Why did you call him?”