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When she senses me lingering a couple of steps behind her, she shoves her sheet of hair over her shoulder, her eyes friendly as she grins over at me. Nope. I immediately drop my gaze to the tiles. They’re a pristine white speckled with grey, and though I’ve seen them every day for the last two years, they’re suddenly the most fascinating tiles in the world.
I mean, look at that speckle over there. With the shadow and the shape, it reminds me of a dolphin. And that one—
Carolina lets out a soft sigh, then shuffles so that she’s facing the front of the nurse’s station again.
I want to tell her that I can’t help it. That it’s not just her, either.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Besides, if she’s locked up in here with me long enough, she’ll learn. Unable to form personal relationships, abandonment issues, a deep-seated fear that everyone I’ve ever known or loved will eventually leave me… that’s why I’m at Black Pine.
Well, those are some of the reasons why I’m committed here.
The line moves quickly. Our morning nurses are quick and efficient. It’s their job, them and the techs, to make sure that us juveniles have a strict routine and that we stick to it.
Before we’re even up, the medicines have already been doled out into individual dixie cups with our names scribbled on the side in black marker. When it’s my turn, I step up to the nursing station. Already looking past me to the next in line, the nurse hands me the cup that says R. Thorne.
I peek inside, giving the cup a shake. Four pills roll around the bottom, just like every morning. Since there’s no point arguing with the nurse, I toss them back before moving aside and making room for Meg. I chase my meds with one of the apple juice cups left out on a tray. The bitter taste still lingers on my tongue. Ugh. No matter how long I’ve been doing this, I’ve always hated this part.
Too bad there’s nothing I can do about it.
In other facilities, patients are allowed to refuse their meds. Not me, and not most of us at Black Pine. It’s one thing if you voluntarily stick yourself inside, but nearly everyone I’ve met in my six years here has been tossed in by someone else. A mother. A grandfather. Maybe an aunt, uncle, or a second cousin twice removed, I don’t know. Because we come here when we’re minors, it’s usually the adults that make the call.
In my case, the state has control of me. It was either here or prison, and even if I don’t think I’m crazy, I would have to be if I picked prison over the asylum. When I turn twenty-one in two weeks, I’m finally free of this place.
That means I only had to do six years. If I chose prison, the sentence for manslaughter is almost fifteen.
After I shower and change into fresh clothes, I head off to breakfast.
There are two tables in the dining area: one for the girls, another for the guys. I must have taken longer to wash up than usual because I’m the last chick to take her assigned seat. The guys start to trickle in about ten minutes later, filling up their table. When it seems like we’re missing someone, I do a quick headcount. Twelve. Someone’s not here.
It takes me a second before I realize it’s Jason, a tall, light-skinned black boy who always had an optimistic outlook. He’s still not here when the morning techs announce that it’s time to eat. I vaguely wonder what happened to him. I’m the oldest in our ward, so close to twenty-one that I can almost taste it, so he hasn’t moved on before me.
Maybe he’s been released. Maybe he’s in trouble and they’re keeping him confined to his room. I give it another few seconds of thought, then let it slip away.
In-patients change. Techs change. Doctors change. All that matters is that I’m still here.
For two weeks, three days, and a couple of hours longer, I’m stuck inside.
I can not wait to get out.
At least it’s Sunday. Sundays are way easier than most other days. Because it’s the weekend, our schedule is a bit more lenient. Yeah, we still have to get up ass early, but we get an hour for breakfast, then another hour to just kind of unwind before sessions start.
I won’t see any of my doctors today—not until Monday—but there’s Lorraine, my social worker, who I see once a week because the courts say I have to, my mandatory daily check-in, plus group therapy. It’s usually art on Sundays. Actually, it’s art therapy most rainy days. Or whenever the facility staff runs out of ideas for us.
Whatever.
On the plus side, Sunday is pancake day. It’s a treat. Something to look forward to.
Of course, not everyone is happy. In her high-pitched whine, Whitney complains that she’s allergic to chocolate and all of the pancakes are contaminated. She insists that Amy throw the whole tray out, pouting when Amy whips out her clipboard with her notes on it and reminds her that Whitney’s only allergens on file are cat dander and pollen. Because she’s used to Whitney’s complaints—she pulls this same stunt every Sunday—Amy offers Whitney a blueberry pancake instead, but Whitney scowls and jerks her plate closer to her.
Chocolate it is.
I drop two blueberry pancakes on my own plate. After I cover them in butter—no syrup for me, the pancakes are sweet enough—I start to chow down. I’m not big on interacting with the others, for obvious reasons, but I guess you could say I’m a people-watcher. As I eat, I look around the room.
Carolina has the seat across from me. She isn’t eating, I notice. She just rips her pancake up into smaller pieces before pushing the pieces around her plate. If you weren’t watching her, it would seem as if she’d eaten some of it. If you weren’t watching, or if you didn’t know any better.
