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I’m not the only one who sees that. Standing back, clipboard up as she keeps an eye on our breakfast table, Amy frowns. Grabbing a pen from her pocket, she makes a note on the clipboard. That sucks for Carolina. She probably just lost another point for that and, since she’s a new case, that might mean another day committed.
Poor kid.
Slap.
Everyone looks over at the boy’s table, including me. Vinnie, an excitable white guy with spiky black hair, is standing up, his hand outstretched. Considering Tai is sitting across from Vinnie, syrup glistening on his cheek, half of a pancake stuck to the side of his throat, it doesn’t take a super genius to figure out what happened.
That’s when Whitney lets out a shrill shout.
“Food fight!”
It doesn’t get any further than that. Amy tosses her clipboard onto the dining cart, Louis already rushing forward to settle down the guys. I roll my eyes at their antics. Once you make it to this floor, we’re supposed to be adults. No one here is younger than eighteen, but I get why we’re still considered wayward juveniles. A food fight? Seriously?
That’s a waste of good pancakes.
While Amy and Louis work on separating Vinnie from a furious Tai, I peek over at Carolina. Both tables are too involved in what’s going on over on the boys’ side to notice the way that she’s staring wistfully at the food on her plate. It’s like she wants to eat, only she can’t bring herself to.
I think of Amy’s clipboard and the note she left on Carolina’s chart. Before anyone can catch me, I reach out and snatch one of the largest chunks of pancakes from her plate. Her dark brown eyes light up in relief when she realizes what I’ve done—and why I’ve done it.
She gives me a grateful smile.
I want to smile back. I really do. She’s new, but Carolina seems nice, and it’s not as if I’ve got too many friends already that I don’t have time for any more. If there’s one thing I learned, though, it’s that people come and people go.
I want to smile. I can’t. I don’t. Instead, I shove the whole piece of pancake in my mouth. Oops. Can’t be friendly if I’m too busy chewing on a pancake. Sorry.
Once I finish that piece, I focus on my plate. The butter is a melty, delicious mess. Sure, it drips a little, leaving a shiny, oily streak on my right glove that’s barely discernible among the other scratches and marks. That’s what happens when you wear leather gloves around the clock. I’ve already stained them with everything under the sun. What’s one more streak?
Today’s pancakes are delicious. I put my two away before I feel a little full and decide against a third. Amy nods encouragingly as she gives me the okay to get rid of my garbage.
I’ve given up trying to explain that, unlike Carolina and some of the asylum’s other “guests”, food has never been a problem for me. My appearance, either. That surprises some of my doctors. With all of the problems they insist I have, poor body image isn’t one of them. So many of the kids here hate the way they look.
Not me. I never have.
Well, except for my hands. But that makes sense to the professionals. There’s a reason behind that—and it doesn’t have anything to do with the things I used to see, or the voices I heard when I was a kid.
2
Of us all, Dean is the grumpiest after breakfast. Definitely not a morning person. If the techs let him, he’d easily sleep until noon. Of course, the techs never let him. It would go against our routine and, oh boy, that’s just not going to happen. But Louis does have to resort to threatening Dean’s television privileges to get him up and ready before we eat.
Whether it’s spite or his grumpy nature, Dean retaliates by taking forever to finish his meal. He’s usually the last one to come slinking into the day room, the common area where we all kind of gather together when we’re not in session or confined to our rooms.
Today’s the same as every other day. Routine, right? By the time Dean joins us, most of the chairs are already occupied, especially the ones closest to the screen. I’ve staked out my perch on one of the sofas, leaning into the far side, careful to keep enough space between Kim and me so that we don’t accidentally bump into each other.
The television is tuned to some kiddy channel. It always is on the weekend. It doesn’t matter that most of our group grew out of Spongebob and My Little Pony years ago. This is a juvenile facility, the kids inside ranging from six to twenty-one. I’m used to it, and I barely pay attention to the laughter coming from the screen.
Now that we’re enjoying our free time, I think about this morning. About the scent of graveyard soil in my nose, and the way my bangs lay plastered to my sweaty forehead.
My dreams—when I have them—are weird. That wasn’t the first time I fell asleep and dreamed of returning to a place that I should be staying far away from. I wish I could blame my nighttime meds, but I know it’s not them; my sleeping pills make it so that I can’t dream. Still, it’s super weird. I mean, who wants to spend their nights in an empty cemetery?
Well, except for me, I guess. When I’m sleeping, at least.
But when I’m awake?
I… I don’t know what I would do.
I’m gonna find out soon, though.
Two weeks, three days, and a couple of hours until freedom. That’s all I’m looking forward to. Two weeks, three days, and a couple of hours until Lorraine signs off on my file and I start the next phase of my life. I’m not sure what’s next, but I know one thing: it’s better than sitting around in Black Pine. Lately, I can’t help but think of this place as a hellish kind of limbo. I think I’ve learned everything I’m going to, I haven’t had an episode in years, and if I dream about leaving the asylum after hours, at least I know it’s just a result of my overactive imagination.
