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“No,” Layla says with conviction. “They don’t know.”
“Know what?” I ask, peeling a banana.
“Lily-white,” Layla singsongs under her breath, so I look to Brandy for the explanation.
“A wooly is a big old joint laced with crack,” she says.
“I’m definitely not wild for that,” I tell her.
“No shit,” Brandy says, managing some fake shock.
“We should write our own schedule,” Layla says, pulling the sheet back from Brandy.
“Dead-on,” Brandy says. “Um . . . give me a sec . . . Fondle the Furries!”
“Wait, wait, wait, I got it,” Layla says. “Meet your favorite mascot in the laundry room to get down in kinktown.”
“A furry is—”
“Yeah, I actually know that one, thanks,” I stop Brandy from explaining.
“Roll Your Own,” Layla goes on in a fake radio announcer voice. “Nurse Karen isn’t the only one with skills! Joints with Angela meets before dinner!”
“You guys . . .” I try to shush them, but Layla holds her hand out.
“Okay, okay, I know. Belt the Bitch! Nadine will be grabbing her ankles—”
“GUYS,” I say, and they understand two seconds too late.
Brandy sighs. “She’s standing right behind us, isn’t she?”
Layla and Brandy turn to face Nadine, whose face is white with anger, her lips a flat line.
“Hey, sorry, Nadine.” Layla at least has the grace to look guilty; Brandy is just glancing between the two of them like she’s gauging how much time she needs to get away on her gimp foot.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Layla goes on. “We got carried away.”
Nadine shakes her head. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Layla.”
“How’s that?”
“Sorry for you that the organ donor registry isn’t an equal-opportunity employer,” she says, and Brandy stands up. I think she’s going to run for it, but instead she plants herself firmly in between the two of them.
“Shut your face,” Brandy says, low and quiet.
“What are you going do, crip? Chase me down?” Nadine says, stepping in toward Brandy.
“I can’t catch you,” Brandy says. “But I’ve got a good arm, a decent aim, and this foot pops off pretty quick.”
I can’t help it, I snort into my orange juice, which is a mistake. Nadine looks over Brandy’s shoulder to lock eyes with me.
“And you, Frankenstein,” she says. “I don’t care how good you are on that flute—”
“It’s a clarinet,” I correct her without thinking, and Layla covers a smile.
Nadine is shaking now, and we’ve drawn the attention of some of the ladies behind the lunch counter. I see one hurry off in the direction of the nurses’ desk. Apparently they don’t make enough to break up girl fights.
“I don’t care how good you are on that clarinet,” Nadine tries again. “You’re a whack job and everyone knows it. You should be in a mental ward, not here.”
