Page 5

Finally, the toothpick catches the speck and wedges it unceremoniously free. A brownie crumb from the Trader Joe’s snack platter. Seriously? I drop the toothpick in the trash and turn on the water, scalding, to wash my hands. Outside the bathroom, the music slides from whiny straight-girl pop to lesbian eighties throwback, and Alyssa looks longingly at the door. She’s got her hair fluffed up and her best butch-bait outfit on, a picture-perfect femme-in-waiting with her crop top and pink corduroy overalls.

“Jason won’t, like, actually call the police,” Alyssa says distantly. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” I lie.

“I mean—if he calls, he’ll be the one who gets in trouble, he brought the weed—”

“You don’t have to be in here with me,” I say, sharp enough that I almost sound like my mother.

Alyssa takes a moment to let my comment roll off her, like she always does, and slides down from the tub to test the water temperature in the sink. “Jesus,” she says, and turns it down. “You’re going to burn yourself.”

The way she’s looking at me makes my skin crawl. It’s the borderline pity she reserves for her sister’s own meltdowns, and also her dad when he’s being particularly pathetic. Whatever. I turn off the water and flick my hands dry.

“What happened during the visit?” she asks.

She doesn’t have to do this. “Nothing.”

“Morgan.”

“It was fine.”

Except it’s never fine. Visits to USP East Early make me crack. They put Alyssa and my school and my therapist—back when I had one—on high alert, waiting for the inevitable show of whatever mental illness they think I have at any given time. Something impulsive. Something violent. Like Dad.

“Here,” Alyssa says, pulling a paper cup from the fancy dispenser by the sink and filling it with lukewarm water. “Drink this.”

I do as I’m told and crumple the cup into a little ball. I’m timing my breathing and I can’t focus my vision and I think I’m rocking back and forth on my feet, trying to calm down. It’s not working.

Look. Of the fifty-one victims, Dad’s last was the only body the investigators couldn’t identify. No DNA match, no identifying evidence, no missing persons report with her face. Her name in every document is Jane Doe, which is fitting—I don’t remember much about that day, but I do remember that she had big, beautiful doe eyes. Dad hadn’t gotten the chance to take them out yet.

I breathe out, hard. It’s not usually like this. It’s not usually this bad. Usually I can manage, I was managing, I thought for a second that maybe I’d actually be able to keep it together and get my trust in a year and get out for good. But Mom had to drag me back to East Early and mess me up all over again. Like she always does. God, if Mom isn’t basking in the attention she gets from trauma dumping about Dad’s crimes and my issues, she shrivels up into nothing.

“Okay,” Alyssa says, “we should head out.” She grabs her phone to check the time. “It’s not too late; we can do the Metro if you want. I know you like the Metro.”

I snap on instinct. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, bullshit—”

The bathroom door slams open.

It’s Jenna St. Clair and her future-Republican-senator boyfriend, Jason. Her hands are up his shirt and they’ve both got that glazed-over crossfaded look. The boyfriend stumbles halfway through the door and then sees us.

“Oh,” he says, suddenly far more sober than he was two seconds ago. “Shit.”

But Jenna’s eyes get all wide with a mix of fear and excitement. “Oh my god, Alyssa, again?”

Alyssa and I only hooked up once, but it’s all people think about when we’re in the same room. I might be locked in the closet, but Alyssa has been an out and proud trans girl for years now, and everybody acts like they’ve never heard of a trans lesbian before. Wait, they’ll say, does that make it gay or straight, like it’s any of their business.

The music roars in. I can smell the hard liquor and chemical perfume and hair gel. I was panicking and now there’s other people in here and they’re looking at me and they’re too close and—

I’m screaming before I even know what I’m doing.

“Get the fuck out!” My voice shatters. Jenna flinches and her boyfriend steps in front of her and Alyssa grabs me by the shoulders, pushes me back against the sink. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Learn to fucking knock!”

“Okay,” Alyssa says, “okay, we’re leaving.”

Jenna St. Clair whimpers. “I thought—”

I don’t give a shit what she thought. They have to get out, get away from me NOW. I try to say that but the words don’t come out. It’s a guttural, sick-sounding wheeze.