Day Ten

Day Ten

It's phone day.

Fran finds us in the activity room and hands Holly, Brandy, and Billy their phones from the plastic tub. Brandy cradles hers like a baby, rubs it against her cheek.

Holly punches in some numbers and waits, her forehead creased in concentration. Then she puts her phone back down on the table. I guess whoever she tried to text didn't answer.

Billy's fingers are flying as he texts.

"I've missed you, my little friend," Brandy says. She pets her hot-pink phone tenderly.

"Congratulations," Fran says. "You've made it to Day Ten and you have your phones back. The rule is one hour a day, so use it wisely, then we'll collect them again. No filming of any kind, in any place in the compound, no photos of other residents without their consent. This is also your time to call your parents or caregivers if you'd like. But remember, one hour. Don't screw it up, or you lose phone privileges."

She tucks the plastic tub under her hip.

"Bella, since you don't have a phone, would you like to use this time on the house phone to call your parents? We've notified them that this is the hour you'll call if you feel up to it."

I nod. I follow her out of the activity room and down the hall. She opens a door. Inside there's a table with a phone andchair.

"I have to dial for you, okay?" Fran says. She takes a little slip of paper out of her jeans pocket and dials the number. She hands me the phone and then whispers, "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. This one is to your mom, then I'll come back in and dial your dad."

She leaves.

My mom picks right up.

"Bella," she says. I can tell she's been crying even before this call. Her voice is shaky and soft. "Oh, my baby, I miss you."

"I miss you too," I answer. It's true; I do. I can feel my lips shaking. I press the receiver closer against my face.

"How is it? Is it okay? I don't really know much about it, it was recommended by a friend of Mom's, you remember June at the farm? She has a friend who works there and—"

I cut her off. "It's fine, Mom. It's fine."

I sit down in the chair. On the wall, in very small writing, so small I have to lean closer to see it, someone has written kill me now. Soft, with a pencil.

There's a silence. "Are you mad at me? Bella, I did what I thought was best. You hurt yourself so badly. Can you understand why I had to do it?"

I think about that letter I wrote to her.

"I am," I say. "I am mad at you. Maybe not for sending me here, exactly, although I was when I first got here. But mad about other stuff. I don't…I don't know that I want say it right now. We only have a little more time and then I talk to Dad."

"Bella…" She hesitates.

Her voice sounds…scared, almost.

"What?" I say. "What is it? Is he okay?"

"He's not going to be able to talk to you today. He had a meeting come up, and—"

My stomach drops.

Of course.

"Oh," I answer.

"He's very sorry. He'll be at parents day on the fifteenth. That's all set. He promised. I don't know why he can't get out of this meeting, either. It's not like this call hasn't been scheduled since Day One, but you know your—"

I close my eyes, listening to her voice, which sounds far away to me now. He couldn't even reschedule a meeting for a, what, seven-minute phone call?

My mother is still complaining.

"Mom," I say sharply, opening my eyes. "Stop, please stop. Just stop. I can't…I can't take it. Please just stop."

"Bella? Bella, are you all right?"

kill me now, says the wall.

I get it. I do.

I miss her so much. I miss him. And I want nothing more than to ask her, in what little time I have left, how Ricci is, but I can't quell this burning inside me.

"Mom," I say, my voice shaking. "I don't want to see you on parents day. I don't want to see Dad. I don't want to listen to the both of you complain about each other any more in front of me. I don't want to sit at a table at parents day and not have him show up and if he does, to listen to you be mad at each other when I am literally in a drug rehab because I almost died. I am so sorry I was even born right now, you have no idea. So don't come. Please. I'm begging you."

"Bella, baby, n—"

I hang up the phone.

I open the desk drawers, looking for something, anything. I feel around. My fingers close on a pencil shoved far at the back of one.

already dead, I write, even smaller, under kill me now.

The door pops open. I drop the pencil, kick it under the desk. Wipe my face.

Fran says, "You need a tissue?"

She holds out a box.

"No," I say. "I do not.

Bite my lip.

"You ready for Dad now?" she asks gently.

I stand up.

"He's in a meeting. Maybe you can call and leave a message and he'll get back to you. If he can fit you in."

"Oh, Bella," Fran says. She touches my shoulder. I brush her hand off, squeeze past her and her stupid tissue box and walk as quickly as I can down the hall, turn the corner, and run into our bathroom.

I lean against the wall, hot and cold at the same time. Bang the back of my head a little against the tiles to try and clear it.

The first time we talk, and all she did was complain about him. And ask if I was mad at her. And he could not even be bothered to make time for me.

God, there's nothing in here to break. Even the mirrors are a weird texture; not glass.

I take deep breaths. Wren, sparrow, bullshit, bullshit.

In between my breaths, I hear gulping sounds.

"Hello," I say. "Anybody here?"

I kick off the wall and walk down the stalls and shower cubes. In the last shower cube, I lean down, peeking under the curtain. A body, all in black, curled up, making sounds.

I yank the curtain open. Holly's head whips up toward me.

But her hand is moving, even as she's looking directly at my face, her eyes wide and frantic.

She's scrubbing the underside of her forearm with a toothbrush. Scrubbing it raw.

"Holly, stop." I try to grab the toothbrush, but she angles away.

Scrubbing, scrubbing, pinpricks of blood starting to appear. She always dresses and undresses and showers before or after us, in here, alone. Never with us. With her sleeve pushed up, I can see them.

Pinkish scars along the soft flesh of her arms. Some old, some that look almost new.

"Holly, no." I get on my knees. "Give it to me. Please. Let's talk. Don't."

She shakes her head. "Get out. No one was there. I called. I thought they'd be there. I know they were mad. Disappointed in me. But I thought—"

"The fuck are you two doing?"

Holly's eyes dart over my shoulder. I look back. It's Gideon.

Help, I mouth at her.

"Jesus H. Christ on a crutch," Gideon mutters. She reaches down and in one quick move rips the toothbrush from Holly's hand and throws it to the side. But Holly's fingers pick up the slack; she digs into her arms with her fingernails. I grab them, hold them tightly in my hands. I don't know what to do.

"I can't…There's so much inside me. I need relief. I was going to steal a fork from the dining hall, but they count those." Holly's eyes are filmy. Her teeth are chattering.

"Get someone," I say to Gideon. "We should get someone."

"No," she says. "No snitching. Remember? They'll send her to Seg." She narrows her eyes at Holly. "Or do you want to go to Seg?"

Holly shakes her head violently. "I can't be alone. I don't like to be alone. I can't…do that. I just…Let me do this. It'll go away. Then I'll feel better."

Gideon pushes me out of the way and hauls Holly up by her armpits, props her against the wall of the shower.

"We have to calm her down," she tells me.

"I'm going to help you," she tells Holly. "Just trust me."

"Go," she says to me. "Run and get her some clothes, a towel. And don't tell anyone what's happening."

Even though I'm afraid of what Gideon means by "helping" Holly, I do what she says, walking as quickly as I can out of the bathroom and to our room. I tear through Holly's stuff in her dresser, grab clothes and a towel, and speed-walk back, my heart racing.

Gideon has turned the shower on full blast. Sprays of ice-cold water hit my face.

But Holly is unfazed by the temperature. In fact, she looks calmer. Comforted, even as she's being soaked to the bone.

"Better," she says.

"Good," Gideon answers.

"I can't live inside myself," Holly whispers.

"I know," Gideon says.

"Things have happened to me. When I was little. They said it was my fault."

"I get it," Gideon says. "Someone mess with you?"

Holly nods.

I feel a little sick.

Holly's eyes swivel to me. "Those dogs. At my house. They aren't mine. It's not my fault, how the dogs are. He has stuff he needs to hide. People after him."

I wish she'd stop talking, even though that's a cruel thing to wish.

"He isn't even my stepdad," she goes on. "I just said that. I don't know where my parents are. I never have. This is a foster. This place, here, is court-ordered. I know they aren't going to take me back when my time is up. Everyone gets rid of me sooner or later."

"Some people should not be allowed around children," Gideon says grimly.

Holly's breath has slowed. Her black hair is a curtain over her eyes.

"I hit a teacher," she says. "I don't even remember it. But that's why I'm here."

I shudder, thinking of when I hit Ms. Green's desk.

"I think I'm done now," Holly says to Gideon.

"Okay," Gideon says. She reaches past Holly and turns off the shower. She takes the clothes and towel from my hands. "Turn around," she says to me. "Watch the door."

I do what she says, listening to the slide of the shower curtain, the wet smack of Holly's clothes dropping to the shower floor, Gideon murmuring to her through the curtain.

I'm still watching the door when I feel Gideon's breath on my neck, feel her words curl inside my ear.

"You did good, kid," she breathes. "But remember, don't tell. "

I nod.