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Once we got in the car, I realized I was cold. Cold and wet. “Could you put on the heat?” I said.

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the heater on. It blew out cold air at first and I had to hug my arms to my side to keep from getting even colder. When the car started to warm up, he turned the heater off, unzipped his coat, and tugged on his collar.

All the things I’d passed on my way there—the fast-food places, the video rental store—went by the window in slow motion. How could it take so much longer to drive home than it had to run there? But it must have just seemed slow, because we still got there before my mom did.

I remember exactly, but I don’t tell you. I just sit there and stare at the stain on the carpet until finally you sigh and say that’s all the time we have for today.

Something wakes me up in the middle of the night: the quiet. I sit up, listen for the squeaking of Ruby’s shoes, for the sound of someone crying into a pillow, for the far-off laugh track from the attendants’ TV. But for once it’s absolutely silent in here. The room is filled with a milky white glow; I sit up and see then that it’s snowing. I listen to the snowflakes hitting the window, making a faint scratching sound. Then I lie down, roll over, try to go back to sleep. In the distance, car tires spin, then stop.

I remember a talk show about people who had trouble falling asleep; some expert told them to get up and read or have a glass of milk instead of trying to sleep. Still, I try to sleep. I play the inhale-exhale game. It doesn’t work. Finally I get up, feel around for my slippers, and decide to see if Ruby’s at the desk knitting or something.

Outside each dorm room, near the floor, are a pair of childproof night-lights; I think about telling Ruby that this makes the hallway look like an airport landing strip. She’ll like that. We’ll talk. After that, I’ll be able to sleep.

Down at the end of the hall, Rochelle is at her post, on the lookout for late-night barfers and illegal laxative users. As I pass Becca’s room, something in the dim glow of the night-light catches my eye. It’s Ruby, sitting on the edge of Becca’s bed. I decide to wait for her so I can tell her about the landing strip.

Ruby glances up, gives me a half-worried, half-annoyed look; I shrink back against the wall, then tiptoe back to my room and count the snowflakes until, somehow, it’s morning and Sydney’s making her bed.

The cafeteria is more insane than usual. Maybe it’s the snow, maybe it’s the pancakes; the clatter and the laughing and the talking are worse than ever. I’m in line, waiting for my breakfast, when Debbie cuts in front of me. She’s apparently back for seconds; an empty, syrup-streaked plate is in her hand.

“What’s taking so long?” she yells over the counter to a kitchen worker in a hair net.

The woman smiles nervously; Debbie hands her plate across the counter.

“I need more,” she says.

By the time I get my juice and sit down, Debbie’s almost finished. Tara’s sitting across from her, watching, practically terrified, as Debbie eats one mouthful of pancake after another. Amanda regards Debbie with something like awe.

“Where’s Becca?” Sydney says.

No one answers; Debbie keeps chewing as if she hasn’t heard.

“Deb?” says Sydney. “Where’s Becca?”

“Infirmary.” Debbie sounds bored, matter-of-fact; she doesn’t look at Sydney, she stares at some spot on the far wall.

Tara sets her juice glass down slowly. “What’s the matter with her?”

Debbie doesn’t answer; she chews, scoops up another piece, pops it in her mouth.

“Debbie?” Tara looks like she’s going to cry.

“Debbie!” says Sydney. “What’s wrong?”

She shrugs.

“Is it her heart?” Tara says.

Debbie gets to her feet hurriedly. Her lower lip is quivery. “I don’t know.” She grabs her tray and storms away.

Our table goes quiet. Then there’s a flurry of talking.

“I bet it’s another heart attack,” Tara says.

Sydney drapes an arm around Tara’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It can’t be that bad if Becca’s only in the infirmary. She’d be in the hospital if it were serious.”

Tiffany agrees, reaches in her ever-present purse, and hands Tara a tissue.

Amanda rocks back in her chair and smiles. “Intense,” she says with admiration. “That Becca chick is really intense.”

I feel for the loose strip of metal at the edge of the table, bending it a little. With no warning it breaks off in my hand. Everyone is so busy worrying about Becca, they don’t look at me. It’s an accident, this thing snapping off into my hand, but I slip it in my pocket. Just in case.

The chimes ring; it’s hard to leave.

“Remember that girl in my group I told you about,” I say as soon as you close your door.

“Which one?”you say.

“Becca, the really skinny girl, the anorexic who’s still throwing up?”

You nod.

“She … I …” Hot tears start to well up in my eyes; you become a blur of colors. “Something’s wrong.”

I look out the window, shading my eyes with my hands like the sun’s too bright.

“What is it, Callie?” I steal a glance at you; your hands are pressed together in a praying gesture. “Tell me, please.”

“We don’t know what’s wrong,” I say, suddenly conscious that I’ve used the word we. I can’t go on.

“She might have had another heart attack,” I say finally, the words coming out in stop-start bursts.

You slide the tissue box across the carpet and leave it at my feet. “Can you tell me why you’re so upset?”

“No.” I feel foggy again, lost. “I really can’t.”

You lean back. “Would you feel better if I tell you what I know?”

I nod, vaguely startled and yet not surprised somehow that you would know what’s going on with the girls in my group.

“It wasn’t a heart attack,” you say.

I sit forward and wait for you to tell me more.

“The doctor said she did have an irregular heartbeat last night,”you say. “And some palpitations.”

“She didn’t have a heart attack?” I need to be sure.

“No. They think she was probably just dehydrated.”

“From throwing up?”

“That’s a good possibility.”

I wad up a tissue, throw it in the trash can, and grab another one. “So she’s going to be OK?”

You blow out a long steady stream of air. “I can’t say. She will be, if she begins taking responsibility for her health, for her recovery here. If she doesn’t…” Your voice trails off.

“Debbie was really upset,” I say.

“Debbie?”

“The girl who takes care of her.”

“How could you tell?”

“She was eating pancakes,” I say. “A lot of pancakes.” I picture Debbie at the breakfast table, shoveling food into her mouth. And it dawns on me that seeing her eat like that might have grossed me out before—or annoyed me, or maybe even secretly pleased me. Now it just makes me sad.

“How do you feel?”

“Me? I don’t know.”

You don’t seem completely satisfied with this answer.

“Tara. She was upset too.” I want to talk about Debbie, about Tara, about everybody else. “The new girl,” I say. “She’s weird.”

You cock your head slightly.

“It was like she was happy it happened.”

“Callie,” you say. “What about you? How do you feel about what Becca did?”

Your eyes flick toward the clock, making a quick check. Without really thinking, I pat the outside of my pocket, feeling for the metal strip, telling myself it’s there if I need it.

How do I feel? I feel like cutting. I don’t know why. And I don’t tell you.

Everyone’s already there when I get to Group; the only chairs left are Becca’s old seat and the one next to Debbie. Debbie’s eyes are bloodshot, her eyelids painted with blue eye shadow, and her face is powdery white. She’s obviously been crying. I slide into the chair next to her.

Claire starts off by saying that it looks like Becca’s going to be OK, but that she’ll have to be in the infirmary for a while.

“She didn’t have a heart attack?” says Tara.

“Is she coming back?” says Sydney.

“Can I have her room?” says Tiffany.

Claire takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Becca hasn’t been eating; she was hiding her food, then throwing it away,” she says. She holds her glasses up to the light, rubs out a smudge with a tissue. “She’s also been throwing up what little she did eat.”

“Now,” she says, putting her glasses back on, “what we need to talk about in this group are your feelings about Becca’s actions.”

Tiffany chews on her nails. Debbie chews her gum. I chew my lip. Then the room is quiet—so quiet we can hear the muffled sound of voices from the group next door.

“No volunteers?” Claire says at last. “OK. We’ll go around the circle.”

My heart hammers; we’ve never done this before. What will happen when it’s my turn?

“Tiffany, why don’t you go first?” Claire says.

I breathe out; Tiffany’s four seats away from me.

Tiffany rolls her eyes, adjusts her purse strap. “It pisses me off,” she says. “I don’t know why, it just does.” She turns to Tara.

Tara shrugs. Then she starts crying. She throws her hands up and turns toward Amanda My heart beats double time; two more people and it’ll be my turn.

“I didn’t know her that well,” Amanda says. “I mean I don’t know her that well. It’s not like she’s dead or anything.” She flashes a cocky smile around the circle.

“But how did you feel about it?” Claire says.

“Feel? Oh, I think it raised some issues for me. Fear of abandonment, self-loathing, repressed hostility, that sort of thing. Is that what you’re looking for?”

Claire purses her lips; her gaze travels to Sydney. “Sydney, how about you?”

Sydney’s next to me, but I can hardly hear her, my heart is pounding so hard.

“It bugged me.” Sydney’s voice cracks. She clears her throat. “It bugged me that she’s, you know, doing that to herself. How could she do that to herself?” She starts crying, then turns to me.

I survey the circle. Tara gives me a teary smile from under the brim of her baseball cap. Amanda eyes me suspiciously. I pick at a hangnail.

Then Debbie leans over. “You don’t have to say anything, Callie.” She looks around the group. “Right, everyone?”

“Why can’t you leave people alone?” says Tiffany. “Why can’t you let her decide if she wants to talk? You’re so worried about her. About trying to make sure she doesn’t have to talk. I think you’re the one who doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Debbie ignores her, turns to Claire. “She doesn’t have to talk if she doesn’t want to, does she?”

Claire sighs. “That’s up to Callie,” she says. “Callie, are you ready to talk today?”

“C’mon, S.T.,” Sydney whispers.

I pull at the hangnail. Words take shape in my brain, a few, then a flood; then they’re gone. I shake my head, a little at first, then harder, as I watch my hair swing from side to side.

“OK,” says Claire. “Debbie?”

Debbie’s arm brushes mine as she shifts in her chair.

There’s silence, then the sound of more talking next door, then more silence.

“Scared.”

I have to look out of the corner of my eye to make sure it’s Debbie talking.

“Debbie,” says Claire. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

Debbie wrings her shirt in her hands. I don’t move. “You’re all going to be mad at me.”

“Why do you think that?” says Claire.

Debbie shrugs. Her arm brushes mine again; it’s soft and pillowy. I relax my grip a little.

“Debbie,” Claire says in a gentle voice. “Can you look at me a minute?” We all look at her. “Why would we be angry with you?”

Debbie twists her shirt into a knot. “I should’ve tried to stop her.”

People shift in their seats. Someone across the room coughs. Then nothing.

Tara raises her hand finally. “You couldn’t have known what she was doing.”

“I should have.” Debbie looks around the group. “I know that’s what you all think. I know you all hate me. You hate me for not taking care of Becca. I know it.”

No one says anything.

Debbie plows her fists into her thighs. “It’s not fair I try to do what people want. At home, I do all the things no one else wants to do. I sort the recyclables, I clean the litter box, I do the wash …”

There’s a long silence.

“Why?” says Sydney. Her voice is soft, curious.

Debbie shrugs.

“Why do you do things people don’t even ask you to?”

Debbie shakes her head. “I don’t know.” She sounds exhausted. “I really don’t.” She sighs a long, tired sigh; when she’s finished the room is quiet again. She sinks back into her chair, her arm resting against mine. I don’t move away.

“It’s not your fault.”

The words come out of my mouth. I aim them at my lap. But they’re for Debbie. From me.

I can hear people squirming in their chairs. Then the room is quiet again. I peer out from under my hair and take in the circle of feet. Everyone is wearing sneakers, except Amanda, who has on combat boots.

Debbie turns to look at me. “What did you say?” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “About Becca.”

I keep my eyes on Amanda’s boots; her legs are crossed and she’s swinging her foot up and down.

“It’s mine.”

Amanda stops swinging her foot.

“I …” My voice gives out. I clear my throat. “I saw her …One time I saw her put her brownie in a napkin. And in the bathroom, I knew she was throwing up.”

I lean back in my chair, feeling trembly and very, very tired. The silence is long and loud with things people aren’t saying. I can’t stand to look up and see their faces. To see how angry they are.

Footsteps echo in the hallway. They get louder and louder, then faint, then fainter, then they trail away.

“Hey, S.T.,” Sydney says finally.

I don’t budge.

She nudges me with her elbow. “You want to know something?”

I still can’t look up. But I nod.

“It’s not your fault, either.” She says this like it’s no big deal. Like it’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

Group is over then and people are standing, gathering up their books, heading to their appointments. I keep my head down, grip the edge of my chair, and hold on like my life depends on it. I don’t know what just happened in here, but I can’t leave.