Nothing Bad Is Going to Happen (4 page)

“Milkflies?” Jim asks, looking sickened.

“What you call?” Rosa purses her lips. “How do you say . . . colored tiny birds with dairy name?”

“Butterflies!” I say, feeling like I've won a quiz.

She grins, pointing at me with her hot dog. “Yes.” Her eyes narrow and the smile slips into a scowl, directed firmly at Dom. “She is not happy just because she is girl.”

Everyone stares at her. It's like I'm the only one who gets what she means, and personally I think she's right. People might talk about how Davey's a hermit, but nobody questions his right to be a little messed up. He's, like, earned his right to PTSD, or something. Whereas I'm supposed to bounce back and be all sugar and spice so people can stop feeling guilty about me. And how is that even possible when I was never sugar and spice to begin with?

Dom forces a smile. “Rosa, come on, what did we talk about?”

She frowns. “Yes, fine. I am not the mama.” She gnaws sadly on her hot dog.

I want to reassure her, but I don't know what to say.
Dom is always getting on her case for being overinvolved with me, whatever that means. It's pretty hypocritical, in my opinion, when you consider that Dom's the most overinvolved dad in the whole world.

“Tell us about your day, Kippy. Did anything happen at school?” Dr. Ferguson asks, breaking the silence.

I think of Dollar Dan grabbing my ass. “No,” I mumble, gnawing on my rubbery veggie burger. “People were mostly preoccupied with Christmas break and the Frostbite Challenge, and stuff.”

“To winter break,” Dr. Ferguson says, raising his beer.

Everybody clinks and drinks. Toasting isn't superfun for me, since I'm the only one without beer (Dom makes me drink milk with dinner; he says it's good for my bones, even though that's been proven false by science websites), but everyone's too caught up in their own celebration to notice how little I want to join in.

“Where's Davey tonight, Kippy?” Jim asks, exhaling after a long draw on his Miller High Life.

“He's not feeling well,” I mumble.

“Seems like he doesn't feel well an awful lot,” Jim says, raising an eyebrow at Dr. Ferguson, who ignores him. Dom ignores him, too, but that's because he dislikes me dating Davey more than anyone. Dr. Ferguson's the only one who even gives Davey a chance—well, him and Rosa.
Rosa acts very sneaky around Davey, mumbling and narrowing her eyes, sort of dancing back and forth. She can be very hyperactive around people she likes.

Rosa thumps the table. “More toasts,” she says.

“Well, okay, how about to the Cloudy Meadows lawsuit,” Dom says proudly. “If all goes well, we should be going public with it by New Year's.” He beams at me. Dom, Miss Rosa, Jim Steele, and Dr. Ferguson have all teamed up to go after the institution that, as Dom puts it, “Almost ate my baby alive.” They've decided that if they can prove unethical handling of one case (mine), they can potentially set free a bunch of other girls who were never meant to be there in the first place. Dr. Ferguson doesn't work there anymore out of principle. But the administrators at Cloudy Meadows don't know that—they think he was simply old enough to retire, which he was. He earned his pension a while ago. So he still has the friendly ear of the powers that be, and hears a lot of interesting things when they go out for beers or bowling or whatever. For instance, someone on the board recently took Dr. Ferguson to play darts and let it slip that “a hundred more bodies in the looney bin” would buy him and his wife a nice summer cabin. Ferguson also still has access to files of patients he saw there—who knows why. It's probably not legal that he took them, but the fact that he did might help
other girls get out. The files are stored away in his house somewhere. Jim's already started going through them, compiling evidence. He found out that my friend Albus—aka Adele Botkins—got brought into Cloudy Meadows when she was only eleven because her stepmother didn't like the way she sang to herself and occasionally climbed the furniture to make “forts.” That tidbit made me cry. “You've got to get her out,” I said to Dr. Ferguson, “her especially, more than anybody else—she's just a kid.” The craziest part is that Cloudy Meadows is such a messed up and disorganized institution that nobody even seems to notice that the files are missing.

I glance at Dom, who's still grinning at me like an idiot, waiting for me to say how great it is, this thing he's doing—how great it is for
me
, specifically. Dom seems to think that if he works hard enough to shut down Cloudy Meadows, it will absolve him of all guilt, and he and I won't have to talk anymore about the fact that he stuck me there unfairly.

“Yeah,” I finally say. “Fantastic.”

Dr. Ferguson flashes me a sheepish, knowing smile. He's aware of my feelings toward Dom on this subject. I actually think a big part of the reason I started trusting Dr. Ferguson again is because he's so frank about stuff. I mean, at least Dr. Ferguson said sorry, and acknowledged
that he messed up by admitting me to Cloudy Meadows in the first place. And it wasn't even really his fault—it was Dom's. And those nurses. They were the ones putting drugs in the food. And Ralph was the one who lied so Dr. Ferguson wouldn't know that the only reason I got sent there was because of one corrupt cop and an impressionable father.

“That psych ward needed to be looked at,” Dom says, shaking his head like the world is on his shoulders. “Yessirree bob.”

“It's a shit hole,” Jim Steele says with his mouth full, glancing warily at Dr. Ferguson. “No offense, Will.”

Dr. Ferguson shrugs. “I wouldn't be here if I didn't agree.”

“Well, we're going to protect you when we go public with all of this, I'll tell you that much,” Dom says.

“A lot'll hinge on your testimony, Kippy,” Jim chimes in, mouth still chomping his meat.

“Don't pressure her,” Dom says gently.

Dr. Ferguson smiles. “Kippy and I are working hard on that. Pretty soon she'll be able to handle it.”

Yeah
, I think,
maybe I'll be able to talk about it without fainting.
“It's fine,” I snap. “I'm not a China doll.”

“We free the girls?” Rosa grumbles. She raises her fork and zigzags it through the air. “Set them loose!”

Dr. Ferguson nods. “As for the few who do need to be there, they'll be set up with the right facilities. Better facilities.”

“But the real reason we got together tonight . . .” Dom beams at me again. “The real reason . . .”

It's like he's waiting for me to finish the sentence.

I stare at him. “Because I got my cast off?”

Dr. Ferguson clears his throat and Rosa pats her greasy lips with a napkin. They're all doing these weird Mona Lisa smiles. For a second I'm afraid they're going to tell me that I'm going back to Cloudy Meadows—but no, they would never do that.

“Do you wanna tell her, Jim?” Dom asks.

Jim shakes his head, but even he looks excited. “Go ahead, old man. It was your idea.”

Dom's smile stretches to the point where I can hardly take it. Everyone's looking at me expectantly. It's too much attention. I feel hot and itchy.

“What?” I shout.

“Well,” Dom says, eyes sparkling. “If everything goes the way we think it will—that is, if Cloudy Meadows gets shut down—we're gonna offer classes to help some of the longer-term patients ease back into civilian life.” He nods proudly. “We're calling the program Team Kippy.”

I look away. First of all, I'd prefer they didn't name
anything after me—people in town talk enough as it is. Second, I hate when Dom paints all this like I should be thanking him.

“Maybe Davey could use some of those services,” Dr. Ferguson says gently, and my stomach lurches. Oof. I was
just
thinking about how Dr. Ferguson was one of the only people on my side when it comes to Davey. What's he going to do next? Tell the whole table that I'm doing it tonight?

“Davey's fine,” I reply firmly, giving him a look. The truth is that ever since Ruth died, Davey's parents have been off on these grief retreats, leaving him alone in the house where he just sits around playing video games. People around town either have major crushes on him (cases in point: Mildred and McKetta) or else they stigmatize him and make it like he's creepy because he never leaves his house—which isn't even true. He comes over here all the time.

“I've been telling her, Will, believe me,” Dom says, raising his eyebrows. “I say, ‘That boyfriend of yours has got a screw loose and by God it's the last thing you need—'”

“The only reason you think any of that is because he's older than me.”

It's quiet except for Rosa slurping on her beer. “I like Davey,” she says.

“He should get a job,” Dom grumbles.

“What is he supposed to do?” I ask, frustrated. “Work at the local Buck Fleet? That would be great, wouldn't it? He could make minimum wage and hang out with killers all day. He's only been home from Afghanistan for, like, two months. He can't just jump into a job.”

Dom puffs air out of his nose, all judgmentally. “He didn't just
come home
, Kippy. The army
kicked him out
.”

“
Special Ops
kicked him out, a bunch of high-profile assholes who wouldn't let him come back for his own sister's funeral. And they didn't really leave him any choice, did they? So what if he shot off his finger! It was the only way to get home and say ‘Bye' to Ruth before she decomposed.”

Everybody's staring at me again.

“Language,” Dom says finally.

“Which part?”

“When you said ‘A-holes.'”

“Anyway, his biggest problem in the beginning was his drinking, and he's been sober since I got out of the hospital,” I mumble, playing with my food. “He's fine.”

“To fine!” Miss Rosa says eagerly. Everyone around the table tentatively raises their glasses, anticipating another outburst from me, I guess. My leg is starting to hurt.

“You all right, Kippy?” Dr. Ferguson asks.

I nod shakily, trying to picture the beach and dig my toes in imaginary sand like we practiced. I concentrate on the dull ache in my once-fractured pelvis. I've got pins and needles in my femur, but Dr. Clegg says those should go away—and anyway it shouldn't matter for tonight, since most of the things I'm planning to do sex-wise involve lying down.

“To free girls,” I proclaim, spilling some of my milk as I lift my glass skyward, and everyone cheers.

After Dom and Rosa and Jim and Dr. Ferguson are all drunk enough for me to sneak out quietly, I limp upstairs to change into my outfit, and to mentally prepare for tonight's adventure. (In other words, I review the flash cards a couple of times.) I throw a long trench coat on over my negligee and belt it tight, peering down the stairs to make sure the coast is clear. Libby's driving me to Davey's, and I want to get outside before Dom grills me about my “sleepover with girls—yes, Dom, lots and lots of girls, all girls.” He's basically a human lie detector.

I take a step toward the door and the floor creaks beneath my weight. The drunken laughter in the kitchen stops.

“Dammit,” I whisper.

“Wait! We want hugs!” Rosa yells.

“Oh no.” I grapple with the doorknob, but it's too late.

“How come your calves are bare?” Jim Steele asks, crossing the foyer. “And what's with the box? Are those donuts?”

“You'll catch your death, Kippy!” Dom exclaims, filing in behind him, wide-eyed at the sight of my bare legs.

Dr. Ferguson shuffles through the doorway, his face red from beer. He sees the look on my face and glances warily at Dom. “Er, why don't we all go sit down? I brought cupcakes.”

“At least let me get you some winter leggings,” Dom says, crossing the room to pluck at my flimsy coat. “And what's with this . . . rain jacket thing? What are you, Mary Tyler Moore in autumn? It's below zero outside.”

“No!” I bark, clutching it to my neck, but the coat isn't buttoned, just belted, and before I can catch it, it's fallen open from all Dom's prodding.

Rosa's eyes widen. Dr. Ferguson clears his throat uncomfortably, and Jim Steele laughs out loud. I'm standing there cold and exposed, wearing Mom's old cream negligee in front of everyone.

“Kippy Bushman,” Dom sputters, in this sad, old voice. “What are you up to?” Something clicks and his eyes turn mean. “You're going to Davey's, aren't you?” He's literally frothing at the mouth now, wiping spit from
his trembling lip. “I know what—I know what you're up to!” I can't even look at him.

“I'm sixteen,” I say quietly. It's all I can think to say. Libby's tires crunch on the snowy driveway. She honks her horn.

His lip curls. “You little—”

“Dommy,” Rosa says, waving him over. But he storms past her through the kitchen. I hear the garage door open, and watch through the window as he weaves the Subaru perilously around Libby's trunk.

“You go, Kippy,” Dr. Ferguson says. “We'll talk to him when he gets back. He'll cool off.”

“Ho, boy.” Jim Steele grunts and heads back into the kitchen. Presumably to drink more.

Miss Rosa waddles over and gives me a hug. “Have fun at sleepover,” she says. I can't tell if she caught what just happened or not.

I hug her back and hold on for a while, ignoring Libby's honking.

When I climb into Libby's front seat she grabs the donuts from me and tosses them in back.

“Hey,” I yell. “Careful. There's jelly ones in there.”

“Gross. Hey, what the heck was up with your dad just now, anyway? Drunk driving or something?”

“He's crazy.” It doesn't seem nice to say, especially given
how much I hate being called that myself. But it's the first thing that springs to mind. “We fight all the time now.”