The Dream Where the Losers Go (5 page)

“No need for the cafeteria,” Ms. Renfrew said swiftly. “We’ve found space for you to work here. One of the offices is empty.”

Skey ditched the polite act. Crossing her arms, she snapped, “Why can’t I get one of my friends to help me?”

Ms. Renfrew cleared her throat. “Tammy has tutored quite a few students,” she said coolly. “She has experience. And this
is
one of the conditions of your returning to Wellright Collegiate while you’re living in the unit. You agreed to work with a tutor.”

“I never heard about it,” Skey muttered, though a faint bell was beginning to ring in her head. Tutoring—maybe the principal
had
mentioned something about tutoring. He just hadn’t mentioned three lunch hours a week with Tammy Nanji.

“So,” said Ms. Renfrew, switching to an encouraging hearty tone. “How about you two girls chat in the lobby, get to know each other, and arrange a time for tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure.” Turning on her heel, Skey headed for the door.

“Skey,” snapped a voice behind her. “Don’t forget your books.”

Reluctantly, Skey turned to see Ms. Renfrew pointing a grim finger at the large stack of books on her desk. With a grimace, Skey shuffled to the desk and hoisted the heavy load into her arms. She was never,
never
going to look at any of these.

Tammy followed her into the lobby. “Do you want to sit down?” she asked politely.

Skey glared at her. The girl was so smug. She probably had an alphabetized list of life goals, a whole Dewey decimal system of thoughts. Now she wanted to invade and organize Skey’s brain. Skey was sick and tired of people running her life. “No,” she snapped.

Tammy’s dark eyes widened. Ignoring her, Skey stared grimly through the lobby’s open doors.

“Well, what time do you want to meet tomorrow?” asked Tammy.

“I don’t care,” said Skey.

“Twelve o’clock?” suggested Tammy.

“Fine,” said Skey. Without another glance at Tammy, she walked out of the lobby, into the coolness of the large echoing hallway and the nearest girls’ washroom. As she entered, someone came out of a cubicle and left without washing her hands. Skey waited until the creature of filth was gone, then dumped her books on the counter. Grimly she leaned over the sink, bracing her palms against the mirror and waited. Her stomach was on a major rampage; she could feel it churning, throwing itself around like a mad dog. With a sudden surge, it sent a mass of acid gushing into her mouth. It wasn’t too bad—she hadn’t eaten lunch yet—but she gagged for a while, the heaves gripping her with a satisfying totality, a gargantuan force she couldn’t fight, couldn’t argue with, couldn’t think away.

Finally, it was over. Relieved, Skey spit the last of the acid from her mouth and rinsed the sink. She had some breath fresheners in her locker—they would clear the stench. Darting a glance at the mirror, she let out a groan. Tears had plastered her makeup. Her face looked like your basic, all-around smudge. She was going to have to wash it, then skulk through the halls to the makeup kit in her locker, hoping against hope that no one would notice.

Leaning over the sink, she splashed water carefully onto her face. The water felt good, cool liquid sympathy. With measured handfuls, Skey washed away the noon hour session with Beluga Nose and Dewey Decimal Brain. Then she studied herself in the mirror.

Looks to kill: That was what her father said about her, that was why her mother hated her. Long dark hair, purple-blue eyes, the best kissing mouth in the universe and a body guys mentally undressed and kept chained to their beds. Most girls wanted to be her. The rest wanted to put a noose around her neck and swing her from the nearest tree. Skey knew what everyone did to her in their minds—it leaked out through every word, every action, every spasmodic muscle twitch. When she walked into a classroom, everyone changed, even the teachers. She was a magnet, attracting the dreams of everyone around her. A dream hit list. Most of those dreams were ugly. Real ugly. And the rest were stupid. But she had to live them all out. No one gave her a day off.

Standing in front of the mirror, Skey disappeared into the dark tunnel where nothing could be seen. Immediately, stone pressed against her hand, and her fingers slid into a carved hollow someone had left for her to find. Who had it been? What did the carving mean?

“You all right?” asked a voice.

Abruptly, the washroom reappeared—lights too bright, two skinny minor niners staring at her. Hand outstretched, Skey’s fingertips were moving slightly on the mirror. She jerked them off the glass.

“Yeah sure,” she snapped, brushing past the two girls.

“Hey, are those your books on the counter?” asked one of them.

“No,” said Skey and made off down the hall.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

S
HE FOUND A STAIRWELL
landing with a window and stood staring out. Windows had always been voices calling to her. Lately she had gotten better at hearing them. Forehead pressed to the cold glass, Skey let her eyes carry her from the white glow of a pigeon’s wing to the slate gray of clouds. She slid through the colors of sky, not thinking, not thinking, while a soothing grayness filled her mind and body, slowing things down and smoothing them out. Then she pulled her face back from the window, wiped away the film of moisture she’d left on the glass, and let thought come back.

The first thing she had to do was retrieve that goddamn stack of books. Tomorrow she would have to meet with Tammy, and at least pretend to be interested in what she said. And somehow she was going to have to make sure the walls didn’t start bleeding again. If they caught her rocking and moaning too often, she would be tossed inside for good. She had been entertaining her emotions too much lately. That was what her mother called it. “You’re entertaining your emotions,” she would snap whenever Skey showed the least sign of getting upset. That was probably how she thought of Skey’s time on
the inside. “My daughter is having an emotional fling,” Skey imagined her mother telling her friends.

A week after Skey’s arms had been stitched up and her body locked up, her mother had come to visit. She had tapped Skey’s right forearm with a finger and said, “This is what
It
gets you.” Skey had known immediately what
It
meant. No need to elaborate; she had been hearing about
It
for as long as she could remember. She never used to agree with her mother on the
It
subject, but now she was beginning to wonder. Her mother had no scars on her arms. Her mother wasn’t locked up, with wires crisscrossing her bedroom window. Her mother wasn’t a loser.

Ditching the gray window, Skey returned to the girls’ washroom to retrieve the Eiffel Tower of textbooks.

“I
CAN’T, JIGGER
,” she said.

“Why not?” he murmured.

No one knew, no one knew how her skin sang when he touched her. “You know why not,” she whispered.

“What happened to your pills?” he asked, slightly impatient.

“How am I supposed to get birth control in there?” she asked, ducking her head. “No one’s having sex in a lockup.”

They continued to wrestle gently in the backseat of his car.

“I’ll get you some,” he whispered.

“They do room searches,” she said. “If they found pills, they might not let me go to Wellright.”

With a moan, Jigger buried his face in her neck, and they wrapped themselves together. They were parked in an alley near the lockup. She was due back in twenty minutes.

“You gotta let me,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“If I get pregnant while I’m in there, then what?” How she wanted the soft slide of his hands. She had been so careful with pills before, had never forgotten to take them. Just this once, maybe she would be safe. Just once...

Entertaining your emotions.
Abruptly an image of her mother’s clear, unscarred forearms appeared in Skey’s mind. No emotions there.

Jigger started fumbling with her jeans.

“No, Jigger,” she protested.

“Yes.” He didn’t look at her, started to unzip.

“No!” she said again, pushing against his chest.

He pressed her against the seat.

“Jigger,” she cried. “Stop. Please stop.”

“Skey,” he whispered, still pressing close. “We didn’t hurt you that much, did we? We were careful, we didn’t want to scare you.” Blue eyes pleading, Jigger traced a finger across her mouth. “We didn’t hurt you, did we?” he repeated. “You just have to get used to it, that’s all. I love you, Skey, I love...”

Without warning, Skey’s brain took a crazy tilt, swinging deep and round. Her arms came up and she shoved at the weight pressing down on her, shoved until it gave and she could get at the car door, open it and scramble out into the cold November wind. Backing away, she was backing away from the crazy things going through her head, the crazy way that car and the boy in it made her feel.

“Skey.” Scrambling out after her, Jigger grabbed Skey’s wrist. As his arms closed around her, she scratched and clawed, screaming into the hand that covered her mouth. Suddenly a glare of light lit up all around her. Closing her eyes, Skey stopped struggling and slipped into the tunnel of light in her mind, where the very air throbbed with fear.
Sobs broke out of her and she reached for the nearest wall, fumbling for a carving.
Calm down
, she thought, stroking the cold stone.
Calm down, calm down. Quiet.

The tunnel of light faded. Opening her eyes, Skey found Jigger still holding her. She was standing, turned away from him, one hand outstretched and reaching toward nothing. In the lengthening silence, they breathed heavily.

“What’s with you?” asked Jigger. “You always wanted to before.”

“I can’t get pregnant,” she mumbled, not looking at him.

“My sister will get a prescription,” Jigger said quietly. “She isn’t seeing anyone. You can use hers. Just keep it in your locker and take it at school.”

Some of the fear left Skey. She let Jigger pull her in against the warmth of his body.

“Will you take it if I get it for you?” he asked softly, nuzzling her neck. A deep sigh sifted through Skey. She turned to him, and they began kissing, talking with their lips.

“I just can’t get pregnant,” she murmured.

“It’s 4:25,” he said. “I have to get you back to the iron gate.”

“The gate to Hell,” she said.

“Open wide,” he teased.

O
NE BLOCK FROM
the gate, he let her out of the car and put a squeal on the tires as he drove off. Raising a hand to wave, Skey noticed an ache in her wrist. As she flexed it, she winced. Jigger must have twisted her arm when he grabbed it. Already the skin was beginning to discolor. And her mouth, she realized, touching it. Where Jigger had
covered it to silence her screaming—the skin was chafed. She touched it again, longer this time. Was her face going to bruise too?

T
HE UNIT WAS
changing. Schoolbooks deposited on her bed, Skey stood in her doorway, surveying the large room in front of her. Girls were scattered everywhere, eating an after-school snack in the kitchen or playing a game of pool. The largest group had gathered in a tight clump in front of the TV, with Viv in the middle. Only here three weeks, Skey realized, and already the new girl was taking charge.

There had been tough girls in the unit before, but over the summer they had gone AWOL. Their beds had been held for twenty-one days, and then each runner had been discharged. That had left the rest of the girls, the ones who had acted tough on the outside but collapsed into a whimper once they were admitted. Which meant that September and the first half of October had been peaceful—peaceful, that is, for a bunch of losers in a lockup.

But now Viv was here, and it was difficult for Skey to track the shifting hierarchy in the group when she was away all day. Things changed while she was gone; girls paired off differently, arranged in new formations. Battle formations—girls against staff, girls against each other. This week, every girl in the unit was realigning around Viv, giving her jokes the loudest laughs, automatically passing her the channel changer when she sat down to watch TV. Some stuck to her like glue, others stayed far away. Staff kept their eyes constantly on her. No matter what she was doing, Viv was everyone’s business.

“Group,” called a voice from the office doorway, and groans went up around the TV, Viv’s the loudest.

“C’mon,” insisted the staff. “All of you.” It was Drew, one of the unit’s two male staff.

“What do I get if I’m a good girl, Drew?” Viv asked, arcing her voice suggestively. Giggles exploded around her, but Drew kept his face expressionless as he sat down at a kitchen table. Gradually everyone wandered over and chose a seat. Settling into the chair furthest from Viv, Skey went into watching mode. Penny, the unit supervisor, came over and sat down beside her. She was an older woman, her hair a silver gray. None of the girls would ever hit her.

“There has been a problem,” Penny said slowly, “in the tub room.”

The unit had a separate room for baths. Each tub had its own cubicle and was shared by two girls. The door could be locked from the inside by turning a knob, but only staff had the key to unlock it from the outside.

“One of the cubicles has been broken into,” Penny added. “The lock is hanging off the door.”

The girls seated closest to Viv were copying her ultra-bored expression. At the next table, Skey could see Ann staring down at her lap and scratching the inside of her wrist. The skin was reddening, going raw.

“It must have happened this morning,” continued Penny. “The lock wasn’t broken last night.”

“Whose cubicle is it?” asked Viv, without losing her bored expression.

“It belongs to Ann and Leslie,” said Penny.

“So ask them, why don’t you?” demanded Viv.

“We’ve already spoken with them,” said Penny. “Now we’re asking everyone. Anyone with information about this should come and talk to staff. Until we find out who did this, only one girl will be allowed in the tub room at a time to take a bath.”