“If I were the type of person who used annoying therapy lingo, then yes, I would say that. Definitely.”
“And yet you’ve lied to your parents so many times.”
“Not my parents. My dad and stepmom.”
She raises an eyebrow at that and writes something down on her legal pad.
“And anyway, you’re wrong. I used to lie to Dad and Alanna all the time. But I stopped all that a few months ago.”
“Why?”
“It was the day my dad took my bedroom door off its hinges to keep me from sneaking out. He thought he was being a badass, right? Really laying down the law. But it was so stupid! I was like, That’s what you think is going to be the thing that controls me?”
“Was he trying to control you, do you think? Or was he trying to protect you?”
“Who cares? Every time I saw my stupid door leaning up against the wall in the garage, I actually felt sorry for him. I realized my dad was just a person. Older than me, obviously, and with more money. But no more powerful. And there was nothing he or anybody else could really do to stop me from doing what I wanted.”
“Until they sent you here.”
“Yeah. Until they sent me here. But they didn’t send me here because of all the lies I told them. They sent me here because I stopped lying to them.”
“That’s an interesting take. Tell me more.”
“It’s like you said last week. Our society hasn’t figured out how to deal with difficult women. Especially difficult young women. My dad and Alanna were pissed, more than anything, that I shattered the illusion we had all agreed upon, that I do them the courtesy of putting in a marginal effort to pretend I’m not a fuckup and they do me the courtesy of marginally pretending to believe me. But when I stopped lying to them, they couldn’t pretend anymore. So they sent me here instead—punching Alanna was just the excuse they’d been waiting for.”
“That’s a really interesting perspective, Mia.”
“You know what I’ve noticed, Vivian?”
“What?”
“That when you tell me what I say is interesting, what you really mean is that I’m right.”
15
IT’S TUESDAY AFTERNOON, and it still hasn’t stopped raining. I’ve forgotten my notebook for history independent study, so Ms. Jean gives me a five-minute pass to go back to my dorm and get it. I run across the soaked, deserted quad, slide my key card in the front door, and duck into Birchwood just as a jag of lightning blazes across the sky. Mary Pat isn’t big on downtime, and the dorm is totally deserted. Or at least that’s what I think, until I walk into my bedroom and jump back, a scream gathering strength in the middle of my chest.
There, placed neatly in the middle of our writing desk, face turned toward the window as if contemplating the oak trees, is a decapitated head, crowned with silky yellow curls.
I collapse against the doorframe and try to do my breaths, but it’s not working. I feel this howl pressing up through my body, working its way to my throat—
“Mia!”
A person, shaped like Madison but not Madison, shoots up from the top bunk.
“Stop! Mia! What’s wrong?”
This not-Madison is talking with Madison’s voice.
Since I can’t speak, I just point with a single violently trembling finger to the dismembered head.
Not-Madison leaps down from the top bunk and flicks on the desk lamp.
“Who—”
“It’s me,” she says, coming toward me and flagrantly breaking the Rule of Six Inches by grabbing my hands. “I have really bad cramps and Swizzie was already asleep in the nurse’s station because she has strep, so Nurse Melanie gave me permission to come lie down in our room before lunch. Hey. It’s me.”
I look at the face—it’s Madison’s face, wearing Madison’s glasses, but her hair is wispy and mouse brown and missing in giant patches. The hairline starts at the crown of the head, the forehead a long arc, smooth as an egg.
“That’s just my wig.”
I look from her face to the pile of yellow curls on the desk. She reaches over and turns the dismembered head so that it’s facing me, and now I see that the hair has been brushed carefully and arranged around a blank oval of Styrofoam.
“You’re . . .” I look at her, pull my hands away. “You’re bald?”
“I mean.” She runs a hand shyly along her gaping forehead. “In places.”
“Do you have cancer?”
“Ha! Maybe if I had cancer, people would actually have some empathy, instead of just thinking I’m a freak.” She smiles a little sadly and walks over to pet the silky strands of her wig as if it’s some sort of beloved pet. “Have you ever heard of trichotillomania?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a BFRB. A body-focused repetitive behavior. Sort of like the nail biting, just even less socially acceptable. I pull out my hair when I’m stressed.”
“Madison.” I know I’m gawking at her, but I can’t help it. Without her blond curls, she looks so defenseless, so damaged. “You must be really stressed.”
“Oh, this is nothing! This is way better than it was when I first got here. At least I’ve learned to leave my eyebrows alone. And my bottom lashes. The top ones, those are trickier. Those are just so satisfying to pull, you know? I have this whole ritual of pulling them out and then, like, lining them up on my wrist and seeing how long they can stay there without falling off. Does that sound weird?”
“Please don’t make me answer that question.”
“Well, trichotillomania is a lot more common than you’d think, judgy-pants. And anyway, I’m improving. My parents and Mary Pat and Carolyn have an agreement: once it all starts to grow back in, every last strand, then I can come home. Mary Pat thinks as long as I don’t regress, I’ll be out of here by the spring. In time for junior prom, if I can find anyone pathetic enough to take me!”
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and run a hand across her head. In the places where she’s torn out her hair, the skin is delicate and soft, like a newborn’s. It’s hard to believe there was ever hair growth there at all.
“Holy shit, Madison.”
“Don’t! Six inches!” She ducks away from my hand, her face twisted up in a pout. “How come you don’t judge Trinity? She wore acrylic nails from fifth grade straight through to when Nurse Melanie soaked them off at intake! And aren’t those just wigs for your fingers? Nobody thinks she’s a freak.”
“Oh, relax.” I sit heavily on my bed. “I don’t think you’re a freak. You just scared me, that’s all—I thought someone killed you.”
She pauses. “You thought I was dead?”
“Yes! It’s dark in here, this school is full of lunatics with pasts shrouded in secrecy, and your fucking stunt double of a head is just sitting there on our writing desk!”
“Wow.” She sits down next to me. “You were really upset, huh?”
“Well, yeah.”
“You like me.” A smile twitches on her face.
“If your standard of liking someone is not wanting them to be violently murdered and dismembered then yeah, Madison, I guess I like you.”