Page 74 of The Glass Girl

By signing this document, I agree that I am ready to accept myself as a valued, spiritual, empathetic, and important person on this earth.

“Animals?” I say, breaking the silence that’s settled over the meal room.

“Goats,” Brandy says, rapidly turning the pages of her book. “They have goats and chickens here. That’s what my mom said. She said it’s a bunch of damn hippies. That doesn’t seem so bad, though, honestly. My last place, everyone was like a prison guard, practically. The food was great and the sheets were luxurious, but the staff sucked. I might prefer the goat thing.”

Oh my god, I’m like Ricci now. At a place with cute animals that are supposed to calm me down. I’d laugh, but it would hurt my face. Someday I’ll have to tell Ricci about this. The place with animals and—

Ricci. What even have my parents told her? She’s never been away from me for so long. She’s going to freak out.They’regoing to freak out, trying to take care of her without me to run interference. It’s going to be a nightmare.

My brain says:Good. Make them suffer.

My heart says:Poor Ricci.

There’s a lot of other information in the book, about meal prep and phone calls and visitors, but I can’t process all of it, so I just sign every page. This is my life for the next month. I can’t believe it. My head starts to swim.

I grab a pen from a pile in the middle of the table and initial every page, throw the booklet next to the pens.

“What a good girl you are,” Brandy says.

I ignore her, sipping my Pedialyte.

Brandy finishes signing her handbook with a flourish and then grabs Billy’s, signs all his pages, too, as Tracy watches.

Billy looks at Tracy.

“Suit yourself,” she says. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

—

No.

That’s what I tell Tracy.

No.

We’re in the activity room, which I didn’t really get a good look at yesterday when Fran was marching us around. I’m feeling a little bleary after breakfast, and the two ibuprofen Tracy handed me haven’t kicked in.

Tracy is standing in front of a wall of Polaroids. A veritable cornucopia of dysfunction, rage, and sadness. Kid after kid after kid after kid posing against the wall: disgruntled, beat-up, stitched-up, giving devil horns; red-faced, woozy-eyed, flipping off the camera; shit-eating grins, resolute fury, stone-faced; apple-cheeked and smiling like absolutely nothing is wrong or ever has been.

“There’s nono,” Tracy tells me. She’s holding the camera in her hand. “This is part of your process here. Every day, a photograph. Day Fifteen, which is halfway through, you look at all of them. You’ll see a difference. You’ll see yourself becoming a healthier person. You’ll become more aware of yourself.”

I notice that she does not sayhappier.

Also, this sounds suspiciously similar to the stupid art class self-portrait, and that just makes me angrier.

Brandy and Billy are inspecting the Polaroids and giggling at some of them. Brandy points to a photo of a pink-haired girl.

“Who’s this here, flipping you off?”

Tracy gives a half smile. “That’s Charlotte. You’ll meet her later in Gen. She’s a real charmer.”

“Anyway,” Brandy says, “this is weird. We didn’t do this atany of my other places, but what the hell. I’m gorgeous, snap away.”

She finds a blank spot against the wall, releases her hair from her scrunchie and fluffs it around her shoulders, and pouts. Tracy takes the photograph. When it slides from the camera, she puts it on the chair to develop. Brandy skips over to watch.

“Wait a minute. How many places have you been in anyway?” I ask Brandy.

“Technically, only one rehab,” Brandy says. “The other two were purely mental. And they werenice.One even had massages and a sauna.”

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