Pffft. Rising to my feet, I pointed at the sketch splayed out on his desk like a treasure map, and specifically, to the sword slicing through her chest, “It was supposed to be symbolic!”
“Yes well, she didn’t see it that way, I’m afraid.” I cocked my head, “Well maybe she needs to clean the cum out of her eyes and take a second look!”
Dr. Young’s head dropped, defeated. He let out a heavy sigh. “I have done everything in my power to help you—but you’ve given me no choice.” He reached for the phone on his desk, “I’m going to have to call your father.”
I scowled. This was ridiculous! The sketch wasn’t even that morbid. Compared to the other sketches on my wall, it was definitely one of the tamer ones. “He put me in Hawthorne to get rid of me, and you think he’s going to want to talk to you about me?” A strangled laugh broke through the air as I threw my head back, “That’s rich!”
Dr. Young’s finger shot up. “Hi, this is Dr. Young at Hawthorne Asylum. Is Mr. Caster available?”
Noooo, I mouthed. And he wouldn’t be for a very long time. Ever since my mother passed four years ago, that man had made it his mission in life to avoid me like the plague. My father was the owner of Caster Industries—a company that manufactured hybrid vehicles—and spent every waking moment traveling the world, meeting with business partners and negotiating new deals, greasing the palms of the world’s elite. He was a self-made man, a feat he used to enjoy bragging about at our family’s annual Christmas party. With nothing more than a dream and two dollars to my name I built an empire from the ground up, he used to say with a boyish twinkle in his eyes. I hadn’t spoken to my old man in six months. The last I’d heard he was in Paris.
“Do you know when he will be available?” Dr. Young asked, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
I leaned forward and whispered, “You’re going to be holding for a while.” If not forever.
A stare-down ensued. “I will hang up this phone right now if you apologize to Gambrielle AND show her around.” Dr. Young bargained, twirling the cord around his index finger. “I had tasked Carrie Malone with showing her the ropes, but she got released yesterday.”
“You mean like a tour guide?”
“I want you to give her some direction. She needs it right now.” Before I could come up with a wiseass rebuttal, he reached for something under his desk, a newspaper, and holding the phone firmly between his cheek and shoulder, held up the Asheville Times like a shining beacon. “Going once, going twice…”
On the cover of the Asheville Times was a headline: DA EVANS’ DAUGHTER AGREES TO PLEA DEAL; HAWTHORNE OFFICIALS CAN NEITHER CONFIRM NOR DENY HER PLACEMENT. A photo of Gambrielle sitting in a courtroom—hands clasped together, legs crossed, wavy brown hair styled to the nines—came into view, and as much as I fought it, I couldn’t control the shit-eating grin that settled on my face even if I tried. Turns out Little Miss Innocent wasn’t so innocent after all.
“She might be a little hesitant at first to engage in conversation with you given all that’s happened, but she’ll move past it, I hope.” He was referring to the sketches and fainting episode in my room. “Gambrielle has no idea what lies ahead, but you and your friends do.” Dr. Young ‘s smirk now mirrored my own. “You guys know what it’s like to be thrown away with all the cameras watching your every move. So, what do you say?”
The guys Dr. Young was referring to were Reyes Park, Varla English, and Thorne Walsh—the only three people at Hawthorne whose crazy matched my own. Varla had always complained about the toxic levels of testosterone in our group, so I was confident she would welcome the stray with open arms. Thorne and Reyes, however, would be a different story. Change wasn’t exactly Reyes’s strong suit, and Thorne hated everyone in general.
“The only direction I’ve ever given is to my cock…” I pointed out.
Dr. Young held up his palm. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Do we have a deal or not?” There was a bit of anger brewing in his eyes when he finally looked up at me. He had put up with a lot of my shit over the last two years, more than any therapist got paid to put up with, so I kind of felt I owed it to him. Shit.
“You have to tell me every detail: what did the headline say? Did she become irate in court and make Judge Wexler take off his toupee?” The excitement in Varla’s perky voice was contagious as she pushed her lunch tray down the line, picking only fruits and nothing else. Her bony hand pointed at a cup of sliced oranges, which the lunch lady happily handed her with no complaints. As long as it wasn’t a food supplement protein shake, everyone was thrilled with her progress. Her black hoodie was starting to fill out and I could actually make out the word Legends across her chest now. Glancing through the bright blue locks curtaining her face, she asked, “Didn’t you have Judge Wexler, Laces?”
I shook my head. “Judge Collins.” The douchebag had teased me with weekly therapy sessions and a homebound program, the usual punishment for first-time offenders. But when judgement day finally came there wasn’t a pastor in sight that could’ve saved me. Putting a salad bowl on my tray, I glanced over my shoulder, “Reyes?”
“Simmons.” Reyes answered, moving his tray along. “The bastard wanted to send me to juvie, but my lawyer made a big stink about my supposed asthma,” he made air quotes, “so they threw me in here.”
“I had Wexler.” Throne muttered, dragging all of our attention to where he stood a few feet back, snapping his fingers so the lunch lady would get the hint to pass along more butter for his potato. “Court lasted for two minutes. The bitch wanted me to fuckin beg for my freedom and shed a few crocodile tears.” His words were clipped, purposeful. He shook his head resolutely. “I don’t beg for shit.”
Varla shot him a pointed look. “You begged for your meds last month while you were in solitary. “
Thorne gave her a hard, challenging look of his own. “I was mentally incapacitated, so that doesn’t count.” Nurse Kline had found his stash of liquor buried in a homemade Tortuga in the garden out back.
“Whatever. It’ll be nice to have another girl around to help take care of you three.” Varla said, and when Thorne shot her go-to-hell look, she added, “no offense.”
No arguments there. Thorne, Reyes, and I were a bit of a handful, and it would be a nice change of scenery. But everyone was forgetting about the elephant in the room: Gambrielle was a fuckin’ snitch.
And snitches couldn’t be trusted.
At Hawthorne all you had was your word, and Gambrielle had shot hers straight to hell. Once we were at our usual table near the emergency exit, Reyes was already on top of it, ready to remind everyone of the travesty that was being overlooked.
“She ratted Laces out over a sketch…” His weary eyes searched everyone at the table, “Not a cigarette, not alcohol, but a sketch. And you guys want to roll out the welcome wagon? Hell no.” He stabbed his fork into his potatoes and shook his head over and over, sputtering off something inaudible. “She could be a damn spy and the next thing you know our asses are in the new docu series about troubled teens.”