night,” Rogan observed. “ ‘Just noticed the name of this toe polish color: Ogre the Top Blue. Groan!’ Those are some lame-ass last words. Don’t you think a girl who killed herself Sunday night would post some kind of goodbye message?”
“She did,” Ellie said. “With a suicide note.”
By now, that last comment typed by Julia on Facebook was buried deep at the bottom of the page, replaced by more than two hundred comments posted since news of the girl’s death had leaked out. Most of them appeared to be from strangers sending condolences to Julia’s father. “I didn’t know you, Julia, but I’m sorry you weren’t able to find joy in this life. May music follow you to the next.” “Your father changed the face of rock and roll. RIP to his little angel.”
“I swear,” Rogan said. “I just don’t get people.”
They continued to scroll through the comments, compiling a list of the Facebook friends who appeared to be closest to Julia in life. They had already spoken to Julia’s brother, Billy, that morning. Despite being distraught and still in a state of shock, he tried his best to be helpful. Like most college freshmen, however, his recent attention had been focused on classes, parties, and hooking up, not on his little sister back home.
Rogan clicked on the Facebook tab marked “Photos.”
Most of the pictures were the typical ones that teenage girls posted online these days: close-up self-portraits with a cell phone, lips pursed as if saying the word prune. There were a couple of bikini shots on a beach with Ramona. Snapshots of ridiculously overpriced dresses she admired. Pictures from recent trips to Rome, Paris, Madrid, and Belize. A face mask from last summer’s Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Most recently, a picture of her appearing relaxed and makeup-free on open country land.
“That’s the fattest goat I’ve ever seen,” Rogan said of the animal whose long neck Julia Whitmire had draped an arm around. In the background stood a red post-frame barn with a sloped green metal roof. It was a perfect rural shot.
Ellie spooned out a bite of Nutella from the jar she kept in her desk. “I think it’s an alpaca. It’s like a small, hairy llama. They’ve become sort of a status symbol for country homes because they’re super expensive—something about their fur or whatever.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“When are you going to learn there are no boundaries to your partner’s knowledge?” Her ex-boyfriend, the finance guy, had been close to buying two alpacas a few years ago when she’d moved out. “They also spit and make this creepy humming sound like injured cows.”
“The poor thing’s so ugly he’s almost cute.”
“You’re such a softy,” she said. “Any word from Julia’s doctor?”
With the parents’ permission, they had contacted Julia’s physician about the Adderall capsules they found in her purse. “The nurse just called. The only prescription drug her doc had for her was the birth control. And no referrals to a psychiatrist, either. The bottle wasn’t labeled. Maybe she didn’t have a prescription for them.”
Ellie opened a new window on her computer and searched for “Adderall.”
She clicked first on a video titled, “Teens and ADHD Medications: Intervention or Addiction?” Four panelists sat side by side at the front of a generic lecture hall. A purple velvet curtain adorned with NYU’s torch logo served as the backdrop.
According to one psychologist—her nameplate was blocked by a pitcher of water—psychotropic drugs were wildly overprescribed, especially in kids, where use was up nearly four hundred percent in a decade. About eighty percent of cases were “off label,” meaning doctors were prescribing the drugs in ways the FDA never approved.
Equally convincing was the psychiatrist who saw the drugs as the best prospect to save children from needless heartache. He spoke with passion about
“She did,” Ellie said. “With a suicide note.”
By now, that last comment typed by Julia on Facebook was buried deep at the bottom of the page, replaced by more than two hundred comments posted since news of the girl’s death had leaked out. Most of them appeared to be from strangers sending condolences to Julia’s father. “I didn’t know you, Julia, but I’m sorry you weren’t able to find joy in this life. May music follow you to the next.” “Your father changed the face of rock and roll. RIP to his little angel.”
“I swear,” Rogan said. “I just don’t get people.”
They continued to scroll through the comments, compiling a list of the Facebook friends who appeared to be closest to Julia in life. They had already spoken to Julia’s brother, Billy, that morning. Despite being distraught and still in a state of shock, he tried his best to be helpful. Like most college freshmen, however, his recent attention had been focused on classes, parties, and hooking up, not on his little sister back home.
Rogan clicked on the Facebook tab marked “Photos.”
Most of the pictures were the typical ones that teenage girls posted online these days: close-up self-portraits with a cell phone, lips pursed as if saying the word prune. There were a couple of bikini shots on a beach with Ramona. Snapshots of ridiculously overpriced dresses she admired. Pictures from recent trips to Rome, Paris, Madrid, and Belize. A face mask from last summer’s Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Most recently, a picture of her appearing relaxed and makeup-free on open country land.
“That’s the fattest goat I’ve ever seen,” Rogan said of the animal whose long neck Julia Whitmire had draped an arm around. In the background stood a red post-frame barn with a sloped green metal roof. It was a perfect rural shot.
Ellie spooned out a bite of Nutella from the jar she kept in her desk. “I think it’s an alpaca. It’s like a small, hairy llama. They’ve become sort of a status symbol for country homes because they’re super expensive—something about their fur or whatever.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“When are you going to learn there are no boundaries to your partner’s knowledge?” Her ex-boyfriend, the finance guy, had been close to buying two alpacas a few years ago when she’d moved out. “They also spit and make this creepy humming sound like injured cows.”
“The poor thing’s so ugly he’s almost cute.”
“You’re such a softy,” she said. “Any word from Julia’s doctor?”
With the parents’ permission, they had contacted Julia’s physician about the Adderall capsules they found in her purse. “The nurse just called. The only prescription drug her doc had for her was the birth control. And no referrals to a psychiatrist, either. The bottle wasn’t labeled. Maybe she didn’t have a prescription for them.”
Ellie opened a new window on her computer and searched for “Adderall.”
She clicked first on a video titled, “Teens and ADHD Medications: Intervention or Addiction?” Four panelists sat side by side at the front of a generic lecture hall. A purple velvet curtain adorned with NYU’s torch logo served as the backdrop.
According to one psychologist—her nameplate was blocked by a pitcher of water—psychotropic drugs were wildly overprescribed, especially in kids, where use was up nearly four hundred percent in a decade. About eighty percent of cases were “off label,” meaning doctors were prescribing the drugs in ways the FDA never approved.
Equally convincing was the psychiatrist who saw the drugs as the best prospect to save children from needless heartache. He spoke with passion about
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