even that felt strained.
Besides, now that Anthony had moved Jackie to the top of the list of girls to save for the week, she’d be fine, right?
And what could Rae really do? It’s not like she’d want to talk about all her deep, dark stuff with Jackie, and Jackie would probably feel the same way about her.
Rae sighed as she continued over to her easel. She slid off the sheet covering her canvas-and felt like all the blood had been drained from her body.
Her mother’s face… Rae forced herself to really look at it. Acid, she decided. Acid had been splashed all over the painting, eating ragged holes in her mother’s face. And then the canvas had been slashed with a knife.
Rae backed away until she hit the sink behind her. She leaned against it, her legs feeling too weak tosupport her.
She looked at the painting again, and from this distance she realized that the slashes weren’t random. They formed words- Stop asking questions.
Stop asking questions. That meant someone knew that she was at Amanda’s last night. Rae turned around, fumbled with the cold-water knob, and managed to turn it on, then she leaned forward and let the stream of water run over her face.
“Okay,” she muttered as she straightened up. “So someone doesn’t want me to ask questions.” She pulled a couple of rough brown paper towels out of the dispenser and scrubbed her face hard, her hands shaking. Whoever it was, they had been here again… in her school. In her art room. They had touched her painting, ruined it. But they were scared, too, she realized. They didn’t want her to ask questions because she was getting close to the truth-finally.
“Well, it’s going to take more than this to stop me,” she said out loud, fighting to keep her voice strong. She stood up straight and faced the painting again. “A lot more than this.”
Chapter 8
Rae felt like a squirmy five-year-old as she waited for group therapy to end. Every second that went by was a second she couldn’t use to find out the truth about her mother. Every second that went by was a second Rae might desperately need to save her life.
Come on, come on, come on, she thought as a new girl-Rae couldn’t even remember her name, and the girl’d said it about three minutes ago-stammered her way through a tour of her psychosis. Rae reminded herself how hard it was to learn to spew personal stuff in front of strangers and tried to give the girl an encouraging smile. But she couldn’t make her lips move that way.
Come on, come on, come on, she thought. You’rethe last one. When you’re done, we’re done, even if it’s a few
minutes early. Rae had called Yana after school and filled her in on what happened to her painting. Before Rae could even go on, Yana had jumped in and said they should go straight to the Wilton Center, today. So she was picking up Rae from group, and then they were heading over.
Finally the girl talking came to an abrupt halt. Thank God, Rae thought. But then Ms. Abramson, the group leader, asked the girl a question. Of course. Because that was her job. Getting them all to dig deeper, look harder.
Rae realized her heel was tapping rapidly against the floor. She pressed her hand on her knee to force her foot flat to the floor and keep it there. Things like that-unconscious repetitive motion, or signs of anxiousness, or signs of lack of social awareness-could and would all be noted in her chart. And if she wanted to stop coming to this bizarre fun fest, she had to make sure she was so normal, she put people to sleep.
“Okay, that’s it for today,” Ms. Abramson said. Rae managed not to leap out of her chair and whoop. Instead she stood up quietly, like a normal person, put on her jacket, like a normal person, gathered her stuff, like a normal person, and walked out of the room, like a normal person.
She was only a few steps down the hall when Jesse Beven caught up to her. “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”
he asked, his blue eyes intent
Besides, now that Anthony had moved Jackie to the top of the list of girls to save for the week, she’d be fine, right?
And what could Rae really do? It’s not like she’d want to talk about all her deep, dark stuff with Jackie, and Jackie would probably feel the same way about her.
Rae sighed as she continued over to her easel. She slid off the sheet covering her canvas-and felt like all the blood had been drained from her body.
Her mother’s face… Rae forced herself to really look at it. Acid, she decided. Acid had been splashed all over the painting, eating ragged holes in her mother’s face. And then the canvas had been slashed with a knife.
Rae backed away until she hit the sink behind her. She leaned against it, her legs feeling too weak tosupport her.
She looked at the painting again, and from this distance she realized that the slashes weren’t random. They formed words- Stop asking questions.
Stop asking questions. That meant someone knew that she was at Amanda’s last night. Rae turned around, fumbled with the cold-water knob, and managed to turn it on, then she leaned forward and let the stream of water run over her face.
“Okay,” she muttered as she straightened up. “So someone doesn’t want me to ask questions.” She pulled a couple of rough brown paper towels out of the dispenser and scrubbed her face hard, her hands shaking. Whoever it was, they had been here again… in her school. In her art room. They had touched her painting, ruined it. But they were scared, too, she realized. They didn’t want her to ask questions because she was getting close to the truth-finally.
“Well, it’s going to take more than this to stop me,” she said out loud, fighting to keep her voice strong. She stood up straight and faced the painting again. “A lot more than this.”
Chapter 8
Rae felt like a squirmy five-year-old as she waited for group therapy to end. Every second that went by was a second she couldn’t use to find out the truth about her mother. Every second that went by was a second Rae might desperately need to save her life.
Come on, come on, come on, she thought as a new girl-Rae couldn’t even remember her name, and the girl’d said it about three minutes ago-stammered her way through a tour of her psychosis. Rae reminded herself how hard it was to learn to spew personal stuff in front of strangers and tried to give the girl an encouraging smile. But she couldn’t make her lips move that way.
Come on, come on, come on, she thought. You’rethe last one. When you’re done, we’re done, even if it’s a few
minutes early. Rae had called Yana after school and filled her in on what happened to her painting. Before Rae could even go on, Yana had jumped in and said they should go straight to the Wilton Center, today. So she was picking up Rae from group, and then they were heading over.
Finally the girl talking came to an abrupt halt. Thank God, Rae thought. But then Ms. Abramson, the group leader, asked the girl a question. Of course. Because that was her job. Getting them all to dig deeper, look harder.
Rae realized her heel was tapping rapidly against the floor. She pressed her hand on her knee to force her foot flat to the floor and keep it there. Things like that-unconscious repetitive motion, or signs of anxiousness, or signs of lack of social awareness-could and would all be noted in her chart. And if she wanted to stop coming to this bizarre fun fest, she had to make sure she was so normal, she put people to sleep.
“Okay, that’s it for today,” Ms. Abramson said. Rae managed not to leap out of her chair and whoop. Instead she stood up quietly, like a normal person, put on her jacket, like a normal person, gathered her stuff, like a normal person, and walked out of the room, like a normal person.
She was only a few steps down the hall when Jesse Beven caught up to her. “Shouldn’t we be doing something?”
he asked, his blue eyes intent
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