Burning Page 3

  Something moves in the shadows to my right.

  I jerk my head around. A skeletally thin girl with stringy hair leans against her door. She runs her tongue along the glass.

  “I like new friends.” She smiles, revealing teeth the color of rot. Another girl crouches in a cell on the other side of her wall, scratching the cinder blocks. Ragged skin peels away from her hands, and blood dots her fingers. She hesitates, like she senses me watching her, and slowly turns her head toward me.

  I flinch and Brody laughs, his cruel voice booming off the walls.

  “Move,” I whisper to myself. This place feels like the cold apartment buildings where I used to live with my mom and Charlie. Even with the cockroaches and cracked walls, the places weren’t so bad when everyone kept their doors shut. But every now and then I’d see light spilling into the hallway as I made my way up the twisting staircase. Occasionally I’d stop, too curious not to peek through the open door. But most of the time I’d just walk faster, closing my eyes so I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of what was inside. Some things you’re better off not knowing.

  I move forward, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Muffled cries and low, panicked voices echo from inside the dorms. I glance back over my shoulder. The distance to the security door seems to have doubled. Like the hallway stretched when I had my back turned. I swallow and hurry down to the last dorm.

  A slow, tuneless hum drifts out of the new girl’s room, just one note repeated over and over. I step in front of her door, and the humming stops abruptly.

  The girl sits cross-legged on a thin mattress in the far corner, her dark eyes fixed on the glass wall in front of her. I’m struck, again, by how normal she looks. She should be in school, entering a spelling bee or signing up for the science fair. Not here.

  I don’t know her name, so I clear my throat and tap my knuckles against the glass, balancing the food tray in one hand. She rocks in place. Back and forth. Back and forth. She doesn’t look at me.

  “Okay.” The food slot is about a foot from the bottom of the door. I kneel, cringing at the cold seeping through my scrubs. Something skitters across the concrete next to my shoe. I suck in a breath, but the hallway’s too dimly lit to see if it was just another roach or something larger.

  I flip open the flap and balance the tray on the narrow shelf. The lasagna’s gone cold by now, a layer of grease congealing on the fluorescent orange cheese. I lose my appetite just looking at it. I start to push it forward when a shadow falls over me.

  I look up.

  The girl stands directly in front of the door, staring down at me. I don’t know how she crossed her dorm so quickly—I only looked down for a second. I try to swallow, but my tongue feels chalky. Maybe it’s an optical illusion, like how the hallway seemed longer the further I walked. I open my mouth to ask her name—then close it again. The girl’s large black eyes widen. They grow darker. Her pupils expand to fill the entire sockets.

  “Shit,” I murmur. I want to move but I’m held in place, frozen with fear. The air around me changes, somehow. It thickens, hanging on my shoulders like a sweater.

  Heat, I realize, dumbfounded. It’s warm here. The concrete grows hot beneath my knees, and the radiator hisses and thrashes behind me. A prickling sensation starts in my fingers. Then, all at once, the aluminum tray I’m holding burns, searing my hand so completely that there’s an instant where I can’t tell whether the sensation is hot or ice-cold.

  I scream and leap to my feet. The tray topples off the metal shelf, spilling to the floor in front of me.

  The girl closes her eyes. The radiator pops, then goes silent. Cold air rushes around my ankles and creeps up over my skin.

  But my hand still burns. The skin on my fingertips looks red and shiny. Raw.

  Chapter Three

  I race down the hall, the paper-thin soles of my juvie-issued sneakers slapping against the concrete floor. Girls jeer and shout from their cells as I run past, their voices echoing off the walls. I don’t stop. In fact, I barely hear them. The blood beneath my burned skin beats like a second heart.

  “What are you doing, Davis?” Brody yells. “Get right back there and pick—”

  “I can’t,” I interrupt. I’ll get in trouble for disobeying a direct order from a guard, but I’d rather take my chances with Brody than go near that girl again. I tighten my raw fingers into a fist, then release them, cringing.

  “What did you say?” Brody asks. I stare at the red scalp beneath his thinning blond hair.

  “Go ahead and give me a demerit,” I blurt out. “Or make me clean the bathroom with a toothbrush. Whatever.” Usually Brody loves cliché punishments like that, but today he rests both hands on his belt and stares down the hall.

  “I don’t think so, Davis.” Brody’s lips stay curled while he speaks, like he’s physically incapable of forming an expression that isn’t a sneer. “I think this is grounds for a trip to Director Wu’s office.”

  My throat goes dry. A demerit is nothing. The director’s office means probation, and probation could delay my release. God, I’m an idiot. I wish I could take it all back. The hallway isn’t that scary, and the burn isn’t too bad, and the girl . . .

  The memory of her black, soulless eyes fills my head. I shiver. The girl is horrifying, but I could handle her. Anything to keep from delaying my release.

  Brody’s hand clamps down on my arm. “Brody, please,” I beg at the same time Mateo says, “I think she just—”

  “That’s Officer Brody,” Brody says, cutting us both off. “Now move.”

  I follow him away from the Segregation Block, casting one last glance down the long pink hall before I go. I can’t see into the girl’s cell from this angle, but her shadow stretches across the hall in front of her.

  Like a warning.

  I’ve been to Director Mary Wu’s office twelve times in the past year and a half. Mostly for mouthing off and stuff, but I’ve also been hauled in twice for fighting (once with Peach and once with Cara). The last time was one month ago, to discuss the details of my release in March. During that meeting I sat in front of a panel of caseworkers, probation officers, and board members as Director Wu reviewed every note in my file, all while staring at me over the top of her rectangular-framed glasses.

  “And what did you learn from this?” she’d ask, frown lines deepening around her mouth. I heard what she was really saying: Don’t screw up again.

  I hesitate outside her office door. “It was an accident,” I say to Brody.

  “Don’t want to hear it again,” he says, his voice practically gleeful. He raps his knuckles against the door, then pushes it open and steps into the office.

  “Director Wu? Got another one for you.” He closes the door behind him, then lowers his voice to explain the incident. I try to be patient. I count to one hundred in my head. I press my lips together and ball my hands into fists.

  A girl stands near the window at the end of the hall, staring at me with wide, milky eyes. I don’t recognize her but I smile anyway to be polite. She starts talking to herself in a quiet, urgent voice and gives her hair a violent tug. I flinch as a chunk of it comes out in her hand.

  For whatever reason, Brunesfield attracts a lot of crazies. They chill here for a few weeks while they wait for trial or for a spot in a mental-health ward to open up. Or for their parents and lawyers to figure out what to do with them.

  Turning my back on the girl, I push my ear to the wood. In Brody’s version of what happened, I threw the tray of food instead of dropping it and used some very colorful language when he politely asked me to go pick it up. I grit my teeth, telling myself to stay calm. Arguing will only make things worse.

  Then, just when Brody finishes his horrible, overblown, lie-filled story, he clears his throat and adds, “Truth is, she’s been mouthing off all day.” He lets out a low whistle. “You should have heard the things she—”

  “That’s not true!” I slap the door, and bright, hot pain sears my burned skin. I’m too blin
ded with righteous anger to feel it. He’s lying! Can’t she tell that he’s lying?

  But that feeling drains from my chest in the silence that follows my outburst, leaving me deflated. Brody opens the door and glares down at me. He looks triumphant. Like I played right into his hand.

  “Miss Davis,” the director says from behind him. “Why don’t you join us?”

  Brody inches to the side of the doorway, forcing me to squeeze past the sweaty belly hanging over his belt to make it into Director Wu’s office.

  “Think I’m tough now?” he says, low enough that I’m the only one who hears. Of course this is about how I yelled at him outside. Brody’s just petty enough to think his lies are justified.

  A sunken corduroy couch slouches against one wall. Army-green filing cabinets line the other wall, and a beige rug covers the floor. Parts are worn thin enough to see the concrete slab beneath.

  Director Wu’s desk dwarfs the room. It sits in front of a large window overlooking a flat gray lake surrounded by skeletal trees. The desk’s size somehow makes the tiny Asian woman crouched behind it look stately, like she’s manning a big, wooden ship. The room itself is a surprisingly comfortable temperature for Brunesfield. I’m confused, until I spot the space heater buzzing in the corner.

  “Close the door, Miss Davis,” Director Wu says, yanking open the bottom drawer of her ancient filing cabinet. I shut the door on Brody, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from making a face at him. I’ve already gotten myself in enough trouble today.

  Once the door’s closed, I notice the tall woman Cara and I saw earlier standing in the corner of the office. Her white-blond hair swoops below her ears and she has a long, straight nose that makes her face look sharp and intelligent. A tiny gold rose is pinned to the lapel of her black pantsuit.

  A girl perches on a stool next to her, head bent over a notebook in her lap. We’re probably around the same age, but the girl’s clothes look pristine and expensive, her fingernails perfectly manicured. A bracelet dangles from her wrist, and the silver charms hanging from it are all shaped like vegetables: A carrot. A turnip. A piece of broccoli. I wrinkle my nose. Why would anyone wear jewelry shaped like vegetables?

  “Angela, this is Dr. Rose Gruen and her assistant, Mary Anne,” Director Wu says. She pulls a file out of the drawer, then pushes it closed with her foot. Every other time I’ve been to her office, Director Wu has worn stockings, her scuffed black shoes piled beneath her desk. Today there’s a pair of pointed, painful-looking heels on her feet. I look at them, then back at Dr. Gruen.

  “Why is she is here?” I ask.

  Director Wu glances up, “Oh, she’s not here for you. I should have explained. Dr. Gruen is in charge of Youth Services and Outreach for . . . I’m sorry, what’s the name of the organization again?”

  “SciGirls.” Dr. Gruen speaks slowly, her voice as liquidly smooth as syrup. “In the coming days, I’ll be speaking with you all about volunteer and leadership opportunities. Today I’m just here to observe.”

  A smile flashes across Director Wu’s face a beat after Dr. Gruen finishes talking. Director Wu never smiles, and her mouth droops at the corners now, like she’s not entirely sure how to do it.

  “Let’s discuss this incident,” she says, flipping the folder open.

  That righteous anger flares in my chest again, but this time I beat it down. “It’s not like Brody’s making it sound,” I say as calmly as I can muster, sinking into the lumpy corduroy couch.

  “Officer Brody,” Director Wu corrects me.

  “Right, Officer Brody,” I say. “I dropped the tray; I didn’t throw it, and I never said any of those—”

  “So you’re saying the officer is lying?” Dr. Gruen interrupts. I crane my neck to look up at her, difficult considering she’s nineteen feet tall and the couch I’m sitting on has sunken practically to the floor. I gingerly touch two of my burned fingers together.

  “Exaggerating,” I say. “Not lying.”

  Dr. Gruen nods, and her expression softens. She gives me a very small smile before glancing back at Director Wu. Mary Anne stays bent over her notebook, shiny hair covering her face. Her charm bracelet jingles as she writes.

  “Fine,” Director Wu says, her voice clipped. Out of nowhere, the space heater next to her desk sparks. She flinches as the motor whirs to a stop. For a second it looks like she’s going to kick it. “Damn thing never works,” she mutters, turning her attention back to my file.

  She flips through the pages, and a frown line appears between her eyebrows. “Oh dear. I see you were up for release in three months.”

  Were. I hear that word like she shouted it. I think of Charlie sitting at the kitchen table in our tiny apartment back in Brooklyn. I like to imagine him writing letters to me or doing his homework or even playing Call of Duty. But the boy I picture is only eight years old, with hair that sticks up in the back and two front teeth missing. Charlie from two years ago. I have no idea what he looks like now.

  I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Like I said, it was an—”

  “Accident,” Director Wu finishes for me. Her eyes flick to the top of her glasses. “Miss Davis, I wish we could forget about this whole thing, I really do. But any incident that goes unreported can be used against the entire facility.”

  I think she glances at Dr. Gruen, but I could be wrong.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Director Wu continues, easing the folder shut. “But if they decide to open your case for review again, I can’t promise we’ll be able to keep you on schedule to release in March.”

  “Right.” The word cracks in my mouth. “I understand.”

  “As for punishment,” Director Wu continues, “Officer Brody recommended cleaning the Segregation Block for the next week. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

  My chest clenches. Of course Brody suggested that. I focus all my attention on keeping my face impassive. Cleaning the Segregation Block is way too large a punishment for accidentally dropping a tray, but I don’t want to risk getting in any more trouble by arguing.

  “Yes ma’am,” I say. Director Wu gives me a tight-lipped smile and leans over to stick my file back into the metal cabinet. I nod at Dr. Gruen and head for the door. Mary Anne pushes her hair behind her ears and gives me a polite smile.

  “Just one more question.” Dr. Gruen crosses her arms in front of her chest, tapping her long, pale fingers on her elbow. There’s black ink smudged around her thumb and fingertips. “You said you were in the Segregation Block when this happened. Why were you there?”

  I pause, tightening my grip on the doorknob. My burned skin tingles, but I ignore it. “Brody—I mean Officer Brody asked me to deliver a food tray.”

  “Just one? To Jessica Ward?”

  “Is that the little girl they brought in this afternoon?” I ask.

  Dr. Gruen nods. “It is.”

  “Then, yeah, I brought the tray to her.” I start to pull the door open, but Dr. Gruen places a hand on the wood, holding it shut.

  “And you just dropped it?” she asks. I meet Dr. Gruen’s eyes, and it occurs to me that it was strange of her to start working here today, on the same day Jessica was brought in.

  Director Wu clears her throat. “You can go, Miss Davis,” she says.

  Dr. Gruen blinks and takes my hand from the doorknob. She turns it over, glancing at the raw pink skin on my fingers.

  A thin smile stretches across her face. “Yes,” she says in her smooth, syrupy voice. “You can go.”

  Chapter Four

  “I’m just going to say it,” Issie says from the bunk above me. I can’t see her, but I hear paper rustling and feel the steel bed frame shift. “You are so lucky.”

  “Are you out of your mind? I have to clean the Segregation Block for a week.” I frown at my wall. My dorm’s previous occupant wrote “Jesus sav” next to my bed. It’s creepy. Like something happened to her before she could finish carving the word into the paint.

  I try to scratch i
t out with my thumbnail. Jesus won’t save me from a week of icy-cold rooms and crazy girls muttering horrible things under their breath. “Anyone else would’ve gotten a demerit,” I say.

  “Yes, but you’re special,” Issie calls down. I lean onto my elbow and watch her attach a folded frog to the ceiling using tape and cinnamon-flavored dental floss. Issie loves origami, but she’s only mastered the one shape. Dozens of blue and yellow frogs hang from our ceiling, bobbing just above our heads.

  “You’re still sleeping in here, right?” Cara shoots me a look over the top of her book. “You don’t have to stay down there.”

  “No, I get to come back after. I just go down to clean.”

  Cara’s expression doesn’t change, but some of the tension leaves her shoulders. I expect her to say something else about Seg, but she just ducks back behind her book.

  “You guys are forgetting that Officer Mateo guards the Seg Block.” Issie flicks her latest frog, sending it spinning above her. Now her knuckles read “ham!” Her idea—apparently she’s been craving it all week. “He of the bulging biceps and world’s most perfect smile. I’d kill for that punishment.”

  “Apparently you just have to drop a food tray,” I say. I open and close my hands, testing the burns on my fingers. The nurse gave me some lotion to rub on them, but they’re still sensitive. I dig my teeth into my lower lip to keep myself from reliving that moment again.

  Stupid. If that creepy little girl ever gets out of Seg I’m going to kill her.

  “Can we be done talking about this?” Cara rolls over on her bunk, making the mattress springs creak beneath her narrow body. Our dorm room’s so small that every movement echoes off the walls. “Describe this doctor person again.”

  She stretches on her belly across the bed, her crossed ankles leaning against the wall while she flips through a book on alien abductions. Her hair seems to have grown two sizes. Or maybe she’s just decided to stop brushing it. Her mother would be furious. Cara once told me her mom used to make her chemically straighten it and brush it one hundred times every day, like some sort of black Marcia Brady.