Where It Began

“You should one hundred percent go. Tell her it’s a sock hop, for godsake, with poodle skirts and socks, and all the really old teachers are chaperoning because they like Elvis and all that old stuff. They’re going to be dancing the twist. It’s going to be completely harmless.”

“My mom is pretty sure someone will slip me a rufie.”

“She’s completely unhinged. It’s the Junior Spring Fling, not a frat party.”

“I know. I just don’t want to stick out in a bad way.”

“All you need is a tight sweater.” Although not, perhaps, a Little Mermaid sweater. “I’ll go shopping with you.”

“Thanks. Are you going?”

My first thought is, of course. Of course I’m going. Because I’ve gone to every Winston School social event large and small since September. Because I’m on the committee that has pla

But, of course, I’m not going anymore.

“Doubtful,” I say. “I just have to focus on staying out of any form of juvie jail.”

“How could you go to jail?”

This makes me remember why I’m not talking about any of this stuff with anyone but Billy and people who are paid to listen and keep quiet about it.

“Not going to happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Won’t you please, please, please, please let me call my uncle for you? He’s a really good lawyer. Listen to me Gabby, don’t take this the wrong way, but you really need to have your own lawyer and not Billy’s lawyer. My uncle says. You really need to look out for yourself here.”

“Lisa, I’ve got my own lawyer. I was just filling out a bunch of forms for him.”

“Yeah, but my uncle could really help you. Gabby, this is serious. Don’t you want a lawyer who could help you? You have to take this seriously.”

“Why would you think I’m not taking this seriously? I could go to some kind of jail in Arizona. I could have killed somebody.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lisa squeals. An actual squeal, like a piglet having a coronary. “Don’t say that!”

It is so clear that I shouldn’t say anything. Even my best friend can’t stand to hear the truth about me. I have to shut it down or I’m going to be too freaked out to get out of bed, eat toast, or implement The Plan. Which is not exactly optional unless I want to embrace a new life as Rehab Wilderness Girl. Billy is so so absolutely and completely right.

You can tell Lisa is getting wound up again, and before she can start, I say, “I’m not going to talk about it. Save your breath.”

And Lisa says, “I know, I know. And I’m trying to respect that. I am. But this is really hard to watch.”

XXXVII

MEANWHILE, MR. HEALY KEEPS CALLING ME ON THE phone. No introduction, he just launches right in.

“Isabelle Frost says you’d be more comfortable with intensive therapy than AA?”

“Yup,” I say, “Because—”

But he doesn’t even want to hear about it.

I don’t know. Maybe all us girls who threaten to gorge ourselves on the entire refreshment table at Brentwood Unitarian AA, stab ourselves with plastic butter knives that aren’t even serrated, and thrust our hands and forearms into Brentwood Unitarian’s boiling hot forty-eight-cup industrial-size coffeemakers are a lot more comfortable with therapy than AA.

“All righty,” he says. “I think I should talk to your mom for a quick sec. I think we need a change of plan here to a heavier-duty therapist, all right?”

“I guess.”

“Someone objective-looking with big, bad credentials . . . hmmmm . . .”

After this, the frequency of Mr. Healy’s phone calls increases exponentially.

He keeps reminding me that I’m not supposed to be driving a car or hanging out with undesirables, by which I assume he means Billy (thank you, Agnes Nash), and to see if anything has changed. . . . Pregnant pause.

The only upside to the whole situation is that whenever I need to talk to Billy, apparently it’s all right to message him constantly in his new role as legal consultant. He actually seems interested. Even when I don’t message him, he keeps chatting me with questions eerily similar to Mr. Healy’s.

It is starting to feel as if I exist again, at least a little, in a tiny corner of the outskirts of Billy World. Sort of.

So this is my life:

Lisa is texting me to see if it would be okay to go to Fling in her mother’s arguably vintage acrylic cardigan that has sequined sombreros shading little napping men (No, not even close to okay. Tell her that you can’t wear racist outerwear to Winston School social events. Tell her anything) and me chatting online with Billy to get pointers on how I can stay out of jail.

gabs123: how did u get out of residential? big lawyer says residential is the worst case scenario if therapy doesn’t work out. i will DIE in residential.

pologuy: went to this outward bound thing in the rockies summer of 9th after pot in locker room at loyola match. did ropes course. listened to crap about personal responsibility. took other people’s ritalin

gabs123: no way.

pologuy: way. no booze no weed. what’s boy to do?

gabs123: i will not do a ropes course. just not happening.

pologuy: no worries. u need to knock over lots more trees before ropes course. that’s after 4th offense. not now. lawyer’s just scaring u so you’ll go all o mr. lawyer man, my hero when nothing bad happens to u

gabs123: 4th offense!?!?!?!? u are a very busy boy.

pologuy: what r u wearing right now?

gabs123: i’m going to be wearing a day glo jumpsuit if u don’t get me out of this.

And I say to myself, Gabriella, you have a whole team of highly skilled, high-priced professionals getting you out of this. If you don’t stop bugging Billy Nash, he’s going to pretend he’s offline. You have to stop whining like a big freaking baby and step away from the computer.

But I don’t.

Meanwhile, Vivian keeps slamming in and out of my room without knocking. When she sees that I’m chatting online with Billy, she is somewhat happier.

But Vivian, it turns out, is extremely a

“Everything was going fine!” she says, tight-lipped. “But could you get with the program? No you could not.”

“Mr. Healy says it’s fine if I get heavy-duty therapy instead. Billy even said so. What’s wrong with that? It’s not as if I have a drinking problem.”

“Of course you don’t!” Vivian snaps. “That’s not the point. But I’m not going to stand here and watch you shoot yourself in the foot.”

“Yeah, well I’ll be sure to take off your ugly Coach clown shoes before I do the deed, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I am worried. I want this to work out for you, but you have to get with the program. What were you thinking? And now it looks as if you have to go back to that child psychiatrist you don’t like, and if that makes you want to cut yourself and tear out your hair and eat it, I just don’t want to hear about it.”

“What child psychiatrist?”

“That woman at Valley Mercy with the odd hair. The one you said was so a

“Wendy!”

“Not Wendy. Wendy is a playologist. Dr. Berman. With those dowdy Ferragamos.”

“Ponytail? Ponytail Doc is a neurologist.” But she does have bad shoes. Really expensive bad shoes with bows on them.

“Nuh-uh, she’s a child psychiatrist and she went to Harvard, and Mr. Healy has read every word she wrote about you in the chart and it’s all good, if you can believe it.”

“Why can’t you believe it?”